“You—girl. Are you a whore?”

You raise your eyebrows from where you’re splayed out on a rock on the shores of Lys, basking in the warm sun. You’re the only one who comes to this edge of the island, so you can only presume the bored voice is addressing you. You let your head loll backward over the side of the rock, the tips of your hair brushing the crystalline water sloshing against the shore.

A man stands at the edge of the water, frowning down at it when it comes too close to his expensive leather boots. He is pretty, you decide—you can tell that much even peering at him upside down the way you are—but most who live on Lys are, so he’s nothing special. Pale hair, pale skin, violet eyes—you could find dozens of him at any pillow house in the city. 

“Do I look like a whore?” you hum, voice lilting with amusement when you see the way his expression twists in irritation. 

“I did not ask for wit,” he says sharply. “I asked for an answer.”

You roll onto your side instead of replying at once, propping yourself up on one elbow. The setting sun glints off the water, catching in his silver hair. He’s younger than you first thought—likely around your age—but his clothes are what catch your eye. They are not the sheer chiffon and smooth silks you’re accustomed to seeing boys draped in, but dark, expensive leathers. A Westerosi, maybe? There’s a sigil on the pommel of his sword, but you can’t make it out from a distance. 

His gaze drifts over you, curiosity plain in his expression before he masks it with indifference.

“You may come closer,” you say lazily, calling out his lapse. “If you wish to inspect me properly, that is.”

His eyes narrow, jaw tightening. “I have no wish to inspect you.”

“No?” you ask, kicking your feet idly as you tilt your head to the side. Your fingers drop to skim the warm waters of the Narrow Sea, flicking the water uselessly in his direction, even though you know it won’t reach him. He still looks incensed by the mere attempt. “Then why ask?”

His mouth curls—not prettily. “Because I’ve been taught in Lys one does not stumble upon a woman alone without discovering she belongs to someone else.”

“Oh?” you echo, entertained, realizing he’s trying to insult you. “To someone else?”

He tilts his head the same way you did, mocking. “Or to everyone,” he drawls, smile sharp. “I prefer to know the nature of what stands before me.”

“And who do you suppose I belong to? One or everyone?” you ask lightly instead of letting the insult land, which only seems to irritate him more from the way he sneers. “Do you wish to be the one? Is that why you ask?”

He falters, and your lips quirk up in amusement. He doesn’t look like a boy accustomed to being mocked; he looks like one accustomed to being obeyed. You wonder how far you can press before he snaps. You haven't had much for entertainment since you were cast out to this idyllic paradise, so you have to make your own.

You rise to your feet at last, purple chiffon tumbling around you. It drapes from shoulder to ankle, sheer but layered, the violet deep enough to obscure what men desire most—modest for Lys, considering it covers more than what most girls in the pillow houses bother with. The fabric clings where the sea has kissed it, outlining the curve of your hips and the length of your thighs.

His gaze drops before he can help himself—to the low V-cut of your neck, and lower still. Then, as though he catches himself, his gaze snaps back up to your face, furious. You smile lightly as you drop off the rock into the shallow water, gentle waves brushing your ankles. You lock your hands behind your back as you make your way over to him; as you draw near, you finally make out the sigil on the pommel of his sword. 

A dragon prince, you realize, amused. So, the rumors you heard of a ship flying the banner of the three-headed dragon are true. You never thought you'd get the chance to play with a dragon—the prospect of being burned thrills you in a way that the soft, perfumed sons of Lys never have.

“You did not answer my question,” you note, leaning in just enough to let your breath ghost against his mouth. To his credit, he doesn’t react beyond his eyes narrowing and tongue darting out to wet his bottom lip. “Do you wish for me to belong to you? Is that why you ask?”

“You,” he says tightly, “are very bold for someone who could be bought.”

“Everything in Lys can be bought,” you agree easily, “but not everything wishes to be. Unfortunately for you, you can’t afford my price.”

His eyes flash with indignation, but you continue before he can say anything.

“Tell me, Dragon Prince,” you begin, reaching out without asking permission. His hand snaps up to grab your wrist hard, but you only raise your eyebrows at him, fingers brushing the silver strand of hair that has fallen across his brow. It is softer than you expected, and he is much more beautiful up close. If only there wasn’t something dangerous lurking behind those pretty violets. “Did you come to Lys for pleasure?”

He says through his teeth, “You dare try to touch me.”

No.

“For business, then?”

“Are you slow, whore?”

No.

“Then, for exile.”

The rage that crosses his face is answer enough. 

You had a feeling that was the case. You recognize the look in his eyes very intimately—alone, uncertain, cornered, all veiled behind a wall of arrogance and steel so as to not allow the snakes that wander the Lysene gardens a chance to sink their fangs in. He's a Targaryen prince—if he were back home, he probably would've struck you or imprisoned you for taking such tone and proximity to him, but he's not home, and he's still gaining his footing here in Lys, so he can't afford to react how he normally would.

Well, at least you're not alone in this regard anymore, you suppose, but only time will tell whether he'll make for good company.

You smile lightly and step away, brushing his grip from your wrist.

“Next time,” you call, glancing over your shoulder at him with an easy smile, “try asking my name before you ask my price.”

——————

His name is Aerion Brightflame of the Royal House of Targaryen in Westeros—a second son of a fourth son, tenth in line to the Iron Throne of Westeros. Lys is a city of silk and secrets—nothing truly disappears here, so it’s not hard for you to get the information you want on him. Stories drift through the pillow houses and lavish gardens as easily as perfume. He is cruel and capricious, prone to bouts of anger and violence, according to the whispers you’ve heard, but careful to keep up a charismatic front when before the magisters; exiled after his fickle whims led to the death of his uncle, the crown prince. 

The dragon prince arrived under polite pretense—a guest of Magister Vyrano Naeranar—but word spreads swiftly that his vacation to Lys is not one of his own choosing. He spends his days in Vyrano’s manse, reclining on cushioned couches beneath painted ceilings, letting serving girls drape themselves across the arms of his chair like ornaments—grapes pressed to his lips, wine poured without asking, musicians summoned to entertain his boredom. 

Today, he has the central market on edge, prowling about disdainfully with a white-cloaked shadow that came with him from the west. You watch from the tiled roof of a nearby building. He hasn’t noticed you yet, but you think he can feel you looking, because his gaze periodically sweeps around the square, as though searching for something he knows is there but can’t spot. 

It’s entertaining—almost. Spice merchants from Yi Ti bow low, and the fishwives temper their usual shouting. Lys has returned to the tense state it was in when you arrived five years ago, and the whole city holds its breath as it waits for its draconic guest to return back to his cave.

You tilt your head to the side with an amused smile, watching as Aerion pauses at a stall heavy with Myrish glass and lacquered casks. The merchant fumbles his greeting once his gaze settles on the prince's silver hair and violet eyes—no easy flattery of someone who has sold to nobles before, no honeyed cadence of a seasoned trader. His tongue catches. His eyes flick to Aerion's hair, his sword, the crowd, then settle on the white cloak behind him.

You squint.

He rushes too quickly to the back of the stall, foregoing all of the best goods he has on display.

You don’t recognize him, you note absently, sliding down off the roof and onto a stack of boxes before you realize what you’re doing. You hop down to the ground, easing through the crowds in the direction of the stall. Most merchants who come to Lys are repeat presences—regular ships, regular routes, regular loyalties. You recognize them by name and face now, laugh at jokes they’ve told you too many times, and tease them with sleight of hand before tossing coin in their direction.

This one is not, and unfamiliar never bodes well, especially when word has begun to spread about Lys’s new royal guest. 

“Firewine from the finest vineyard in Myr,” you hear the man say with a too eager smile as you draw close. “Firewine for the Brightflame. Worthy of a prince of the blood.”

Aerion’s mouth curves faintly, and you almost roll your eyes—all men are fools, you think disdainfully, weak to shallow flattery. He reaches for the decanter, and the merchant's fingers tighten slightly around it before releasing it to the prince. He holds the glass up to the sun's light and tilting it slightly, admiring how the bright liquid clings to the crystal.

You pluck the wine from his hand before he can make a decision on whether or not he’d like to taste it, skipping out of reach as his gaze snaps toward you, outraged. This will be today's entertainment, you decide, pleased. Not a single day since the prince has gotten here has been dull, and you're finding yourself increasingly pleased with him. The white cloak behind him makes a move to apprehend you, but Aerion waves him off when he recognizes you, expression twisting with irritation.

“You again,” he says. “Plucking a gift straight from my hands—do you have a death wish?” 

You give him an easy smile, tilting your head to the side. “Not me,” you reply, “but you, perhaps? Shouldn’t your royal training have taught you not to accept wine from strangers, prince? Many are fond of sweet death, you know?” 

Aerion’s eyes flash, and his gaze slides from you to the merchant, who looks aghast as he stares at you. He fumbles out, “My lady jests—”

You swing around, one arm sliding around the man’s slim waist, the other lifting the decanter up to his lips. “Then, the good merchant wouldn’t mind tasting his own wine, would he?” you coo, smiling.

The merchant freezes. His mouth opens, then closes again, throat bobbing as you press the rim of the crystal against his lips, tilting it ever so slightly toward him. Aerion and his white cloak watch with sharp eyes. Your chest bubbles with excitement—god, the last five years have been dreadfully boring, and one week of this dragon prince has brought color and sharpness to this gray, pillowed world.

“You called it worthy of a prince of the blood,” you remind him sweetly. “Surely it’s worthy of your own.”

The market has gone still—all eyes on you, the dragon prince, the merchant who had the nerve to try to assassinate him. Your gaze flicks up to meet the burning violet of Aerion, who stares at the decanter in your hand with rising fury.

“My lady,” he wheezes, voice cracking, “it is strong, that is all—too strong for an empty stomach—”

“Drink,” Aerion finally says, voice cold and clipped. “Drink, or I’ll have you skinned and hung from the harbor walls for the gulls.”

The merchant’s legs give out entirely. He sags against you, sweat soaking through his tunic, the rim of the crystal trembling against his mouth.

“My prince, mercy—”

“Drink,” Aerion repeats.

The white cloak has already drawn steel. The blade rests so lightly against the merchant’s throat that it barely dents the skin—but everyone in the square can see how little pressure it would take.

You tilt the decanter again.

A dark ribbon of wine spills past the man’s lips. He chokes, sputtering, trying to twist away, but your grip at his waist tightens just enough to steady him.

“Careful,” you tease. “You’ll waste it.”

He yanks away from you and spits up the wine, making his answer clear. The white cloak immediately sheathes his sword and grabs the man by the neck, scruffing him like an unruly pup. You let the decanter drop carelessly to the ground, shattering against the stone, and you turn to leave, bored now that the excitement is over.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Aerion calls after you, put off by your unspoken dismissal.

“Here, there,” you say dismissively, tossing raised eyebrows over your shoulder. “Everywhere? Nowhere?”

Aerion looks seriously irritated by your disrespectful attitude. You only smile.

“Return with me to Vyrano’s manse,” he says firmly—an order, not a request. Unfortunately for him, you do not take orders from anyone, much less foreign princes. “You will explain to me how exactly you knew that was poison, or I will presume that you were in league with the assassin.” 

“I would rather die,” you say, voice a sing-song, enjoying the way indignation crosses his face. “Til next time, prince.”

——————

“I thought you said you weren’t a whore,” a familiar voice drolls from the now undrawn curtains leading into the room you’re relaxing in a few days later. 

You bite back a sigh—you had a feeling he was going to come looking for you sooner or later, but you didn’t anticipate it would be so soon. You suppose he’s just as bored as you are, stuck on this island with nowhere to go and no one to call your own. There's only so much wine you can consume and music to listen to before you drive yourself insane. Your gaze lifts to where he’s standing.

Aerion is dressed prettily today in red silks, but you have yet to see him go anywhere unarmed. The girls around you stiffen when they recognize the three-headed dragon on the pommel of his sword—they’ve become used to your presence and whims over the years, but the dragon prince is a new unknown that they don’t know how to deal with yet, so you wave them off, silently telling them to leave. They all scatter, but not before giving you concerned looks.

“I’m not,” you say easily, tilting your head to the side as Aerion steps into the lavish, perfumed room, “but it doesn’t mean I don’t enjoy their company. Men have loose lips when their cocks are wet. Sometimes friends in low places are much more useful than friends in high ones.”

“Is that so?” Aerion's gaze sweeps the room once, as though assessing for any threats. Once he determines that there are none, he makes his way over to you, boots silent on the rugs. He doesn’t sit immediately; instead, he stands over you. Red silk catches the lamplight, the violet of his eyes brimming with something you can’t name as he looks down at you. He looks every inch the Targaryen prince—ornamental and dangerous and terribly beautiful, fire and blood and all things in between. Your lips curl up slightly, which only serves to make him incensed. “You are impudent. Disrespectful. I should have your tongue removed.”

You give him a lazy smile, head half-lolled back against the cushions to look up at him with lidded eyes. “Ah, but my tongue can be so useful,” you murmur. “You wouldn’t deprive Lys of its many talents, would you?”

“You grow tiresome,” Aerion says through his teeth, though his irritation is edged with something hotter. “Do you even know who you speak to?”

“Prince Aerion Brightflame of House Targaryen,” you drawl. “Everyone on our little island knows who you are.”

“And yet, you toy with me as though I’m some Lyseni fool come to squander coin,” he replies, leaning down, one hand braced at the cushion beside your shoulder, coming so close that his nose nearly brushes yours. You tilt the lower half of your face up to brush your lips against his, just to see how he reacts, but his free hand comes to your throat, holding you in place. “Who are you?” 

“No one,” you reply with a mysterious smile, and his fingers tighten slightly around your neck. You try again, amused, “Anyone you want me to be.”

“Your name, woman,” Aerion insists, voice low and dangerous, temper fraying. “Give me your name, or I’ll do much worse than take your tongue.”

You let out a huff of laughter, gaze flicking down to his lips for a long moment, watching the way they tighten in annoyance. You give him your name after a few seconds pass—only your first. He waits a moment for your family name, but when you don’t give it, he clicks his tongue in irritation, hand dropping from your throat to take a step back, falsely assuming you don’t have one.

“How did you know that the wine was poisoned?” he asks you coldly. “Were you in league with the assassin? Turned against him to try to gain the favor of a prince?”

You rest back against the cushions when he lets you go, and Aerion’s gaze slides down again to the silk draped loosely around your shoulders, the way it slips down your skin. He catches himself, glaring at you furiously as he waits for an answer.

“He was an unfamiliar face,” you say dismissively. “Merchants in Lys are all familiar. I was suspicious, considering word has surely begun to spread about our resident dragon prince, and he looked far too anxious. Luckily so, seeing as you would’ve drunk the Weeping Lady’s tears without a spare thought.”

Aerion’s lips curl up into a snarl. “I would not have been so foolish as to drink wine from some unknown merchant.”

“If you say so, prince,” you agree blithely, waving your hand. “Is this all you came for? If so, I was in the middle of an entertaining conversation. Unless you’d like to join us girls in our gossip, that is?”

“You do not dismiss me, whore,” Aerion spits. “Why intervene then? If not for gold or to curry favor?”

“Well, I would never say no to gold,” you answer easily, “but in truth, the island has become boring these past few years. You’ve entertained me in the week you’ve been here. I would hate to lose you so untimely.”

Aerion stares at you as though he didn’t hear you properly. “You would speak of me as though I’m a court jester?” he asks, voice low. Dangerous. Ah, things are getting fun—the spark of interest you felt before returns in a blaze, you’ve always enjoyed dancing on the razor’s edge. “As entertainment?”

Heat crawls up your spine. Your lips curl up. You correct, “An island jester, but to the same accord, I suppose.”

His hand darts out to wrap around your throat again. This time, he drags you to your feet, into his chest. His thin fingers dig into your skin, sharp nails biting crescents. You still only smile lightly, gaze not leaving his, watching as chips of amethyst burn into swirling pools of dragonfire—the same color as you imagine the flames Meraxes breathed over Dorne in the war of conquest your tutors forced you to read about. 

You find yourself breathless just for a second, regretting your initial assessment of him. There are no dozens of him in the pillow houses of Lys—Lys houses boys of silk and perfume, with soft skin and syrupy voices, not boys whose blood is fire and breath is ash, not dragons.

You are not one to deny yourself what you desire—your wants are fickle and fleeting, and boredom is the most terrible punishment of all in the years you’ve spent trapped on Lys. You are quick to indulge and quicker to discard, because it’s all you have to do while you’re here. 

You want him, you decide. You want the dragon prince, and you will have him, one way or another. Dragons have always existed to be tamed by the old blood, and you do not care if you burn in your attempts to make him heel. 

“You mock me,” he breathes out, eyes wild as though a part of him still doesn’t believe you have the nerve. “The last person who dared mock me to my face, I put to the sword.”

You lean into his grip, lifting your own hand to cradle his cheek. He startles at your touch, grip tightening on your throat instinctively. You murmur, lips almost brushing his as you speak, “We are in Lys, prince. Even a prince of the blood has to obey the law of the magisters—and you will be hard pressed to find the conclave willing to indulge your violence over banter.”

His lip curls up into a snarl, a noise ripping from his lips, more dragon than man, and he lets go of you harshly, sending you sprawling back down on the cushions. You smile easily, tilting your head to the side as you look up at him, and he looks even more incensed by your lack of fear, that you’re treating his righteous fury like a joke.

“Who are you really?” he demands. “A spy for my father? Another assassin?”

“So paranoid, dragon prince,” you murmur, fingers sliding up against your throat, skin still warm where he touched you. “I’m just a girl who enjoys playing with fire, that’s all.”

Aerion bares his teeth. “Girls who play with fire get burned, whore,” he says, voice low and furious. 

“That’s part of the fun, isn’t it?” you say flippantly with a pointed raise of your eyebrows, eyes glittering as you watch how he seethes.

“You think this is fun,” he asks slowly, pupils blown wide, violet slivers around black marbles. “You prattle about magisters and laws as though I’m some merchant who can be summoned and fined. I am not a merchant, I’m a dragon, and dragons are not bound by laws of cities built on pleasure and perfume. They answer only to blood and fire.”

Your pulse jumps, and you raise your chin, giddy.

“Well, dragons have always answered to the right hand, haven’t they?” you drawl, grinning when you see the rage and indignation that cross his face once the implication of your words hits him. 

For a moment, you think he’ll draw his sword and cut you down where you lounge, consequences be damned—or maybe he won’t even bother sullying his sword with your blood. He’ll wrap his hands around your throat and squeeze, watching the life leave your eyes up close and personal, your pulse fluttering and dying beneath his fingers. 

What an intimate way to die, you think with a wistful breath.

But he catches himself before he can do something that would end with him being thrown in the damp cells beneath the city, letting out an irritated hiss before he turns on his heel and storms out of the pillow house.

“‘Til next time, prince!” you call after him, barely catching the way he glares furiously over his shoulder at you as he turns the corner.

As soon as he’s gone, the girls you were chatting with creep back into the room, one of them curling at your side, hand coming up to brush the bruises already blooming where his fingers once were. Her touch is soft and warm, and you find that you prefer the harsh, scalding imprint he left behind. You brush her hand away gently before she can wash away the feeling of his touch.

“You must be more careful, my lady,” she says softly. “You provoke him too openly. He’s not like the others.”

“I know,” you answer easily, gaze still trained on where he left, replaying the moment in your head over and over again. His hand at your throat, his breath hot against your cheek, the restraint trembling beneath his skin like a tethered beast. “That’s exactly what entices me.”

——————

Aerion Brightflame asks about you incessantly after that. 

He returns to your favorite pillow house and tries to threaten the girls into telling him more about you, but they prove loyal, misleading him with vague answers and directing him to the wrong people. It infuriates him, and he rages and threatens for hours, but the girls of the Perfumed Garden remain out of reach. The Maryls, in spite of their misgivings over the last century, remain one of the more powerful banking families in Lys, and Aerion, for all of his fury, at least knows better than to go making an enemy of them during his time in exile.

He tries the magisters next, but the magisters are even less inclined to indulge him. Smiling men with poisonous tongues—they bow to kings when it’s profitable and to coin when it’s safer. They will not choose between you and the dragon prince, because to take a side would be to make an enemy, and an exiled prince, tenth in line, with no army and no dragon, holds little weight on the scale when you’re sat on the opposite side. Your father might be cruel enough to keep you on a forced vacation at this little idyllic paradise for years on end, but he will not stand for disrespect.

Aerion’s wrath is apocalyptic when he realizes that the magisters are being as evasive as the whores, meeting his questions with riddles and half-answers. He leaves their manses with his temper fraying, red silk snapping like a banner behind him. He is not accustomed to doors closing in his face, and you find yourself too entertained when the magisters send a serving girl to find you and warn you that the dragon prince is poking around about you.

He has his white cloak follow you around some days—you see him trailing from the corner of your eye, and instead of making moves to lose him, you let him follow several paces behind, amused by the lengths Aerion is going to for answers. His white cloak only returns with reports of laughter and music, of you moving freely between pillow houses and manses alike as though you belong to none and all at once. 

At last, he does what pride has resisted: he tries seeking you out again.

Unfortunately for him, you make a game of cat-and-mouse. The harbor children run to you the moment they see a flash of red silk and the dutiful white cloak following behind, warning you that the prince is out hunting again, and you’re quick to make yourself scarce from all of the places he would ordinarily be able to find you, lounging in the hidden coves of the island where the sun is brightest and the water is warmest. 

You spend a week toying with him like this, watching from a distance as he becomes more and more incensed by his inability to find you, but all fun must come to an end, and you’re expected at the First Magister’s manse for a mid-summer festival, so you don your prettiest silks and make way to the manse you’ve been residing in the past five years.

The manse is ablaze with torches and lanterns before the sun has even fully set, hundreds of them, hung from archways and balconies, glass tilted in rose and amber so that the entire property glows like a living jewel. Musicians line the outer courtyards, flutes and lutes carrying through the warm night air, drums pulsing in time with the tide below. 

You make your way to a partially secluded balcony of the manse, lounging back against velvet cushions, the scent of orange blossom and wine thick in the air. From here, you can see everything happening down below, and people can’t easily make their way to you for conversation. Making your appearance for all intents and purposes, in sight of all of the attendees below, as the First Magister asked of you, but distant enough not to be bothered. The perfect compromise, in your fair opinion.

The gardens are the picture of decadence—marble statues wound with garlands of fresh roses, silk canopies rippling overhead in the gentle breeze, servants refilling goblets before they’re empty and cooling flushed faces with fans of dyed peacock feathers. 

It is obscene and glorious—it is Lys, and you are terribly bored. 

You exhale, gaze flicking up to the night sky, stretching languidly against the cushions as a pretty boy from the Perfumed Garden settles at your side. He’s all silk skin and silver lashes, bracelets chiming softly at his wrists. He smells faintly of sweet wine and summer berries—looks like the dragon prince, you think blandly as your eyes trace amethyst eyes and lithe limbs, but without the fire that comes with. Without asking, he leans in, mouth brushing the hollow of your throat tentatively, waiting for you to send him away or accept him at your side. 

You tilt your head obligingly in response, granting him better access, and he lets out a hum against your skin, to the irritation of the golden-haired girl already curled on your opposite side, pouting against your skin from where she’s nuzzling your wrist. They don’t like sharing—more likely one will be sent away in favor of the other, and it’s nicest up here with the view of the gardens, not having to deal with merchant lords and magisters pawing and groping. 

The girl presses a soft kiss to the inside of your wrist, sucking gently at your pulse, and the boy at your throat grows bolder when you do not dismiss him, mouth traveling from your collarbone to the curve beneath your ear, teeth grazing lightly before he soothes the spot with his tongue.

You sigh, head lolling back against the cushions, gaze drifting upward to the lanterns swaying above the terrace before you allow your eyes to slide shut. You are bored—they are beautiful, and attentive, and they know exactly how to please you, but you’ve long grown weary of soft skin and pillowed touches. But you’re expected to be here until dawn, and there are still hours left until then, so you may as well use them as a way to pass the time. 

Just as the boy’s hand starts to drift cautiously along your waist, testing the line between invitation and overstep, your hair stands on end, eyes reopening as your instincts warn you that you’re being watched. You're used to being watched in Lys—by curious nobles and idle voyeurs whose stares follow pleasure like sport—but this is not that. Your head falls to the side when both courtesans at your sides stiffen, gaze drifting over to the curtained entrance to the balcony you lounge on.

You hum when you recognize the figure standing there, half in shadow, lanternlight catching along the sharp line of his jaw and his silver hair. He doesn’t say anything, violet gaze flicking to the two at your side. You let out a long exhale through your nose, eyes flicking up in irritation. 

“Go,” you tell the two courtesans, who immediately take the opportunity to scurry away from Aerion Brightflame’s imminent ire. Your gaze meets his again, and you say dryly, “Ao zūgagon qrīdrughagon ñuha līvi. Gaomagon ao kȳvanon naejot ropakagon zirȳ, zaldrīzes dārilaros?”

You scared away my whores. Do you intend to be their replacement, dragon prince?

Aerion tilts his head to the side slightly, gaze lidded, eyes sharp shards of amethyst. “First, you liken me to a jester, now a whore. It’s almost as though you are determined to see how far you may push before I remind you what I really am.”

“I am simply offering ways for you to recompense,” you reply lightly. “You frightened away my night's entertainment, after all.”

“I did not tell them to leave.”

“You did not have to.”

His mouth curls up faintly at that. “I am not here to replace anyone,” he says coolly.

“Pity,” you sigh. “You would be far more interesting.”

“You have been avoiding me,” Aerion says after a moment, changing the subject as he steps fully onto the balcony, staring down at you coldly. 

“And you have been asking about me,” you drawl. “Sit with me, prince. My neck aches craning upward to look at you.”

Aerion’s lip curls up in distaste, gaze flicking to the cushions where the courtesans had just been sitting. He asks, “You expect me to sit where your whores were just pawing at you?”

“You expect me to continue craning my neck?” you counter lazily. “It’s terribly inconvenient.”

His jaw tightens, and for a moment, you think he’ll refuse you on principle, but then, with visible reluctance, he steps closer and lowers himself onto the far edge of the velvet cushions, lounging back against them and giving you a disdainful look. You curl onto your side to look at him through your lashes, smiling lightly. 

“You mock me, you antagonize me, and you disappear for days,” he says, voice low. “Who are you? A real answer this time.”

“My name was not satisfactory?” you ask, teasing, purposely shifting a little closer, knee almost brushing his thigh. His eyes flick over you once, wary. “Well, what have you learned then, prince? From your many inquiries?”

His lips curl into a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. With a voice as thin as his smile, he says, “Nothing of import.”

You lean in a little closer, fingers dragging up the red silk of his sleeve, feeling the warmth of his skin beneath it, warmer than the summer night, than the wine still sweet on your tongue, fire burning under man. Your fingers itch to slip beneath the silk, to slide against his bare skin, feel the thrum of his pulse. His gaze snaps down to where you’re touching him, lip curling up in distaste, but not brushing you off. Your heart races in your chest, delighted, a smile touching the corner of your lips. 

“But that tells you something of import in itself, does it not?” you hum, fingers sliding higher, grazing the seam at his shoulder, then down again in a slow, idle path, memorizing the shape of him through silk.

His breathing shifts—barely, but it does—and his eyes follow the trail you trace down his arm sharply. His attention pulls back up to your face, calculating your words. “You move between manses as though you belong to all of them,” he says, more to himself than to you. “The Perfumed Garden protects you. The magisters evade my questions. Even the harbor brats run interference on your behalf. That is not coincidence.”

You tilt your head, studying him.

“Perhaps they simply like me.”

“No one is liked that thoroughly without reason.”

“Indeed,” you agree, inching closer. Your knee presses against his thigh firmly now, head resting against the same velvet cushion that supports his shoulders. You can feel the tension in him through the thin barrier of silk. His face tilts toward yours, within a breath of one another—you can almost taste the wine on his mouth. You have to stop yourself from leaning in to drag your tongue against his bottom lip. “Why ever would the Lyseni insult a prince of the blood for a common whore?”

His gaze doesn’t leave yours, even as your fingers slip from the silk of his sleeve to his collar, tracing the edge where fabric parts to reveal pale skin beneath. You don’t quite touch him there, but you long to. 

“You do not speak in the Lysene dialect—no common whore of Lys would speak fluent High Valyrian,” Aerion continues, voice low, picking up on the hint you dropped him earlier. Your gaze slips down to his lips as he speaks, and you have to force it back up to his eyes. “Nor would she openly antagonize and—” His hand darts up, lithe fingers wrapping around your wrist, tight enough to bruise when you start to trace down the embroidered patterns along his chest. “—freely touch a prince of the blood.”

You hum, pulse fluttering beneath his thumb. He feels it—you know he does. “And where does that leave your answer?” 

Your breath catches in the back of your throat as he drags his nail down your inner wrist, sharp enough to draw blood if he chooses to press a little deeper. His gaze drifts from your face to your wrist, the edge of his nail pressing just enough to sting, and then deeper, a small bead of blood welling against your skin before he eases the pressure. He watches it rise and then shifts his thumb beneath it and rubs upward, smearing the blood against your pulse. 

“You were quick to recognize what I was,” he says at last, voice quieter now. His thumb lingers at your pulse. “Quicker than most.”

“You did deny pleasure and business,” you remind him easily, lips curled up slightly.

“And yet, not many would immediately jump to exile,” Aerion murmurs, gaze sharper now. “Not unless they are well acquainted with it themselves.”

“Udrimmi dārilaros,” you purr—entertaining and intelligent, you think you’ll have fun with the dragon prince. Clever prince. “Birds of a feather, you and I.”

Aerion makes a noise in the back of his throat as though he doesn’t quite agree, but his eyes slide back up to your face, calculating. His tongue darts out to wet his lip, and your gaze fixes on it. He muses, “You’re no ordinary exile, if the Lyseni will insult a prince of the blood to retain your favor.” 

You watch his eyes slip over your features, trying to put together all of the pieces, irritation swimming in violet when he can’t immediately do so. You can’t blame him—you suppose they don’t fit together too neatly. For the Lyseni to favor you over him, he would assume you would have to be royal yourself, probably initially leaning toward an imperial princess of Yi Ti or the daughter of a Qartheen merchant prince. But you speak fluent High Valyrian, and the YiTish and Qartheen people hold the Valyrian Freehold in high disdain—they do not teach its tongue in their court, much less prize it with the reverence you speak it in. That makes him lean toward the Free Cities, and yet—you do not speak in bastardized Valyrian. Your Valyrian is clean, as old and measured as it was when the Freehold ruled the world before the Doom.

Frustration flashes across his face, and he runs his tongue between his teeth, trying to put together the jagged pieces you’ve handed him. You watch the movement with open interest. He is thinking—calculating lineages and alliances, which houses of which cities might keep the old tongue unspoiled, who the Lyseni might favor more than the dragon. You can see the names forming and falling away behind his eyes, each failure leaving him more incensed.

His grip on your wrist loosens as he thinks, and you slide your hand down the length of his forearm, shifting closer. He does not stop you, too occupied with his thoughts. That’s when you lean in, mouth brushing against the hollow of his throat, the same way the pretty silk boy did to you when he curled up at your side before.

He stills, inhaling sharply the moment your lips touch his skin. You feel the warmth of his body, flames burning beneath skin, the faint thrum of his pulse. You let your lips linger before drawing back slightly, breath ghosting across the same place, waiting to see if he’ll push you away.

“I did not give you leave to touch me, whore,” he finally says, but he doesn’t move away, nor does he push you back. 

“I thought we had established that I’m not a whore,” you murmur, and then press your luck by pressing your lips to his skin again, firmer this time. A third time along the ridge of his throat as it bobs beneath your mouth, a visible swallow that betrays him.

You feel the tension ripple through him—anger and desire warring with one another, braided too tightly to separate. His hand comes up fast, fingers tangling in your hair roughly. He doesn’t pull you away like you expect, and you can’t help the way the corners of your mouth curl upward slightly. 

“You behave like one,” he hisses.

“A whore would not be so bold as to touch a prince of the blood without leave,” you echo his own words back at him. When he doesn’t shove you away and rise to his feet, you shift closer still, half into his lap, hands sliding against the smooth silk covering his abdomen, not slipping beneath yet. His fingers twist in your hair again—a warning—you do not heed it. “Iā līve daor ikson kostagon naejot kostilus ao isse aōha muña ēngos.”

A whore would not be able to please you in your mother tongue.

His breath hitches, grip on your hair tightening at the sound of High Valyrian spoken so cleanly against his throat. His pulse jumps beneath your mouth, and you flick your tongue out to circle it, sucking gently at his skin. He pulls your head back slightly, fingers tight in your hair. His pupils are blown wide again, violet slivers around black, except that last time he was fueled by rage, this time it’s something far more dangerous—his free hand slides up your thigh to your hip, thumb pressing hard into your skin. Your hips twitch, aching to grind against the thigh between your legs, but you catch yourself, waiting for him to speak.

“You presume much,” he says, voice low. “You enjoy seeing how far I will allow you to go.”

You smile lightly, gaze lidded. “I enjoy discovering where the line truly is.”

He twists your hair just enough to make it sting, nails carving crescents into the skin at your hip. “Do you really think the laws of this city will protect you from me?” he breathes out. “You think coin and courtesy mean anything if I decide otherwise?”

Your gaze drops to his lips as he speaks, and his fingers tighten in your hair, forcing your gaze up to his. “I am dragon-blood. Exile does not strip that from me. It does not make me tame. You play at this because you believe I will abide by Lyseni custom—that I will bow to their law. If I wished to make an example out of you, Lys would not stop me.” His lips curl faintly, eyes flicking briefly to your mouth, then back to your eyes. You feel his breath against your lips. “You provoke me in my own tongue. You touch me without leave. You grind against me like a bitch in heat and call it entertainment. And you think I’ll simply indulge you.”

His hand at your hip shifts, sliding slightly higher to yank you fully into his lap. You suck in a breath as your bodies align. You feel him pressed against your inner thigh, hard, aching as much as your cunt is, but his grip is iron at your waist, refusing to allow you grind down.

“I allow this,” he continues, nails dragging slowly against your scalp as he tilts your head another fraction, “because I choose to, and if I withdraw that choice, no law or magister in this pillowed city will save you from me.” His thumb presses deep into the small of your back, forcing your spine to arch subtly toward him. “If you want to please me, then please me like a good whore, but my patience wanes with your games, and you will not like the result if it’s exhausted.”

You lean in to latch your lips to his jaw, lashes fluttering as you press an open-mouthed kiss there, mapping the sharp lines, teeth teasing pale skin. He inhales sharply through his nose, hand tightening reflexively at your waist, but then he loosens his grip just enough for you to lower your hips so that his clothed cock is pressed against the damp silk covering your cunt. 

He settles back against the cushions, violet eyes lidded as he stares down at you, and you drag your tongue up his throat, along the underside of his chin, to his lips. You bite back a noise that builds in the back of your throat when he parts his lips, tongue sliding against yours as you swipe along his bottom lip before he leans in to press his mouth firmly to yours, deepening the kiss on his own terms.

You let out a quiet moan into his mouth, fingers curling in the silk at his shoulders, heart racing as his tongue maps the inside of your mouth the way you’d mapped the line of his jaw. He tastes exactly how you expected—fire and ash, blood and steel, you want him. You haven’t wanted anyone or anything so badly in your entire life. Before you were cast from black walls and marble palaces, you were given everything you wanted on a silver platter, before you even knew you wanted it yourself; and after, your life became so dull and colorless that even your fleeting desires were shallow, monotonous things, passing and predictable, boring, never lasting for more than a few moments' time. 

But this—the sting of his nails dragging against your skin, the taste of his tongue, the heat of his body, it’s different, it burns, consumes, and you want him. The exiled prince, the dragon—you’re sick of perfume and silk, you want blood and fire, claws that cut through skin and touches that burn, incandescence. Your hands slide from his shoulders to the back of his neck, fingers threading through silver strands, and his mouth falls half ajar against yours when you roll your hips and tug lightly at his hair. His hand slips from your waist to between your legs, and you gasp into his mouth, eyes sliding shut, forehead pressed to his, noses nudging when he slides his fingers against your clothed cunt.

“You say you’re not a whore, yet your cunt weeps like one,” Aerion breathes against your lips disdainfully before leaning in to drag his tongue up the length of your neck. Your lashes flutter, eyes rolling back slightly as his fingers dip beneath the silk, sliding between your wet folds. 

“And you speak as though disgusted,” you reply, breath shuddering against his temple as his teeth bite deep into your pulse point, “yet your body disagrees.”

Aerion doesn’t even bother with a reply, pushing two fingers into your cunt and watching the way you arch against him as he drags them in and out of you. He tilts his head back against the cushions, lips wet and kiss-swollen, eyes lidded as he looks up at you. He says scornfully, “I thought you were to be the one to please me. It seems as though I’m the one doing the pleasing.”

“Shijetra nyke, dārilaros,” you murmur, relishing in the way his breath hitches and body visibly shudders when you speak High Valyrian to him. “Kesan mazverdagon ziry bē naejot ao.”

Forgive me, prince. I’ll make it up to you.

You lean in to press your lips against his again, gasping lightly into his mouth when he presses his thumb to your clit, before he slips his fingers out of you, looking up at you expectantly. You roll his bottom lip between your teeth, feeling his chest vibrate as he fights a groan, and you slide your hand from the nape of his neck down his chest, fingers slipping beneath the hem of his silk pants. 

“I see Vyrano has you dressed like a proper silk boy,” you murmur into his mouth.

Aerion’s lips immediately curl into a snarl, teeth sinking into your bottom lip, as though to prove he’s a dragon and not one of the pretty boys you can find in the pillow houses. Iron floods your mouth, lip stinging painfully, and his lips part to snap out an insult, surely, but your hand dips into his pants before he can, fingers wrapping around his cock. Whatever words were on his tongue immediately die, jaw falling half-slack as your hand glides up and down his length. 

You kiss him again, deeper this time, pushing the blood he drew into his mouth and swallowing the moan he lets out into you when you squeeze gently at the base of his cock, thumb sliding over his tip, smearing the precum leaking from his slit. 

Anyone could see the two of you, you think distantly, a thrill running through your body as your gaze flicks over the balcony, where lanternlight spills gold across flowery decadence, and the drifting servants and laughing nobles below. Some are watching, you realize, noticing that several gazes are already flicking upward to where the two of you are entwined, sharing breath, kisses, touches. 

This is Lys—it is not ordinarily scandalous. Lovers are displayed as often as jewels and tapestries. Half-hidden trysts on balconies are as common as wine spills on marble. Men and women press each other against pillars and cushions every festival night, and the city merely hums in approval, but this—

This is different.

You and the dragon prince are not some merchant’s bored heir and his purchased distraction, or a magister’s son and a painted courtesan. He is fire and blood, and you come from black walls and marble palaces. This is not scandalous, not if it were anyone else, but it is not anyone else.

You let out a breathless laugh, kissing him again, deeper this time—can’t get enough of the taste of him, the warmth of his lips against yours, the heat of his body. One hand still works his cock, quick snaps of your wrist that make his head loll, while the other slips beneath silk to flatten against his abdomen, nails raking gently against his skin. His eyes roll half-back, muscles tensing beneath your hand, hips stuttering, but before he can finish, you pull your hand from his pants.

Aerion hisses, eyes snapping open and violet flaring furiously as his hips jerk up against air, ruining his high just when he was on the precipice. He spits, “You dare—” but you press your lips against his before he can finish the sentence, pushing the silk down to his thighs, just enough so that you can sink down on his cock.

“Hah—” you gasp, head falling back slightly at the feeling of his cock stretching your walls. Your gaze blurs as you look up at the stars above, trying to give yourself a second to adjust, but Aerion’s hands drop down to your waist, nails digging into your skin as he snaps his hips up. Just for a second, you see stars—the tip of his cock forces itself so deep inside of you that you swear, just for a second, that you can feel him in your stomach. “Oh—”

Aerion pushes himself up from where he’s lying back against the cushions, sucking at the crook of your neck before he drags his tongue up to the spot behind your ear. He presses his lips against it as he breathes, “Ao ȳdragon hae iā līve se gaomagon hae iā līve, yn aōha orvorta iksis tolī ȳrda naejot sytilībagon naejot iā līve.”

You talk like a whore and act like a whore, but your cunt is too tight to belong to a whore. 

His abdomen tenses as you answer him by scratching lines through his skin, and you guide him back against the cushions, leaning down to kiss bruises up his pale throat. You press your lips to his again as you finally start to rock your hips, the drag of his cock against your walls making you hot and dizzy. You force down a whimper when he sucks the blood from your bottom lip, where he sank his teeth in before. One of his hands comes up to hold the back of your head, tilting your head so that he can drag his tongue against the roof of your mouth.

He tastes like fire, you think again, licking the inside of his lip, fire and smoke and blood, everything you’ve ever wanted. The more you kiss him, the more heat spreads through you—like a dragon, breathing flames through his mouth into yours, spreading through your chest, your stomach, your whole body, you almost make yourself laugh, but a pointed thrust makes your eyes knock back. 

Aerion lets out a low moan into your mouth, lashes fluttering, the violet of his eyes rolling back slightly when you pick up the pace of your hips. “Fuck,” he gasps. “Ao qogralbar hae iā līve.”

You fuck like a whore.

You laugh into his mouth, rolling his lip between your teeth and biting down hard, drawing blood as he did to you before. He hisses into your mouth, hips jerking, cock twitching inside of you; his pupils are blown wide as he stares up at you, caught between disbelief and desire—can’t believe you have the audacity to spill blood of the dragon, can’t believe the fact that you did almost made him cum.

“Nyke jaelarys naejot kostilus, zaldrīzes dārilaros,”

I aim to please, dragon prince.

Your hand slides behind his head to pull him up so that he’s sitting upright again, chest flush to yours, lips sliding together sloppily, a mess of blood and saliva. His nails dig into your thighs, body tensing briefly as though he plans to flip you onto your back, but before he can, your hands dart down to push his hands off of you, not letting him take control from you. 

He snarls into your mouth immediately, furious, snapping down on your lip again like a—like a dragon, you think again, breathless. A dragon, yes—your dragon, or he will be. Dragons have always existed to be claimed by the old blood, you echo, and he will be yours, one way or another. Your thighs burn on either side of his narrow hips with each bounce on his cock. For the first time since you were cast out, you feel alive again. Your world has returned to fire and steel and incandescent light, and you’ll be damned before you let it go back to the colorless, pillowed world it's been for the last five years.

You kiss him deeper, fuck him faster, and he lets out a ragged, choked noise, breaking his lips from yours to tilt his face to the sky. Your blood and his is smeared across his lower face, lips pink and wet and swollen, a flush high on his cheeks. 

“Gevie,” you breathe out, hands sliding back up his body to cradle his face, forcing him to look at you again. His violet eyes are partially glazed over when they meet yours. 

Beautiful.

Aerion’s head falls forward, and his whole body seizes as he cums inside of you, and you tangle your fingers in his silver hair to crane his head back so that you can press your lips to his again, swallowing his moans. Your free hand slides between your bodies to rub circles over your clit, rolling your hips still, slower now, so you can feel every inch of his cock drag against your walls. His nails claw your thighs when you don’t ease up, teeth grinding together, pulling his lips from yours to toss his head back.

“Qogralbar aspo—qrugh—ōregon va—”

 Fucking bitch—shit—hold on—

Your hips jerk, a gasp muffled into his mouth—the sting of his nails in your thighs, his softening cock twitching inside of you, the way his jaw is clenched and how the vein running down the side of his neck bulges as he strains to not let out a pitched whine, overstimulated. It’s all too much, one last roll of your hips as he spasms beneath you, cock head dragging up against that sweet spot inside of you, and your jaw falls slack against his mouth, a hitch and a whine as your hips stutter, finishing on his sensitive cock. 

The two of you remain like that for a long while, the sound of music and chatter below, foreheads pressed together, sharing the same dizzying sliver of air. When that pleasant, boneless feeling in your limbs starts to subside, you finally roll off of him, onto the velvet cushions next to him, head lolling back so you can look up at the sky, trying to catch your breath, chest heaving, and eyes sliding shut briefly. 

After a few moments pass, you stretch languidly and rise to your feet.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Aerion asks, voice low and gaze lidded as he watches you carefully. 

“Down to the garden,” you say easily, fixing your dress. Aerion looks distinctly offended, pushing himself up onto his elbows. You explain, “I promised the First Magister I wouldn’t hide away up here all night, and now I feel, ah, properly energized to go socialize with these peacocks.”

His eye twitches, and he looks as though he wants to argue, but you turn to leave before he can, ignoring the aggravated puff of air he lets out.

“Tell me,” Aerion calls after you. “Where are you from? Why were you exiled here? Who are you really?”

You give him an easy smile over your shoulder. “I revealed enough secrets tonight, haven’t I?” you drawl as you push the curtain open to leave the balcony and head back down to make your official appearance at the festival. “It would ruin the fun if I revealed the mystery all at once.”

Aerion doesn’t respond, gaze dragging over you as he leans forward to pluck one of the grapes you left on the table between his fingers, rolling it once before popping it in his mouth. After a long moment, his lips curl up into a slow smirk, as though finally deciding to go along with this little game of yours. His eyes slide away, effectively dismissing you as though you weren’t already leaving.

 Your smile widens. “‘Ēva hembar jēda, dārilaros.”

“i heard that,” satoru mumbles with a pout, his third melon popsicle of the day hanging from one side of his mouth. droplets of green slush drips onto the broad planes of his chest in a sticky mess as it melts but he’s wholly focused on the two of you, one summer blue eye winked closed as the other peers through the lens of the polaroid camera looped around his neck. “but wait, just one more photo of my two favorite girls!”

“you’ve been taking photos for the last twenty minutes, satoru,” you huff. “we aren’t going anywhere, you know. you don’t have to take so many.”

“our baby needs to see what the three of us looked like in our prime, before we grow old and gray together.”

“you’re so ridiculous, gojo satoru.”

but despite your exasperation, you remain put. it’s hard not to feel the same way he does on a perfect day like this— contentment, light in the heart and full of love because of this little trip. the camera focuses in on you and your daughter before the shutter clicks, each snap immortalizing the sight of you and your baby girl illuminated by the lazy autumn sun.

“and done!” he cheers, catching the polaroid in his palm as it slides from the slot. it wobbles between two of his fingers as it develops, but he can already see that it’s a perfect picture. he feels his heart sink in his chest, melting into a syrupy sweet puddle of happiness that makes him lightheaded and anxious.

oh, you’ve never looked as pretty as you do right now. like a dream, a forever kind of love he never plans to let go of. wearing that cute little swimsuit he likes so much with his sunnies perched on top of your head and his baby propped up on your supple hip. the two of you are beaming, cheeks squished together, your daughter’s hand cupping your face fondly.

it’s the kind of picture that others would coo at and fawn over if he framed it in a museum, but satoru retrieves his wallet from the pocket of his swim trunks, tucking the polaroid safely in the trifold for his own selfish keeping.

“i think she really likes the beach,” you tell him, squatting to set your daughter on her feet. she waves to you and satoru before waddling toward the shallow surf, her little legs stumbling in the thick body of sand. “this was good of you, satoru.”

“what? you think i’d miss the opportunity to spend time with my best girls?” he asks you, a hand on his chest with an affronted look on his face. you resist the urge to snort as the two of you follow closely behind your stumbling toddler, rushing towards her every time she gets distracted and attempts to eat the sand or chase one of the seagulls.

“you’ve been busy lately, that’s all,” is how you respond, the accusation washed out of your tone for the gentle words instead. you don’t bring up how many milestones, how many little memories he’s already missed, just by being who he is— that no matter what, he’ll always belong to his duty first and his family second. no, you’ve always shown patience and understanding. never complaining when his side of the bed is empty before morning or your girl requests for her father to read a bedtime story in that animated, comical way you can never replicate for her. making her settle for your offkey, wobbly lullabies instead.

“i know,” he says quietly, suddenly serious— keeping one eye on your baby girl who is currently splashing her hands around in the sand and water. “one of my first year’s a vessel so the curses are getting more pesky. i don’t think that’s a coincidence.”

“you think something’s about to happen?” you ask, looking up at him, but he presses a kiss to your temple and you wrinkle your nose at the sticky feeling of his lips.

“nah,” he replies, and you almost roll your eyes because you know he’s lying. even though satoru has done his best to keep you hidden from his world, you’re no fool. you already know why he rarely comes home at night, why he was absent for christmas last year, why your daughter has never met her paternal grandparents. you know that with the reappearance of several ancient cursed objects, there is thunder crackling among the clouds. “don’t worry your pretty little head about that.”

satoru turns up the volume on the waterproof boombox half-buried in the sand next to your belongings. he can’t stand your choice of music, finds it noise most of the time, but it’s the distraction the atmosphere needs to throw off your questioning. he pulls you to sit down between his legs, your back pressed against his chest and his arms wrapped around your body.

ocean foam splashes against the tips of your toes as the two of you sit at the surf of the tide in peaceful silence, time getting away from you both in the warm sun as your baby girl plays, her energy endless— waddling around and squealing at the different curiosities and wonders the beach has to offer.

whatever will happen, satoru won’t allow it to be today.

“satoru,” you call after a long quiet, craning your neck to look up at him. “if you—”

“what, you think i’m gonna croak sometime soon?” he shoots back, already knowing where the conversation is heading. so he holds you tighter, his strong arms a protective cage around your body as his shades slide down the attractive slope of his nose. he cracks a grin at you, another obvious deflection because he knows you can’t resist when he looks at you that way. not with his hair mussed from humidity, a strip of sunscreen on his nose as he chews on that damn wooden stick from his ice pop earlier.

“i know what you’re doing,” you shake your head. “and it’s not working. i’m just worried, i’m allowed to, as your wife. you think you’re invincible but if something happens to you that’ll… it’ll—” it will break us.

satoru’s smile fades, but he thankfully doesn’t need to reply because your daughter is waddling up to the both of you now, her sand-caked hands full of seashells and stones that glimmer in the sunlight. he wants to scoff because if anyone understands the consequences of failing those you love, it’s him— it’s all he’s ever known.

“what ya got there, princess?”

“fish—!” she cries in her sweet, babyish voice. some of the shells tumble from her hands, and you watch as her expression switches from happiness to dismay to finally confusion. you have to bite your lip to hold back laughter when instead of picking them back up, she dumps the rest of the seashells in your lap. “now i don’t have any fish.”

“i think those are seashells, princess,” gojo says with a grin, picking up a shell that rests on top of your thigh and holding it up to the sunlight. “this shell looks like it belongs to a hermit crab, like your megumi-nii.”

“you’re a terrible influence on our daughter, you know.”

“i’m just setting up future dynamics, angel face,” he grins.

“look look look!” your daughter gasps, bringing your attentions back to her. “this swee-shell looks like dada—!” she squeals excitedly, her new finding held delicately in her little sand-covered palm. she stands up on your thighs to reach her father sitting behind you, holding an iridescent blue seashell next to gojo’s eyes, her tiny mind comparing the colors in wonder. meanwhile, satoru wears a smile that burns so wide it hurts his cheeks.

“it looks like you too, princess,” he boops her nose, gently taking the seashell and holding it to her eyes next. her answering giggles sound like a sweet bell calling him home to heaven, but he can’t answer it because there are two people on this earth who laugh and smile at him like he hung the moon and painted the stars. “if you put it in your pocket now, the ocean won’t call the cops on you for stealing it.”

“no, this one ‘s for dada,” she insists, shoving the pretty blue seashell back into his hand.

“thank you, my mini angel,” he ruffles her hair, and you smile softly at the little exchange because though she may be enamored with her new discoveries at the beach, her father will always be one of her favorite wonders of the world.

“i ‘anna go find one for mama now!” she announces, and you wonder how she hasn’t run out of energy yet, but you nod and stand to your feet, dusting the sand away from the bottom of your swimsuit. your baby’s entire hand curls around your pointer finger, and she pulls you along with great effort.

you glance back at satoru and find that he’s watching the two of you head closer to the water, that uncharacteristically genuine smile still on his face, and you part your lips to call him to your side— where he’s always supposed to be.

“you didn’t think we’d let you slack off, did you? finding seashells is serious business, satoru!” you tease, pretty eyes crinkling with unbridled happiness, haloed by the waning sun and the orange dreamsicle sky that holds it. “hurry up!”

“wait for me just a little while, i’m coming to you,” he calls back, a lopsided grin spreading across his mouth before he raises the polaroid camera to his face, snapping one last candid photo of the two of you before he jogs towards his little piece of heaven.

but he doesn’t think he’s imagining things when the distance between heaven and earth keeps growing further and further apart—

“satoru, you can’t stand outside forever,” your voice is gentle as it speaks behind him, your hand laid delicately on his back in comfort; breaking the sorcerer out of deep reverie, the edges of the old memory fading, replaced by the pink paint of his daughter’s bedroom door that he’s been standing in front of for the last thirty minutes. his thumb brushes over the polaroid in his hand, the one that had been his salvation and his undoing in the prison realm. he’d taken it out without knowing, his eyes reading over the date written in his handwriting.

october 30, 2018

the picture of you with your daughter on your hip that he took at the beach all those years ago— that had been the last time he’d seen her.

four, no, five years?

his feet are nailed to the floor because change makes satoru shut down, and everything has changed since then.

while time was immeasurable and immovable inside of the prison realm for him, the clock had ticked on outside of it and just like that, his little girl is no longer three years old, giving him seashells that matches his eyes or hitting the back of his ankles with her big wheel or—

“you can’t keep doing this to yourself,” you sigh. “you’ve been unsealed for months. you’re her father, no matter what.”

“i’m a stranger to her,” and to you, but he doesn’t say it. you had waited for him, in every aspect of the word. held out on hope and faith in his strength that he would return to your side, where he’s always supposed to be.

“you’re n—” but you’re cut off when the door opens to reveal your daughter standing on the other side. the child standing before him is almost unrecognizable. she’s much taller and older, wearing track pants underneath her school dress with ribbons in unruly waves of white hair. the last time he’d seen his daughter, she had been three years old and still learning things like colors and sight words and that feeding megumi’s demon dogs her vegetable purée was against the rules. now, gojo satoru was the father of an eight year old and he’d missed everything because of a mista—

“you can come in,” she says, blinking up at satoru with an expression void of emotion. “but i’m not finished with my homework so if you stay too long, you’ll bug me.”

“how did you know i was outside?” he whistles nonchalantly, unbothered by the attitude that she gives him. it fills him with bitter satisfaction that she isn’t excited to see him, that someone is angry that he failed, regardless if he won in the end. he can handle bratty children who hate him and only look at him as a tool for their success, he can’t handle a daughter who cried herself to sleep every night waiting for him while he was losing his sanity away in a cube.

or at least, that’s what he tells himself.

“i could see you and mama through the door, duh,” she replies, hip cocked to the side in an amount of sass she had to pick up from you. “mama says i have your eyesight. i don’t really get it, but it makes it easy to cheat on tests.”

he could see it in the bright blue of her eyes, even if she hadn’t confirmed it. plain as daylight, she’s exactly like he was at that age. easily irritable and bratty, cocky and spoiled rotten. suffering from the weight of being an uncontested heir to an ancient dynasty at the age of elementary.

“i used six eyes to cheat on tests too,” he relates with pride, and then he bends down to her height, waving his palm. “sooo you probably got some questions about where i was—”

“not really. grandfather said you were sealed because you’re foolish and let weakness distract you.”

“you shouldn’t say things like that,” you scold, “apologize.”

“why? i don’t want to.”

your daughter turns, disappearing back into her room after that and seeming like she doesn’t care if satoru follows or not. your hand travels up the long expanse of satoru’s back in a soothing circle as you step closer.

“huh, that’s new.”

“sorry, she’s… i don’t know if acting out is the right term,” you say, pain in your voice. “she doesn’t really understand why she’s so different, or why you were … gone for so long. i know you didn’t want her around your family so i kept her away as best i could, but she started to have crippling migraines because she didn’t know how to use her ability and well… they were the only ones who knew how to help. filled her head with foolishness every time she visited the estate, though and it’s changed her.”

“huh,” is all he says, a broken record, tongue running across his inner lip in thought.

“do you need me?”

“what, you think i can’t handle her?”

“well, you were outside the door for a half hour, ‘toru.”

he shoots you a lopsided grin before he’s stepping into his daughter’s bedroom, glancing around at the unfamiliarity of it all. you follow close behind, watching with a heavy heart as he takes in the difference eight years can make.

her tiny baby crib has been traded for a poster bed decorated with a sanrio duvet and various stuffed animals where a laptop and study papers lay scattered on top. the angel themed decorations, along with her first ultrasound photo you and satoru had hung up in her nursery had been replaced by pink paint and pictures of her with a group of friends from school and a photo of her on a volleyball team.

he has to rip his gaze away.

“so,” he starts, standing in the center of the room and trying not to feel like an intruder, desperate for something to say— something to relate to her with. “how many episodes did i miss? did aya-chan ever get married?”

“i’m too old to play with dolls now, father,” she huffs, scrunching up her nose, and though satoru expected that exact answer, it doesn’t stop his heart from shattering into a million pieces. he feels that familiar itch, anger welling in his body until it burns at his fingertips because this is no one’s fault but his own. “don’t you know anything about me?”

“my bad, you’re a big kid now,” he snorts, even as his chest aches. he sits on the edge of her bed, flipping up one edge of the coloring book laying next to her laptop. “maybe you should start paying taxes.”

“i’m also too young to pay taxes. you really don’t know anything about me anymore,” she snaps, and she’s right— he doesn’t and it burns like saltwater on a wound. now he knows why you asked if he needed you; he’d hide behind you if he could, but he settles for flickering his eyes up to you helplessly.

you realize that neither of you can be upset with her for being angry that one of her favorite people vanished out of thin air. that while he was sealed, his clan had taken advantage of his absence and your powerlessness against them, and had begun spoiling your child rotten, teaching her how to use her ability— plumping her up for the inevitable day that she becomes her father’s successor, turning her against him.

“i think,” you say softly, leaning against the frame of the door. “that your dada— your father— would like to learn, though. he’s missed a lot, baby.”

she considers this for a long while, then she heaves a great sigh, hackles lowering. she scoots off the bed and before satoru can feel the hurt of figuring she doesn’t want to be near him, she does something unexpected. she moves one of her trophies out of the way to open her closet door, rummaging around for the longest before she yanks out a cardboard box you had labeled ‘donate one day since my snotty kid is a hag now’— it’s a box full of old dolls, covered in dust. she sits on her knees in front of the box, peering inside.

“aya-chan didn’t get married, but hinata-chan did,” she explains with an exasperated sigh and a roll of her eyes, taking out the dolls one by one and setting them on the floor in front of satoru’s feet.

“to the mailman that lived in your ugliest dollhouse?”

“you remember,” her eyes widen a little in surprise before her expression shutters again, smoothing out the doll’s colorful polyester dress before reaching back into the box and retrieving a brush covered in synthetic hairs. she looks at it for a while before extending her arm and offering the brush to her father. “aya-chan decided to be independent and explore the world. she’s planning to go on a trip soon so she needs to get ready. do y’wanna brush her hair?”

satoru is sliding off the bed and sitting cross-legged on the floor before he knows it, barely wanting to breathe because he doesn’t want to shatter the fragility of the moment between them. he takes the brush, and seconds later she hands him one of the dolls that had once upon a time been her favorite one that no one was allowed to touch. you would giggle at the delicate way he brushes the doll’s hair with utmost care and precision if you weren’t about to cry at the scene instead. “oh, and where’s she headed?”

“okinawa.”

“ponytail or messy bun then?” you don’t think you’re imagining the wobble in his voice. “to compliment her swimsuit.”

a tiny, hopeful smile twinkles over your lips at the two of them on the floor, babbling away to each other about the outlandish stories they’ve created together with her dolls. how many times had you offered to play with her, only for her to burst into tears because it wasn’t the same? you know that this won’t bridge the gap between the years that have been lost, but it’s a start. just hearing the soft murmurs of their conversation, the sound of your little girl giggling for the first time in ages, makes your heart swell.

time may be an undefeated opponent, and with it comes change that no one can control, but something tells you that as long as the three of you are together— everything will be okay.

2011 | READER, AGE 18; NAOYA, AGE 20

Three years pass before you see Naoya again. You think that your father and his explicitly go out of their way to make sure there are no chances for the two of you to interact, because jujutsu society is small—there’s no reason why the two of you should’ve gone so long without seeing each other unless there was outside interference. 

Or, well, there’s a second option, but you don’t want to think about that one.

You bring it up to Gojo Satoru one day when the two of you are lounging in the training grounds at your clan’s estate.

“Do you think it’s weird that Naoya and I haven’t bumped into each other once since our fathers broke off the engagement?” 

“You’re so rude bringing up other men when you’re here with me,” Satoru complains, tilting his head to the side to look at you. “You tryna make me jealous or something?”

You think the only good thing that came from the end of your arrangement with Naoya is your friendship with Satoru. He became a constant in the years that followed—the only person you could call a friend after you lost whatever it was you had with Zenin Naoya. 

At first, he was just there—very loud and very persistent, and very impossible to ignore. He’d taken an interest in you early on, partially because he was bored, partially because he likes anyone who makes the old traditionalists of jujutsu society uncomfortable, and you think mostly because you don’t treat him like he’s untouchable. You correct him when he gets things wrong, insult him when he’s annoying, and you’ve come to realize over the last three years that Satoru is lonely. He doesn’t like being surrounded by people who worship him, and, like you, he seems to be dealing with the loss of someone dear to him. You heard through the grapevine that his closest friend from Jujutsu High turned coat and became a curse user during their third year. He doesn’t talk about it with you, and you don’t ask, but you’re pretty sure it’s part of the reason why he’s so quick to cling to you. He wants to be distracted, and you were the perfect one handed right to him, since both of your clans jumped on the opportunity to try to get the two of you betrothed after your arrangement with Naoya fell apart.

Over time, distraction became friendship and friendship became something more. Love, maybe, but not the kind people write songs about or build futures around. You don’t love Satoru the way your father and the Gojo clan elders want you to love him, and he doesn’t love you that way either. But when the two of you are alone, he lets you be sharp and stubborn and angry without trying to fix you, and you let him be Gojo Satoru, the person, instead of Gojo Satoru, the strongest. 

He listens when you complain, even when your complaints circle back to the same names and the same old frustrations. He pushes you to be better and stronger, showing up at your estate to spar with you and your brothers every chance he can get, and he fought tooth and nail for you when the higher-ups tried to spitefully block your petition for Special Grade One last year. When the topic of marriage comes up between your clan and his, he shuts it down immediately, making it clear that he isn’t going to let either of you be forced into a life you didn’t choose. He never talks down to you, never tries to scare you into obedience, and when the whispers started about how you’re difficult and reckless and how the Zenin clan was smart to end the engagement between you and Naoya, he laughs them off like they’re jokes not worth remembering, and somehow, that makes them feel smaller.

And all of this without the need for the threat of mutually assured destruction, you think bitterly, eyes sliding shut when your thoughts, as always, inexplicably draw back to a certain Zenin. 

Gojo Satoru is good to you. Really good to you.

And still, despite all of that, Naoya never quite leaves you alone. He always crosses your mind as soon as you let your guard down and your thoughts start to drift. He shows up in the way your body still anticipates certain movements in a sparring match, stepping where someone else would’ve been, correcting habits you learned fighting him and no one else. Sometimes, you can almost hear his voice in your head, harsh and irritated as he complains about your bullshit hacks while the two of you relax at your clan’s estate after a long day of training, and you find your lips curling up into a smile before you remember that the two of you aren’t on speaking terms anymore. 

You don’t really talk about him with Satoru either, and Satoru never brings him up. You’re grateful for that. But there are too many nights when you lie awake and wonder how Naoya took the ending of the betrothal. You wonder if he hates you for disappearing—not that it was your choice—or if he was relieved, or if, worse, he simply moved on without sparing you a second thought, and that’s why he hasn’t bothered to talk to you again.

It doesn’t matter, you tell yourself, as you always do.

“Oh yeah,” you agree. “Definitely. Is it working?”

“It is,” he agrees solemnly. “I’m so jealous. I should go run to the clan elders and tell them that you’ve shattered my heart beyond repair.”

You laugh, the sound comes easy despite the heaviness in your heart.

Satoru shifts to sit more comfortably. He leans back on his hands, glasses sliding down his nose so he can look at you directly. 

“For what it’s worth,” he says casually, “yeah. It’s weird.”

“You think?” you ask quietly, chest tightening just a little.

He shrugs lazily. “Jujutsu society’s not that big,” he says exactly what you’ve been thinking. “You don’t just not run into someone like him for three years unless people are trying very hard. You try texting him? You know we’re in the twenty-first century, right?”

Your gaze lowers. “They don’t go through,” you say quietly. “My texts.”

“Ah,” Satoru replies, voice soft. He doesn’t say what you know he’s thinking—that second option you didn’t want to consider, that there might not be any outside influence, Naoya might be the one avoiding you. But that wouldn’t be fair. It wasn’t your decision to end the engagement; it was his clan that made the call. “Well, want me to find out for you?”

You look at him quickly. “Can you?”

Satoru snorts, giving you a too-smug grin. “I’m Gojo Satoru. I can do anything.”

“I don’t want him to know you’re snooping around for me,” you say firmly.

“Relax,” he drawls. “I know how to be discreet.”

You’re not sure Satoru actually knows what that word means, but for the first time since your father broke the news of Zenin Naobito’s decision, something close to hope flutters in your chest. 

————————

Satoru keeps his word. Within a week of your conversation with him, you learn that the Zenin clan has been a trainwreck since the engagement fell apart. They’ve been doing their best to keep it under wraps, but once Satoru starts snooping, everything unveils itself quickly. Servants quit without notice, getting as far away from the estate as they possibly can, and Zenin representatives show up to meetings even more high strung than they usually are, one wrong word from snapping. Even the Hei and Kukuru try to keep away from the estate, finding any reason to take on missions. 

Naoya’s name comes up again and again, always paired with the same words: volatile, cruel, and out of control.

In the months that follow the dissolution, he becomes unbearable even by Zenin standards. He terrorizes servants over imagined slights, lashes out at cousins and uncles and brothers alike, and humiliates anyone unfortunate enough to be near him when his temper snaps. Satoru claims that even Naobito starts keeping his distance from his youngest son.

Satoru found it hard to believe, because the Naoya he’s always encountered has always been the opposite of these descriptions: arrogant and flippant, never caring about anything enough to bother with an argument, because it’s all beneath him. You believe it though. You can see it, have seen it dozens of times before—Naoya, crueler and more aggressive, burning himself out on spite and fury.

(“No, he’s always been like this,” you say, more to yourself than to Satoru. “He loses control and explodes. Doesn’t care what he brings down with him.”

“I guess,” Satoru agrees. “And losing you—” he pauses, correcting himself, “—losing the engagement with you probably didn’t help then.”)

According to Satoru, the Zenin clan elders try to rein him in at first. Then they try threatening him. Then they try ignoring him. None of it works. Satoru tells you that at one point, they even tried to pacify him by setting up another engagement, thinking he was angry because something was ‘stolen from him,’ but Naoya went off the rails, refusing to even see the girl. No matter what they do, his temper only worsens.

(“I don’t understand why he won’t just fucking talk to me then,” you snap, frustrated. “Why won’t he answer my texts? He’s so fucking stubborn.”

Satoru doesn’t say what you’re both thinking: that the only reason Naoya would be so adamant against speaking to you is that he blames you.)

Two months after Satoru does his snooping and informs you of the Zenin state of affairs, you’re given a mission from the higher-ups to exorcise what’s presumed to be an unregistered Special Grade cursed spirit wreaking havoc in Kagoshima. You’re told that your partner will meet you on-site, no name given, just coordinates and an arrival window, and you accept without much thought

You should’ve realized this was Satoru’s meddling, but you don’t until it’s too late.

————————

“This is fucking ridiculous,” you mutter as you lean against the wall, phone pressed to your ear as you bitch to Satoru. “This guy still isn’t here. The designated meeting time was thirty-five minutes ago. I’m about to go in on my own. I don’t give a damn anymore.”

“What’s that? You’re breaking up, I can’t—” You hear Satoru say on the opposite line, and then something crinkling obnoxiously near the speaker.

“Did you just crinkle a fucking bag of potato chips pretending it’s static?” you demand furiously, but Satoru has already hung up, clearly not wanting to be bothered while he’s ‘on vacation.’ You mutter bitterly, “Douchebag,” and shove your phone back into your pocket, crossing your arms over your chest.

Your gaze flicks up to the clear sky, watching as clouds roll in from the west. You let out a heavy sigh. You’d hoped to be done with this before the summer storm hit; you weren’t trying to be stuck in Kagoshima for the next three days, but since your asshole partner clearly doesn’t care to be on time, you’re definitely not going to be able to get out of the city before it hits. You text Satoru to tell him to make himself useful and book you a hotel room, and you hardly get the chance to read his response: one bed or two? :P before a familiar voice around the corner forces your spine straight and your eyes wide.

“Let’s make one thing clear—I’m not here to babysit some second-rate,” Zenin Naoya snaps from around the corner, voice clipped and impatient. “So, stay out of my way, and don’t slow me down or—”

He rounds the corner mid-sentence, and the rest of the words die in his throat. For a split second, before he registers that it’s you standing in front of him, his expression is contemptuous, locked and loaded, ready to unleash his displeasure onto whichever poor soul has the misfortune of being partnered with him. Then the contempt shifts into surprise, which he is quick to try to smooth out into an apathetic expression.

“... You,” he says flatly.

“Your hair,” you blurt out before you can stop yourself, staring at where familiar black is now replaced with dyed blonde. He’s taller now, shoulders broader, and piercings line his left ear. “Your ear.”

Naoya is…

“What are you doing here?” he asks, voice harsh as he looks down at you, a sneer on his face. “This is a special grade operation.”

… as insufferable as ever

“Huh?” you demand, pushing yourself off the wall to stand straight. He still towers over you, arms crossed over his chest, jaw tight. “What the hell is that supposed to mean, Naoya?”

“Zenin to you,” he corrects, lip curling up. You blink, irritation beginning to prick at your chest—maybe something else, too. Zenin, is he serious? “It means exactly what ya think it means. You shouldn’t be here. You’ll get in my way.”

“You’ve gotten dumber since we last saw each other, Naoya,” you say, watching frustration flash through his face when you deliberately use his given name anyway. “Or maybe you just missed the news. We’re the same grade now, and I actually got my promotion on the first try, unlike someone. If I shouldn’t be here, you definitely shouldn’t.”

The jab lands exactly where you want it to. You knew it would. You can see him grinding his teeth as he glares down at you furiously. You don’t know what bothers him more: the idea of you being on equal grounds with him, or the reminder of his failure three years ago. Not even two minutes in his presence, and your blood feels hot, and there’s a dull pressure in the back of your head. You can’t believe that you were actually missing this bastard.

“Oh, I heard,” he drawls, smile sharp in a way that warns you he’s about to say something particularly vile. “Everyone did. Hard not to, when you’ve got Gojo Satoru singing your praises.” His mouth twists. “Funny how fast doors open when you’re on your back for the right man. I should commend you, really. It was a smart move, trading up the way you did. There’s only one rung above me, and ya managed to get your foot right on it once I stopped being useful to you. Didn’t think you had it in you.”

Your body moves before your mind even fully registers what it is that he said, driving your fist forward into his face. He dodges, of course, leaning back and appearing at your left side in the split second that Projection Sorcery needs to activate. Naoya underestimates you, as always, and you don’t even need to use your own technique to anticipate where he’s going to appear, kicking your foot out to drive it into his gut the moment he does. He lets out a ‘oof’ as his back slams against the brick wall you’d just been leaning on, and you dart forward to grab his collar, this time successfully putting your fist in his teeth before you yank him down so that he’s eye level with you. 

He’s unrepentant as he stares down at you, jaw tight, blood trickling down his chin, and hatred blazing in his eyes. 

“Fuck you,” you say, head clouded with rage and heart beating furiously in your chest.

Naoya smiles as though his blood isn’t smeared across his teeth and his lip isn’t split in two. “If I’d known you were so quick to spread your legs, I would’ve done that a long time ago. You don’t interest me anymore now that you’re Gojo Satoru’s sloppy seconds—so, it’s a hard pass. Maybe try with one of my brothers, or a Kamo, if you’re collecting—”

Your grip twists on his collar, and you drive your fist into his face a second time. A third. Almost a fourth, but you stop yourself when you realize he’s not even trying to break free or block the blows. You let out a loud scoff and shove him back again, taking a step away from him as he leans back against the wall and wipes the blood from his face.

“Same vicious beast you were three years ago,” he mutters scornfully. “Did the strongest tame you, or d’ya treat him like this, too?”

“Same douchebag you were three years ago,” you bite back. “The fuck is the matter with you? You jealous or something? Why do you keep bringing up Satoru?”

“Satoru,” he echoes with a bark of laughter. 

Your eyebrows shoot upward. “Oh,” you say, the realization hitting hard enough to cut through your anger. You laugh, loud and mocking. “You are jealous.”

He lets out an ugly noise. “Don’t get it twisted. You’re not worth being jealous over.”

“Get over yourself, Naoya,” you scoff furiously. “You don’t get to treat me like shit because you’re jealous over something th—”

“I’m not jealous,” he interrupts, voice rising as he pushes himself up to stand straight. “I don’t care about who you decide to fuck.”

“You’re sure acting like it.”

He steps into your space suddenly, close enough that you can feel the heat rolling off him, the anger vibrating under his skin. “Well, I’m not. I’m not fuckin’ jealous. I’m pissed. You made me look stupid, standing around wondering if you’d come back while you were off playing favored pet to Gojo Satoru.”

Your eye twitches—what is he even talking about?

“That’s not fair,” you say through gritted teeth. “I—”

He laughs in your face. “Fair?” he asks, voice low and mocking. “You vanish without a word, and fair is what you wanna talk about now? That’s rich.”

Your expression twists. “I tried to talk to you, Naoya. You ignored me.”

“Because you made your choice,” he scoffs, turning his back on you. “You don’t get to walk away from someone and expect them to sit there waiting for you. I—”

“I didn’t walk away from you, Naoya,” you tell him, voice rising in frustration. You shove his back when he turns it on you, but there’s no force behind it this time. “The Zenins pulled the plug, not me. Said they had no use for the alliance, and found a better match for you.”

Naoya looks back at you, gold eyes flickering with uncertainty for a moment before they shift into doubt. “Bullshit,” he says coldly, raising his chin to look down at you. “My father told me the truth. Your clan pulled the plug because they saw more use in an alliance with the Gojo clan—you were the one who pushed your father to it.”

You roll your eyes so obnoxiously that Naoya looks like he wants to rip them out of your head.

“You are so fucking stupid, sometimes I doubt you have a single working brain cell in that puny head of yours,” you spit, watching how his expression shifts into outrage at the insult. You press on before he can snap something back. “Your father,” you add sarcastically, chest tight, “known for his honesty and kindness, isn’t he?”

“He wouldn’t lie to me,” Naoya disagrees, jaw tight, nails digging into his palms at his side. “Not about this.”

“Yeah? Why not?”

“Because—” he starts to say, and then he shakes his head, looking away. He clicks his tongue sharply as he drags a hand through his hair, smearing blood further across his face and staining his blonde hair. “Doesn’t matter. You’re not my problem anymore. Leave me the fuck alone, let’s just get this done. Stay outta my way.”

You only have the chance to roll your eyes before the ground starts trembling beneath your feet. A distorted pressure rolls through the air, cursed energy surging all around you. You and Naoya straighten instantly, instincts snapping back into place. Your anger and his… well, whatever it is he’s feeling, gets shoved deep down, buried under duty. He glances toward the abandoned building, lips curving up.

“Perfect timing.”

“Technically, you were late,” you mutter, wiping your knuckles against your sleeve, pulse still racing. “Try not to dodge into my foot again.”

The corner of his mouth twitches despite himself. “Don’t get cocky.”

You give him a smug smirk as you shove your hands into your pockets and make your way into the building. He trails behind you, uncharacteristically quiet. The air inside the building is damp and heavy; your stomach twists in disgust when you breathe in and realize you can taste death on your tongue. Broken glass crunches softly beneath your boots, and you squint as you peer into the dark lobby of the building. The cursed energy is thick and disgusting—whatever cursed spirit made this place its home, it's been nesting here for a while.

Naoya comes to stand next to you, close enough that your shoulder brushes his upper arm. He nods his chin over to the right, and you grimace when you see corpses half-melted into the tiled floors. Your expression twists in disgust as you say, “Gross.”

Naoya hums, head tilting to the side as he looks down at you, blonde hair falling in his eyes. “Try to keep up, yeah?” 

You scoff, lips instinctively curling up into a smile. “Only one in the world who can.”

————————

Three years apart should have left rust or uncertainty somewhere. Instead, the moment you and Naoya fall back in step, it’s like no time has passed at all. Whatever distance you put between yourselves, all of the hurt you buried beneath anger and pride, your bodies remember everything your minds wanted you to forget.

You don’t have such a lack of self-awareness to deny the fact that you’d been missing Naoya’s presence in your life over the past three years, but you think that you didn’t realize just how much until the two of you were back side-by-side again, bantering and arguing like the two of you are teenagers wandering the gardens of the Zenin estate again.

The cursed spirit doesn’t announce itself right away. At first, it almost feels underwhelming, like the reports might’ve been exaggerating its threat, but the deeper you push into the building, the more the atmosphere becomes heavy and malignant. The air thickens until every breath feels thick and labored, and you’re exchanging looks with Naoya, wondering when it will finally reveal itself. 

As always with the two of you, the bickering never really stops, just dips and surges. You’re halfway through mocking his new hair color when the cursed spirit finally makes itself known, lunging out of the shadows straight for his throat.

(“Oh—” you start, too late, watching as Naoya barely dodges an attack from the left, half-tripping over a piece of concrete. You burst into laughter when he gives you a furious look, twisting out of the way as the cursed spirit’s claws rake air instead of flesh. “Whoops.”

“The hell?” he snaps, driving a kick through its torso hard enough to send it skidding back down the hall. “What’s your problem? You said you would watch the left. See, this is why—”

He cuts himself off, giving you a furious look. Your lips curl up.

“Sorry, I was too distracted by the—” You wave your hand around your hair and then motion over to him. “Are you going through, like, a rebellious phase or something? Dye and piercings? Those old fucks must be going crazy.”

Naoya’s eye twitches in irritation. “Are you done, or are you planning to keep yapping while it tears this place apart?”

“I like it,” you say, stepping back as the cursed spirit launches itself at you. “It suits you.”

Naoya pauses and looks at you. He asks, “You think so?” and then promptly gets a claw through his upper bicep because he’s too busy waiting for your response.

“Yeah,” you answer. “How about you focus on the fight instead of compliment fishing, yeah? Wouldn’t wanna mess up the little prince’s pretty face with scars, would we?”

“Fuck you.”)

The fight continues on before you can make a snide comment back. The curse howls, slamming itself into the corridor with renewed violence, and you split without speaking—one left, one right, the opening already accounted for. There’s no hesitation, you move as you’ve always had, and it’s… uncomfortably intimate, considering it highlights just how well the two of you know one another. Combat strips away all the bitterness and old wounds, forcing you to acknowledge what your pride has refused to accept these past three years: you still know him like the back of your hand, and he still knows you the same.

The realization hits you mid-fight, and it nearly costs you your life. Glass explodes along the wall as the cursed spirit shrieks in pain when one of Naoya’s attacks finally lands. You stand there, blinking twice, staring at Naoya after he flawlessly recognized what your plan was without you having to say a word. He spits out a curse when he sees you standing there like an idiot, using his technique to get over to you and push you out of the way before a stray shard rips through your throat. 

(“I don’t care if you’re sloppy seconds, by the way,” Naoya tells you as he steadies you a few feet away. You give him a terrible side eye, because is that supposed to be a fucking apology? “I figure I should tell ya now, just in case you get yourself killed. You’re barely keeping up. This is why women shouldn’t—”

“Fuck you, dog,” you cut him off before he can finish, letting him get hit by a stray piece of rubble while he’s outraged, gaping at how you address him. “Apologize properly if you’re going to apologize. On your knees, preferably, with a few tears if you’re feeling generous. Maybe then I’ll consider forgiving you.”

He sneers at you from the ground. His gaze drags over you once, and then he says, “How the hell has your mouth gotten even worse over the last three years? Fuckin’ waste of a woman, you are.”

You let out a scoff, driving your foot into his side when you step over him. He doesn’t apologize, never does, but a week later, a box sits outside the door of your apartment. No sender listed, just a velvet box sitting unassumingly on your doormat. You stand there for a long moment, staring at it suspiciously, but eventually curiosity wins. Inside is a pretty bracelet set with diamonds—one that three years ago, you told him you wanted in passing on one of those lazy Sundays at the Zenin estate. He laughed in your face and told you that hell would freeze over before he drops a hundred million yen on you.

With it is a single note, unsigned: 

Don’t read into this.)

The rest of the fight grinds on without much ceremony. The curse is dangerous and violent, but its movements grow frantic and sloppy, while you and Naoya only become quicker and more confident.

The two of you never fought together before the engagement fell apart, but you fought against each other enough to know how the other moves better than your own breathing. You adjust without thinking, already anticipating the path he’ll take before he commits to it, stepping where he needs you to be, leaving openings he can exploit and closing the ones he doesn’t see coming.

Later, once the two of you have parted ways, you think that if anyone else had been sent as your partner, it might not have been such a clean victory. You almost don’t like how easy it was, how natural it felt to move with him again, to trust him without thinking, to let him have your back like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. You don’t like how your body never once questioned whether he’d be where you needed him to be, and you especially don’t like that the feeling seemed to be mutual. 

(“Satoru and I aren’t betrothed, you know?” you say suddenly, positioning yourself close to the spirit to give Naoya the chance to deliver a lethal blow. You don’t know why you feel the need to tell him this, but it’s been itching at the back of your head since he made his comments about the two of you. Naoya pauses at your words, and then lets out a frustrated string of curses when it only shrieks at him, coming way too close to slashing your throat when he fails to exorcise it on the first try. The two of you regroup a few feet back, and you say, “You’ve gotten slower. That was embarrassing to watch.”

“Fuck you,” he spits, wiping the sweat from his brow.

“Just saying. Three years ago, you would’ve had that. You been slacking off on training ‘cause of all your meltdowns?” you ask with a goading smile. He whirls on you furiously, and you raise your eyebrows innocently.

“How do you even—” he starts to demand, and then pauses, lips curling up into a smug smile. Instantly, you know you’ve made a mistake. “So it was you who sent Gojo Satoru snooping into Zenin affairs. How cute, ya really missed me that much?”

Mortified, you gape at him. “I told him to be discreet!”

“He’s about as discreet as a bomb,” Naoya snorts, pushing back his hair. You click your tongue, rolling your eyes because you knew sending Satoru was a bad idea, but you had faith in him anyway. Naoya’s head lolls to the side so he can look you in the eye, his gaze intense enough to make you pause. “For real?”

“For real, what?”

“You’re not with him.”

“Oh,” you say quietly, swallowing thickly as you look away. “Yeah, for real.”

You think you hear him say good, but the cursed spirit is coming back at the two of you before you can figure out if he actually did.)

When you part ways, it’s quiet and awkward in a way that’s very unlike either of you. There are no insults or snide comments, just a brief, loaded pause as you stare at each other before you turn in opposite directions, pretending that something fundamental didn’t just resurface between the two of you. You almost call after him, almost ask him if he wants to stay over at the hotel room you had Satoru book for you, but you don’t. 

That night, he texts you for the first time in three years: you up?

You snort and reply: Wow. Finally unblocked me.

Then you add while he’s still typing: You tryna hit or smth? Why are you texting me so late?

The typing bubbles pop up and disappear several times before he finally responds: there’s something seriously wrong with you. why can’t you ever be normal?

You laugh, rolling onto your back.

Things go back to normal—ish—and a piece of you that you hadn’t realized slid out of place in the three years of separation clicks back in. Sundays aren’t spent at the Zenin estate anymore, because you don’t think you’re allowed back there, but Naoya has an apartment in Osaka that he bought when Naobito pissed him off, so the two of you go there to relax instead. Fridays aren’t spent at your family’s estate, because you think your father would lose his mind if he knew you were back to spending your free time with Zenin Naoya again when he’s trying to get you to marry Gojo Satoru, so you guys go to your apartment instead, sometimes to a park on the outskirts of the city where you can spar until you’re too exhausted to move.

Satoru makes a dry comment one day about how if he’d known getting you back in contact with Zenin Naoya would make you less of a raging bitch, he would’ve done it three years ago. You tell him to go to hell, but he just can’t leave it alone.

(“Seriously, I really don’t know how you do it,” he says one afternoon, distastefully watching Naoya sneer down at some poor attendant of the higher-ups while the three of you await news to bring back to your respective clans. “I mean that sincerely. I deal with him for what, five minutes at a meeting every couple of months, and I’m already considering homicide. You put up with him on a regular basis—enjoy it, even.”

“Don’t be annoying, Satoru.”

“I’m serious, he’s a textbook douchebag. Arrogant, sexist, unpleasant to look at—”

“Unpleasant to look at?” you echo, voice riddled with disbelief. “That’s a lie, and you know it. Also—arrogant? Stones in glass houses, Satoru.”

Satoru pauses, slowly turning to look at you. “So you think he’s attractive, then?” he asks with a slow smile. You shove him hard. He lets you, laughing. “Kidding, kidding. Just saying, if I had to deal with him every day, I’d snap. You, on the other hand, somehow come out of it calmer. Less stabby. It’s deeply unsettling.”

“Screw off, would you?” you complain.

He hums, eyes flicking to your wrist where the bracelet Naoya got you catches the light. His smile turns a little knowing, maybe a little sadder too. “Guess we all got that one person we’ll tolerate more bullshit from than anyone else.”)

You become used to this—you and Naoya, you and Satoru. Things are easy, and you’re happy. You find yourself wishing, a little desperately, that things could stay like this forever.

————————

2012 | READER, AGE 19; NAOYA, AGE 21

You find out quickly that your wish was wildly idealized, because within a year, you realize that Satoru and Naoya only seem to tolerate each other when they’re making your life a living hell. 

For the better part of the year, Satoru does his best to avoid ever running into Naoya—for your sake, not his, Satoru tells you, because running into him at clan meetings once every couple of months is already pushing his tolerance threshold. Naoya pretends he couldn’t care less, and when you call him out on it, he throws a hissy fit, but he sulks whenever Satoru’s name comes up, and acts like the world has personally offended him whenever he visits and Satoru isn’t in the room. Sometimes you think he comes to see you in Tokyo just on the off chance of getting to see Satoru, and it seriously makes you roll your eyes.

The problem is that the two of them seem to share a very specific overlap in interests: ruining your dating life.

(“You seriously have a date?” Naoya asks through his teeth as you blow-dry your hair. He’s in Okinawa for the week on a mission, and you have no one else to get an opinion from besides Satoru, who you haven’t been able to get a hold of all day. You thought Naoya would just pick an outfit and tell you to fuck off, but you’ve been getting grilled by him since you called. “With who? Why? What the fuck?”

You glance down at your phone, giving him an annoyed look, because why does he have to say it like that? You put the blowdryer down and cross your arms over your chest. “Yeah, I do. Why the hell do you sound so shocked?”

Naoya doesn’t respond for a moment, lips pinched and eyes unreadable, and then he snaps, “‘cause who the hell would wanna date your ass?” He looks seriously irritated as he adds, “You barely qualify for a woman on a good day.”

“You’re an asshole,” you mutter, more offput by his words than you usually would be. You’ll never admit it out loud, but you’re a bit nervous. You’ve had your fair share of one-night stands, but you’ve never dated before. “Don’t know why I even called you.”

“I’m serious. You dress like a man, you don’t act right, and you sure as hell don’t know how to behave. What, you plannin’ on insulting him ‘til he runs off?” Naoya doubles down, lips pressed together and brows drawn tight.

“Fuck off, Naoya,” you say. “Are you gonna tell me your opinion or what?” 

“I’ll tell you my opinion—cancel the date and save yourself the embarrassment.”

“Whatever,” you snap, jaw tight and more hurt than you expected. “Screw you.”

“I’m only tryna help,” Naoya says defensively, unrepentant. “Guys won’t stick around for a woman like you. Will just use you for an easy fuck and then—”

You hang up before he can finish the sentence, burying your face in your hands and letting out a heavy sigh.)

You don’t talk to Naoya for two weeks after that, but he shows up at your apartment Friday night with takeout when you’re already half-drunk, and you give in, because he was right—the guy ghosted you after the second date. You find out much later that the only reason he ghosted you was because Naoya threatened to break both of his arms if he ever came near you again, but in that moment, you’re just bitter and upset and you want to spend the night trying to make yourself feel better because you hate being bitter and upset over a man. And no one’s better than Naoya when it comes to dragging people through the mud, so the two of you spend the whole night lounging in your bed with the guy’s social media pulled up, belittling him for everything from his face to the captions on his photos.

You think, later on, that Naoya was probably hoping one bad experience would lead you to stop seeking out other people, but unfortunately for him, it only made you more determined to get yourself a date.

And so begins eight months of canceled plans and ghosted messages.

You don’t know how Naoya managed to rope Satoru into his schemes, considering Satoru goes out of his way to avoid ever interacting with him, but he did. It all starts small enough that you don’t realize they’re conspiring. A casual mention to Satoru that you’re meeting a non-sorcerer for drinks turns into Satoru accidentally showing up at the same bar—and he is annoying enough that you think he would do something like that on his own. You only start to side-eye him when he starts making ominous comments about how dangerous your job is and how fragile civilians tend to be. He frames it like a joke after. He’ll sling an arm around your shoulders and ask, mock-innocent, if the date went well, as if he didn’t spend the evening subtly implying that getting involved with you comes with a nonnegotiable risk of violent death.

You trust in Satoru’s dislike of Naoya so completely that you don’t suspect his involvement until you’re literally faced with proof of it when the three of you are sent up to Hokkaido to deal with the higher-ups. You walk in on the two of them talking quietly with one another after you step out of the room to call your father. You only catch “—date Friday,” but it’s more than enough for you to realize that they’re talking about you and the plans you made with a sorcerer you met the other day. They immediately step away from one another and pretend they weren’t talking, which pisses you off because do they seriously think you’re that stupid?

(“What was that about?” you ask, putting your phone back in your pocket and crossing your arms over your chest.

“Nothing,” Naoya says, gaze flitting to the side as he turns his head away.

Satoru gives you an easy smile. “Plotting your untimely death. Do you prefer poison or fire?”

“Poison,” you answer flatly, gaze narrowing on Naoya. You ask again, “What was that about?”

Naoya sneers at you. “Why the hell are you looking at me? I told you. It was nothing. We were talkin’ about how his gramps is about to croak, and he’s gonna take over the Gojo clan. Happy?”

His gaze flits away as he speaks. Again.

“Liar,” you accuse, voice rising. Naoya’s attention snaps back toward you, glaring. “You’re lying to me. You always look away when you lie.”

“I do not,” Naoya snaps, furious. “You’re full of shit.”

“You do,” you hiss. “I knew you two were working together. I fucking knew it was suspicious when Satoru started getting involved. You’re conspiring against me to screw up all my dates!”

Naoya barks out a laugh. “Do you even hear yourself?” he scoffs. “Something doesn’t work out, and suddenly it’s everyone else’s fault, yeah? Fuckin’ women and their paranoia. Not everything’s about you.”

“Don’t gaslight me!” you spit.

“Oh, now she’s throwing around the buzz words,” Naoya says with an obnoxious roll of his eyes. “You really think we’re sitting around talking about your sad little love life? Get over yourself.”

He pointedly tries to hold your gaze this time, but halfway through ‘yourself,’ he glances away. His jaw tightens immediately, realizing what he did, and you gape at his audacity, almost too stunned to reply. 

“You’re such a fucking douchebag,” you say breathlessly. “Both of you—”

“Don’t group me with him,” Satoru immediately complains, but you ignore him. “It was all his idea.”

Naoya gives Satoru a furious look, but he only whistles and looks away.

“Both of you! Are you kidding me? What’s your fucking problem?” You hate that your voice cracks over the word. Satoru has the decency to look ashamed as he averts his gaze, but Naoya is unrepentant as ever. “I’ve thought for months that—”

You cut yourself off before you can finish that sentence, suddenly far more upset than you are angry. You don’t want to admit to them that you’ve been anxious for months that something is just seriously wrong with you, so you just tighten your jaw and shake your head. 

“Fuck you. Both of you. Just leave me the hell alone.”)

Satoru folds instantly after that. He gives you a few days of space before he shows up at your apartment with an obnoxious bouquet of flowers, takeout from your favorite restaurant, and a sheepish smile. He offers to take you on a date himself, just so you can experience one without his or Naoya’s meddling, and you tell him you would rather eat glass, so the two of you spend the night watching shitty romcons instead. The interference stops on his part after that. He still teases you, still raises an eyebrow when you mention seeing someone new, but he values you too much to keep pushing when it’s clearly upsetting you. 

Naoya, on the other hand, doubles down. If anything, Satoru stepping back only seems to embolden him. Naoya makes no effort to mask it after your confrontation in Hokkaido, and doesn’t give a damn when you’re upset or angry. 

(“You attract weak men,” he says dismissively when you confront him again. “That’s not your fault, but it is my problem.”

“Screw off, Naoya! Stay the fuck out of my business!”)

Two more months pass before you finally snap.

————————

For the first time in four years, you stand outside the Zenin estate, arms crossed over your chest, irritation rolling off you in waves. It’s four in the morning, and the servant working at the gates is caught between a rock and a hard place, because you have not been invited, you’re clearly in an antagonistic mood, and you’re pretty sure Zenin Naobito has forbidden you from entering the estate. You don’t care—you’re about to break the gates down if you’re not let in within the next two minutes.

“Miss—” the poor boy starts to say, and your eye twitches.

“Miss? Did the Zenins stop training their servants how to address people properly? Or are you trying to insult me?” you bark, tongue pressing against the back of your teeth as you try to rein in your temper. It’s not this boy’s fault that Zenin Naoya is a piece of shit who needs his teeth knocked out. “Bring me Naoya now.”

“Sorry, my lady. I meant no disrespect,” the boy splutters, and you can hear his voice dip as he bows, even though you can’t see him. “I’ll send word for Naoya-sama, just—”

“Hah?! What’s going on over here?” Naoya’s irritating voice calls from within the Zenin estate. “Whe—”

“Naoya!” you raise your voice, making sure he knows you’re pissed. “Get out here!” 

There’s a long pause, and then the gates to the estate open. Naoya steps out, an annoyed expression on his face, arms crossed over his chest, dressed casually in a black t-shirt and sweats—probably his pajamas. You’re so aggravated that there’s not even a fleeting thought about how he looks good dressed casually.

“The hell is your problem, ya mad cow?” Naoya demands, tipping his head back as he looks down at you. “You know how early it is?”

You don’t speak before you swing, too angry to even bother using your technique. Naoya’s eyes widen briefly as he spits out a curse, dodging backward; your momentum carries you forward, and you go to slam your other fist into his gut. He grabs your wrist before you can make contact, clicking his tongue, irritation flaring. Gravel scatters beneath both of your feet as you lift your leg to drive your heel into his upper thigh. 

“Are you out of your fucking mind?” he snaps, grabbing your ankle to knock you off balance and shoving you hard. Your back hits the outer wall of the estate hard enough to knock the breath from your lungs, and he’s on you in a second, knee shoved between your legs, pinning your wrists above your head with one hand and pressing his forearm against your chest to hold you still. “Enough! What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

You struggle against him once, trying to wiggle free, but he’s stronger and faster than you—once he’s got you, he’s got you. Belatedly, you realize you should’ve used your technique, but you stop struggling, jaw tight with frustration. 

“Get off me,” you say through your teeth. “You know exactly why I’m here.”

Naoya scoffs and pointedly doesn’t get off of you. “Do I now?”

“Yeah, you do, you mangy fucking mutt,” you spit. His lip curls up in irritation at the insult, but you press on before he can say anything. “I actually liked this guy. I told my father about him, and what do you know? Two days later, he ghosts me and then finally tells me that he can’t keep seeing me because a Zenin dog threatened to kill him if he continued. I’m sick of this shit. What is your fucking problem?”

Naoya’s expression twists, irritated. “That idiot called me a dog?” 

Your eye twitches. That’s what he’s concerned about?

“He did, and I broke a glass over his head because only I get to call you a dog, dog,” you snap. Before he can look too satisfied, you continue, “And then I came right here, because what is your deal? It’s been eight months of this bullshit, give it a fucking rest.”

“He was a loser,” he says simply, unrepentant. “Clan’s broke, no technique worth mentioning. Honestly, did ya a favor. You should be thankin’ me instead of acting like a wild animal.”

“Oh, fuck off,” you laugh, sharp and incredulous. You twist against the wall again, trying to break free, but Naoya leans in, pressing his arm harder against your chest and using his hips to stop you from wiggling around. You bare your teeth at him in irritation, hating that he’s so much stronger than you; you hate even more that it only seems to make him more smug. “You don’t get to decide that.”

“Course I do,” he says, like it’s obvious. “Someone’s gotta think for you when you don’t. You’ve got terrible taste.”

“No, you don’t, you entitled piece of shit.”

“I do. They’re not worth your time,” he continues. “Why would ya even date losers like him anyway? They’ve all been trash, every single one of ‘em. They don’t know you. Can’t keep up with you. They’ll only slow you down. I’m not watchin’ that, it’ll piss me off.”

What the hell is his problem?

“You sound fucking deranged, Naoya,” you say, teeth grinding so bad that you feel a headache coming on. “Is this how it’s gonna be the rest of our lives? You’re gonna scare off any guy I show interest in?”

“If I gotta.”

What the fuck? You almost want to rip out your hair. You let out another laugh, almost stunned to the point of speechlessness.

“You’re such a bastard. Then who is worth my time? So I can save us both the trouble. You? Is that what this is all about?”

You’re mostly mocking him, hoping to get a rise out of him so that he steps backward and lets out a scoff of disgust at the mere thought of being with you, but Naoya doesn’t respond right away, and suddenly you’re all too aware of the position you’re in—his body pressed against yours, arm against your chest, fingers curled around your wrist. His face is so close to yours that you can see the golden flecks in his eyes, and the way the corners of his mouth pinch at your words, like he isn’t sure how to respond. He stays silent long enough for you to realize what his answer is, and you let out a shaky breath, chest fluttering, suddenly feeling a bit dizzy.

This is not happening right now.

“Let go of me,” you tell him, voice tight, and Naoya’s expression twists, but he lets go of your wrist and lets his arm drop back down to his side, stepping away. “Stop butting into my business, Naoya. We’re not kids anymore. You’re seriously starting to piss me off.”

You don’t get three steps away before he’s reaching out to grab your wrist, forcing you to turn back to him. 

“What’s your—” Your lips part in shock when you feel his fingers curl around your throat, grip just stopping short of painful. He yanks you back toward him, and you stumble into his chest, hardly able to regain your footing before he’s tilting your face up toward his. “Naoya—”

You don’t know what you’re about to say. His name comes out too breathy to be a protest, and your pulse spikes, but not with fear. He leans down to press his lips against yours before you can get out your sentence anyway. You let out a surprised noise into his mouth, hands coming up to his wrists, but not to push him away.

Naoya kisses you like he’s starving. It’s rough and unrestrained, all teeth and heat and pent-up frustration. His mouth crashes into yours without any care for gentleness, and his hand stays at your throat, thumb pressing under your jaw to tilt your head exactly where he wants it, forcing the kiss deeper. You taste blood—maybe his, maybe yours—and heat curls low in your stomach. 

You should pull back, you think, because you came here to yell at him, and these are dangerous waters that you’re not ready to tread yet, but you don’t move. His other hand comes down to your waist, sliding behind you to your lower back, hauling you closer until there’s no space left between you. Your back is up against the wall again, and his body is pressed into yours, and you feel so dizzy that you might pass out. 

You realize belatedly that you’re kissing him back, lashes fluttering shut as your hands slide up to his biceps, nails digging into his skin. He drags his tongue against the roof of your mouth, fingers tightening slightly around your neck, and you let a sinful noise into his mouth. You kiss him until your lungs burn and your vision dots, and even then, you kiss him still, lips sliding messily against his, breath hitching as his hand drops to your thigh to hike your leg around his waist.

You part your lips from his just long enough to take in a sharp, raspy gulp of air to fill your lungs. You breathe out, “I can’t fucking stand you,” and then you press your lips against his again.

Your hands come up to the back of his head, fingers twisting in the dyed blonde, and he lets out a low groan into your mouth, hips instinctively jerking to grind against you. Your head drops back against the wall as his lips slide from yours to your jaw down the column of your throat.

“Ya drive me fuckin’ insane,” he mutters against your skin. “Was only ever me. I’m the only one worth your time, who knows you, can keep up with you. Even Gojo Satoru—he don’t know you like I do.”

“Yeah? How are you so sure about that?” you scoff, biting back a whine when he pointedly bites down over your pulse. “Careful.”

“‘Cause you’re an awful bitch, and you only show how awful you are to me since you know I’m worse,” Naoya laughs harshly against your throat, and you roll your eyes. “Don’t move for… five seconds.”

“What—”

You yelp when you realize he’s activated his technique, staying carefully still because you don’t want to get yourself trapped in one of his stupid frames, and before you know it, your back is flat against his futon, and Naoya’s hovering above you, arms braced on either side of your head. 

You squint slightly as a thought passes through your mind, and then you say, “Naoya, we should try that when we’re sent on missions together.”

Naoya blinks. “What?” 

“I think I could take advantage of the 24 FPS rule,” you explain, starting to sit up a little as soon as the idea crosses through your head, excited. Naoya stares at you blankly. “Listen, okay? I would know when you’re about to touch me and activate it, right? So what if I could give myself a—”

You let out a noise of complaint when he presses his palm over your mouth to silence you and pushes you back down flat against his futon, an irritated expression on his face. “Something is seriously wrong with ya,” he mutters. “That’s what you’re thinking about right now?”

“Just saying,” you say, muffled against his palm, but you sigh when he presses his lips back to your skin. His palm leaves your mouth just long enough for you to inhale, and he pulls back just enough to let his gaze flick down to watch the way your chest rises sharply beneath him.

“... You’re unbelievable,” he mutters, voice rough, more hoarse than insulting. It doesn’t have the bite it usually does—if you didn’t know better, you’d almost think he sounds fond. He kisses you again, slower this time, mouth moving against yours almost chastely before he kisses your jaw, your cheek, lingering at your throat. “Such a fuckin’ bitch. You were tryna piss me off, weren’t you? Wanted me to snap. How many losers were ya gonna make me chase off?”

“You’re so full of yourself,” you respond, a bit breathless. How did this even happen? You came here to beat the shit out of him, and now—now your breath hitches as Naoya’s hands slide beneath your shirt, warm and soft against your skin, wrapping around your waist, and your back arches slightly into his touch. “I actually liked them, you asshole.”

“Bullshit,” he replies, so confidently that you want to knock the smug smirk right off his face with your fist. “You’ve always wanted me.”

“You need a reality check,” you scoff, hands sliding down to his hips, using your leg as leverage to push him onto his back so you can straddle his waist. His back hits the ground with an oof, and he scowls up at you, but his pupils are blown wide. His hands instinctively find your thighs to flip the two of you back over, but you grab his wrists before he can, leaning over him as you pin them on either side of his head. “I don’t know if I should gag you or just knock your teeth out.”

“Violent beast,” he says instinctively, as though you can’t feel his cock pressing hard against your thigh and his lips aren’t curled up into a smile that’s softer than it is smug. “Sometimes I really doubt you’re actually a woman.”

This is—this is crazy, you think, mind whirling as your hips rock slightly, and Naoya lets out a ragged noise caught between a moan and a gasp. 

This is Naoya—this is shitty, insufferable Zenin Naoya, the boy you punched in the face and shoved into the koi pond more times than you can count for being an ass, the one who you bullied into keeping quiet by telling him only a girl would go crying to her father the way he threatened to, the one who used to pull your hair and push you into the dirt whenever the adults weren’t looking. Shitty, insufferable Naoya, who spent years insisting that women had no place in the jujutsu world except as wives, who mocked every ambition you ever voiced like it was a joke he was tired of hearing, who has made your life a living hell the past eight months because he was jealous.

Shitty, insufferable Naoya who—who always put himself between you and his brothers, or you and his father, or you and anyone the moment he thought things may turn ugly, even though he knew firsthand you could handle yourself, who covered for you whenever you broke decorum, taking the blame with a scowl like it annoyed him more than it ever actually did, who bought you obscenely expensive gifts he swore meant nothing. Shitty, insufferable Naoya who never asks you to be smaller or quieter or more palatable, even when he’s complaining and calling you a beast or a menace or telling you you’re not fit to be a proper wife, who takes every ugly part of you head-on and throws it right back at you, who knows how awful you can be and meets you there every time, never once making you feel like you have to pretend you’re better than you are. 

Shitty, insufferable Naoya, who has you straddling his hips with your pulse roaring in your ears and hands tight around his wrists. Shitty, insufferable Naoya, who has made countless snide comments about how a woman’s place is beneath a man and yet is content beneath you, chest heaving, pupils blown wide—he could overpower you and flip the two of you around in a second, but chooses not to. Shitty, insufferable Naoya, who you kiss again, deeper this time, gasping into his mouth when he grinds his hips up against yours.

“I catch you staring at my tits enough to know you know damn well I’m a woman,” you say, biting his lower lip hard enough to draw blood, relishing in the way he lets out a low groan, “but if you really need proof…”

You yank one of his hands to your lower body, sliding both yours and his into the waistband of your pants and pressing his fingers against your damp panties. His lips part, eyes widening, and he breathes out a choked, “Shit.”

You let go of his hand and kiss him again—once, twice, and then you press your nose against his cheek, biting back a whimper when he slips his fingers into your panties, dragging them between your folds before he presses his thumb over your clit, rubbing slow, agonizing circles over that make your thighs tremble.

“You’re fuckin’ drenched,” he says, and you think he means for it to come out mocking, but his voice is way too strained for that. “Fuck, knew ya wanted me, knew—”

He chokes over the fingers you stuff in his mouth before he can finish whatever obnoxious thing he was about to say. He gives you an outraged look, but it's seriously diluted with how he’s busy trying not to gag on your fingers, gold eyes pricking with tears when you press down hard on his tongue. 

“You’re much prettier like this, y’know?” you murmur against his skin, kissing down his jaw, “beneath me… silent… almost like a proper wife, aren’t you, Naoya?” 

Naoya’s breath hitches around your fingers, eyes widening in shock at your words, and you pause, knowing him well enough to realize there was something about that comment he liked, but before you can say anything, his pride gets the better of him, and he pushes two fingers deep into your cunt. You bite down on his neck to muffle the moan that almost spills out of you, rocking your hips against his hand. You slip your fingers out of his mouth just long enough to kiss him again, rolling his bottom lip between your teeth before you trace your tongue along the inside of his mouth, distracting yourself as his fingers drag against your walls, stretching you out.

“Slut,” he bites out when you finally break your lips from his, breath catching as he pulls his fingers out from inside you, focusing on sliding your pants off instead. You give him a flinty look, but there’s no heat in his eyes or derision laced in the word. He’s frowning slightly, looks unsure of himself for a short second. “Probably don’t even need to prep ya—should be grateful that I am. Ain’t I so generous? How many men have you been with, huh? Tell me.” 

You pinch his cheeks between your thumb and forefinger. “And upset the little prince?” you mock. “I think I’ll keep that bit of information to myself. Anyway, I thought I told you that I prefer you silent. Why are you talking to me?”

His lip curls up into an irritated sneer, but before he can say something else to piss you off, you lean down to press your lips against his again, hand slipping behind his head to thread your fingers into his blonde hair. He lets out a soft sigh into your mouth, his hips jerking up once he gets his cock free, and you exhale shakily when you feel his tip slide between your wet folds. 

You sink down on his cock, lashes fluttering as his tip bullies deep, deep inside of you. A fleeting thought crosses your mind about how it’s unfair that Naoya can be such a piece of shit and have a nice cock, but before you can even register it, his hands drop to your waist to hold you in place, and he snaps his hips up, ripping the breath right out of your lungs. Your hand immediately drops to his throat, the same way he dragged you in for a kiss earlier, except where he only used it as leverage to pull you in, your grip tightens, cutting off his airflow. 

His lips part in shock, eyes wide as he stares up at you, hand leaving your waist to grab your wrist hard. Your lips curl up into an amused smile when you see how his face starts to turn red, and how his nails scrape against your skin. You tell him, “My pace,” and then you let go, watching as his chest heaves as he gasps for air.

“Crazy bitch,” he hisses, voice hoarse, but his pupils are blown wide, and his cock is painfully hard inside you, twitching needily. He pushes himself up into his elbows, still way too smug as he looks up at you, lips wet and swollen, gaze half-lidded. “Go on then. If you’re so confident, show me what ya can do.”

Your lip curls up in irritation. “What part of preferring you silent do you not understand?” you scoff, reaching for the hem of your shirt to pull it over your head. You raise your eyebrows slightly in amusement when you see how his gaze immediately drops to your chest, nostrils flaring as he inhales. “Put your mouth to good use, or I really will gag you.”

Naoya doesn’t even bother with another snide comment, sitting up, one arm slinking around your waist as he mouths at the underside of your jaw, moaning into your skin when you finally begin to rock your hips. You think it’s downright fucking cruel how perfectly Naoya’s cock fills up your cunt—you’ve been with your fair share of men and women over the last two years, but none have left your pussy weeping the way he is. Your head feels hot and heavy, eyes half-rolled back, each bounce of your hips drives his cock deeper inside of you; your nails tear across his shoulders, leaving deep red lines in their wake, and Naoya moans into your skin, breath ragged. He drags his tongue from your neck down to your collarbone, sucking at your clavicle, fingers fisting the ends of your hair to yank your head back before his lips close around one of your nipples, free hand coming up to grope your other tit. 

His eyes flick up to focus on your face, and your head lolls to the side so you can catch his gaze, giving him a breathless, lazy smile. “Good boy,” you tell him, and his eyes flash—you can’t tell if it’s with irritation or something else—teeth grazing your nipple, but you pull his hair hard. “Uh-uh, no teeth.”

You hate how quickly you can feel your abdomen tightening. Naoya pulls back just enough to look down, a choked moan ripping from his lips as he watches you bounce on his cock, and you lift your free hand to shove your fingers back into his mouth. His gaze snaps back up toward you, surprised, and you say, “Get them wet, then put your mouth back to work.”

You can see the sneer on his face even with his mouth stuffed, but he does as you ask, tongue swirling around your fingers, slicking them up with his saliva. As soon as you pull your fingers free, you slide your hand between your bodies to rub circles on your clit, and Naoya leans his head back down to seal his lips around your other nipple, arm tightening around your waist to pull you closer to him.

“Ah, fuck,” you gasp, head falling back and eyes rolling slightly up as you twist your hips to switch up the angle, jaw falling slack when it’s enough to hit the spot inside you to make you see stars. “Fuck—ngh, fuck, Naoya—”

Naoya lets out a muffled moan against your chest when you say his name, and you choke when his hips jerk up, stuttering once before he cums deep inside you. You almost wish you weren’t as close to finishing as you are, because you’d kill to hear him whine and whimper as you fuck yourself on his spent cock, but once you feel his cum hot and thick inside you, smearing across your thighs, dripping down his length, you’re letting out a pitched moan of his name, hips stuttering, head tipping back again as you cum on his cock. Naoya lets out a string of curses when he feels your walls tightening around his sensitive cock, body jerking, fingers pressing deep into your skin, and you let out a breathless laugh, running your fingers through his hair.

“If I’d known you were such a decent fuck, I would’ve fucked you ages ago,” you say, tilting his head back with a smug smile to brush your lips against his. 

Naoya’s gaze is half-lidded, and he’s uncharacteristically subdued, face leaning into your palm. Your chest aches as he looks up at you, something unusually soft in the golds of his eyes. Dangerous, you think, swallowing thickly—a quick fuck is one thing, whatever this is… Well, you’re not ready to take that step yet. 

You slide off his lap, grabbing his black shirt to wipe the cum off your thighs. He doesn’t budge from where he’s sitting on his futon until he catches you moving from the corner of his eye, and then he squints at you, realizing what you’re using his shirt for. You wink at him, and he rolls his eyes.

“Where’d ya learn to fuck like that, huh?” he demands after a few moments, glaring at you. 

You push him down to lie on the futon, ignoring the question, and giving him a languid smile, draping an arm across his shoulders, sliding your leg between his. You press your nose into his cheek before sighing and settling against him, feeling far too at ease with his arm tucked around you. You tell him, “Don’t ask questions you don’t want the answer to.”

“The fuck does that mean?” 

“Exactly what you think it does.”

————————

Neither of you speaks about what happened that night after the fact. Things stay the same, for the most part, and you prefer it that way. You don’t need or want labels. You and Naoya are just… you and Naoya. You don’t need to talk about things like this—they just are what they are. That’s how the two of you work.

He comes to your place on Fridays, and you train until your muscles give out; the two of you end those days sporting new bruises and bloody lips, and with his head between your thighs. You go to his places on Sundays, and you complain about your father and the higher-ups while he bitches about his own and Zenin clan politics, all the while his fingers or cock are stuffed deep in your cunt. 

Sometimes the two of you go to the Zenin estate when he can’t get himself out of whatever obligations he has, and when you point out that you’re pretty sure his father doesn’t want you there, he sneers and shrugs it off. You’re doubtful, at first, but no one stops him when he drags you through the halls like you belong there. Servants and cousins alike avert their eyes when doors close behind you that shouldn’t. You’re a problem they don’t want to deal with, and he’s one they can’t afford to challenge.

(“Who’s gonna stop me?” he says, like it means he can do whatever the hell he wants. “Just come, yeah? I have to spend the whole weekend dealing with those old fucks. Least you can do is warm my cock with your mouth when it’s over.”

You slap him for that, but when he comes back to his bedroom, aggravated and clearly upset over something he refuses to explain, you decide to indulge him.)

You enjoy going to the Zenin estate now. Mostly because you’re not supposed to be there, and nothing pleases you more than watching members of the clan squirm in your presence, knowing that you shouldn’t be walking the estate the way you are, but unable to do a damn thing about it when it’s Naoya who insists on you being there. The place feels smaller than it ever did when you were a kid, stripped of the weight it once held over you. Back then, the estate made your skin crawl. Even when you started to enjoy your visits to Naoya, the Zenins themselves were suffocating, and the knowledge that you were meant to marry into that world only made the walls close in tighter. 

Now, it’s different. You walk through the estate without shrinking or having to brace yourself, and Naoya never asks you to behave or pretend now. Where he once obsessed over appearances in front of his father and brothers, he now seems to revel in the trouble of it all—bringing you somewhere forbidden simply because he can, letting you walk at his side as the two of you talk, knowing that all the elders are watching and furious.

He’s the heir; none of his worthless brothers can hope to compete with him for the title anymore. Now that you understand that, you think you get your answer to the question you asked back when you first reunited—it’s not so much a rebellious phase as it is him flaunting the fact that he’s untouchable. He can dye his hair, pierce his ears, bring you around the estate whenever he wants, and nobody can do a damn thing. The rules no longer apply to him and he makes it abundantly clear that he won’t let them apply to you either.

A part of you is concerned, because the Zenins are prideful and they don’t take well to being embarrassed, or defied, or being made to look weak. They don’t forget slights—you know this better than anyone—and you notice the way conversation dies when you pass by and how their eyes linger when you walk with Naoya. You have to remind yourself that Naoya isn’t untouchable, not really, not until his father is dead and the will is read. So, you can’t fully push away the unease, but you tell yourself that Naoya is… well, Naoya. Head of Hei, heir of Zenin, to be Twenty-Seventh Clan Head, and it would take something far more egregious than parading you around the estate for his father to rip away his title at this point.

(“Sometimes I think you only bring me here to use me to piss off your father and the rest of the old assholes in your clan,” you tell him one day, lounging between his legs in the inner courtyard of the Zenin estate as you light a cigarette. Servants and cousins alike pass by the two of you, all casting lingering looks before they rush off to whatever they’re doing, none sticking around long enough to risk Naoya’s ire.

“Stop smoking that shit,” Naoya tells you, and you tip your head back to give him an egregious side eye before taking a long drag of the cigarette. “Bitch,” he mutters, and then adds, “and I do. They hate you.”

“Yeah, I’ve gathered that,” you snort, resting your head back against his abdomen, eyes sliding shut. “Can’t imagine why. I’m perfect.”

“A perfect nightmare, maybe,” Naoya agrees, and you can picture the sharp grin on his face without opening your eyes. His voice is unusually reserved as he adds, “It’s not the only reason, though, no.”

“Oh? Why else, then?” you ask with a hum, lashes fluttering open only when you feel his fingers absently brush through your hair. You barely catch the contemplative expression on his face as he stares down at you before he masks it with an irritated one.

“Why’re you so nosy, woman, damn?” he asks, aggravated, and then tugs your hair like a child.

“Seriously? You’re the one who said something.”)

You also like going to the Zenin estate because of the two little brats who start to hang around you when Naoya’s busy. Maki and Mai, they call themselves—Naoya’s kid cousins, only ten years old, twins. They have the same green hair and the same gold eyes; the only reason you can tell them apart is that Maki has no cursed energy. She’s the bolder of the two, constantly approaching you, curious as to who you are and why you’re at the Zenin estate, considering you’re the walking antithesis of all the traditions the clan values. She interrogates you about how you became a sorcerer, if your clan tried to force you to become a servant, and most importantly, why the hell you spend your time with Naoya. Mai stands with her, more subdued, but just as curious, at least about the latter question. Neither of them likes Naoya, and when you tell them that you barely like him on good days, they both giggle. 

(“So then why do you hang out with him all the time?” Maki asks, leaning forward with furrowed brows and a frown. She keeps casting concerned looks back at the door—probably worried her parents are going to show up and find her and Mai talking to you. Nobody in the clan is supposed to acknowledge your presence in the estate. “You say you don’t like him, but I see you smiling with him all the time.”

“Not many people smile around Naoya-sama,” Mai agrees quietly, gaze lowered. 

“It’s complicated,” you tell them, because it is. 

You don’t know how to describe what it is you feel for Zenin Naoya. You hate his guts some days, but most days, you can’t see a life without him. One minute, you want to make him hurt just to see the way his face twists and gets red with anger, and the next, you’re laughing at something awful he’s said, the sound slipping out before you can stop it. You recognize the cadence of his footsteps and the patterns of his breathing, how his voice sharpens when he’s in public and lowers when he’s alone with you. You understand exactly how cruel he can be, but you also can tell the difference between when he’s posturing and when he means it, the shift in his eyes from when he’s angry to when he’s cornered. You know him better than you know yourself, and he knows you the same—a shared glance between the two of you speaks more than words ever could, and you move together without meaning to, orbiting to the same spaces, never too far apart from one another. 

With him, nothing has ever really needed to be explained, because the best and worst parts of you recognize each other instinctively.

Later that evening, you ask Naoya, “Do you believe in soulmates?”

“What corny shit are you about to hit me with, huh?” he complains, tilting his head to the side to look at you and raising his eyebrows. “You better not make me throw up, I just ate.”

You roll your eyes. “Forget it.”

“No, now you have to tell me,” he disagrees, sitting up straight and leaning forward. He gives you a sharp, mocking grin. “You think I’m yours or something? Knew ya loved me.”

“I do,” you say, staring up at the ceiling. “Think you’re mine, that is. I don’t love you.”

“How are you going to call me your soulmate and say you don’t love me in the same breath? That’s fucked up, ya know?” Naoya scowls, but his voice is softer than it usually is, and you can feel him staring at you from across the room.

“I’m being serious,” you tell him. “I’m not talking about sappy romance bullshit. I mean you and me—whatever it is we are—we know each other. Nobody knows us like we know each other. Doesn’t it kind of feel like fate, or something?”

“Yeah, I know what you mean,” he says after a moment. Then he adds, “Shit luck that we got stuck with each other, huh?”

You laugh. “Took the words right out of my mouth.”)

You become used to this.

You shouldn’t have.

————————

You don’t usually get involved in Naoya’s issues with his older brothers. 

He doesn’t like it when you do, and you don’t want to waste your time arguing with idiots. Luckily, as you all got older and Naoya grew into his role as heir, becoming crueler and less prone to falling for their provocation, they spent less and less time at the Zenin estate. Where Naoya would once rise to their bait, making him look juvenile and unstable, he started letting their words slide past him, watching them with a raised eyebrow or a slow, unimpressed glance. He learned quickly how to make people feel small without ever saying much at all, and he doesn’t need or want you jumping to his defense. 

Still, there are some topics that get under his skin more than others. 

Namely, his mother, whom you’ve known was a sensitive topic since the two of you were kids. Her name still changes the air in the room. His posture stiffens, mouth flattening into something unreadable, like he’s bracing for a blow that never quite lands the way he expects it to. He never talks about her unless he’s already angry, and even then, it’s all contempt and dismissal, nothing that sounds like grief or longing, but you know him well enough to know it doesn’t mean he’s not upset, so you try not to be as harsh with him those days. You’ve seen how his brothers use it against him—casual mentions, jokes meant to needle, questions asked just loud enough to be overheard. Naoya never reacts the way they want him to, but the tension is always there. 

But also, you, and you are infinitely worse. Not because they can use you against him directly, they’ve already learned that gets them nowhere, but because your presence reminds them that he isn’t as isolated as they’d like him to be, and because he’s not isolated, he’s not as easy to antagonize into making mistakes. They make comments about distraction and weakness anyway, but Naoya shuts them down fast with a roll of his eyes and a snide comment about how it “speaks volumes” to their own incompetence that Naoya is still so many leagues above them even with “distraction” and “weakness.” 

Once, they tried to get you alone while Naoya was busy with his father. Started badgering you about what makes you stick with Naoya when he’s cruel and arrogant and so clearly doomed to walk down the same path as the men who raised him. You hadn’t risen to it—told them to fuck off and find something better to do than give you a headache, that what you and Naoya had was none of their business and beyond the capacity of their puny brains to comprehend. Naoya had been waiting around the corner, and you realized that they were trying to get you to say something cruel about him while he was within earshot, so they could ruin whatever companionship he had found in you. Their words might not phase him anymore, but yours would. That was the first time you were almost pushed to physical confrontation with them, but Naoya grabbed your arm and told you that the trash wasn’t worth the effort.

This is the second time, and Naoya does not seem as keen on stopping you again.

You stare at the older man, gaze shifting over to a bemused Naoya briefly before you raise your eyebrows dubiously. “You want to spar me? You?” you ask Zenin Naotaka, voice riddled with derision. “Is this some sort of humiliation kink or something? ‘Cause if so, I’m not interested. You’re not my type.”

Of all of Naoya’s brothers, you think this one is your least favorite. Naotaka is sneaky and snide, and he makes it painfully obvious that he doesn’t think Naoya is cut out to be the next clan head. Most of Naoya’s brothers have taken a stpe back over the years as each attempt to make him look unfit was squandered by his lack of reaction, but Naotaka has only doubled down, and that aggravates Naoya more than the attempts themselves.

Naoya snorts, and Naotaka’s eyes flash with irritation, but he masks it with a quick smile and upturned eyes. He says, “No, no. I’m just curious. You know, a lot of rumors were circulating around the estate when you were first promoted—”

“Watch your mouth,” Naoya interrupts, suddenly not as amused when he realizes what Naotaka is about to say. His eyes flick over to you, but he can’t hold your gaze. You barely stop yourself from rolling your eyes—like you don’t already know all of this from him. “Since when does garbage have the right to start asking questions?”

“It’s fine, Naoya,” you say, lips curled up into a smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes. Your gaze shifts over to Naotaka. “I see you didn’t take my advice back then—still gossiping about your betters instead of improving yourself. You wanna spar with me? Then let’s spar—it’s your funeral. Try not to bore me too much, would you?”

Naotaka looks too pleased as he makes his way over to the sandy training grounds, and you stare after him for a moment before taking a step forward. This is a test, you realize, but for who? You or Naoya? You think it has to be Naoya, but how are they trying to use you this time? You can’t figure it out.

Naoya grabs your wrist when you move to follow him.

“You don’t have to entertain his bullshit,” he tells you, expression all twisted. “I can deal with him.”

“I don’t need you fighting my battles,” you tell him, pulling your arm free.

“It’s not your battle,” Naoya says through gritted teeth. “He’s tryin’ to get to me through you.”

Yeah, that’s probably what it is, you agree silently, but how is he planning to do it? He can’t actually think he’s going to beat you in a spar, right? There must be something else going on here, but what is it? Your gaze flicks around, noticing that several of Naoya’s other brothers are also in the area, most of the Kukuru unit, and several of the Hei. Naobito is walking through the inner courtyard with Jinichi and Ogi in the near distance—they’ll probably wander over to watch the commotion. 

More eyes than usual, maybe, but nothing out of the ordinary, really.

Whatever, you think. Naoya’s not a dumb kid anymore—well, he’s still dumb, but not in this regard, at least. He already knows that this is some sort of attempt to get him to slip up, he won’t fall for it. 

You roll your eyes. “I’ll be fine, Naoya. Or are you really gonna insult me and tell me you’re worried your useless brother will actually beat me?”

Naoya exhales through his nose, giving you a long look before he lets go of your arm. You follow after Naotaka, hopping down off the engawa into the sand. 

“Your technique—it has to do with future sight, doesn’t it?” Naotaka asks you curiously as you stand across from him in the training yard. Your lip curls up in irrtitation, and you give Naoya an annoyed look over your shoulder—did he seriously tell his asshole brother? “He didn’t tell me. I was watching the two of you spar a couple of weeks ago. I figured it out from how you were anticipating his attacks.”

“Yeah,” you tell him. “Don’t worry. I won’t use it—don’t need it for this.”

Naotaka lets out a breath caught between a scoff and a laugh, like he doesn’t want to be shocked by how confident you are in yourself, but still is. He gives you a snide smile as he answers, “You might.”

That’s interesting.

You squint at him for a second, gaze flicking back to where Naoya stands at the edge of the engawa, arms folded over his chest, brows furrowed.

Whatever, you think again, focusing back on Naotaka. If he’s got something planned, you’ll figure it out before it matters.

You tilt your head to the side with a lazy smile and say, “Well, c’mon then, ladies first. I’ll give you first move, since I’m so generous.”

You suppose, in Naotaka’s defense, he isn’t weak. In any other clan, he might’ve been considered an elite sorcerer—he’s fast, his strikes are decently strong, and he has good foundational knowledge. But he’s not in any other clan. He is a Zenin, so he is mediocre at best, and subpar at worst, and you are used to sparring the likes of your brothers and Zenin Naoya and Gojo Satoru. You don’t even have to really use your technique to keep ahead of him, hands behind your back as you shift to the side to avoid a blow to the gut, you bend your head down slightly so he goes stumbling when he misses your cheek, and you seriously piss him off when you look back at Naoya to exchange an amused look with him instead of taking him seriously.

“Smug bitch,” Naotaka says through gritted teeth.

Naotaka lunges forward again, this time losing the practiced form of the Kukuru, anger bleeding into his every movement. You let him get close, closer than you have so far, just to let him think he’s finally landed something, and then you sweep his legs out from under him.

It’s quick and unceremonious. Your heel hooks behind his ankle, a sharp twist of your hips knocking his balance clean out from under him. He hits the ground hard, breath ripped from his lungs in a startled grunt. You look down at him and say, “I told you. Didn’t even have to use my technique. Naoya told me you were trash, but you’re even worse than I expected.”

You step over him and look up at Naoya with a smug curve of your lips—told you so, you say without saying anything. He rolls his eyes and turns around, starting to make his way out of the training yard into the inner courtyard, expecting you to follow him.

You sense the cursed energy before you realize what’s happening. You pivot, eyes widening slightly as you activate your technique—you watch as a path visualizes before your eyes. Zenin Naotaka lunges forward again, this time with a cursed tool in hand, and he drives it through your lower spine and twists it. 

This is his play? You think, outraged, he’s trying to get Naoya to fuck up by—by killing you? Is he fucking stupid? He must understand that this will have major backlash on the Zenins, he can’t possibly think—no, he’s not trying to kill you, you realize as soon as the thought crosses your mind. He knows you’ll dodge. This is why he asked about your technique; this is why he chose to do it with so many people around. The Zenins will cover it up to avoid political backlash, but Naoya—Naoya will—

Fucker. You don’t have time to think, twisting to the side before he can make contact, the blade slashing through your shirt instead of bone, skimming past you. You grab his wrist and elbow to hold it in place, and then you drive your knee up into his forearm, breaking the bone in two. His blood splatters against your face as the bone snaps upward through his skin. 

“Attacking someone from behind only works if you’re fast enough to kill them,” you tell him, trying to sound amused, but your voice is strained. “You really are a loser.”

Naoya will fucking kill him. You need to—

To his credit, he goes in for a second attempt, dropping the cursed tool into his free hand and stabbing upward toward your thigh. You could dodge it, and Naotaka expects you to, but… 

You pause. It won’t kill you, and it’ll hurt like a bitch… but it might be good for your father to have some leverage over the Zenins. If you get hurt by a Zenin son, on Zenin property… Well, it’ll look really bad for Naobito, and it’ll be much harder for them to cover it up if you return to your estate with a visible wound. Plus, Naobito and the elders will be more focused on not letting this escalate than whatever Naoya’s apocalyptic reaction is going to be. So, it’ll be good for you and your clan, and for him.

Before you can make a decision, someone grabs his other wrist. You think it’s Naoya, and you brace yourself to stop him from doing something he can’t take back, but your eyes widen slightly when you realize Zenin Naobito is standing at your side instead. 

“Worthless boy,” the Zenin clan head says coldly, but his gray eyes are cold with disappointment. Disappointed at the fact that Naotaka would try something so openly and boldly against you, knowing it would have direct consequences for the rest of the clan, or disappointed in the fact that he failed, you’re not sure. Probably both, if you’re being honest. You let out a breath through your nose as Naobito backhands his son hard, sending him sprawling into the dirt. He points at a nearby member of the Hei. “Throw him in the disciplinary pit.”

“Father,” one of Naoya’s other brothers says hesitantly, stepping forward. “His arm—”

“Fuck his arm,” Naoya spits, cutting him off. His face burns red with fury. You turn toward him, shaking your head, but Naoya ignores you. “He just tried to kill—”

“Enough,” Naobito tells Naoya harshly. Naoya’s gold eyes cut over to his father, outraged. “They were sparring. Things got heated, that’s all.”

As you expected, Zenin Ogi chimes in without missing a beat. “Yes, poor form, surely, but this is what happens when you let emotions get the better of you during training. He’ll be properly disciplined.”

“But he—” Naoya insists through his teeth, furious as he looks around to see if anyone will back him. His gaze catches yours, and you shake your head again, signaling him not to continue, and he cuts himself off, furious.

“If you finish that sentence,” Naobito says coldly, “you will join him in the pit.”

Naoya’s jaw tightens, but he looks away, fists so tight at his sides that you’re sure his nails are drawing blood. Naobito turns his attention back to you, gaze flicking over the torn fabric of your shirt, the blood on your face, and the cursed tool lying abandoned on the ground. 

“You defended yourself,” he says curtly. Not a question—he’s telling you what happened, getting the story straight so you can’t rush off and claim otherwise. Asshole. He knows you won’t contest it. It’ll be your word versus all of the Zenins, and you can’t afford to give Naoya the chance to take your side. “Training accidents happen, especially when weak sorcerers overestimate themselves.”

“It’s true,” you say, inclining your head slightly with a cool smile. “I’ve become used to sparring with Naoya. I didn’t realize how underwhelming your other sons were in comparison. If that’s all, Zenin-sama.”

You turn to leave, making your way over to Naoya, but you pause when he clears his throat, looking at him over your shoulder.

“I didn’t dismiss you, girl,” he says, an unreadable expression on his face, eyes half-lidded as he looks you over. “You were going to take that second strike, weren’t you?”

You know better than to answer that question, but your silence is an answer in itself. To your surprise, Naobito barks out a loud laugh, tilting his head to the side as though he’s studying you under a new light. 

“You’re a useless daughter,” he says firmly, and you barely bite back a scoff as his hand lands on your shoulder, “but I see now why your father indulges you the way he does. You would’ve made the perfect son. You should’ve been born a boy. Smart, with a stronger spine than any of the worthless idiots I have to settle for. What a waste you are.”

You press your tongue to the back of your teeth. “Thank you, Zenin-sama,” you force out as he walks past you without another word or glance.

“Girl,” Naobito says, drawing your attention one last time before he leaves. He doesn’t turn to look at you this time. “Tell your father to tread carefully with the Kamos. He’ll have Zenin support, if he gets to the point of needing it.”

Something dark and foreboding settles in your stomach as you stare at Naobito’s retreating back. You try to shake it off and lift your gaze to Naoya, who looks uncharacteristically subdued as he stares down at the ground—you’re sure he overheard Naobito’s comment about him and his brothers. You make your way over to him, and his eyes finally shift over to you. 

You ask quietly, “Wanna go to my place for the weekend?” 

His jaw is still tight, but he nods once, reaching out to slide his arm around your waist, guiding you away from the yard without a word. His grip on you is tighter than usual, borderline possessive; usually, you should shove him away and tell him to quit being clingy, but today, you only settle against him, drained from the day's events and deeply unsettled by Naobito’s last comment. 

When the two of you are out of sight, Naoya stops walking, only so he can hook a finger under the torn edge of your shirt and tug it forward, hard enough to make his point.

“You were going to let him stab you,” he says, voice low and flat. “Don’t lie to me. You weren’t going to dodge that second attack. Why?” 

“To buy my family some leverage over yours,” you say honestly. There’s no reason to lie—Naoya’s not as dumb as you like to tease him, you’re sure he’s probably already put it together. “It wouldn’t have killed me. Only would’ve hurt a bit.”

His lips press into a thin line, and for a second, you think he might snap and say something to piss you off. Instead, he exhales slowly, forcing the anger back down.

“If that blade touched you, I woulda killed him,” he tells you. “I still might if he manages to come out of the disciplinary pit alive. Y’know how messy that’ll be for me?”

You don’t flinch because you’ve heard him say worse for less, and you expected this. In fact, you’re almost surprised by how tame the comment is, but there’s something about the certainty behind his words that makes your hair stand on end. Usually, when Naoya spits out his threats, he’s posturing—this is not posturing. He would’ve killed Naotaka if he’d managed to put that knife into you. He still might just for trying it.

You tell him, “You can’t do that.”

Naoya lets out a sharp, humorless laugh. “You’ll find that I absolutely can.”

“You can’t, Naoya,” you say, voice strained. “That’s what he wants you to do—”

“Yeah? If that piece of garbage has a suicide wish, I’ll indulge it,” he interrupts, teeth grinding together.

“You can’t kill a Zenin for an outsider,” you say, reaching up to grab his cheeks between your fingers, forcing him to look at you. “Do you know how fucking quickly your father will remove you as heir if you step out of line like that? It’s one thing bringing me around here, but I’m not a Zenin, you can’t kill one of your brothers, not for me, o—”

“You should’ve been,” Naoya cuts you off, furious, ripping his face from your hand. “And I fuckin’ run shit around here now. That old fuck knows better than to mess with my birthright. They don’t get to use you as bait to see how far I’ll go.”

“You cannot cross this line, Naoya,” you hiss as it dawns on you just how serious he is right now. “You’re smarter than this. You know you’re not untouchable until your father is dead and his will is read, so—”

“He tried to kill you,” Naoya says loudly, silencing you immediately. “He tried to do it right in front of me.”

His hand is still hooked in your shirt, knuckles white. Up close, you can see it now—how his temper is stretched thin, the fury wound so tight it’s vibrating beneath his skin. A warm feeling settles in your chest, and to his irritation, your lips curl up into a small smile. You and Naoya hardly know what the word gentle means—you fuck rough, fighting ends in blood and bruises, even your words are sharp and cutting, but you’re gentle with him now as you lift your hands up to cradle his face between them. Instead of yanking away again and scoffing at you, Naoya’s lashes flutter briefly, and he leans slightly into your touch.

“I’m fine,” you tell him. “I had it all under control. He wasn’t going to kill me—he knew I was going to dodge, he asked about my technique before we started sparring. He was just trying to antagonize you into making a mistake you can’t undo, so don’t give him what he wants.”

He exhales deeply through his nose. “I don’t care. Don’t ever do that again. You don’t use yourself like a bargaining chip. That’s fuckin’ sloppy. It’s beneath you.”

You raise a brow, deciding against commenting on the irony of him saying that to you. “It’s sweet how upset you are on my behalf.”

“Tch. Don’t flatter yourself. I’m more pissed he had the audacity to try it right in front of me.” His grip tightens anyway. “Don’t do it again.”

You consider it, and then you say, “I won’t make a habit of it.”

“Not good enough.”

“Best you’re gonna get.”

Naoya rolls his eyes. “You can never make anything easy, can you? Fuckin’ pain in the ass,” he mutters, but the insult is dulled by something dangerously close to fondness. “Move. I’m hungry.”

“Wouldn’t be us if I did,” you tell him with a grin. “Let’s get food on the way there. You pay, since your brother tried to kill me.”

“As if you ever pay for anything, woman.” 

————————

2013 | READER, AGE 20; NAOYA, AGE 22

Your clan is massacred by an unregistered special grade cursed spirit in the middle of the night, two days after your twentieth birthday. You’re not at the estate when it happens—you’re partying with Satoru and his friend, Shoko, while your brothers and father are butchered in their sleep, before they even have time to properly understand what’s happening.

The Zenins are the first on the scene, since their estate is closest to your clan’s, but the damage is done, and your family is dead by the time they get there. All they can do is send the Hei after the cursed spirit—Naoya taking the lead on the hunt, driven by blind rage on your behalf, even if you don’t know what’s happened yet. You only know something is wrong when Zenin Ogi shows up at the club you’re at with Satoru and Shoko, telling you that you need to come with him.

The Zenins are uncharacteristically thoughtful in how they deal with the incident. Even Naoya’s asshole brothers are there doing what they can, because the clan can’t stand you, but your father and your brothers were important, politically useful. The betrothal between you and Naoya fell apart, but the alliance between your clans never did—Naobito and your father worked together frequently to push agendas at meetings with the higher-ups, and your friendship with Satoru and the potential betrothal led your father to be bridge between the two clans, working against the Kamos.

By the time you get there, all of the corpses are covered with white blankets, and your brothers’ and father’s remains have been put back together as best they could. Shoko is the first to sober up, immediately rushing to see if there are any survivors who need help—she’s able to save one of your uncles, four of your younger cousins, three of your older cousins, and two attendants. Satoru is the next to sober up, a furious expression crossing his face before he disappears to catch up with the Hei.

You are left alone in the middle of your estate, still drunk, not fully processing what’s happening around you, staring at the familiar wristwatch face down in the dirt near the front steps. It takes a second for you to recognize it as your brother’s. The glass is shattered, the hands stopped at 2:17 a.m., flecked with blood that has already begun to darken. You stare at it dumbly, brain skidding uselessly around the edges of the thought instead of landing on it. Your vision swims. The world tilts. A hand drops hard on your shoulder.

“Pull yourself together, girl. There’s no time for missteps right now,” Zenin Naobito tells you, an unusually grim expression on his face as he looks around the carnage.

“This was the Kamos,” you say, too inebriated to understand the weight of your accusation. Anger eclipses grief, intoxication eclipses rationality. Your voice rises, “This was the Kamos. Our estate was protected by a barrier—cursed spirits, even special grades, they wouldn’t be able to come through unless let in. They would’ve been alerted, they wouldn’t have been asleep. My father invited that old fuck and two other Kamo representatives for tea not even a week ago. They—”

Your vision knocks white, and pain spreads hot and quick through the side of your face. You stumble to the side, knees hitting the bloody grass, stunned as you stare down at the ground, trying to figure out what just happened. You look up, eyes wide. Naobito’s arm is still extended, hand curled into a fist. The surrounding Zenins, still trying to clean up the mess that’s become of your estate, avert their eyes, pretending not to see what just happened.

Did he just backhand you?

“You’re lucky that I’m the only one who heard that, girl,” Naobito tells you, voice cold. “I’ll assume grief loosened your tongue, but if anyone else heard an accusation like that, you wouldn’t be able to take it back. The barrier failed—that happens. Rarely, yes, but it happens. An unregistered special grade explains this well enough for now.”

Your fingers curl into the grass, hands slick with blood that isn’t yours. “But—”

“No,” he interrupts. He grabs your chin and forces your face up, fingers digging into your cheeks. “You will listen. You’re drunk, grieving, and right now, you’re a liability—to your clan, to my clan and to the Gojo clan. If you go around claiming the Kamo clan orchestrated this without evidence, they’ll demand retribution for the insult, and they’ll drag my clan and the Gojos into it. Everything your father has been working for will be destroyed. Is that what you want?”

You exhale, and he lets go of you. Your face drops down again, staring at the grass. The rage drains from you, and you’re left feeling terribly cold and empty. Your fingers are trembling in your lap; you have to forcibly still them against your thighs.

“You said for now,” you say before the Zenin clan head can turn to leave. “You said it explains it well enough for now.”

Naobito scoffs, glancing at you over his shoulder. “If you ever decide to repeat that accusation, make sure you’re sober, and make sure you can prove it, and maybe you’ll have our backing against the Kamos.”

————————

Naoya doesn’t return for… well, you’re not sure how much time has passed, but you haven’t budged from your spot on the ground. You can see the sun over the horizon, and the dawn feels cruel in its insistence on rising when you lost everything in the night. The light catches on the blood-soaked grass, glints off the white sheets, the broken lanterns, and the shattered watch still lying where it fell. The estate looks smaller in daylight; you can almost imagine your brothers arguing with each other as they shove each other into the inner courtyard, heading over to the training grounds.

Your limbs feel heavy and disconnected, as though they belong to someone else. At some point, the alcohol drained from your system, leaving only a hollow ache in your chest and a headache that throbs in the back of your head. You’re painfully aware of every sensation now—the chill in the morning air, the stiffness in your knees, the sticky warmth drying on your hands. 

Your gaze lifts when you hear footsteps coming from the main gates, dull eyes landing on the Hei as they return from their hunt. They are covered in the blood of curses, purples and blues and greens, some are sporting wounds, none look accomplished. You know, before any of them says anything, that they were not able to find the curse that did this. Satoru is with them, standing off to the side, jaw tight, fists clenched at his sides. He shifts like he’s about to move toward you, but before he can, Shoko stops him, saying something quietly.

Naoya stands at the head of them, gaze trained on you even as Naobito makes his way over to him. Focusing on him is easier than the carnage around you—the rising sun halos his head, and his gold eyes are filled with an emotion you can’t quite name. 

Inexplicably, you want him to leave. You don’t want him to see you like this, on your knees and crippled with grief and uncertainty. The Zenins, the Gojos, representatives of the higher-ups, and Grade One sorcerers from the schools are all here now trying to figure out what happened. They keep looking at you, whispering to one another, some are confused, some are horrified, many are pleased. Your father has been a thorn in the higher-ups’ side for two years now—they’re glad to be rid of him, and they’re just as glad his arrogant, untouchable daughter has been brought to her knees for all of jujutsu society to bear witness. Humiliation curdles low in your stomach, but even that’s not enough to outweigh the numbness spreading through your limbs.

Naoya pushes past his father while he’s mid-sentence, ignoring the sharp call of his name as Naobito tells him to get back over to him. He makes his way over to you, shoulders tense and jaw tight.

Go away, you try to tell him with your eyes, because your lips refuse to cooperate. Just go away.

Fuck you, he replies without replying at all, coming to a stop right in front of you.

His eyes are ablaze as he stares down at you. Up close, you can see the blood splattered on his face and the rage plain in his eyes—not at you, you know him well enough to know that much, but at everything else. The audacity of representatives of the higher-ups to be here when they likely had something to do with this; the nerve of them to stare at you, reveling in your grief. They are humiliating you after they’ve taken everything from you, and just like you couldn’t stand there years ago and watch his family make a spectacle out of him at his lowest, he refuses to stand here and watch the higher-ups do the same to you. His hands are fisted so tightly at his sides that you can see the whiteness of his knuckles and blood drawn and dripping between his fingers.

“Not here,” he tells you. “Get up.”

Only four words.

You get up.

————————

You become clan head that day. It was a position that was never supposed to be yours—there were four brothers before you who should’ve taken it, and they are all dead. 

Your clan was never a particularly large one, not like the Kamos or the Zenins, who numbered in the hundreds, but it wasn’t small. A little over a hundred people lived on the estate under your father’s reign as clan head. Two hundred becomes less than fifteen under yours. The estate is too big and too quiet and far too empty. Most of your younger cousins don’t speak. Your surviving uncle had his throat slashed and can’t speak. Your older cousins do their best to help where they can, but one turned to alcohol, another to drugs, and the third spends all of his time on missions trying to find the cursed spirit that butchered everyone. 

You are left alone to deal with the fallout. 

Politics, funerary rites, ensuring your fourteen-year-old cousin doesn’t succeed in throwing herself into the ravine in the forest outside of the estate, as though you don’t want to do the same most days. You leave the estate before the sun rises, sometimes having to drag along a stubborn and grieving fourteen-year-old who needs to be surveilled 24/7, and you don’t get home until the moon settles high in the sky. 

You’re tired, and angry, trapped in a corner, forced to sit across the table with the man who ordered the massacre because you have no proof that he did. One of your younger cousins—the only one who does speak—accuses you of being cold and heartless: you haven’t even cried, she screams at you, what’s wrong with you? What the hell is wrong with you? You sit there and let her scream, because it’s better she screams at you than tries to slit her wrists, but the gaping hole in your chest only gets bigger with each passing day.

Satoru tries to distract you. He starts coming to clan head meetings along with his grandfather, where he used to ardently avoid them. He sits next to you and tries to make you smile with snide commentary and mocking remarks, and he succeeds sometimes, but most times, his expression falters when your gaze only lowers down to the table. He tells you, one day, that he thinks he wants to become a teacher at Jujutsu High.

(“For real?” you ask him, after a particularly rough meeting between representatives of the higher-ups, you, his grandfather, Zenin Naobito, and Kamo Norihide. “Why?”

Satoru’s expression twists as he looks back at the room the two of you just left. “It’s all a load of shit, isn’t it?” he replies with a scoff. “All of the politics, all of their traditions. I don’t want the younger generation of sorcerers growing up following them.”

“You make us sound ancient,” you tell him with a dry smile. “Younger generation. I’m only twenty, you asshole.”

He knocks his shoulder against yours. “You know what I mean,” he says, but there’s a pensive expression on his face, like he’s waiting for you to say something.

“I think you should,” you tell him. “I think you’d do well.”

“You think so?” he asks, head tilted up to the night sky. There’s a dubious tone laced in his words, so unlike the Satoru you’ve known for years that it makes you pause. For a man who’s succeeded in everything he’s ever applied himself to, he sounds terribly unsure.

“Yeah, I do,” you say. “I was kind of like your trial run, wasn’t I? You taught and trained me, and I’m perfect.”

Satoru’s lips curve up into a genuine smile. “True.”)

You become closer to his friend, Shoko, too. She stops by the estate frequently to check on your younger cousins, and she’ll sit and drink with you when you get back from meetings early, keeping you company on nights you thought you’d be left alone with your thoughts.

(“She doesn’t mean the things she says to you, you know?” Shoko tells you one night when you’re sitting alone on the engawa with a bottle of gin, staring up at the stars. She sits down next to you, beckoning you to pass over the bottle, and she takes a long swig when you do. “She cries about it as soon as you leave. Feels bad.”

“I know,” you reply. “It’s better that it’s me she takes it out on than one of her brothers. I can deal with it.”

“There’s nothing wrong with you,” Shoko tells you after a minute. You can feel her looking at you, but you keep your gaze trained to the sky. “People handle grief differently, y’know? And you’re doing what you have to do to keep things from falling apart.”

You smile faintly, but it doesn’t reach your eyes. “I know,” you say again. “Thanks, Shoko.”

“Don’t bullshit me,” Shoko says, leaning back on her hands. “I know you didn’t listen to a word I just said. I don’t like that look in your eyes. Just… don’t lose your way, ‘kay? Me and that idiot Satoru are here. You can rely on us. I don’t wanna see you going down a path that… Ah, never mind. I’m just rambling now. Give me some more gin.”)

And you appreciate them—you do—but they are not who you want nor need when the nights become too dark, and your chest aches with that hollowness you can’t seem to push away. They understand that, too, you think, because they never point out when your mind seems to drift mid-conversation.

You don’t see Naoya for three months after the massacre. 

Later, you learn his absence was not of his own volition; Naobito sent him away because he didn’t want his son to fuck up an already volatile political situation. The Zenins had their own agenda to complete after your father’s death; your clan wasn’t part of the big three, but it acted as a bridge between the Zenins and Gojos when they had aligned interests, and it had enough political influence that your father’s death left a vacuum that the Kamos were desperately trying to take advantage of. The Zenins were trying to prevent that by preparing you to fill your father’s shoes before his corpse was cold in the ground. Naobito needed you to be composed, attentive, and above all, present—and he needed Naoya elsewhere, so that he could not be a distraction.

So, he was sent on an extended mission—three months up north in Tohoku to deal with a horde of cursed spirits that developed after an earthquake two months ago. You don’t even get the chance to say goodbye to him before he’s shipped off, and you don’t have time to call or text him throughout the months.

Once a week, you get a: you alive still?

You respond with a: Yeah.

And life continues on. 

You force yourself to get used to it. There’s no time for hesitation.

A part of you can’t help but wonder if it’s for the best. 

Neither you nor Naoya have ever been gentle people. Empathy doesn’t come easy to either of you, and in the months after the massacre, you’re barely holding the line between rage and grief as it is. Your anger is sharp and directionless. You find yourself losing your temper on people who don’t deserve it, and his temper has always been hair-trigger, quick to turn destructive when it has nowhere to go. You can see how things might’ve gone if he’d stayed. Words meant to hurt, instead of comfort; damage done in moments of exhaustion and fury that no apology could fully undo.

And you think you might not have survived losing him, too.

————————

You’re still awake when an attendant rushes into your office.

 It’s four in the morning, and you’ve hardly gotten halfway through the paperwork you need to finish by morning. Your eyes burn, your shoulders ache, and the thought of standing makes you want to scream, but when she says that Zenin-sama is waiting for you at the estate gates, fatigue gives way to a cold, familiar dread. Naobito wouldn’t show up at this time of night unless something had gone catastrophically wrong. 

So, you rise, smoothing your sleeves out of habit, and make your way out of the building toward the front gates, mind already racing with possibilities, trying to figure out what’s the next disaster you’ll have to absorb without flinching. 

You’re halfway through, “You better have a damn good reason for—” when you realize that it’s not Naobito standing at the front gates.

“Naoya,” you breathe out, his name leaving you before you can stop it. Your hands fall uselessly to your sides, heart thudding painfully slow in your chest. For a split second, you think you might be hallucinating, tired and desperate, seeking out the one person you’ve wanted with you this whole time. “You’re back.”

He looks wrecked. Dark circles carve deep shadows beneath his eyes, and blood stains the hem of his hakama, dried and fresh both. There’s a familiar tension in the way he holds himself, like he hasn’t quite come down from a fight yet. You wonder if he came right here from finishing whatever his last mission was up in Tohoku.

His gaze trails across your face, and his lips curve up into a half-smile. 

“You look like shit,” he tells you.

Somehow, despite everything, you laugh for the first time in months. 

————————

Neither you nor Naoya have ever been gentle people. Empathy doesn’t come easy to either of you, and in the months after the massacre, you’re barely holding the line between rage and grief as it is. 

You half expect Naoya to fuck off and leave once he realizes how unstable you are—a part of you wouldn’t have blamed him if he did. You’re not worth the trouble to deal with as you are. But he never does. Even on the really bad days, the ones when your vision is red with rage at the sheer unfairness of your situation, and you’re purposely driving him away because you want to sink alone, he digs his heels in and grits his teeth, letting you scream at him and shove him until your rage drains into exhaustion. Or, more commonly, he gets frustrated and snaps back until it ‘sinks into your thick skull’ that he’s not going anywhere, so you should stop ‘giving him a headache’ with your bitching. He argues with you until you’re too tired to keep fighting and too stubborn to admit he’s right. 

It’s not gentle, and it’s not empathetic, but it’s you, and it’s Naoya, and you find comfort in that consistency—in knowing that no matter how badly everything falls apart and reshapes itself around you, that this will remain the same. You can lose a clan, a father, brothers, and a future you thought you understood, but you won’t lose him. Everything else in your life will change, but you two never will.

(“Why don’t you just go?” you demand, scoffing at him and shaking your head as you turn away. “Fuck off, Naoya. We both know you don’t want to be here.”

“What is your problem?” Naoya hisses, jaw tight, hands fisted at his sides. “You think I crossed half the country because I didn’t want to see ya? That I went through three months of hell and rushed back here just to leave ‘cause you’re being a bitch? Newsflash, you’ve been a bitch since the moment we met—nothing’s changed. So quit it with the woe is me, nobody wants me bullshit. Sit down and watch the fuckin’ show with me.”

“It’s not the same.” You whirl on him, raising your voice. “Nothing is the fucking same, Naoya! So go find some girl to get your dick wet and leave me the hell al—”

You let out a muffled noise of complaint when he shoves his hand over your mouth, stopping you from finishing the sentence. You immediately move to elbow him, but he doesn’t even flinch, dragging you over to the couch and all but throwing you down onto it before he takes a seat next to you. You give him an accusing look, but he only scowls at you.

“Unless that’s you offering to wet my dick, I’d stop talking,” he tells you, and then reaches forward to turn on the TV. “I been waiting to watch since I got back. Either be quiet or put your mouth to better use, will you?”

“You’re so disgusting,” you mutter, but you push yourself into a sitting position and pull your knees to your chest, wrapping your arms around them, losing the will to keep fighting in an instant when he refuses to entertain your anger. “What show is it?”)

Sometimes you’re quieter, and the rage that usually keeps you upright never comes. You’re left with grief sitting heavy in your chest, struggling to even continue breathing, and Naoya doesn’t know what to do with that version of you. The first few times he catches you like that, he does what he always does. He antagonizes. Picks fights. Makes snide comments to try to get you to snap back at him, seeing if he can drag you back into familiar territory where he knows how to operate.

(“Why’re you staring at the garden like that, huh?” he snaps one day, coming up behind you after you had to deal with a long day of meetings with his father. “You’re creeping me out.”

You don’t respond, and you hear him scoff, pacing.

“Seriously? You’re just ignoring me now?”

Your lips part to say something—maybe tell him you’re not in the mood, even trying to muster up the energy to fight with him and tell him to leave you alone, but nothing comes. You let out an inaudible sigh, and your shoulders slump.

“Tch.” You hear him click his tongue, dropping down beside you harder than necessary, knee knocking into yours to get your attention. “Say somethin’.”

“I just want to sleep,” you find yourself saying, voice weaker than you intend for it to be.

Naoya opens his mouth, and you wonder if he’s going to try again to antagonize you with something sharp and dismissive, but he pauses. You feel him looking at you, studying the dull expression on your face, and the way your shoulders are curled inward like you’re trying to make yourself smaller.

All he says is, “Oh,” and settles beside you. Then he adds, “Then sleep,” and, like he can’t help himself, “I’ll tire you out, if ya want?”

You find a small smile curling at your lips despite yourself. “You’re so annoying,” you murmur, gaze lifting up slightly. “The cherry blossoms are in bloom early this year.”

Naoya’s gaze follows yours up to the pink petals. “Yeah,” he agrees quietly. “Good sign, isn’t it?”

“Yeah.”)

Naoya doesn’t know how to comfort you. He doesn’t understand grief in the way you’re experiencing it, he can’t understand mourning family when his relationship with his own is as terrible as it is, and he doesn’t know what to do with the crushing sadness that settles in when your anger burns out. He’s used to problems he can hit or insult, so when you go quiet instead of loud, he’s visibly at a loss, irritation and unease written plainly across his face as he searches for something to say and comes up empty.

He struggles to stay in those moments. You can see it in the way his jaw tightens, and how his gaze flicks anywhere but your face. He doesn’t know how to reach you, and it frustrates him, but he forces himself to stay anyway. He shoves a blanket at you and tells you not to get snot everywhere. He sits close enough that your knees brush and pretends not to notice when you lean into him. He puts on some stupid show that he insists is “actually good” when you’re staring off into the distance not doing anything and then, he complains the entire time about the pacing and bad acting. You cry in front of him once when he puts on a movie that hits too close to home, and he short-circuits so badly that it nearly has your eyes drying instantly.

(You feel him staring at you before you even realize that you’re crying. It goes on for at least five minutes before you finally turn to him, annoyed, and ask, “What, Naoya?”

Instead of snapping at you, he blinks and says, “You’re…” and then motions to your face, then to his own, drawing a path from his eye down his cheeks, “um.”

You lift your hand to your face, and you’re mortified when you realize that your cheeks are wet. You rub your face angrily, embarrassed, but you can’t seem to stop the tears from rolling down. “Just ignore it.”

He hesitates, glancing at the screen, back at you, to the screen again. He shifts so that he’s looking forward again, and you try to focus on stopping yourself from crying. You stiffen when you feel him place his arm around your shoulder. It’s awkward and kind of uncomfortable, and when you look at him from the corner of his eye, his face is so twisted that he almost looks like he’s in pain.

Your shoulders shake slightly as you try not to laugh. It’s so… Naoya of him to be uncomfortable with innocent comfort like this, even though the two of you have fucked in just about every way imaginable. Violence and sex and shouting, those he handles just fine, but an arm around your shoulder? Agonizing.

He gives you an offended look when he sees you laughing, and he goes to draw his arm back, but you grab his wrist before he can, pulling it back down around your shoulder and settling into his side, resting your head against his bicep.

“This movie sucks,” you tell him, eyes sliding shut when you feel him tracing absent patterns against your upper arm.

“Yeah, kinda, want me to switch?”

“Yeah.”)

As time passes, you think that you might love Naoya, and just as quickly as the thought crosses your mind, you dismiss it. 

Love feels too pedestrian, too clean of a word to describe whatever it is you feel for him, because what you feel isn’t soft or hopeful or anything that someone would associate with that word. There are no butterflies in your stomach when you look at him, and you don’t dream about futures with white dresses and fluffy promises like most people do. 

What you feel is ugly and intense, something that digs its fingers deep under your ribs and refuses to let go—the line of love and hatred is never so thin as it is when it comes to the two of you. He doesn’t soften himself around you, doesn’t become kinder or better or easier to be around. If anything, he’s worse—sharper and unapologetically cruel to everyone who isn’t you—and sometimes you wonder if it should drive you away, but it doesn’t, because you always find yourself meeting him there halfway instead. He doesn’t lie to you about who he is and what he’s capable of. He tells you exactly how awful he can be, and he proves it over and over again with the casual certainty of someone who has never been punished for it. It irritates you to no end, and yet, you still find comfort in the fact that nothing ever changes with the two of you. He’ll always choose you in defiance of every rule he was raised with, and you’ll always choose him in spite of everything you know he is.

It doesn’t feel romantic, not like how love is supposed to be. His presence is just something that slots into your life like it was always meant to belong there, and his absence feels wrong in a way you can’t really articulate without sounding dramatic or unhinged. Your lives have entwined so thoroughly that you can’t see yourself living yours without him. The world has proven that it can take everything from you, and it has taken most of what it can—you can imagine losing everything you have left along with it, but you can never imagine losing him.

That’s why love doesn’t fit. Love implies a beginning you can point to and an end you might survive, and the idea that something so vast and all-consuming could be reduced to a word people toss around so easily leaves you deeply unsettled.

(“What would you have done if I had died with them that night?” you ask him one night, voice quiet.

“You wouldn’t have,” Naoya replies immediately, an irritated look crossing his face. “The fuck? Why would you ask me somethin’ like that?”

“Hypothetically, though. If I did. What would you have done?” you press.

Naoya stares at you for a long moment, like you’ve asked him something in a language he doesn’t understand. He looks away, jaw tightening, eyes fixed somewhere past you, like he’s calculating the answer whether he wants to or not. 

Finally, he exhales through his nose.

“I would’ve killed whatever did it,” he says flatly, “and everyone involved. Happy now? Are ya gonna let me fuckin’ sleep or d’ya have more dumb questions?” 

“What about after?” 

Naoya’s mouth opens, then closes again. He looks genuinely lost for a second, like he’s reached the edge of something he’s never had to imagine before. His gaze drifts back up to you, and there’s something helpless that briefly flashes through his eyes that tells you everything you need to know.

He doesn’t end up answering the question, snapping at you to stop saying such stupid shit to him unless you’re trying to piss him off, but he doesn’t have to. 

caleb straightens up then, throwing his teammates a glance over his left shoulder. “what’s what?” he asks, all innocent, golden-boy charm. but there’s a flicker in his magenta eyes, a knowing glint; he’s absolutely shameless. 

“that!” another one of his teammates splutters, pointing somewhere beneath caleb’s navel, horrified. “is that… dude, are those panties?”

a slow, love-drunk grin spreads across caleb’s face like wildfire. “oh, these?” he teases, his long thumb hooking casually into the sweat-drenched waistband of his shorts and dragging down one side of the fabric, giving them a full, deliberate view of the lace hugging his hip. there’s a tiny strawberry-patterned bow at the top of the pair. “yeah. my baby left ‘em at my place last night. just keeping them safe for her. you know how it is.”

his team exchanges glances, blinking in disbelief. he shrugs like it’s the most normal thing in the world, heading courtside for his water bottle and when he reaches for it, the movement makes the blush pink lace flash again. a collective groan echoes in the gym.

gideon, his supposed voice of reason, blinks rapidly. “caleb. brother. my man. you know you can just… put them in a dresser until she comes back, right? you own drawers. you don’t have to wear her panties to keep them safe. nobody is stealing your girl’s panties but you.” 

his team dissolves into loud wolf-whistles and the kind of boyish, obnoxious guffaws and whooping that can be found in any damp, old spice smelling locker room. the tips of caleb’s ears tint pink, but he’s smiling dopily, rubbing the nape of his neck with his knuckles. someone throws him the ball and he catches it on instinct, bouncing it once. “where’s the fun in that?” he says, his grin returning full and bright, dribbling the ball idly. “they’re comfortable, and the best part? no chafing.” 

“plus…” he starts, and the ball stops bouncing. his voice drops, losing all of its teasing edge and warming into something cloud-soft. his teammates groan in unison; they know that look. caleb’s about to go off about you. “it’s like having a piece of her here with me. keeps me focused and reminds me what i’m playing for. i have to make it to the pros so i can build her a mansion.” he says it so earnestly his teammates can almost pretend he’s talking about why he wears his lucky socks and not, you know, his girlfriend’s fucking lace panties. for caleb though, it’s probably the same thing. 

a slow, dreamy smile touches his lips. “aaaaand,” he singsongs, the dreaminess shifting into pure, unhinged glee, “they smell like her.”

there’s a beat of stunned silence between the players, then—

“jesus fucking christ, caleb!” the team’s small forward wheezes, crushing the heel of his palms to his ears. “that’s disgusting—”

“that’s it. i’m finding another team. i can’t. i physically can’t,” one of his teammates, drew, declares, turning on his heel like he’s actually going to march right on out the swinging doors of the gym.

gideon just shakes his head, looking skyward for patience before holding his hands out for the ball. caleb passes it with a shit-eating grin. “you’ve seriously got some screws loose up there, xia.”

“he’s got a whole hardware store full of screws loose,” one of the seniors on the team hollers from the baseline. 

caleb takes it all in stride, winking as he easily catches another ball tossed his way. he doesn’t even sweat as he lines up for a shot from the corner. “just a few,” he hums, tapping the side of his head with his free hand. the ball sails through the air, hooping through the net with a near silent swish. he turns back to his team. “now, are we gonna practice or are you just gonna stare at my ass all day?”

practice resumes, but the energy has shifted. the only thing on their mind is the sight of their fearless captain in strawberry-patterned panties and they tease him relentlessly behind it: looking good cap! and down catastrophic, captain! and a little bit of hey caleb, you remember that one episode of spongebob with the panty raid— but caleb could care less. 

later, back in the apartment he shares with gideon, caleb flops onto his bed, pulling out his phone and tapping the message widget on the home screen that immediately brings him to your message thread. 

> caleb: pip you there??

> caleb: the guys were so mean to me at practice today >:(

> caleb: sons of bitches 

your reply is almost instant, and he can feel the restless, possessive coil in his chest begin to loosen just seeing your name.

> you: why? what happened?

he bites his lip. then, with deliberate slowness, he shifts onto his back and snaps a picture. just the low waistband of his gray sweatpants, tugged down an inch to reveal the strawberry lace against his skin that he’s still wearing. he sends it.

[Image Attached]

> caleb: wore the panties you left over here to practice:)

> caleb: they’re soft. and they smell like you.

> caleb: which is the best smell in the world btw

the typing bubbles appear, then disappear. 

> you: ????? YOUCDID NOT

> you: wdym they smell like me????? CALEB

> you: i can’t believe you. did you really not wash them?

he brings the phone closer, tongue peeking out of the side of his mouth as he grins, fingers flying over the keyboard to write his reply. 

> caleb: washing them would be a tragedy.

> caleb: it’s the only piece of you i have with me right now :cccc

> caleb: miss you so much my chest hurts.

he hits send and waits, pressing the phone to his sternum dramatically, right over the ache. the notification buzzes against his palm almost immediately.

[Image Attached] 

he taps it and the sound he makes in the back of his throat is embarrassingly ruined. it’s a picture of you, of course. curled up amongst your fluffy pillows, drowning in his favorite heather gray sweatshirt with the hem of it pinched between your fingers, tugging up the fabric just enough to show him the familiar black boxer briefs you’re wearing, to show him that you’re just as obsessed as he is. 

> you: miss you too >:)