s

You do and will do just about anything BUT put up with the hockey captain’s bullshit.

Six months ago you became the victim of your college’s biggest star, Gojo Satoru.

You don’t really know why or how it even started. Just that one day, you entered your typical high-school playboy’s radar who hasn’t grown out of being immature and insufferable

He’s a Tokyo prodigy, grew up rich like they all apparently do and unfortunately for you, with enough looks to put up with his cocky attitude.

And somehow that’s the worst part. The idiot can flaunt left and right his greatness because the world just works in his favor. Despite his riches too, he’s on a full ride at JJKU for hockey just to rub salt into the wound even deeper.

So when he approached you half a year ago on a random day in October back in the library, catching you in an all nighter, knee deep in some math homework, you smelled lt the fishiness from miles away.

What was he doing talking to you?

You, who does not study anything that has to do with sports or his world or who doesn’t even want to do anything with his side of paradise.

You, who has never had a boyfriend and never peaked in high-school, who surely isn’t interested right now in getting to know anyone that isn’t the response to your math sheet exercises.

And you who most definitely was not about to get played by the school’s pretty boy.

Gojo was clad in a dark blue sweatshirt with the school’s logo slapped on the front, messy white hair under the pulled up hood, glasses sliding off his nose bridge despite it being three in the morning and matching sweatpants.

Looking entirely too good—objectively so—when you know he doesn’t even have to try to look that way.

You had moved onto a rathole for a research essay, something professor Gakuganji swore he could not leave class before assigning when Gojo finally stopped beating around the bush.

He strolled over, smacking his chewing gum against his molars over and over again—way too loudly for someone in a library—and rooted himself by your messy desk where papers were scattered all over and your face was illuminated by the artificial light of your laptop.

With your earbuds plugged in, of course you didn’t take notice of the towering 6 foot 3 menace looming over you from behind.

But one poke on your shoulder and your soul almost left your body. Instantly your face reddened, a fresh tomato shade spreading across your cheeks, ears and neck.

And Satoru, laughed. Like he wasn’t in your personal space—a stranger’s personal space.

You remember how your first encounter went with him.

Plucking out one of your earbuds just in time to hear him say:

“What’cha doin?”

Just what was he doing?

You hesitated before replying. “Um, studying?”

His eyes rolled back over his glasses. “Duh, what else do you do at a library?” Not liking his response, or whatever this conversation was, you slightly nodded at the time and began to turn back around.

“Hey! Don’t turn around! We haven’t finished, tell me your name.” Embarrassment, pure and unfiltered embarrassment ran down your spine at the loudness of his voice. Squirming in your seat from the looks he’s attracted, you whisper back. “Why should I tell you my name?”

His lip caught in between his teeth as he pondered a reason, a second later a smile came on his face.

“Because I want us to get to know eachother-”

You cut him off. “Can you quiet down-”

“Gojo. Gojo Satoru.” He finished for you, wide smile plastered on his face. All pearly whites showing.

You sighed, realizing he wouldn’t let you go so easily. “Nice to meet you Gojo, I’m L/N Y/N.”

At the time, you assumed that if you gave him what he wanted now, he would disappear with it and then you’d lay low enough for him to completely forget about you.

Oh how you were wrong.

Monday morning, October 27th, not even a week after the encounter you see a tall figure that has never been inside of your statistics class walk in.

Oh no.

Said figure walked up right to where you were sitting, row seven at the far back to be invisible, and plopped down right next to you instead of the thirteen other chairs.

The backpack that was slung over his shoulder unceremoniously fell down on the chair, a plop noise reaching your ear before his lanky body turned to face you.

“Good morning, Y/N!”

That was when the rumours started.

Gojo Satoru knows the quiet girl at the back? Has our time finally come? What is going on?

You tried to physically disappear. He kept showing up.

Tuesday 28. Laptop open infront of you, essay halfway done, a freshly brewed warm cup of coffee by your notes, perfect cinnamon roll sitting by it.

It was the perfect evening. The perfect balance between studying and relaxing.

Then the door chime rung, a figure ducked under the door, and before you could even catch up to his face, you knew your evening was ruined.

He didn’t even try to act like he came for a drink, aiming for your table at the back immediately when he recognised you amidst the faces.

“Y/N! What a coincidence, saw you from outside and came to say hi.”

“Hi.” You quietly muttered back.

A frown came from him. “Have you forgotten my name already?” His lips turned downwards like you personally hurt him.

Taking a sip of your coffee, you licked your upper lip to get rid of the foam that clung onto them and slowly shook your head no.

“Good evening, Gojo.”

Satisfied, he smiled. Doing a quick once-over, he then began itching closer to you and angling himself to see what was on your computer.

“Still working on that essay?”

“Yeah.” You breathed out, feeling the ends of his pale hair brush against your shoulder from how hunched over he is.

Picking at your cinnamon roll with your fork caught his eye. And he ended up eating your cinnamon roll while pestering your occupied mind with topics that left you with no idea what he was talking about.

Wednesday. He coincidentally shops at the same grocery store you do. One peek at his shopping cart—candy, candy, donuts, condoms—and you know his excuse of “What a coincidence, you shop here too?” Is bullshit.

And your decision to not fall for his tricks tenfold.

A few awkward interactions from your sides here and there, you mainly brushed him off until Thursday.

Thursday morning you saw him in statistics again. Green hoodie swallowing his torso, loose fit jeans, same bag thrown over his shoulder—seemingly empty.

It was empty. He asked you for a pen and you gave him one. Where was the harm in lending a classmate a pen when in need?

Except, you lent a pen to Gojo.

It shouldn’t have surprised you when he showed up that same evening at 11 P.M. at your door when you were in your tiny pyjamas , lounging around—not thinking about anyone coming to bother you.

Wrong, one look through the peephole and your world came crashing down. You answered the door with a blanket covering your body.

“Gojo… What are you doing here at this hour..?” You asked, looked around the corridor to see if anyone else caught sight of him.

The campus pretty boy cannot be caught at the girls dorms especially not after 6 P.M. so you were mortified some para social fangirl would find him here and ruin your life.

He shrugged and pulled out a pencil from his back pocket. “I came to bring you your pen!” Exclaiming way too loudly for the time it was.

“And I have to ask you something.” Suddenly he turned serious.

After a second of chewing on your inner lip and pondering whether you should let him in, you do.

You kindly asked him “Do you want something to drink?”

“Anything is fine.” So you opted to make him some tea, figuring that whatever he was about to say would take some time.

He dramatically fell down on the couch, you sat on the other keeping your legs tucked under yourself.

You both sat in silence for a minute while he took a look around your apartment. Observing the fairy lights hung around the ceiling, the portraits you have of who he assumes is your family, the simple trinkets you have around the apartment.

Finally, the silence broke when he said “So, I wanted to invite you to my party Friday.” He simply said, as if you were someone who went to those functions.

So you ask him, “Do I look like someone who would go to parties? Much less your parties, Gojo?”

His face comically scrunched up, as if your words had winced him. Though you knew they didn’t when his facial muscles fell into a frown.

“Ouch. What’s wrong with my parties?”

You didn’t miss a beat. “They have a reputation.”

A grin jumped onto his face. “Of being the best, I’m aware.”

Eerily smiling, he took a sip of his chamomile tea and cringed, “Jesus, do you have sugar? This tastes like grass.” while you thought about your next words.

“Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

Seems like you had hit a nerve with that because his eyes jumped out of their sockets at that. “What the hell do you mean whatever helps me sleep at night? My parties are the best-”

“The answer is no, Gojo-”

Apparently he didn’t like the sound of his name spilling from your lips either. “Satoru.”

You grimaced, “I’ve known you for a week max.”

His head fell sideways, “So?”

Internally, you groaned. “So, I’m not going.”

“Oh come onnn, leave this place for a while will ya? My party is going to be-”

“Gojo—

“Satoru.” He corrects.

“—you don’t even know me-”

“I will! Come to my party.”

It’s late, almost midnight. You’re not dressed to host but there’s a 6 foot 3 playboy on your couch begging you to come to his party when the most he probably knows about you is your apartment complex and living room.

A heavy sigh presses past your lips. “Fine.”

Almost as if your words were the on button to disneyland, Satoru lights up. “You’ll come?”

“Maybe.”

“That’s a yes.”

“Maybe is a maybe.”

Maybe turned out to be a yes.

“Girl, why are you even doing this?”

Mei mei is the most superficial, materialistic, bratty, unloyal—the list unfortunately could go on—friend you have. But she's actually the only social butterfly from your acquaintances that actually goes to parties.

So she's the only one you can go to for these kinds of functions. It's needless to say that you are dreading spending the night attached to her hip, which leads you to the same question she's actually asking you.

Why are you doing this?

You don't owe Gojo Satoru a single minute of your time. For fucks sake, you don't know the man. Parties aren't even your thing. So why are you dressed in Sally from Toy story's costume while Mei Mei readjusts her tiny—leaving little to the imagination—scandalously short euphoria-themed dress that has you swallowing bundles of nervousness at her possibly flashing someone with any minor movement?

Deciding that no matter how long you ponder the question, you won't find an answer and it's already too late to change your mind as you're in your costume—adding the finishing touches: freckles and curling the ends of your hair in a ponytail—you simply shrug Mei Mei off.

Half an hour later, Mei's boyfriend of the week—some guy from her economics class you swear has to just have popped into the school because you have never seen him—drops both of you in front of Satoru's mansion while he parks out back.

And fuck.

He really does have the money and privilege to be so full of himself.

Tall structured while walls, french style architecture—balanced, symmetrical sides—a huge as wooden door pried open where bodies storm in and out of the building.

The party has been going on for around two hours when your feet drag themselves forward and past a multitude of buzzed, drunk and high people who sway left and right to the DJ's mix who you could see working from the second floor balcony once you reached the back yard.

It's electric, people are having fun. At least that's what it looks like.

There's fog around Gojo's unnecessary huge pool where the guests are around—and if this is some cliché movie, they'll all jump inside and skinny dip at some point when the alcohol has really got to them.

You didn't even realize Mei Mei has already ran off from your side when you stopped scanning the place.

Panic quickly starts to grow under your skin. This isn't your kind of space, and you surely didn't want to be here alone. Anxiety latches onto your breathing, making it go shallow—breaths too short, not bringing enough oxygen to your blood.

Your head starts to spin, the smell of marijuana and vodka starting to be the only thing invading your nostrils—and white musk? What?

A hand finds it's way around your waist and your heart aggressively slams itself against your chest from the scare.

Soon enough, Satoru's cheeky smile comes into view, and then his whole face once you crane your head upwards to meet his eyes.

Just a bit, you relax. Breathing evening out, heartbeat steadying from seeing a familiar face. You're not particularly happy to see him, but he is the one who called you here after all.

"Oh, the princess came?" He muses. "Welcome to my party."

Gojo is... dressed in a fucking woody costume.

Woody. From Toy Story. As in the Toy Story your own costume is from. What are the odds.

How is it that every person in this room is wearing a costume not even remotely close to Toy Story—which, last time you checked was the most overused idea hence why it was so easy to find at the Halloween store—but Gojo is coincidentally wearing the one character that yours is shipped with.

And god help you does he look good.

Too good.

His broad frame—jacked arms, bulky legs, veiny forearms revealed from his sleeves being pushed up, bundled around his elbows—pressing against the cotton yellow and red striped checkered shirt under his cow print vest. Matching your flare pants.

A cowgirl and a cowboy.

Great.

Just great.

His fan girls will have your head by tomorrow morning.

You roll your eyes at his cheesy welcome.

"Look at that, we're matching!" He brightens up once his eyes finish raking over your every curve, dip of skin under the clothes, costume.

You fight the urge to roll your eyes even further this time. Growing uncomfortable under his dangerous stare, his large hands on your waist keeping you grounded in a way they shouldn't and the people pushing around you.

He notices. "Hey? You okay?"

Recieving no reply from you and only a doe-eyed look that spoke without you needing to part your pretty lips (and that made his pants grow a bit too tight for his liking), his hands leave your waist and grab one of your wrists before pulling you away and off to somewhere else.

Climbing a hidden pair of polished marble stairs in the kitchen, you reached a room tucked away in the giant lively mansion.

It's a sanctuary so different from everything else. The room is cozy, galaxy projector in the corner painting the roof in stars and material dreams are made of. A blue bean bag in the corner, one red next to it.

A TV screen in the middle with a PS5 under it. A couch pressed against a wall where he leads you to. The heels of your cowboy boots dig into the rug underneath you silently.

He plops down first onto the brown leather, man spreading as he gets comfortable and while his hand still on your wrist brings you down to sit next to him.

You sit, half uncomfortable from the proximity, half relived you're away from the chaos.

Satoru wastes no time in shattering the short-lived silence you were in.

From behind the closed door, you can hear the faint sound of "The Color Violet" by Tory Lanez play, typical party song, over his smooth voice.

"So, why'd you end up coming?"

Your eyes narrow to him, back peeling off the couch to lean closer to him, a faint but purposeful frown wedged between your features. "Are you not happy to see me?"

His lower lip catches between his teeth as he bites is, tension building as you see his eyes locked on your lips and your mock pout.

"No, I am glad you came." He says.

You sink back onto the couch, shrugging. "You talked so much about this party and I got curious."

There's a smile on his face now, amused. "And?"

"Curiosity kills the cat."

He winces. "Ouch, seriously?"

"Yes." You deadpan.

Now it's his turn to pout, though he can't hold it as his entertained smile keeps breaking through. "Aw come on Y/N, It's not bad."

You sigh, crossing your arms over your chest and admitting. "It's not. Just not my kinda place."

"I can make it your place." He coyly says as an arm of his finds the headrest behind your head. Body turned sideways to you now.

Your head spins to him. "How?"

His eyes, hungry and with a dangerous glint behind them, trail up from your neck to your lips, to your eyes and you feel your pulse picking up.

"You look good in that costume, you know?" The tip of his tongue sticks out as it pokes his canine.

"That's not what I asked." You shoot back, feeling something weird pool in your stomach.

He continues nonetheless, "People might think we are dating."

The scoff you let you is accidental, but it lands. "As if I'd ever date you."

He laughs. Propping his head on his now bent arm that was draped behind your frame. "They all say that."

And the tension grows while you stay quiet. Eyes locked onto his. His heat reaching your skin without even touching you, his minty breath fanning your cheek as he looks down at you.

While there's fire, annoyance and defiance behind your irises. Lust, passion and amusement cloud his.

You smirk because his tricks may work on many girls but you have no intention of being his bitch.

A manicured hand of yours finds the center of his chest, right on the sternum as you push him back. The hand his head was on stretches out again as he's put into his original position.

The couch makes squeaky noises as his body sinks back on it. His legs open again, manspreading and pressing against your thigh. Pants clinging to his thigh and making a sinful sight.

Not letting him react, you take the chance to throw your thigh over his before he's fully settled in. You straddle him as he grows red, face twisted into surprise.

The grin on your face softens around the corners as you peer down at him now. Feeling the hardness under his jeans grow and press at you. Satoru is shocked out of his words.

Arms open by his sides onto the couches top while your hands settle on his shoulders. You push the cowboy hat off of his head, leaving only yours on. His soft bundles of impossibly white hair stick up.

You brush them down with your fingernails at an excruciatingly slow pace. Making sure to shift the slightest bit, unnoticeable if someone were to see you both, but enough to make electricity shock Gojo's body over and over as his hard cock receives the stimulation.

His breath hitches, a pathetic little sound that snaps him out of it. Out of the haze you had momentarily caught him in. His hands fly to your waist, stilling you on his lap and locking you over his boner in place. Eyes darkening as you zero on the fact that you've lost the upper hand.

Satoru's voice rings close to your ear from how close your faces are. "Oh? What are you doing, angel?"

Swallowing the anxiety in your throat, you wet your lips and watch how his eyes flicker to them. You smile down at him, "Satoru, I'm not them."

You feel his chest vibrate when he chuckles. "Yeah?"

Your hands run over his collarbones, deliberately slow. Watching every fiber of his body betray him as his muscles tense under your touch.

"Yeah."

Sky blue eyes looking up at you, trying to find what you're intending to do.

You kiss his cheek.

And slide off.

Fix your hat on your head.

Don't look back.

And leave.

"See you."

Satoru knows you’ll crack sooner or later.

He’ll be buried to the hilt inside your pussy and leave you dry the next day.

He just needs to test a friend’s theory.

That’s all.

Monday mercilessly came once more.

Satoru had practice like always. From the start of the week till Friday they train, train and train. Off-ice conditioning and on-ice mechanics. Brutal drills.

Loads and loads of cardio resulting in him and Suguru leaving the rink with a parched throat, adrenaline pumping high and their clothes sticking underneath to their skin.

Not to mention the explosive, hard workouts their coach has them do for lower-body strengths. Most hockey players don't dare to sign up for the gym because of them.

Yaga keeps them fit. Diets, core power workout, high-intensity stuff that would have a normal college student fainting on round one.

Suguru is boasting about his new stick, 345 grams. The lightest one he's found by now. Probably going to allow him to be faster and more efficient on the ice—and last less.

Well, it would be breaking on the first match with Satoru. He's not really known for being calm when he gets played.

But as his best friend rambles to Choso, and apparently him, Suguru notices Satoru is uncharacteristically silent. Mind somewhere else. Eyes glued to the ceiling.

He hisses at him. "Yo, idiot. What are you looking at?"

Satoru's head snaps back into place, head spinning from the sudden movement.

"What?" He asks at the two men looking at him like he has a third head.

"What's up with you?" Suguru questions, eyebrow lifted.

Choso nods, his helmet bouncing against his leg. "Where were you Friday?" He asks out of the blue.

Gojo shrugs like it's obvious. "At my party, duh?" Uncertain of what they're trying to paint here.

The other long haired, pierced raven haired man groans. Choso continues. "No shit, bro."

Suguru sweeps in. "You disappeared for a while. Couldn't find you anywhere."

His throat goes dry. This has never happened before.

Come on, Satoru. Shrug it off. Smirk and say you snuck off with some girl.

While he struggles to find an answer, making him look suspicious in front of his friends, an insufferable green haired man skates over to crash their conversation.

"Gojo."

He snaps out of his thoughts to be met with the unpleasant face of Naoya Zenin. "What do you want, Zenin?"

The three men stare at the newcomer with serious expressions, clearly unamused by his arrival.

"When did you start inviting losers to your parties?"

"I don't know, when did you start coming?"

Naoya shrugged it off. Grew the shit-eating grin on his face and continued "Care to explain what Y/N L/N was doing at your party Friday?"

Satoru tensed under the layers of clothes he was wearing.

But he deflected quick. "Fuck am I supposed to know? Mei Mei came with her."

The Zenin hummed, shooting him a strange look before leaving unconvinced.

Suguru and Choso were turned to Satoru by the time Naoya's figure disappeared.

"Y/N? The Sally girl?" Tries Choso.

"Apparently." Replies the white haired center.

The week flies by abnormally quick with Satoru catching no sight of you. Not even in stats.

Till Saturday.

November caught up to you after the cursed Halloween party. A cold knocking on your door on the first and leaving you bedridden to miss your classes.

Saturday you felt well enough and to celebrate studying so much while sick, trying your best to keep up with your classes—and totally not doing to keep your mind off sitting on Satoru's lap—you went out for coffee.

The off-campus coffee shop is the best local one. Tucked away at a five minute walk from your apartment, Mimi's cafe always greets you with the same atmosphere.

The sound of coffee grinding in the background, slow jazz spilling from the vintage record player in the corner, perfectly chosen wooden tables with mug stains that make it all the more cozier.

It's heaven on earth.

But you get your cappuccino to go today, needing to stop by the post office and pick up an order in a few minutes.

"Hey, chlo. One cappuccino please—" You start, smiling up at Chloe, a barista you'd become a regular to.

"I know, Y/N." She smiles, typing down the order.

"—And one hot chocolate with extra whip cream, chocolate flakes on top for me please. By card."

Satoru's smooth voice sends a chill down your spine as his chest presses against your frozen figure and taps his card while Chloe silently complies.

You look at him from your peripheral vision. Catching the cream wool scarf around his neck, his heavy dark blue coat and the pink tip of his nose.

"What are you doing here?" You whisper as you move to the waiting zone, him following with his hands shoved in his pockets by your side.

"Buying you a drink, pretty."

"You didn't have to do that."

"I know." He grins.

You suspiciously eye him. "What do you want?"

"Where have you been all week? Haven't seen you since.." Satoru trails off.

You internally wince. "Way to dodge my question."

A deep sigh leaves his chest. "Fine you caught me."

"Spill." You urge.

"Come to my game tomorrow."

Uh.

What is it with this dude inviting you everywhere?

He continues, a colly smirk on his handsome face you wish you could slap. "Cheer for me."

Ding!

An idea comes into mind. You pretend to ponder for a second.

Then you hum. "Sure."

He brights up.

He has no idea.

No idea that the very next day, Sunday, you will in fact attend his game.

However, not in blue.

Not in dark blue and white stripes with JJKU's logo printed in the middle.

But in red.

Red and white stripes.

With the number 19 on the back.

Sukuna Ryomen.

Rival team's center.

Sukuna motherfucking Ryomen.

Also nationally known as Satoru, star of JJKU'S hockey team's enemy.

They're the kind of rivals that drive each other up the wall. Bodies slamming against the boards. Sticks constantly clashing in fight for the puck.

Yelled insults, shoved bodies, bleeding lips and bruised skin in result.

They have history and tension.

You're there to play Satoru.

He said to come.

You did.

But you're not obedient enough to cheer him on.

Yorozu eyes you from her seat on the bleachers next to you, arms wrapped around herself and trying to heat her cold arms up under her cardigan by rubbing her hands over them.

You're not cold as you swim under Sukuna's jersey. 19 stitched onto your back, Ryomen in big white letters as his school's emblem sits on your chest.

"Last time I checked you study at JJKU and they wear blue." She points out, trying to riddle whatever you were doing.

"Correct!" You applaud. The red flag in your hand shaking as you do so.

She doesn't try to question you again.

Only glues her eyes to the rink once the speakers boom and the players spill onto the ice.

Satoru comes out last.

Hands in the air, stick shaking as he waves it to the many figures on the bleachers, secretly searching for a certain someone.

And then his eyes find you under his helmet.

And he stops moving.

His figure stills.

Halfway to the center.

He's shooting daggers at you.

You're smiling sweetly like you're buzzing with excitement for the game to start.

Sukuna shouts something that makes him lock into place.

Jaw tight under the protection, mouth guard in place as his teeth dig holes into it, hands tightly grasping his stick. Back hunched, blood boiling.

You cheer for the reds.

Jump with Yorozu when they score.

Groan when Toji misses a goal like it pains you and like you actually care about sports.

Satoru's eyes fly to you when he scores to find you blankly looking back at him. Unimpressed face in place.

He slams bodies onto the the boards, he yells. Throws the puck, his stick, glares at you with something you can't understand behind his eyes while he drinks water on the halftime.

He breaks a new record. 12 goals in a game at 21 fueled by pure rage.

By you.

The game ends.

Yorozu runs off when she sees Uraume at the rink's entry ready to pick her up.

You sit on the bleachers a little longer, watching Satoru's frustrated figure retreat. Throw his helmet on the padded floor behind the gate to the ice.

Then you get up.

Start to move out of your row, heading for the door when a loud banging sound startles you.

From behind your back, you hear Satoru's voice booming through the empty arena.

"Y/N! GET DOWN HERE!"

His fist harshly colliding with the plastic board he smashes rivals against.

Your heart frantically jumpstarts into irregular beats.

Your knees go weak.

But you slowly step down the bleachers, circle the rink and find him coming to you—meeting you halfway.

He's still in his skates.

Well over his normal height now, towering over you so much your neck hurts when you crane your head to look up at him.

The rink is to your right, the sturdy wall of plastic that separates the public from the chaos in the games being the only thing between you and the actual ice.

Satoru's looming figure is tense.

He's still in his uniform.

Blue and white suiting him criminally well while your red contrasts. It clashes.

Helmet gone, you see his half-lidded azure eyes piercing into yours. Gaze heavy. Tension about to snap at any second.

You can't breathe with how thick it is.

You blink one and you're pressed up against the board, his hands pressed against the plastic and you trapped under him.

"What are you doing Y/N?" He asks, voice hoarse.

Throat painfully dry. You swallow.

His body presses against yours, heat transferring like glue onto you. Hard muscles of his chest carving themselves against your chest.

Face close.

Too close.

Mere inches between the two of you.

Mint fills your mostrils again.

The familiar scent of him making your head go haywire.

Sweat, musk, something clean.

Something so him.

Your thoughts shatter at his voice reaching your ears again. "Cat got your tongue?"

Yes.

You hadn't through your plan this through.

What now?

"I told you to cheer for me, baby."

Butterflies explode in your stomach.

His face drops even more, lips ghosting up the side of your neck.

And when he reaches your temple.

He whispers lowly. "I'll show you what happens when you're screaming another man's name."

⁠❥

"Oh!—Satoru!"

How did you end up like this?

With your back against the cold metal of the hockey team's changing room. Sukuna's shirt thrown on the floor, your hair messy and drool spilling from the corners of your mouth—and Satoru's cock stretching you out like he wants his shape to be the only one your needy pussy remembers.

You're liquid in his hands as he bounces you on his cock against the wall. Raw. The sound of skin meeting skin and your mixed mewls and whimpers the only thing echoing through the empty zone.

Satoru's eyes are shining, blue orbs full of lust and hearts as he watches himself disappear in your wetness. A filthy pace ruining you in his arms.

There's a frothy white ring at the base of his cock where your juices mix while he rams and rams onto you. His mouth explores the exposed surface on your neck.

Marking with bites and hickeys you won't be able to cover. On your collarbone, neck, nipples, waist. He has a strong grip that's surely going to bruise on your hip as he dives in relentlessly.

Your brain is all mush so all you can say is his name.

"Satoru—'

He's feral. "Yeah, keep moaning my name like that. Told you what would happen."

"—It's-too much!" There are tears running down your eyes from the overstimulation, you've lost track of how many times you've cummed.

"You can take it."

And you really can't because Satoru is huge. He's bruising your cervix as he hits it with every plunge in your pussy but you love it.

In one sharp movement you're back on the bench, back pressed against old wood. Satoru inside of you—pushing your legs up and changing the position before delivering that first toe-curling thrust.

A choked sound escapes your throat as he hits your g-spot. Spots of white clouding your vision.

Your nails finding his shoulders, scratching sensitive skin. Flushed cheeks and hot bodies meshing he unravels you in the locker room with the risk of being caught.

Which makes it all the more thrilling.

His large hand leaves your hip and trails up your side till it lands on your face. Delicately catching a stray tear from falling.

"Aw, look at you, babe." He muses.

You clench around him, pulling him back in stronger.

He continues. "You were right when you said you weren't like the others."

Another involuntary cry rips free from your chest.

"You like that?"

He sees the fucked out face you're wearing. Your eyes rhythmically rolling back to your skull when he finds that hidden point. Your back arching when he blows past your cervix.

Placing slow, open mouthed kisses that are way too gentle with how his thick cock is tearing you apart, he hums against your warm skin.

"Answer me, honey."

You snap. "Mhm! Mh—It's so good, 'toru."

His dick twitches inside of you at the nickname. "Yeah? I can feel you're close."

A high pitched whimper escapes you when his thumb presses your clit. Drawing slow and increasingly fast circles that melt your whole existence as the coil in your stomach thins out.

"I'm so close, imsoclose, Satoru. Please—"

You're not even sure what you're begging for, but you want him to continue.

Satoru groans and whispers a trail of curses you can't understand before he shoves his tongue down your throat and starts absorbing your moans.

He picks up the pace one more time, balls meeting the soft globes of your ass hardly until you break and come undone on him.

Burying himself to the hilt and losing to your warmth, Satoru spills his cum deep inside of you as you shake under him.

Now slowly kissing each other to bring you down from the high, Satoru gently pulls out and parts from your lips.

Your breathing is heavy as you look up at him in between your legs.

You feel him spilling out of you.

Before his cum can leave any more of you, his finger picks it up and shoves it back inside. You hiss at the sting.

He chuckles deeply, finger still inside of you.

"You're criminal, Y/N."

You drive him insane with that sweet and shy girl facade to everyone.

And act like a honey covered devil with him.

But he’s crazy for it.

He’s barely known you for two weeks but you’re so magnetic he physically can’t forget you.

A beat passes.

"Round two in my car?"

So he carries your trembling figure on his back with his gear in his other hand to his car while you wear his jersey and Sukuna's shirt stays wet on the floor.

Brings you over his lap on the driver's seat, has you straddling his thick thighs. Bunches his your shirt over your tits.

Bounces you on his cock

You ride him.

Sweat glazing his body, a hard-on that won't go down no matter how much you ride him with your weak legs and his palms helping you bounce.

White locks cling to his forehead, brushing over those drowsy, lust clouded cerulean eyes of his.

Satoru's mind starts to crash as you mewl and grind on him. The sound of your slick sticking to his lap as your ass meets his balls over and over sending his consciousness out the window.

Wet plop, plop, plop is all that resonates through the car.

His head is tipped back, jaw slack, mouth open as you kiss down his throat. Nails scratching his shoulders. He'll probably feel the sting of the sensitive skin tomorrow underneath his uniform.

It will all be worth it though.

A low rumble climbs out of his chest as you lean back away from his chest and continue lifting and dropping your hips hard on him.

Satoru is groaning with no control.

"Oh god—Y/N-"

The cocky, hot hockey captain moaning under you, cute.

Your irregular breathing mixed with salty tears rings in his ear. The cars foggy windows do little to hide your figure over his, and somehow the risk of being caught drives him even more insane.

The familiar knot in your stomach churns. Looking down you're met with how your greedy pussy swallows Satoru's 8 inches with ease now that his own previous release and your juices serve as a lubricant and since your walls know his shape.

Quicky sensing you grow tighter around his length, Satoru's hands wrap around your waist—pulling you flush against him and tucking your head in his neck as he starts thrusting up.

You shatter, moaning loudly in his shoulder. He delivers the last few home runs and covers your insides in white again. New and old release mixing inside of you.

And you don't ever dare to wear red again.

Or you do..

Either way, Satoru doesn't expect you to shrug him off Monday.

With his hickeys peeking out from underneath your shirt.

You may have gotten your back blown out by the school's hockey center.

But he isn't anywhere close to getting you wrapped around his finger.

Which is why Suguru and Choso watch with their jaws dropped as their friend trails behind you like a desperate virgin in attempt to get you to tag along with their celebration dinner.

Because Gojo won twice that day.

Now he can't get enough.

What’s he going to do now so you end up dating him?

He tries to get you to attend something he throws or he’s involved in again—Tuesday he innocently appears in front of your apartment with a cup of coffee in hand and the words “My sister is getting married this week and I need a date.”

He doesn’t have a sister.

“Gojo, you have no sister.”

And that stops him dead in his tracks.

“I meant my aunt.”

You grabbed the drink from his hand, surprisingly the same order you’d gotten the last time he popped up behind you at a coffee shop.

Smiled sweetly at him.

Thanked him, and said: “I’m a busy woman, Satoru. Maybe some other time.”

Did he need to know you had no other plans but to read and eat banana bread on your weekends? Absolutely not.

That was your personal you time.

But when Wednesday rolled around and you got your grade back for your last math exam—a depressing 31/100 that could have you ending up retaking first year statistics, you turned to straight A math student Satoru.

Having nowhere to go and desperately needing help if you didn’t want to fail the subject, he was unfortunately the only one around you with grades that were too good for how little he studied.

You remember the chill going down your spine at the thought of trading your cozy Saturday for a tutoring session with…him.

When you shyly asked him for help though, he lit up like a Christmas tree on December 25th. All big smiles and frantic nods with questions about when? Why? What should he bring?

“Um, yourself? I have my material at home, Satoru.”

He happily agreed with no complaints.

So here you are now.

Cross-legged on the floor.

Three huge math textbooks he brought when you’d told him there was no need but he insisted that this was the guide to math 101.

Whom the numbers inside meshed into Chinese at some point for you.

And made a headache slowly start to brew instead of understanding whatever he was explaining.

“Are you listening?”

That snaps you out of your head. Guilty, you slowly look back up at his face, gaze abandoning the rubber residue on the paper you’d been drilling holes into with your eyes and finding a playful pout on his face.

“Sorry, I can’t focus.” You confess, fingers picking at the ends of your skirt.

You’re not even sure why you wore a skirt.

But you refuse to admit it was for him even for a fleeting second.

He softly smiles.

“I can help you with that.”

Curiosity crawls under your skin.

You peek up at him. “You can?”

He grins.

Seriously, how do you get in these situations?

Satoru had hooked an arm behind your back, another under your legs and in one swift motion lifted both you and him off the floor then plopped you on your bed.

Pushed you back gently till your head met your pillow. Crawled over you painfully slow. Traced the bare skin of your right thigh till it met the beginning of your skirt.

Watched your face till you shyly nodded.

Allowed his hands to go further up and meet the thin lace of your panties which made his boner harden more.

Press a thumb to your clit, sending a jolt of electricity up your spine. Shocking every nerve in your system into consciousness.

And dipped his head in between your legs where he is now.

One big hand pressing against your twitching hips as his tongue relentlessly moves in unclear directions—from side to side, up and down.

Flattening it, drinking every single drop of sweet nectar you offer him. Earning a low grumble from him whenever he feels you flutter and clench around nothing.

He inserts a finger and grows jealous of it disappearing when it should be him inside of you.

But he continues watching your chest raise and fall, your breathing hitch at his every moment. The leaking of his saliva mixed with your slick onto your white bedsheets.

“You’re doing so well for me, baby.”

You feel the tears start to sting your waterline as your orgasm approaches. Your view of the ceiling and Satoru’s pale hair between your legs growing blurry.

The outside start to fade and your body tingles when it crashes over you.

“Come on, pretty. Come on my tongue.”

And you do.

Satoru feels your essence spill onto his tongue and he wastes no time in enjoying it. Tongue nipping at your sensitive bud and making you jolt under every reverent lick.

You’re panting once he rises from beneath you.

Not thinking straight yet and on cloud 9 when he grabs your hips and turns you over. Now having you on top of his chest.

“Ride my face.”

You learn that Gojo Satoru is an insatiable monster in bed that rewires your brain every time he gets in your pants.

Satoru finds out that the shy girl in his class has him wrapped around her pretty fingers after he gives her his all during sex and still can’t get her to even so much as look at him after the night bleeds into morning.

But he finds out that he’s more than willing to be your little toy until you’re ready to let him stay in the morning.

And make love to you instead.

He just has to wait some time till you warm up to him.

Maybe an eternity.

He thanks Choso for telling him that the shyest ones are the freakiest.

You may not even consider him a friend now.

But Gojo knows he’s going to be the one waiting at the end of the altar in a few years.

You just wait.

The Capitol lady they send every year for the annual reaping of the Hunger Games watches you with hawk-like eyes as you slowly make your way down the aisle and towards the makeshift stage. Brumesia, a woman with a strange name and even stranger choice of attire and makeup, gives you an oily, manufactured smile as you slowly make your way up the steps and towards her outstretched hand. 

You look at it briefly in questioning. It was covered with a suede, plum-colored glove, and you wondered how much a glove like that would cost at the market. It could surely cover a family's meals for over a month. She looked at you and then at your hands, the crowd of people watching as they waited for you to shake it. 

Most people tend to dress in their best clothes for the reaping ceremony. They wear what they would usually save for the new year or gatherings. They clean up and try to look presentable for the respectable Capitol people watching. But you, you who could barely afford a tattered dress or soap, looked exactly like you did leaving the fields, grimy. So when you shook Brumesia’s hand, you made sure to get all your dirt and sweat on her brand-new gloves. 

Brumesia gave a slightly winced look, giving you a tightly pressed smile as she walked back to her microphone, gripping the stand. 

“Thank you for this year's female tribute,” she glanced over your way, most likely already having forgotten your name, “And now, the male tribute…” 

You stood limply and lifeless as she read the male tribute's name, a boy who had just become old enough for the games, and someone who you would see frequently working around the production line. You had never had so many eyes on you, and you felt open and raw. You distracted yourself by naming all the colors of the clothes people were wearing, but it was an overwhelming wash of greys and blacks. 

You watched as the boy, Itadori Yuuji, made his way up to the stage. In the distance, his mother could be heard muffling her cries, and the cameras made sure to capture her crumpled-up face. From what you knew, Yuuji had two brothers, but they were too old to volunteer for the games. You looked around to find them, their faces pale and drained of blood as they tried to hold their screaming mother back. 

When you see his small body trudge out of the crowd, that's when you feel the first wave of nausea roll over you. Yuuji, with his round face and slight limp from an accident during his youth, was coming up the stage, furiously wiping at his face. 

He was young, far too young.

For a second, it all feels surreal. You pinch yourself, hard, just to make sure you haven’t fallen asleep in the fields again, waking up to the gentle breeze and sway of wheat as you make your way back to the town. 

That fear that you know you should’ve had almost creeps back up when Yuuji has his hand shaken and Brumesia reads the last of her card. The delayed reaction almost chokes you out, your hands trembling when you look over at her, then back to the crowd, and finally at the big screen televising your face. 

When she reads the ceremonial statement, “may the odds be ever in your favor”, your mind stops itself from spiraling. You had to control yourself; you’ve mastered control before. The Capitol wasn’t going to take it from you, not like they did everything else. 

Drumesia orders you to shake Yuuji's hand. You note how he trembles more than you. 

—

This year would be the 66th annual Hunger Games. 

The Capitol was still reeling from the games last year, when the new victor from District 4, the youngest ever, took out all his opponents with his various choice of weapons. When the train taking you and Yuuji from District 11 to the Capitol ended its journey, the buzz with all the Capitol citizens was still surrounding last year’s victor. The ladies were giggling in their masses, craning their necks to see the train from District 4, wanting to get a shot of him boarding off as a new mentor, paying no mind to the other trains. You expected this, being from District 11, but found yourself a little surprised to see the citizens even ignoring the trains from Districts 1 and 2, their neighboring brothers and sisters (although they'd recoil in disgust if they had to admit it). 

It simply meant that the careers and tributes from these higher districts would be angered by the overshadowing of the young victor, meaning that this year's games would have to surpass the last. 

Meaning that this year was going to be exceptionally brutal. 

“Don’t they want to see us too?” Yuuji asked from beside you, peering out the window at the large crowd of people crowding the train car up ahead. 

You blink out of your stupor, glancing over at him as you take in his bloodshot eyes and wet nose. He had spent the week-long journey crying, holding onto you as if you could be of much protection. You tried to wrench him away from you at first, not wanting to get attached, but it was inevit  in able. You knew his brothers well after having worked alongside them for nearly six years and had a deep fondness for him mother. You can still remember the stir that woke the town when he was born, everyone scrambling to the Itadori household to pinch his chubby cheeks. A part of you couldn’t abandon him, a sense of guilt infiltrating your body the moment you even entertained the idea.

So you gave in, letting him crawl into your side. Besides, before you worked in the fields, you used to take care of the children of the mayor and the wealthier members of your district, so soothing Yuuji and his tremors wasn’t too difficult. 

“They just can’t see us because of those big fluttery lashes they have,” you say with a teasing tone, winking at him in an exaggerated way that makes him giggle slightly. It’s not much, but the perpetual look of fear he has in his eyes leaves momentarily. 

It was true, to some degree. The Capitol citizens wore inoperable, extravagant outfits that seemed to come in every array of colors and shapes. You had spent your entire life thinking that Brumesia was as over-the-top as it could be, but you were sorely mistaken. The Capitol, even this tiny train station, was beyond any word you could think of. At least, not any good ones. 

This whole experience so far has only morbidly reminded you of your dark and impending fate. The train was littered with food or sweets you could imagine. You had never felt so full in your life, often trudging back to your room in a comatose state as you lay bonelessly on your bed. The mattresses are made with cotton, and the bedsheets are satin. Despite it all, however, it’s a blaring reminder that when this show is over, it’s up to you and the twenty-three other tributes to put on a new one. 

And when you remember that the food no longer tastes as good.  

“My mom would hate that lady's outfit,” Yuuji murmurs, pointing to a girl outside with a large hoop skirt decorated with red feathers, her bodice ending dangerously close underneath her chest. “She would say it’s too impractical.” 

Although he’s trying to sound optimistic, you can still hear the quiver in his voice. He missed his mom, his whole family. You were waiting alone in the room next to him back home, waiting to be carded off onto the trains, when you heard them come in. You could still hear her cries in her sleep, hear his brothers beg for forgiveness for not being able to take his place. 

It was torture. All of this was torture. 

But you smile despite yourself, teeth flashing as you nudge his side a little bit, failing at chastizing him. Drumesia was off somewhere blotting her face, but her ears were always perked. The mentor they had given you, an old victor from way back when, was snoozing off in his room, unable to hear your remarks even if he had his face up close to your mouth. 

“I don’t see how she’d be able to climb any trees with that skirt,” you tease, but feel a certain ache curl up in your chest. There were no trees to climb at the Capitol, and you doubted you’d ever feel the rush of adrenaline climbing one for yourself.

The trains from the other districts were slowly unloading, one by one, and Drumesia was waking up a storm trying to get everyone ready to leave. Martin, your mentor, clambered out of his room with his shirt crumbled up and a bit of pastry bits stuck to his mouth, making Drumesia fret over him more than you and Yuuji. 

At this time, the two of you shifted down the train cart, near the edge, and tried to look out the small window that faced the tribute center, where they were filing them all in one by one. 

“Look at him!” Yuuji pointed in excitement, his finger bending on the glass as he pressed his nose up, fogging it with his breath, “Look at him! Look at his hair!” 

You crammed next to him to find what he was excited about, squinting your eyes to see in the distance, and felt your heart drop at the sight. 

District 1, known for the production of luxury items, often bears the most tributes that win the games. Often coming after the Capitol in terms of wealth, they’re able to send their children to special academies to train for the games and volunteer up until it’s no longer possible. The tributes from this district almost always won, and if they didn’t, it’s only because the tributes from 2 or 4, in charge of stone production and fishing industries respectively, followed second. They often form alliance pacts at the start of the games before the friendships fizzle out and they kill each other, earning the nickname of Careers.

The person Yuuji was pointing to had a 1 written on the back of his shirt, his muscles rippling through the fabric as he moved. His arms were the size of trunks, his body strong like a tree. Tributes weren’t allowed to see the Reaping footage ceremony from the other districts during the train ride, most likely to keep with the air of mystery, but you had prepared yourself to be met with tributes who could kill you with their bare hands. 

He looked like he could kill you with his bare hands. 

“I would advise you two to step away from the windows. We wouldn’t want sponsors seeing you as you are…now,” Brumesia’s sing-songy voice filled your ears, making both you and Yuuji turn around quickly as if caught doing something wrong. She was looking the two of you up and down, and no matter how much you cleaned yourself in the showers, it felt like a layer of dirt was still clinging to you.

Your face fell into a slight scowl, something that often happened when you had to interact with her. 

“We’re just looking,” you explain through your teeth, your hand protectively falling on Yuuji’s elbow. You feel him come closer to your side, cowering under her yellow, horrifyingly modified eyes.

Her brow perks at your tone. It was obvious the two of you weren’t going to get along, but you couldn’t find it in yourself to care. Even if she had liked you and decided to put in more effort to show you off, even the most appealing District 11 tributes barely got any attention from Capitol citizens. You and Yuuji were doomed from the start.

You roll your eyes in annoyance, glancing over your shoulder to see the mob of people still crowding around the District 4 train, yelling and laughing in excitement as they try to see young Finnick Odair. 

But the mob wasn’t what caught your attention. Nor was it the way Yuuji was tugging on your shirt sleeve to get you to start getting ready to leave. 

Your breath hitched at the blue pair of eyes staring back across the platform, white brows furrowed as the two of you locked stares with each other. It wasn’t a mistake, as if he had been looking at someone near your direction. No, he was looking at the window, through it, as if into you. 

The male tribute from District 1 watched you for a little more before his mentors ushered him away, into the tribute center, where you could no longer see him. 

Your heart was pounding rapidly against your ribs, mouth dry as you swallowed thickly at a daunting thought,

He looked oddly…familiar. 

—

Preparations for the opening ceremony took far longer than you expected. 

You had been hosed down three times, had strangers mess around and poke at your arms and legs. They scrubbed your skin until it was raw, plucking and tweazing at your brows, waxing your legs, and making sure you looked somewhat presentable to everyone watching. Yuuji had been separated from you when they began dividing the tributes into the male and female categories, but you promised him through his tearful eyes that it would only take a bit. 

How naively wrong you were.

The Capitol people were all chattering quietly, not wanting you to what anything as they worked meticulously on each twelve of the girl tributes. But you could hear in the distance some loud, pitched laughter, a woman squealing in excitement, and roars of laughter in slew. 

Although you were all separated by curtains, you craned your neck a little to the side to peer at the sound, seeing a little bit from the gap. The girl tribute from District 1 was chattering away with her team, her smile glossy and sweet as they all talked together as if they were close friends.

This is how they get sponsors, you thought bitterly to yourself. Making friends wasn’t something you were used to, did not need it back in your district. Niceties didn’t help you survive, but it seemed that that was the only way to get ahead here.

“Don’t feel bad,” a soft voice said from above you, and you jumped in surprise, looking around to see one of the girl who was scrubbing your back give you a small grin, “They’re laughing extra loud because we have a bet going on to see which tribute is the biggest suck-up.”

She’s had fewer surgeries compared to the other people you’ve seen so far. She seems young, perhaps a little older than you, but she doesn’t have the artificial Capitol feel yet, as if she’s still clinging onto her last bits of humanity.

You try to hide the surprise on your face, but don’t do a very good job, seeing how the girl giggles at your reaction. She’s the first to speak to you, besides the others who barked orders at you like you were cattle, and despite the tension and rampant thoughts that are coursing through your mind, you feel your lips quirk up a little. 

The other helpers had gone off to find some creams and lotions or…something, you don’t exactly remember, as they kept quickly saying things under their breath in a frantic way, leaving the two of you alone. 

“You must be losing then,” you tell her, your voice lowered so that nobody could hear if they were passing by. 

She snorts, fingers work deftly as they pluck some hairs off your neck. 

“I’m actually winning,” she says matter-of-factly, “Girls from one always act above everyone. I’m treating my friends to drinks tonight.” You laugh lightly at her cheeky words, your cheeks bunching up under your smile. 

Until it falters with a thought, your back tensing a little bit as she tweezes a particularly rebellious stray. What else do they think about us? About people from the districts? You swallow some bile, shutting your eyes to act indifferent.

“Do you also bet on who you think would win?”

Her hands pause, and you feel the air in the room shift slightly. 

She coughs uncomfortably, and a part of you revels in making her feel uneasy. Like she was human. Like she was you.

“We’re not allowed to, um, bet, on…that,” she mutters quietly, her voice barely above a whisper, furiously trying to pluck at anything and everything as if that would make your initial question disappear. 

Not us, you think, even if she could bet, she’d never bet on us. 

“Although,” her voice squeaks out, and your ears twitch to hear the small sound, and she continues working like nothing is happening behind closed doors, and you wonder if the cameras in the corner could also pick up things this quiet. “There’s the male tribute. From one. His dad won the game years ago. He volunteered this year. If I could…” 

Your blood freezes, your breathing hitching as you think back to those startling blue eyes. He’s the son of a past victor? He volunteered? 

“But you’re really pretty!” The girl quickly scrambles to say, as if the damage hadn’t already been done, “I’m sure you’ll get a lot of sponsors!”

You nodded weakly, smiling a little bit to get her focused on her work as the other Capitol helpers started filing in with different assortments of perfumes and creams. 

The two of you stay in silence after that, and you let the rhythmic beating of your heart drown out the rest of the noise around you. You wonder how much longer it would be until you couldn’t hear it. 

—

The Chariot Parade is a time-honored tradition of the days leading up to the games. 

Tributes are dressed up in elaborate costumes that reflect their respective districts and are drawn out on a chariot for all the Capitol and those watching to see. It helps sponsors get a better understanding of who they’ll be paying, and helps people decide who their favorites are going to be. 

That meant for you and Yuuji, the tributes from 11 would be dressed in scratchy overalls and red flannels, a terribly executed version of what field workers wore back home. 

The costumes were old and worn, barely fitting you as you climbed into them. The tributes from 12 don’t look any better in their coal mining uniforms, but you feel a surge of jealousy seeing how the 1 and 2 tributes are decked in sparkling dresses and suits. 

“Well, you two look…” Drumesia, who had been trying to get your mentor away from the bar, looked peeved at your outfits, her eyes raking over the baggy costumes in distaste, “Better. Although they told me the stylists were giving us new outfits this year…” she muttered sourly, looking over your shoulder in search of someone to yell at. 

But you couldn’t care too much as you looked around, getting your first good look at the other tributes. 

Every boy and girl from each district was huddled with their teams, fretting over their bows and silks. However, many of them, like you, would take stealing glances every other second, their eyes darting around and then quickly fleeting back as if not wanting to be caught. But you couldn’t care much about people seeing you staring, but you did feel uncomfortable when you found them holding your stare longer than a beat. 

Just like on that train. Just like now. 

The boy from 1 was standing near one of the horses, his hands holding sugar cubes for it to eat, but his gaze wasn’t lingering on its face, but rather yours. 

You feel a flicker of fear, knowing that he must’ve been ticked off from how you kept staring at him earlier, but he shouldn’t care that much, right? Especially not when the attention was coming from someone in a much lower district. 

His eyes were a striking color, a sickeningly bright blue that shone even more as his costume caught the light and twinkled. His face was blank, void of any emotion, as he looked across the way. 

You looked back at the ground after a second, shoving some pebbles with the tip of your boot. 

“I don’t like these clothes,” you glance back down at Yuuji, who was tugging uncomfortably at his arms, his voice cracking as he tries not to cry from all the overwhelming things he’s feeling, “They feel weird - I want my old clothes back.”

His glassy chestnut eyes look into yours, his lips pulling into a frown as you shake your head, a smile on your face as you drop to his height and begin fiddling with the straps of his overalls. 

Yuuji had a small and thin frame, even for someone as young as him. He was relatively short, reaching just above your hipbone and it didn’t help that his right leg was messed up badly from an accident he had when he was a kid, a common injury around your district. He limped whenever he walked and was often drowned out in a sea of bodies. But you did whatever you could to protect him now, not knowing how long you’d be able to. 

“Then you’ll get new and better ones when you get back home, yeah?” You playfully tug a little on his chest and ruffle his strawberry blonde hair, watching his smile quirk up a bit as you fasten the laces of his boots. 

Throughout your time since the Reaping, you’ve tried not to mention the arrival of the games as much as you could to him or anyone else. Your brain seemed to act as though forgetting them would make them disappear altogether. 

“You look different,” he muttered quietly, a little bit of dejection in his voice, “You don’t look like you did before.”

You settled back in your haunches, lips pressed tightly together as you looked around all the strangely dressed mentors, Capitol escorts, and curiously rich citizens, and felt something twist in your stomach. They had stripped away the things that you held onto that resembled the parts of your family you had slowly forgotten, had ripped the hair off your legs and arms, and plucked your face so that you could look more modified like them. 

But you knew the worst thing was that you no longer looked like you did a few weeks ago, like a girl from home. You looked like a tribute now, fully ready for the show. 

“I know,” you tell him with a small pout, leading his fingers towards your face so he could run his hand across your eyebrows, “No longer bushy, huh?”

You wiggle them a bit, and he laughs, his cheeks filling with mirth as you try to make him forget about everything. He looked like he did back home now, his eyes for a second losing that sullenness he had gained during this last week. 

“Get up!” Drumesia snapped from above you, her hand tugging you harshly to your feet by your shoulder, “Don’t let the sponsors see you sitting like…like some animal on the ground!”

Drumesia looks even more frightening than usual, with her hair dyed a bright blue and her outfit having a strange geometric look to it. Her iconic gloves, which she was never seen without, matched the blue color scheme she had going on. Even her lashes, which were so long that they fluttered against her cheek when she blinked, were blue. 

“It was only for a second,” you say bitterly, your hand on Yuuji’s back as if to shield him from her wrath. 

“And not a second-” But whatever lecture she was going to berate you with with cut short when a loud smack echoed around the high walls of the holding room. 

Everyone seemed startled as they looked around at the noise, seeming to fall on the corner where the tributes from District 5 were. The girl, looking to be Yuuji’s age, had let out an especially loud whimper, her hand jumping up to cup her cheek. Her pale face was red and blotchy with tears, her mouth remembering, and her nose runny with snot. Her Capitol escort was standing with a distraught look on her face as she reeled her hand back in embarrassment. 

The girl clutched her swollen cheek, the male tribute next to her trying to calm her down, but to no avail. You watched as the lady gripped her shoulder harshly, begging and scolding her to stop. 

Before you could stop yourself, or better, Drumesia could, you felt your legs working on autopilot as you began taking steps closer to her. You could hear Drumesia’s voice urging you to come back, but you couldn’t, walking even faster towards the other group, ignoring the whispers that began filing around you like gnats. 

The girl still had her eyes screwed shut, refusing to open them, but her escort and the male tribute perked up in surprise when they saw you coming their way, a sour look twisting on her face as you neared them. 

“Tributes aren’t supposed to interact-”

You ignored her sneer as you pushed your way past her, getting closer to the girl as you fell back onto your knees, your hands resting on your lap. 

The Capitol lady scoffed, looking around aghast to see where your escort was, but you fully pretended not to hear her protests. 

“Hey,” you started gently, your tone soothing, the same way it was when you used to put the kids back home to sleep, “What's your name?” Your voice whispers so that only the girl can hear. She suddenly stopped, eyes wide open as she stared at your face, looking up at the male tribute and then back down to you in confusion and surprise. 

She gapes a bit, licking her dry lips as one of her hands clutches onto the boy. She looks behind you at her escort before looking back at you. 

“E-Evelyn,” she mumbles, whipping her nose with her elbow, using her small palms to rid the tears off her round cheeks. 

You smile softly at that, repeating her name to yourself as you nod. 

“You know, Evelyn,” your hands reach upwards to tuck a strand of her bright blonde curls behind her ears, leaning in closer as if you were sharing a secret, “My mom always said, the more curls, the prettier the girl.”

Evelyn blinks owlishly, her green eyes dotted with red in the whites, slowly piecing together what you meant. It must’ve been a bit since somebody had spoken to her kindly, treated her like she was a kid instead of a prop. 

And slowly, you see her lips quiver into a wobbly little grin, her nose scrunching up as she bashfully looks away. 

“Thank you,” she whispers, wiping at her eyes again as you laugh gently, grabbing the wrinkled handkerchief you took from home out of your pocket and hand it to her. 

“She, uh,” the boy next to her suddenly says, pointing to her frilly outfit, “She said the pins were poking her. I tried to find them but one pricked her and she started…” crying, you finished in your head, nodding slowly in understanding, your mouth forming into a small o. 

“Let’s see where the problem is,” you keep your voice low and accept the handkerchief that she gives back, “Would you mind showing me where the pins are?” You ask, coaxing her to carefully move at her own pace. 

Evelyn nods, her hand slipping out of the boy's as she carefully turns around, a small hand hovering over where her skirt is bunched up tightly around her waist. 

Your eyes squint, fingers gingerly going towards it as you walk around the area. Back when you took care of the mayor's children, you were often tasked with dressing them for the day and dealing with a wide array of pins and hooks. So this case wasn’t much different, and it didn’t take too long until you found the stray pin that wasn’t hooked properly, unraveling it from her skirt as you properly stuck it back where it should’ve been. 

The girl physically relaxes, the tension from her shoulder melting as she quickly turns back around, her eyes bright and creased. 

“Thank you!” She chirps, her hand slipping back into the boy's as she looks up at him and then back to you. 

You laugh slightly, shaking your head as if it didn’t matter, and slowly stand back up, dusting the dirt from your knees. 

The boy extended his free hand out for you to shake, and unlike with Drumesia, you took it with no thought, shaking it softly as he offered you a grateful smile. 

“Thank you, really,” his voice was slightly choked as he glanced back down at Evelyn, “Our mom always did her clothes, this…this is all new to me.”

The smile on your face dropped. 

She’s his sister? 

Your mouth dries up, throat closing as you look at the two of them, their eerily similar stances and faces staring back at you, waiting for a response. 

Thankfully, though, you suddenly feel a tight hand wrap around your elbow and tug you back, forcing you to leave without saying anything else. For the first time since you’ve been acquainted with her, you’re grateful for Drumesia as she starts a loud tirade about the sponsors and how you’ve just ruined her image. 

But this time, you look around and see that all eyes are on you. Every tribute was standing tall, watching as Drumesia took you back to the carriage, sponsors whispering quickly to one another. 

You glanced up and found the boy from 1 staring at you again. But this time, you could’ve sworn his lips were slightly quirked. 

—-

Training for the games was perhaps even more torturous than waiting for the games themself. 

The games will be in two weeks. Training allowed for everyone to have an even playing field, but everyone knew how useless it really was when some people had been training to win ever since they could pick up a knife. 

There were four compulsory exercises that all twenty-four tributes would have to do, but the rest would be up to the individual. 

Twenty-four tributes gathered together in a room, some already itching for blood, handed weapons and targets as if that could satiate their thirst.  Of course, fighting with each other was prohibited, but that didn’t stop the other tributes thinking about it. 

The training room itself was huge, with sprawling areas for hand-to-hand combat, bow and arrow ranges, dummies for practice, and weights to lift with. Some nets sprawled upwards towards the ceiling, helping with climbing, and areas that imitated forest floors where people could practice their traps and make fire. 

At the center top of the main wall was a large dugout room with a mirror, letting sponsors and game makers watch as the tributes trained. It felt like you were in a pig pen, having thirsty men drool over which was the fattest to eat. Many of the tributes took quick note of this, showing off their skills early on as if to catch their eyes. You shook your head when Yuuji begged you to show off your skill with one of the scythes they had, most likely knowing how much you’d spend time in the fields back home. 

Not now, you told him, we can’t have them knowing our talents. We save that for the arena.

Capitol mentors were everywhere, assisting and keeping people from jumping at each other's throats, but you tried to avoid the masses as much as possible. 

Your district mentor, Martin, wasn’t much help. He was often drunk and rarely left his room, much to Drumesia’s dismay. But you knew that this was the case for lower districts, having had a glance at District 12’s mentor Haymitch, who seemed, if not as much, more drunk than Martin. Former victors never revel in their success, you’ve noticed, and if anything, try to leave the land of the living as much as possible throughout the day. 

Yuuji insisted on using a Capitol issued mentor, and you didn’t see any harm in it as long as the two of you would be with them alone. You weren’t looking to make allies, just looking to survive for as long as humanly possible. 

You had been warned early on not to focus too much on grandiose fighting methods, seeing how most people die either from infection, dehydration, or general exposure. Besides, you doubt you’d be able to defend both of you if put up against a Career, so the best you could do would be knowing how to survive in the wild with whatever you could find. 

Both you and Yuuji had some previous knowledge from back home, knowing how to make little fires for when the fields got cold during the winters and where to find wild berries, but you began learning how to set out traps for smaller animals in case your arena had them. 

Throughout your time here, you made sure ot keep your ears and eyes peeled, even if you didn’t act like it. Although Yuuji seemed to be massively enjoying himself with the wire and flint, you acted indifferent, making sure to see who was looking where. 

Slowly, from what you could observe thus far, the alliances that were forming were small and expected. The Careers were a given, and some tribute from seven and ten had begun leaving with each other. Yuuji kept asking to join in with a group, but you kept saying no. 

You saw Evelyn and her brother, Maxmus, learning how to make snares a day ago. When he saw you, he gave a small nod in acknowledgement and went back to work, clearly thinking the same thing you were. 

Protect one thing. No allies, no loss. 

Besides that, the boy from 1, who you learned was named Gojo Satoru, didn’t look as much as you thought he would. Thankfully. But it was almost impossible to ignore his presence when it nearly choked out the entire room. 

He was adept with a bow and sword, and could easily take down a mentor with just a few swings. He was agile and strong, and didn't need to move too fast because he was already three steps ahead. The girl tribute from his district, Lizzie, you had come to learn, often trailed behind him with the tributes from 2 and 4, their pack already forming. But the boy, Gojo, didn’t really seem to care all that much about the attention. 

And sometimes you could’ve sworn he disliked it. 

But when he would look up and glance around the room to see you already looking, you’d find somewhere to point your gaze at, not wanting him to confuse your interest with admiration. 

Although you couldn’t lie, his face was far too pretty for his own good. 

“I think you have a little crush.” 

Your head swiveled around to see Yuuji looking at you with a gleaming look in his eyes, snorting as you smacked him across the shoulder, shushing him as he giggled and went back to his pile of shrubbery he was supposed to be turning into fire. 

“I’m being meticulous,” you scold him, your cheeks burning up in embarrassment despite your words, “Look,” you pointed to someone behind your shoulder, “Have you noticed how the girl from 6 never uses her right hand to hold a sword even though she holds her spoon with it?” 

Yuuji gapes up at you in confusion, his young face crumpled with confusion as he shakes his head. You snort, pushing his head back down lightly to look at the fire instead of looking at the girl behind your back. 

“It’s because it’s injured, or too injured to fight,” you peek over at Yuuji, “Meaning that she won’t be able to protect herself if the left one is injured. Which should be pretty easy because it’s not her dominant one.” 

Yuuji gnaws on his bottom lip, fingers stalling on the rock as his hand stops trying to make sparks with the rock he had scavenged, a look of apprehension taking over his face.

“I don’t know how to see things like that,” he mumbles nervously, “I don’t know how I’m going to survive-” 

“We’re going to survive together,” you say instantly, cutting him off, “I see these things, and you keep us warm. Deal?” 

And although this would usually get him to cheer up again, he can only muster up a weak grin as he nods, going back to his rocks as if to keep his mind busy from reeling. You can’t stop looking at his head, at the way his hands shake slightly. He’s scared. 

You all are. 

You place a hand over his, trying to still the tremors, and give him a strong and confident smile.  

“I’ll go get some more wood, okay?”

He gives you a thankful nod, looking back at his pile that was slowly running out, and goes back to work.

The wood was kept near the back of the station, in different sizes ranging from little twigs to actual logs that had been chopped up. Back in your district, you had spent many nights hunched over trying to make a fire, so you weren’t worried about your ability to do so. But Yuuji was always in the production line, away from all the ruggedness of the outdoors, and desperately needed the practice. 

Your finger twitches over some smaller pieces, things that he could work with more easily, seeing how there’s no need for a larger fire when you feel your neck start to prickle. 

Looking around the space, you swallow your bile, chapped lips bitten raw as you shake your head as though you were going crazy. 

“That wood’s rotten.”

Your breath catches in your throat, head snapping upwards at the voice, somewhat relieved to know that the feeling of being watched you experienced wasn’t something you thought up. 

It’s that boy—the tribute from one. 

Gojo Satoru. 

This is the first time you’ve heard him speak, at least from up close. He seems even larger facing you, his thick arms crossed over his broad chest, biceps nearly bulging out of the simple black shirt everyone was issued. His browbone is slightly dotted with sweat, his cheeks flushed a bright pink from working out so heavily. 

Besides the glaringly obvious strength he possesses, he looks genetically perfect, even without any help from the Capitol. He’s beautiful and looks like he’d fit right in without having to modify anything. Back home, you didn’t have much time to appreciate the boys around your district with just how busy you were, but even then, none of them had time to look at you for the same reason. It’s daunting standing up so close to him, without the protection of distance to shield you from his stare. 

But there was something else about him that made your nerves tingle. It was strange, as if looking at a broken mirror. His hair, those eyes, the slope of his nose. You kept trying to shake off the feeling that you had seen him somewhere, but that was impossible. 

…right?

Yet that feeling kept coming back like it did now, and you had to blink out of your stupor so he wouldn’t think you were just staring at him. 

You open your mouth and close it, fingers curling in the air as you back away a little. The place you’re at right now is hidden away from most people’s line of sight. Yuuji would even have to squint through some of the artificial trees and bushes just to be able to make out your figure. 

Meaning that you were virtually alone with this stranger. Along with someone who would be in an arena with you in two weeks, his main goal is to have you and everyone else dead. 

“I know,” you say slowly, eyes darting over to the wood briefly and then back to him. 

He looks over your face, as if doing the same thing you had just been doing. His eyes trail over your cheekbones and nose, the scrunch of your lips, and the way your chest falls up and down with each controlled breath. He runs a hand through his white hair, pushing it back as he takes a tentative step closer to you. 

You take one back. 

“You’ve been watching me.” His voice isn’t low, nothing threatening like the boy from 2, but it does carry a sense of command, something that makes the hair on your neck stand up.

You offer him a tight-lipped smile, polite and respectful as you shake your head. 

“I’m watching everyone,” you correct him gingerly, as if you were correcting one of the mayor’s kids when they made a mistake with their schoolwork.

He stares at you silently for a bit, not coming closer as if he realized what that could imply. 

“I’m Gojo,” he introduces himself as if you’re not already aware, his hand extended out for you to shake. You stare at his fingers, your brow twitching upwards as he gets the hint and lets this hand fall back to his side. 

“Yeah,” you murmur, “I know who you are.”

You look back down at the pile of twigs, missing the way the tips of his ears go pink. 

After a pause, you sigh, realizing that he wasn’t going to give up and leave, and say your name back. He doesn’t look surprised, most likely knowing more about yourself than even you do. 

There’s an uncomfortable pause of silence, one that you feel wrap around your throat and lodge into your airways. He’s not saying anything, just looking at you, and you don’t know what to tell him so that he can quickly leave. 

“I, um,” you fidget absentmindedly with your fingers, scolding yourself for blundering in front of him, “I’m sorry, but is there something I can do? For you?”

Gojo’s blue eyes linger on your lips for a second before shooting back up to yours, brows furrowed as if he just heard your question. 

He scratched his neck, arms littered with veins, as he sighed deeply through his nose. He looked over briefly around the trees and leaves to where the other tributes from 1 and 2 were training, and then looked to the boxes of wood. 

“I want you to join me.”

That you didn’t expect. 

You sputter in surprise, losing your demeanor as your eyes widen in shock before you let out a startled laugh. You never thought this serious-looking tribute would be one for jokes, and to be fair, he doesn’t look like he’s joking much right now, but your brain can’t come up with any rapid and precise response to his statement. 

“W-what?” You laugh again, curt and confused, rubbing at your face as you look at where Yuuji was, still furiously working away at making a fire. 

“I want you to join me,” he repeats, this time slowly as if you didn’t understand him the first time, “For the games.” Gojo throws in, as if it wasn’t obvious. 

You shake your head, pinching the bridge of your nose as you chew on the side of your cheek, not knowing what to say after being stunned into silence. 

When he sees that you’re not going to say anything intelligible, he continues as if it’s the most normal thing he could be asking of you. 

“We hear things, especially with how much our mentors and escorts talk,” Gojo explains, “And you’re getting a…surprising amount of,” he pauses, trying to find the right word, “Attention from the sponsors.”

You blink. 

“Me?” You shake your head furiously, diving back into the pile of wood as if to busy yourself and distance yourself from the conversation, “It’s probably just Capitol rumors. I,” you laugh curtly again, “I haven’t even done anything to warrant attention-”

“That thing you did back there with that girl from 5?” Gojo interjects, and you look up at him, finding him a little closer than before, “They like that. They see the way you’re helping that boy from your district. They love a sweetheart over here.”

You wince, nose wrinkling in disgust at the choice word. 

So he needs sponsors, you think, just as much as everyone else. He needs you with him in case he gets stuck in the arena, needing something that only sponsors can give. 

But…even if his ploy is just to use you for sponsor purposes, which you still had difficulty believing, it would take an idiot not to see the worth of having someone like him around. You and Yuuji would fail miserably if put up against people for combat, and the added layer of protection you’d be getting from Gojo could help you guys stay long enough so that when the time came, you could escape on your own. 

Which is why you push, wanting to see just how far he would go for an alliance with somebody from a lower district. It wasn’t necessarily unheard of, but you couldn’t remember the last time you saw somebody from 1 joining forces with somebody from 11, let alone somebody like you who had virtually no experience or expertise to offer besides how to use agricultural tools. 

“You could use the help,” it’s like he had read your mind, “I know that your mentor and escort aren’t exactly the best, and you’d have a better chance with us if you took up the offer,” Gojo explains hurriedly, looking over his shoulder to ensure that nobody was watching or coming near. 

It was obvious he had sought you out of his own accord. Did the girl tribute from his district know? Were any of the careers aware he was even planning to talk to you?

“Did your mentors send you here?” You ask, eyes squinting together, arms crossing tightly over chest protectively, “Do they think I’d seriously be better at getting sponsors than you? Then any of the other people in your group?”

Gojo shook his head quickly, glancing over to where the pack was training. His tongue ran over his bottom lip. He looked strangely stressed.  

“No. But I think that you have a chance at securing more deals than all of us combined if you play the part correctly.”

Your chest heaves as your tongue almost swells up in your throat. As much as a lame excuse of a mentor Martin was, he had mentioned that you really only had three chances to stand out to sponsors. During training, during training evaluations where gamemakers and sponsors watch you display your best skill or talent, or during the interview, where the renowned Caesar Flcikerman would dig into your life and show the people watching who these tributes were. 

“You think I’m someone like…like Finnick?” The name comes out as a scoff because from what you’ve seen of the young victor, he’s excellent at wooing people even if his face gives his true feelings away, “I can’t do what you think I can,” you say sternly, picking up some wood and examining it before setting it back down on the pile, “I won’t charm sponsors like he could. I just…” you trail off, lips pursing as you think, “I just wanted to help.”

“You think they know the difference?” His voice is low, so low that you could barely hear it, but it still takes you by surprise. 

Of all people, you didn’t think he would be one to criticize the hypocrisy within the Capitol. 

Your back straightened, but for the first time since you’ve been whirled into this whole mess of the Hunger Games and the theatrics that came along with it, you felt a little at ease.  

“What,” You swallow, thinking carefully, “What sponsors think is out of my control. I just want to survive.”

“I can help with that,” Gojo leans in, his arm supporting him up on the counter as he leans down so that even if the cameras were around, they couldn’t pick up his words, wanting to keep what he was going to say next solely between the two of you, “I can help you. Look, if you get enough sponsors, we wouldn’t even need the rest of them.”

You pull away, you face hot as you put a hand to your cheek to cool it down. His overall demeanor was so intense that it was causing you to burn up under your clothes. 

Help you?

“Do you trust people this easily?” You retort, your voice questioning as you look him over, “Help me? You…you don’t even know me. How do you know I wouldn’t turn on you the second things go wrong?” 

Gojo blinks slowly, but you continue.

“I don’t care about the rest of them,” you continue, finding yourself looking back at Yuuji, “I know they’dl kill me if they have the chance. But I’m not leaving him behind. If you want me, you’d have to take him on too.” 

Gojo looks over his way, studying his movements before a deep exhale rattles throughout his chest, running another hand through his hair as it keeps falling in his face. 

“You know he won’t make it long. He’s small, he’s got a limp-”

“So what?” You snap suddenly, your brows furrowed as you smack his hand away from the wood, your stomach churning as the small breakfast you could barely eat threatened to shoot back up, his words making the blood drain out of your face as you sputtered, “You want me to just let him go on his own?”

“The others will come for him first, you have to know that, but…but if it’s just you-”

“No!” You yell, furiously pushing him by the chest out of the way as your hands tremble with anger, “No, no that’s not…you’re…you can’t…” You can’t even think, nausea rolling over you in waves as your palms grow clammy. He’s every bit a fighter as you thought he was. 

A killer, a Capitol pawn. 

You grab a pile of wood, not caring what it looks like or how well it would burn, as you begin walking quickly away, your heart pounding in the small expanse of your ribcage. 

A hand wraps around your elbow, not tight, but to keep you in place. 

“Think about it. This isn’t some game where we all win,” his lips are by your ears, breath fanning across your skin as you involuntarily shiver, “One victor. I won’t spare you if it comes down to us, but I’ll help you get there. Just,” he breathes through his nose, “Be rational.” 

You wince as you wrangle your arm out of his grasp with little resistance from him, ignoring his words altogether.  

“You’re disgusting,” you spit, nose flared as you shove away, “I told you already, I’m not here to win,” the words come out bitterly, a harsh truth you’ve had to swallow, “I know I won’t. And I’m not a killer. I’m not like you.”

In that moment, you didn’t care if you were putting a target on your back by making an enemy out of the most capable tribute. You couldn’t care less if you were angering or offending him, but couldn’t control your emotions as they bubbled over, your eyes glossing over at his admission, something you’ve silently been dreading ever since they read Yuuji’s name. 

You find your way back Yuuji, ears ringing as you try to talk, not knowing what you were telling him, just wanting to rid yourself of the words that kept echoing around your head. Yuuji was excitedly showing you the sparks he had made, and you gave him a shaky smile, not trusting yourself not to slur your words together as you crouched down near the fire. 

Think about it. 

You scoff, hoping that whoever dies first will be him. 

—-

The training evaluation went better than you expected. 

Tributes are scored on a range of numbers zero to twelve, lowest the highest. Most people usually score around a five or six, careers averaging a seven to nine. 

You had scored a ten. 

It wasn’t impossible, but you were shocked when the scores were read. 

Gojo Satoru got a whopping eleven, which anybody could have predicted he’d be passing with flying colors. The tributes from two and four got around the same scores, eights, and the boy from ten had managed to score a seven, which was high for a lower district.

Which made it stand out even more when you got the first ten. 

“Oh!” Drumesia stood up from her seat in an instant, one hand over her heart as the other held her wig on, “Oh my! A ten!” 

Yuuji was gleaming, hugging you from the side as he kept yelling over and over things you couldn’t make out. Martin was somewhere in the corner, the drink he had been nursing raised halfway in the air, eyes stuck on the television in shock. 

“This is great!” Drumesia twirls around, the first bright smile you’ve seen on her face, so bright it nearly blinded you because of how white her teeth were, “None of my tributes have ever gotten a ten before!”

You can’t speak, feeling numb with surprise, shock, everything in between as Caesar Flickerbman continues reading off the last two scores from 12, neither of them any good. 

“What did you do?” Yuuji asked, his voice laced with childlike wonderment as his eyes twinkled, looking like you were a savior instead of someone who wholly had no idea what they were doing. 

Your mouth opened and closed, scratching the back of your neck as you felt it heat up with all the extra attention. 

“Nothing,” you stammered, confusion laced in your tone, “I did nothing.”

Drumesia laughed, waving you off as she fluttered around the expanse of the room, saying something about champagne and strawberries, but you didn’t have the appetite for anything. 

You truly had done nothing. 

You had planned with Yuuji to show off your knowledge with some tools you recognized from back home and let him make the fire, but when it was your name they called from the training room, you froze, forgetting everything you had practiced. 

When you walked across the now-empty room, staring directly at the game makers and sponsors, Gojo’s words rang in your head. 

They love a sweetheart over here. 

So instead, you decided to do nothing. If they love a sweetheart so much, you want them to see you for as long as humanly possible. You wanted them to stare into your eyes for the entirety of the ten minutes, to see the way your bones made up your face, bones of your parents that lay six feet under. You wanted them to see the synchronized way you breathed, how you looked under the light. It was an act of defiance, something they probably wouldn’t even understand, but the rage and pain you were feeling boiled down to this very moment. 

For ten minutes, you stood there silently, your neck craning upwards as you stared directly into their eyes. The crowd slowly grew bigger and bigger behind that window, curious sponsors muttering to each other in anticipation of what you were planning to do. 

But the longer you did nothing, the more people came. 

When your time was up, you gave them one final look before you turned on your heels and left. With Yuuji and Drumesia waiting outside in the sitting area, Yuuji looking excited while Drumesia looking particularly worrisome, you didn’t have the heart to tell them what you had done. Didn’t want them to stress about the low score you’d be receiving. So you lied, saying you put on a mediocre performance with the weapons they had lying around. 

You could’ve just told them the truth as you reflect on it now. 

A ten? For doing nothing? What were they up to? What were they thinking? 

You tallied the other scores in your head and felt your stomach drop. Besides you, the only other person with the highest score was…

Gojo. 

This score not only put a target on your back, making all the other tributes wonder just what it was that you were hiding, but also made you higher on their priority list to get rid of. And what’s worse is that you weren’t hiding anything, and had no means to truly defend yourself or Yuuji. The careers would surely be after the two of you know if they weren’t before, but so would the other tributes. 

This score wasn’t a gift. It was a death sentence. 

“Here we are,” Drumesia restored with her clacking heels and a tray balancing four glasses and a bowl of strawberries, the bottle in her other hand, “A toast to my future victor!”

Your stomach churned even more. Victor. Singular. 

She was just being woefully optimistic, you knew that. Her hopes were raised seeing how tributes from outlying districts rarely score above a six, and that there would be more attention on her this year, but it didn’t stop the bitter taste from costing your mouth. 

Yuuji didn’t even notice because of how excited he was bouncing up and down in his seat, almost snatching the glass from her hand when she offered it to him.  

“Yuuji!” You seethed under your breath, going to grab the glass from him, but he maneuvered it quickly away, sticking his tongue out as he stood up in front of Drumesia with it ready to be filled. 

“Oh, it’s just a little bit,” she chided, filling up his glass a little bit.”He should have some of it while he’s still here!”

Your eyes flit up to hers. 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Your voice dipped. Yuuji, who was now holding the glass in both his hands, slowly walked away as he and Martin eyed the two of you. 

Drumesia shrugs indifferently, pouring Martin his own, even though he wasn’t even finished with the first drink he had started on, and then one for herself. Finally, she fills the last one to the brim, yours, and outstretched her gloved hand towards your body. 

You don’t take it. 

She tsks, annoyed, setting it down on the table as she raises hers in the air, clinking it with Yuuji’s and Martin’s as she takes a sip, clearly not caring enough to wait for you. 

“There’s no champagne in the games, you know,” she finally says, one hand resting on her hip as her glass hovers above her lips. “The two of you should make the most of what the Capitol has to offer. Right, Yuuji?” She looked down at him, and he glanced at you, as if asking for permission whether he should agree with her or not. 

“Stop!” You shout, your hands fisting in your hair in frustration as you shove past her, ignoring her yelp as the drink spills a little on the floor, grabbing the light coat that you had been issued from the stand near the elevator.

“Where are you going?” She calls out, her feet trying to catch up to you, but her heels slow her down. 

“Away!” You snap, glancing over your shoulder with a snarl, punching the buttons of the elevator, hoping one of them would open, “Don’t follow me!”

“But!-” Drumesia’s voice is cut off as you quickly step inside, pressing the button that would shut the door automatically, and you let out a small sigh of relief to find yourself alone. 

You feel guilty for leaving Yuuji, but you know you’d have taken your anger out on everyone, maybe even him, if you had stayed for any longer. 

The elevator hums quietly as the numbers at the top start ticking down. You had pushed whatever button was nearest, which was apparently the ground floor. You didn’t mind too much, revealing a small rose garden hidden near the exit that seemed pretty secluded the last time you walked past it. 

After a few minutes, the tribute center was very tall, the doors hissed as they opened, and the smell of car exhaust and flowers infiltrated your senses as you tentatively took a step outside. 

You were told that tributes were allowed to go wherever they wanted so long as it was on the grounds, and you hoped that this extended to the open lobby because when you looked around, you felt a strange sense of home. 

In 11, trucks and cars were rare, but tractors were used a lot out on the fields. The smell of the gasoline was something you grew up on. The flowers, a wide array, reminded you of the little garden the mayor's wife had. Whenever you’d walk past it, you could smell hints of gardenias and sweet peas. 

You looked around, the bright lights of the skyscrapers and Capitol buildings shining extra bright with the veil of the night, and you wrapped your coat around you even tighter as you kept your head down, walking back towards where the rose bushes were kept. 

You could smell them before you saw them, although they’d be impossible to miss. Large white roses bloomed from the ground, their existing sense filling the night air as you walked closer. 

There was a small bench facing them, overlooking the rest of the city, and you looked around to make sure that nobody else was there. When you were satisfied that Drumeisa hadn't followed you down, you sat down, shutting your eyes as you let the noises from below drown out all your other senses.  

You were about to let out a small yawn when you heard the unmistakable thump of footsteps from behind you, your body snapping upwards as you looked wildly around. 

You couldn’t help the groan that escaped your lips when you saw him. 

Gojo looks just as surprised to see you, cerulean eyes shooting open as his mouth parts, looking around to see if anybody else is there. 

You push yourself off the seat, about to walk the other way, when he speaks. 

“Don’t go,” his voice is quiet, his hands raised upwards as if he was surrendering, “I promise I didn’t know you’d be here.”

Your lips purse together in annoyance, staying silent as you peer him up and down. He’s wearing a simple black shirt and loose pants, the number 1 printed on his sleeves. He looked like he was about to go to sleep before he made his way here. 

You exhale deeply, shaking your head at yourself as you give up, slowly falling back where you were sitting in silence. As much as you’d rather not see the other tributes, especially him, anywhere would be better than hearing Drumesia drone on about the wonders of the Capitol and the inevitability of your impending deaths. 

Gojo takes your silence as a good sign, carefully making his way past you to the other side of the bench as he sits down, his face trained forward. 

You bring a knee up to your chest, wrapping your arms around it as your jaw ticks. There’s a little breeze ruffling through the air, goosebumps erupting across your arms despite them being covered. 

“I saw your score,” he started, still not looking over at you as he interlocks his fingers together, blinking as he takes in the astonishing view of the Capitol skyline, “It really pissed Lizzie off.”

You find a little chuckle escape in spite of yourself, the sound causing Gojo to look over, brows raised in stupefaction. 

Lizzie, the girl tribute from 1, had gotten a measly score of six, despite having shown off her talents with a sword for the past two weeks. 

“Well, tell her not to get her hopes up. I’m pissed off too.” You tell him, biting your tongue as a car beeps and people shout muffled in the distance. 

“You wanted higher than a ten?” He stammers confused, “I nearly…” but he trails off when you give him a displeased look, shutting up as you roll your eyes in annoyance, muttering things under your breath. 

“I wish they’d given me a one,” you say, “That would’ve made more sense. They made me out to be some sort of…” but you stop, not knowing why you were even telling this stranger the truth.

Then your brows scrunch up together as you think, head whipping around to him as you scoff, nose wrinkling in pure rage as you quickly shoot to your feet, working out his plan, gripping your face for your stupidity. 

Of course, he, of all people, would try to track you down after they read the scores. Of course, he’d want to see what his biggest competition had done, to see what you were capable of. He had mastered fighting in that academy, but he must’ve mastered the art of deception because he was eerily good at making it feel like he was just being friendly. 

You make it almost ten steps before that similar hold falls on your elbow. Not tight, not harsh, but there. 

“Get off!” You yell hoarsely, your eyes glassy for some reason, as you turn around and push roughly at his chest, “What? You’re stalking me now? You came down here to find out my secrets?” You don’t know why tears are welling up in your eyes, wiping furiously at your cheeks as you sniffle. 

You were tired of these games that had started before you arrived. You would’ve preferred it if they had just lined twenty-four people up from the districts and shot at them until one remainder. Because you could handle the mind games, the insincerity, the morbid curiosity of it all. It was nearly drowning you alive, and you didn’t know what to do. 

You wanted to go home. You missed the wheat fields and the nights filled with laughter and music. You missed the dancing and the meals scraped together by whatever people could find. You missed the smell of dirt and wood, missed feeling like you belonged. Even if you were alone, you were always surrounded by people who cared. 

Here in the Capitol, you were alone. Everyone had a goal in mind and didn't know what it cost to reach it. You had spent so much time trying to take care of Yuuji and ward off Drumesia and the rest of the gnat-like citizens that only when you took a step back did you realize how utterly alone you were. 

So a part of you took that frustration out on this stranger, somebody you’ve been eyeing since you got here. You let your hands hit his sturdy chest, surprised to see that he doesn’t move or try to push you back. Your hits are weak, your voice hoarse and raw as you push at him harder, not understanding or comprehending why he wasn’t leaving, why he had come up to you all those days ago trying to make an ally out of you. 

Or why, for some reason, it seemed like out of everyone here, he seemed to actually care. Even if it was just an act. 

But Gojo stays where he is, a crease in between his brows as he takes the hits, jaw clenched tight as they gradually die down. You feel weak, open, and raw in front of this tribute who, days from now, would be hunting you down. But for some reason, he doesn’t push you away. 

There’s a heavy silence before he speaks up. 

“Why did you help that girl from 5?”

You look up at him, bewildered. You take a small step away, scoffing at the ridiculous question, but he takes a step forward as if he’s scared you’re going to run away again. 

“Why did you shake her brother's hand?” Gojo continues, some strands of his hair falling into his face, but he doesn’t bother pushing them away. 

Your mouth parts as you shrug, giving him a weird look as you give a curt and uncomfortable laugh. 

“I-I don’t know,” you stammer, “I thought she needed help, so I went over.”

Gojo nods, his jaw ticking as he looks over at the Capitol. The diamond-like lights and the ruby shadows that emanated from the city reminded him of the jewels he saw back home. 

“Would you have helped them today? Tomorrow? Would you help them during the games if you had to?” 

“What are you trying to say?” You snap, frustrated at his urgent tone and the fact that it seemed like he knew more than you, “That I should’ve just killed them there?”

Gojo snorts mirthlessly, shaking his head as it falls for a bit, looking at the intricate patterns on the brick beneath him as he takes a deep breath. 

“In three days, we’re all going to be standing around each other with a clock counting down how long we have before one of us is left. I’ve spent these last weeks trying to figure out what it is that everyone plans to do, and for the most part, I have a pretty good fucking idea of what that is. If you want to die like a martyr, that’s fine. If you want to make a statement, I don’t care. Just,” he chuckles, but it sounds empty, “What is it you want to do?” Gojo doesn’t sound like he’s trying to get you to tell him your secret to scoring a ten, nor does it look like he’s reached his wits about strategies of getting an upper hand on all of his opponents. 

If anything, it almost looks like he’s…worried for you. 

There’s a stretch of silence, one that you shut your eyes and have to imagine it’s just you and nothing else before you respond. 

You know you don’t owe him an answer. You know this person who couldn't care less about how you died should hear the why, but you answer because you don’t know what else there is to do in the madness of it all. 

“I want to go home,” you admit finally, quietly, you voice frayed and cheeks glistening in the lights of the city, looking away as you speak as if that could spare you the embarrassment of letting your emotions go in front of this person you’ve barely spoken to, “I know it’s stupid. I don’t have anyone waiting for me back there anyways. But,” you shrug limply, chewing on your cheek, “But it was still home, you know? If I died there, people would know I did. They’d eat dinner before they put me in the dirt, they’d sing a song or two. But if,” but you stop yourself, correcting your choice of words, “When I die out there, I know I’m going to die with nobody I know near me. And…and I’m so scared. I,” your breathing hitched, your bottom lip quivering, “I don’t want to die alone.”

You don’t hear him say anything, but you’re not looking for a response. You feel a little lighter saying this, even if it was to someone who couldn’t care less, but it was something that you’d been simmering in for the past three weeks and couldn’t keep it in anymore. 

“Why are you so sure you’re not going to win?”

His question startles you. 

You can’t help but laugh, rubbing a hand across your face as you step back from him, not knowing why it is that whenever he’s around you suddenly feel more open than usual. 

“Because I won’t!” You burst, a maniacal smile on your face as your hands fly upwards. “Besides the fact that I’ll be up against twenty-two other people - some way more skilled than me - what reasons would I have to even try? I have nothing to win and nothing to lose.” You pinch the bridge of your nose in exhaustion, gnawing on your chapped lips as you huff out a meaningless laugh, “You know, I did nothing for the evaluation.” 

Gojo’s eyes flash a bright blue, lips quirked up slightly. 

“Well, it surely couldn’t have been nothing-”

“I did nothing,” you repeat, “I was supposed to have a demonstration with some old tools like we had back in 11 but I choked up. I couldn’t think of anything to make that would make my time worth it. So I just,” you let out a humorless laugh, “I just stood there. I looked at them for those ten minutes. I wanted them to remember my face. I wanted them to see what I looked like before they killed me. That seemed more important than anything else we had planned.”

Gojo observes your expression, trying to see if you are lying or not. But unbeknownst to him, you were a terrible liar; you couldn’t tell a good lie even if your life depended on it. After another second of trying to assess you, he let out a little laugh, something boyish and almost…sweet, when he realized you were being completely honest with him. 

Your face falls for a second, not knowing what to do as another laugh bubbles out of his chest. He’s been so poised and controlled these last few weeks that it doesn’t even register in your brain that it’s him who’s laughing in front of you. 

“If only Lizzie knew,” Gojo sighed out after a minute, his eyes filled with mirth, “That she’d be training her whole life for this and still be bested by someone who did nothing.”

You can’t stop yourself from smiling a little bit, trying to suppress it to the best of your abilities. You look to the ground as a small giggle escapes your lips, but Gojo still stares at the crown of your head, not knowing why his cheeks were heating up when it looked like you were trying your hardest not to laugh in front of him after having a breakdown. 

He felt his throat dry up, palms sweating as he quickly looked the other way, his head ducking down so that you wouldn’t see the blush painting his face. 

“I saw that Yuuji got a five,” he says after another moment, and you glance up at him, your face hardening up in seconds as if you remember your previous conversation. “That’s good,” he adds softly, and you nod shortly, gnawing on your bottom lip, deep in thought. 

The tears you thought had gone away sting again, and you laugh them away, looking at the sparkling lights of the city as you let yourself believe for a second that you belonged here. 

“His brothers and I worked together. His mom made me food for a month after my parents died, even when they were barely surviving on their own. Yuuji,” you let out a deep breath. “Yuuji is a good kid. He’s so, so sweet. He cares about people. He just turned twelve a month ago,” and you suffocate on a sob, your head falling into your hands. “He was so excited to celebrate it, too. His dad had taken time off so they could be with each other, but…that was a week ago, and Yuuji was here.” 

You give him a sad smile, teeth catching on your lips as you blink slowly. 

“I know you don’t understand why I don’t want to win, but I think that if I even entertain the idea, I’d lose a part of myself that makes me me. I don’t want them,” You look around the open venue, let the sound of the traffic and parties float around you for a second, “I don’t want them to change me. When I die, I want to die the person I would’ve back home.” 

The boy in front of you watches the way you move, studies you like he’s studying a book. But it’s more careful than that, it is as if he’s trying to memorize every little detail of you so he could tuck it away and use it for later. 

Eventually, he lets out a small heave, his lips pursing as his hands perch on his hips. 

“Can I ask you another question?” his voice drops to a whisper, stepping closer to you. 

This time, you don’t step back. 

Your brows furrow, thinking. When you don’t shut him down instantly, he takes the silence as his go-ahead to continue.  

“Don’t you remember me?”

You feel the blood roar into your ears. 

Gojo opens his mouth to say something else, but what that was, you’ll never know. A shrill and loud voice comes from behind you. The two of you flinch, looking over your shoulder to see Drumesia stalking towards you, her face twisted together as if she had just eaten a lemon. 

“It’s past your hours!” She shouts, having her gloved hands around manically as she nears you, not controlling the shock on her face to see the new and rising Capitol darling standing just a few feet away from you. But you’ll give her credit, she recovers wonderfully. 

“And you! You should be in your quarters!” She snakes a hand around your arm, tugging harshly as she pulls you nearer and nearer to the elevator. You can hear the insistent and rapacious questions she’s asking you; how do you know this tribute, what were you discussing, are you allying with him? And so on, but you couldn’t answer any of them; your attention was somewhere else. 

You look back to see Gojo still standing there, looking at you with a strange look in his eyes. He lifts his hand, in a small wave, and gives you an even smaller, barely visible smile. You don’t know what to do, but you’re not able to return his gesture as the elevator door shuts and whirs the two of you up back to the District 11 quarters. 

You think with trepidation that the next time you will see Gojo would be tomorrow night. 

At the tribute interviews. 

—-

“Cameras on in three, two…!” 

The interviews were hectic. 

Besides the fact that tomorrow morning would mark the beginning of this year's Hunger Games, the tribute interviews were like a pre-show for what everybody watching should expect. 

Caesar Flickerman, the eccentric host, kept the show alive and energetic. It was his job. You couldn’t imagine what they would do to him if he failed at doing so. 

Every year, he comes out with a new hair color, and this year his hair was ironically a bright white, his brows matching. However, unlike Gojo, it was obvious that his hair had been dyed extensively. 

“Just remember to stand tall and smile!” Drumesia was tittering about like a canary, moving between you and Yuuji as she straightened his bow tie and fixed the creases of your dress. 

Your outfits had slightly upgraded since the chariot ceremony, but were still miles behind some of the other clothes the tributes were wearing. 

Word of your kind and loving character had spread around, and the stylist who gave up for the first round seemed excited to make you something new this year.

The dress was long and pale blue, the sleeves cutting off at your shoulders as the satin bodice sat heavily on your chest like a shield. It was supposed to make you look open, but you couldn’t help but notice the uncanny resemblance it had to some of the housemaid uniforms the Capitol women had that you had seen around. 

A small and slides into yours, and you blink out of your thoughts, looking down to see Yuuji tugging at his neck. 

“Can you help? She tied it too tight,” he says quietly so that Drumesia wouldn’t overhear. You kiss your teeth in mock annoyance, shooting him a grin as you sink onto your knees, brows furrowing in concentration as you mess around with the fabric. 

“You look very handsome tonight,” you tell him as you wrap around the ends together, trying to mimic the actions you studied Drumesia doing moments ago, “They’re going to love you out there.”

You ruffle his hair, making sure not to mess it up too much as you straighten it back. Yuuji smiles shyly, standing still to let you work. 

“Do you think,” Yuuji starts, then stops, his cheeks flushed, “Do you think my family’s watching?”

Your hands stopped, looking at him with a reproachful expression as you smiled softly, nodding your head. 

“Yeah, of course they are,” you loop the tie around, wiggling it so that it would sit straight, “Why wouldn’t they?”

Yuuji shrugged, looking away as he pouted slightly, rubbing at his eyes. 

“My brothers were just so angry before I left,” he mutters, and your hands go up on his elbows. “Do you think they’re mad that I’m not going to win?”

Your face and heart crack at the same time, your lips wobbling as you drag him close to your chest, hands sprawled out on his back as you squeeze him as hard as you possibly can. 

“Oh, they’re not mad at you, Yuuji,” you say hushed, one hand cradling his head as you tuck your chin on his pile of hair, “They could never be mad at you.”

You hear him sniffle, his arms hugging you back as you try to hide him from the wandering eyes of the other tributes. 

But, as always, you catch the eye of one in particular. 

Gojo watches the two of you, not critically, just watching. He’s observing, looking at the way you don’t mind your dress getting dirty or Yuuji’s tear marks on the fabric. 

Don’t you remember me?

You look away, as if his stare had somehow burned you, and push gently at Yuuji’s shoulders so that he would be facing you. 

“Your brothers are so proud of you,” you tell him firmly, “So proud, okay?”

Yuuji wipes at his red cheeks, nodding at your words. 

“When you go on that show tonight, you look into that camera like you’re looking right at them, yeah? Talk to it like you’re talking to them. Forget about the crowd, forget about the game. Just,” You sigh, your smile shaky as your hands tremble. “Just imagine you’re back home and you’ve been pulled into the dancing circle. Remember how scary those were?” You push a strand of his hair away, smoothing it down as he sniffles softly, nodding again. 

“But do you remember that feeling when the music was loud and everybody was clapping? Remember how at the end everyone was so sweaty and tired and it didn’t matter how bad you were dancing because everyone was just having fun?” He nods again, hanging on to every word you are saying. 

“Imagine that feeling when you talk to Caesar, okay? Make them feel like they know you. Make it feel like they’re your family.”

You don’t tell him why. Don’t want to explain how sympathy and empathy can play a big role in how sponsors view you during the games. 

“Okay?” You ask him once, stern but kind, a fire in your eyes that he tries to match. 

“Okay,” he repeats, a smile making its way back onto his round face as you bump your fist lightly against his shoulder, standing back up just in time before Drumesia and Martin arrive. 

She eyes you suspiciously, hands furiously working on your chest and stomach area to smooth out any wrinkles. You look at Yuuji, and he gives you the toothless grin. 

“You’re awfully happy,” Drumesia commented dryly, looking your makeup over until she was satisfied that it was alright. “Anything you care to tell me?”

“Nothing you’d like to know.”

She scoffs, but doesn’t push it any further, seeing how there wasn’t much else she could fight with you on. She began looking around for the other escorts, killing the time by talking to them until it was time for the first tribute to go. Lizzie, from 1, would be the first interviewee of the night. 

Yuuji tugs at your hand again, and this time, when you look down at him, you see him pointing somewhere in front of you two. 

Cameramen and crew workers were ushering people to stand up against the wall, people organized by girls first, followed by the male tribute, going all the way from 1 to 12 near the back. 

You and Yuuji shuffle awkwardly, and your shoulders press against the male tribute from 10, somebody whom you had only seen in passing. 

There’s a quiet hush that falls around everyone, nerves alight as Capitol escorts and mentors are taken to the viewing room somewhere in the back. 

You all watch on the screen in front of you as the lights in the main room dim, Capitol citizens buzzing with excitement as the music starts, the lights flashing where Caesar is sitting. 

You take in a deep and soothing breath. 

Let the show begin. 

—-

Lizzie’s interview was good. 

She knows how to work a crowd, and Caesar loved just how sparky and energetic she was. Everyone in the audience laughed along with her jokes and swooned when she talked about her sisters back home, whom she would be winning these games for. 

But she wasn’t the tribute that you were focused on. Nor what everyone else was clamoring for, either, it seemed. 

When Gojo walked out on the stage, you could see people in the audience already roaring and jumping to their feet. He had garnered quite a bit of attention already because of his pure strength, his looks, and the fact that his dad was already a victor. 

Even you could admit, as much as you wanted to dislike him, just how much he radiated this sort of energy that attracted attention. 

The suit he was wearing was tailored to perfectly match his already impeccable proportions. The dark blue coat and bottoms complemented the stark contrast with his eyes and hair, and the dazzling smile he had plastered onto his face almost made it look like he was twinkling. 

Caesar was giving his signature debonair smile when Gojo walked towards him, his laughter contagious and manufactured as he whistled as Gojo shook his hand, his grip tighter than Caesar expected. 

The two of them talk for a short second before Caesar invites him to sit down, and Gojo complies with a wink to the audience. 

He knew how to play them as well as he could play the games. 

“So!” Caesar clapped his hands as if he wasn’t getting started, “Mr. Gojo, the dashing tribute from 1, how are you doing this evening?”

Gojo kissed his teeth, looking into the audience as he gave an easy shrug and an even easier smile. The camera panned out to catch some of the women quickly fanning themselves, others swooning in their seats. 

You looked at Yuuji, rolling your eyes at the theatrics, and he giggled. 

“I’m doing great Caesar,” he finally said after a moment, letting the crowd die down as he nodded to himself, “I’m surrounded by all these amazing people, not including you, of course,” he says with a teasing tone and Caesar eats it up, slapping his lightly on the knees, “And the games are tomorrow. I can’t speak for the rest of the tributes, but I feel more than ready.”

Everyone breaks into shouts and hollers, clapping as Gojo claps along with them. 

Caesar lets them go quite far as he chuckles along, swallowing as he looks over at Gojo with a serious expression. 

“You look more than ready!” He exclaims, motioning towards his lean and muscular body, to which Gojo just waves away, “Now, I’m sure that most of these citizens recognize you because of your father, is that right, folks?” He looks back at the crowd as they scream and shout in agreement, surely having loved his dad if this was the reaction they were giving, “But am I wrong to assume that you would like to be known for something other than that?”

Gojo laughs concisely, nodding as he thinks about the question. You can only imagine the meticulous work and effort he’s put into making this interview seem flawlessly imperfect. 

“You know, Caesar, before I left, my father told me to make these games my own.”

Caesar leaned in before Gojo could finish, as if they were sharing a secret. 

“And what do you think that means? How do you plan on making these games your own?”

Gojo chuckled softly, his lips quirked as he looked back at the audience and then to the cameras. 

“I think we’ll save that for when the time comes,” he says before the audience groans dramatically, Caesar giving a big sigh as if he was torn, but Gojo continued, “But I will say, I think these games are going to be special.”

Caesar worked his brow, looking at someone in the audience as he mouthed, really?, and everyone laughed. 

“Special? Special how?”

“We’re an interesting batch of tributes. I don’t think that we’re going to go the usual route. I think…you’ll all see different alliances and enemies form, different strategies and different ways to win.”

The crowd ooo’s, but Gojo waves it off as if that was all he was going to say. Caesar smiles brightly, satisfied with the answer, as he quickly moves on to the last remaining minutes with the burning question everyone wanted to know. 

“Satoru,” Caesar has quickly moved on to calling him by his first name, dropping the formalities as if they had bonded in these past five minutes, “Before our time is up, I’m sure everyone here is wondering, if you were to win these games, would you like to dedicate it to special someone?” The connotations behind what he’s saying are almost impossible to miss. 

It seems like all the tributes are listening in, wanting to know both game and gossip talk. 

Gojo’s chuckle rumbles out of his chest, and you wince, not recalling the last time you’ve seen the all serious tribute so lively. 

He snaps his fingers at Caesar as if chastising him, pushing his hair back as a light pink dusts the apples of his cheeks. 

“Are they wondering or are you wondering?” Gojo remarks, and Caesar gives a loud laugh, pretending to look shocked as the audience roars into laughter. 

Gojo apologizes half-heartedly, waving down the room as he tries to use up all of his time accordingly. 

“I’m just messing with you, Caesar,” he says finally, laughing along with Caesar as his eyes twinkle a bright blue under the stage lights, “But to answer truthfully, I’d be winning for myself.”

Caesar rolls his eyes dramatically, pointing to Gojo as he looks to the crowd for support. 

“I don’t believe that for a second! With a face like that, how could you not have a girl waiting for you?”

Gojo smiles, his teeth bright as he ducks his head bashfully. 

“I’m honored, Caesar, but I think that if I had a girl back home, I wouldn’t be fighting as well as I could,” Gojo admits, “I wouldn’t want her to see what I’d have to become to survive, and then not recognize me when I get home. And besides…” But Gojo trails off, shaking his head as if he had remembered halfway to stop himself from saying too much. 

But oh, how Caesar loved it. 

“No, no young man, you can’t stop there! Besides what? Besides what?” Caesar pushes the entire audience sitting on the edge of their seat as Gojo gives a practiced nervous chuckle, rubbing the back of his neck as if he didn’t plan for this to happen. 

“Well,” Gojo gave a slight shrug, looking straight into the camera, “If I were to win these games, it’s not a girl back home I’d be winning for. She’s a little…closer than 1.”

The crowd lost their minds. 

“My! I wonder who it is!” Drumesia said curtly under her breath, looking around as if the mystery girl would reveal herself. Other tributes began muttering under their breaths, some angry at how well Gojo was working the crowd, others curious to see if it was outlawed for somebody from a District to fall for a Capitol girl. 

Nonetheless, Gojo was able to wrap everyone around his finger with just a sentence. 

Caesar tries to calm them down, but it’s no use. Now, everyone is shouting and demanding to know who this mystery Capitol girl is that has won the esteemed Gojo Satoru’s heart over. It’s no use, Caesar has lost control of them, and his time with Gojo is up. 

He’s playing these games well, you think, and not the way most people would. 

Caesar nods slowly, giving his usual bright smile as he and Gojo stand up, their hands clasped together as the others wave to the bustling and energetic crowd. 

“Give it up for the dashing Tribute from District 1, everyone! Gojo Satoru!” 

You can no longer tell who’s still screaming from the past news and who is trying to wish Gojo goodbye, but regardless, the enthusiasm from this crowd dwarfs whatever it was that Lizzie got. 

But the more you let his words simmer, the more you realize that Gojo wasn’t only doing this to stir gossip or gain empathy. If the citizens (and sponsors) of the Capitol believed that there was a chance he could win these games and come back for one of them, then…

Then he just garnered a whole lot more support than any score from those evaluations could have gotten him. 

When he finally left, his mentors and escorts quickly ushered him somewhere backstage, so you weren’t able to get a good glimpse of him before he left. But the relaxed stance he had once had was now bunched up, tense in his shoulders. He looked around the other tributes, eyes falling last on you and Yuuji before he was whisked away. 

Yuuji tugged at the fabric of your dress, glancing up at you with a worry in his eyes. 

“I have to go after him?”

—

All the other interviews seem to go by in a blur. 

The closer it gets to 11, the more you feel like throwing up. Your heart beats in erratic rhythms, and your mouth and ears feel like they’re stuffed with cotton. At some point, you stop looking at the screen because of how much your head is spinning. 

Your hand grips your stomach, balancing on the wall, the closer and closer you get to being called up on stage. 

Martin and Drumesia are both standing near you and Yuuji, exchanging worried glances at your worsening state. 

“You’ll be alright,” Yuuji whispers, tugging on your arm, with a bright smile even though he looked horrifically pale and nervous, “If I can do this, you definitely can.”

You chuckle softly, whispering a thank you as you watch the male tribute from District 10 stand up and shake Caesar’s hand, the audience applauding as he exits. 

It’s your turn. 

“Smile!” Drumesia repeats, doing the motions on her own face as you give her a shaky one in return, “Be their sweetheart!”

Be their sweetheart. 

One of the people moved in between you and Yuuji, your hand falling from his as they ushered you through the holding area and onto the stage. You take one deep breath before you duck your head down and go. 

You instantly wince at the bright lights, your ears roaring as if you were being held underwater, and sweat dots on your forehead. You feel your stomach plummet, but your feet move as if they’re the only part of your body working. 

The crowd is clapping as Caesar introduces you, and you inch towards him as you try to discreetly wipe your palm on the side of your dress so he wouldn’t notice how clammy it was. 

You look into the audience, people in the front row dressed as wildly and strangely as they seem to do in the Capitol, and then look over to Caesar, who seems to be mourning something, but you can’t hear what it is he’s saying. 

“W-what?” You say, cursing at yourself for this being your first words, but Caesar just laughs it off, patting you affectionately on the shoulders. 

“Someone’s nervous!” Caesar says with a smile, leading you to sit down as you shakily sit down on the seat facing him. When he’s sure that you're situated, he moves to his own, legs crossing as he leans back slightly. 

“What I had said was, ‘How are you doing?’” 

You look at him and then at the cameras, swallowing to wet your throat. 

“Good,” you say hoarsely, “Just nervous, like you said.” You give a shaky laugh, and Caesar, along with the entire audience, aww at, as if you were a wounded animal. 

Caesar waits until the crowd dies down before he starts again, shuffling a little closer so that it wouldn’t feel like you were strangers. 

“Well, I never want you to feel that way around me,” he pats your knee before he gives a gentle smile before it turns impish, “That’s what the audience is for!”

Everyone laughs, and you give a weak chuckle. He gives the cameras a small pout, and your nose wrinkles slightly before he starts again. 

“Let me first say that I am intrigued to see you nervous because from what I’ve heard, you are great with people. Is this true, or did my little songbird lie to me?”

You blink away from the crowd, eyes darting towards the cameras as you give him a growing smile and let a simple giggle roll through your chest, one thought ringing through your head: 

Be their sweetheart. 

“I wouldn’t say great,” you emphasize with a smile, remembering that this crowd was full of sponsors that could help you and Yuuji, “But I used to take care of kids before I worked in the fields back home, so I’ve learned a lot of things about people from that.”

Caesar clicks his tongue, as if understanding. 

“Well, disagree as much as you want, but we’ve had some witnesses in the crowd who have seen firsthand just how well you’re able to make new friends, is that right?” He calls out, and some people in the audience cheer extra loudly. 

Those must’ve been the people who saw you before the chariot parade. 

“Do you think this will help you in the arena?” Caesar adds, and you rip your eyes away from those in the audience to look at his face. 

“U-um,” you stammer, your cheeks heating up as you think about it thoughtfully, “I don’t think so, Caesar.” You admitted truthfully, debating whether to lie or not, but it seemed like your decision was the correct choice, as it seemed like people in the audience perked up at your honesty. 

Even Caesar seemed a bit surprised as his brows furrowed and his head tilted slightly to the side. 

“No? Why? Why not?” His voice dipped slightly, mimicking concern. If you didn’t know any better, you would think he would care, as if he wouldn’t narrate your death in just a few days. 

You ring your fingers together, chewing on your cheek as you try to look docile. Like a sweetheart. 

“I don’t like seeing people hurt,” you tell him, and everyone watching, frankly, “Even if the kids I used to watch were being…difficult,” you say with a slight emphasis and the crowd laughs, shocking you a little bit, “I would never say anything too harsh to reprimand them. So I think that if I were to befriend other tributes, I’d stir crazy in the games.” 

Caesar nods once more, his eyes shutting as he takes in your words. People in the audience seem to tilt their heads dramatically as if you had softened them into a puddle of faux compassion and stone-hearted emotions. 

“So empathy is both your strength and witness?” Caesar confirms, and you give him a timid grin, nodding. 

“One that can be exploited very well during something like the Hunger Games, yes,” you say a little sarcastically and with a knowing grin, and Caesar lets out a chuckle, nodding along with your statement as people in the audience laugh. 

“While we’re on more temperate topics, here’s another question for you,” Caesar’s voice has dipped a little bit, losing his energetic spark as he got serious, “I have been asking many of the tributes tonight who they would win for. If you were to win, who would you dedicate it to?”

You feel your stomach churn painfully, tongue darting out to wet your chapped bottom lip, and you grab the sides of your chair tightly. 

Gojo’s words from the night before repeat themselves in your head. What is it you want to do?

“I,” you stop yourself from what you were going to say, almost looking backstage to where Yuuji was standing with Drumesia, but control the urge and continue holding your stare with Caesar, “I have no family left in 11,” you’re sure that the camera is zeroing in on your face now and the way Caesar holds your hand supportingly as if he was there when you mourned the loss of everyone you loved, “I think….I think I would win these games so that I could see the sunsets back home.”

“The sunsets?” He asks instantly as if he’s never thought about that, he looks into the crowd to see if they’re just as intrigued, “I have to admit, I’ve never seen the sunsets at District 11 before. How are they?”

You gave him a knowing smile, blinking your tears back as the fire inside your chest burned. 

“Caesar, they are simply to die for.”

The tension in the room seemed to snap as everyone laughed, Caesar throwing his head back with a comical hoot as one hand sprawled out across his chest. The cameramen swiveled to catch everyone’s reactions, and you feel some heat prickle at the back of your neck. 

“Funny! She’s funny!” He animated as if they hadn’t already heard you, wiping at his eyes as his wide smile twinkled, “One last thing! Before we run out of time! I’m sure everybody here, along with me, is wondering one thing. Does anybody know what that is?” 

Caesar looked out into the audience with a raised brow. You turn limply, mirroring his actions, as somebody with a large pink wig and even larger cheekbones cups their manicured hands around their mouth as they yell out; 

“Her score!”

Caesar winked at that person, snapping when they got it right. His chair swiveled back to face yours, your fingers digging into the plush texture of the cushions as your heart beats rapidly against your chest. 

“Yes, yes, her score! Now, don’t worry, I won’t have you revealing your secret,” Caesar assured and your shoulders eased just a little bit, Caesar waving the audience’s disappointment down with a playful scold, “But I do want you to tell the people what they should take away from a score like yours.”

The clock was ticking down. You only had a few seconds left to make it all count. 

“Hm,” you hum thoughtfully, a glint in your eyes as your head tilts a little, “It’s funny you ask. We have this song back in 11, one older than me. Some say it’s from this ancient traveling band, from way before. But we always tell ourselves that nothing you can take was ever worth keeping. So,” you pause for a brief moment, your lips quirked, “During the games, I think you should…expect nothing from me and I’ll give you all everything in return.”

Caesar’s smile falters a second as he digests your words, looking at you, but you’re looking back at the crowd as you wave to them. 

He helps you stand up, his hand outstretched to take yours, and you give him a firm squeeze as you shake it. The crowd claps loudly, some calling your name like they did for the other tributes. 

“Everyone give it up for the witty sweetheart from 11!” Caesar shouts, and people clap even louder, your smile growing despite yourself. 

Maybe, just maybe, you did something right. 

—

One deep breath in. One deep breath out. 

The helicraft they were using to transport all your tributes was huge, but somehow you still felt insanely claustrophobic. It felt like the walls were closing in, the whirring and the gentle hum of the machine were somewhat soothing, but it did nothing to distract you from the fact that you were being transported to the arena.  For the Hunger Games. 

You could barely sleep after the interviews. Yuuji had done great, everybody loved him, just as you suspected. But it wasn’t the high of doing well that kept you up. It was the fear, the trepidation of knowing that there were merely hours left before only one of you was fated to come out. 

Breakfast was horrible. You couldn’t keep anything down, so you opted for some tea and bits of a biscuit. Martin seemed particularly drunk, barely meeting your eyes as Drumesia kept snapping at him to tidy up. But you didn’t have the heart to judge him, couldn’t imagine what it was like to see countless tributes over the years, only for none of them to survive. 

It must be maddening. 

Yuuji didn’t look any better, but he was trying his best to appear as steady-headed as possible. When Martin led the two of you to the hovercraft, he gave you both one final look, his eyes glossy and his face solemn as he put one hand on your shoulder and the other on Yuuji’s. 

“Look after each other,” he said gruffly, his voice choked and hoarse, “These games bring out the worst in people.” 

You wondered just how bad it could get. 

After one of the guards had injected the tracker into you, they strapped you in, and you felt your back press tightly against the seat as it began to take off. The other tributes were rubbing their arms, wincing at the soreness of where the injector was once. Some were looking around, curious and afraid; others were talking to themselves. 

Gojo was one of those who was looking around, eyes darting everywhere until they found you. Again.

He gives barley there nod, one you don’t understand the meaning of, before he peeks back to Lizzie, his head dipping down as he attentively listens to her as she whispers something in his ear. You shake yourself away from looking at them, trailing down to where Yuuji was bundled next to you, his fingers pushing at the skin of his forearm. 

“Yuuji,” your voice is a hint of whisper, and you’re glad for the steady hum of the craft as it drowns out your voice for everyone else around you, “Yuuji.” You say a little harsher, this time grabbing his attention. 

His head snaps up, brown eyes wide as if he had been caught doing something wrong. You almost apologized, but remembered that right now you had to be harsh. It was your only means of survival. 

“Do you remember what you’re going to do?” Your head ducks down so that you’re closer to his ear, and he nods quickly, determination and trepidation on his face as you sit back upright, giving him a stern look. 

For the last couple of days, you’ve been watching old runs from previous games. How they started, what it looked like towards the middle, and how they ended. You’ve gathered that the beginning of the games is the most brutal part, seeing how everyone is still gathered around each other. 

The Cornucopia, a big-looking structure that resembles its namesake, is where all weapons, sacks of food and water, sleepgear, and anything else needed for survival are held. It’s tempting, sure, but that’s where the bloodbath takes place. When everyone hoards something surrounded by deadly tools, it’s expected that something barbaric will take place. 

From what you could tell, tributes are all arranged in a circle around the structure on pedestals. A clock counts down from a minute until they can move. If Yuuji was situated somewhere where the Cornucopia was blocking him from your vision, there was not much you could do than order him to turn around and run as fast as he could. You promised you’d find him. 

“Mhm,” he quickly nods, closing his eyes as he recites the orders you’ve drilled into his head, “If I see you, run towards you when the clock finishes up. If not, run away and hide,” he cracks open an eye as he winces, “Right?”

You realize your face is harder than usual, your frown lines more apparent. You swallow, trying to soften yourself up as you pat his hand, looking at the walls facing you to steady your mind. 

“Right.”

You feel Yuuji’s eyes bore into the side of your face, and his fingers move so that they can grasp onto yours. 

“Did you try making any allies?” He whispers, shuffling closer to you because of how cold the air is. 

You shake your head, not looking down but instead finding your stare to travel back over to where Gojo was sitting. 

Don’t you remember me?

It’s one of the only things you’ve been able to think of these past two days. 

The thing is, you know you remember him. You remember that hair and those eyes. You remember the way he carries himself. It’s a brief memory, one hidden in the back of your mind and refusing to show itself. But perhaps what’s even stranger is that he does. It couldn’t be from the first day on the trains. This memory is deep, it’s old. 

And yet you don’t have any idea where it came from. 

So you shake your head at Yuuji’s question, thinking back to your interview with Caesar as your foot taps erratically on the floor. 

“We’re each other's allies,” you murmur, still not looking away from Gojo as if prolonged staring would help jog your memory, “Remember what Martin told us?”

Yuuji doesn’t seem happy, clearly thinking that more people mean better odds of surviving, but he can’t argue with you. He slumps a little bit, looking around. 

You go to tell him something else, but your eyelids suddenly feel heavy. You wince, your head dipping, but not on your own accord. 

You can barely open your mouth before everything goes back, and you slump against your restraints. 

---

A shotgun wedding, with a ring that costs more than he gets paid in half a year, and the wedding dress he found when stalking your Pinterest. Your smile, so bright it scares the shadows from under his eyes, when you say “I do”. Your finger tracing the lines of his tattoos after your first night as a married couple.

There’s… a lot of things that flit by in his head, one after another, like recordings of a life he’s never lived.

When did he become so sappy?

It’s not like he likes you, he tells himself. You’re just better than most of his hookups. That’s why he watches with narrowed eyes when you leave, and calls when he misses you your bed, and has stopped flirting with random people. The way his name falls out of your mouth, all breathy like you’re pumping air into his lungs, doesn’t affect him.

Maybe he’s never been called “baby” in such a soft way before. Maybe he enjoys how you, and only you, run your hands through his hair after he fucks you into the mattress. Maybe naming your future children in his head is just him being pussydrunk and delirious—a true sign of how good you are.

It’s a weak defense, at best. In his heart, he knows it isn’t normal that his pulse hums your name. He won’t ever tell you, though—that’s too much. You’d run, or laugh, or deny that Sukuna Ryomen could ever fall in love with a person that isn’t himself. He’s not wired that way.

He slowly shifts towards you, pressing his chest to your warm back, his arms locking around your waist like he’s expecting you to escape when he falls asleep. He buries his face in your neck and takes a deep inhale, as if every molecule of your scent that doesn’t enter his lungs is a precious thing wasted. He presses a soft kiss there, too.

You crossed your arms and pouted. You’d been tarrying about your father’s study for the last hour, hoping he’d change his mind. But tonight, no matter how you twisted and turned your words, he seemed determined to remain unswayed.

Frankly, it was annoying you to no end. Your father had always been resolutely obstinate, but rarely when it concerned you. Every bloodsucker, far and wide, freshly turned and centuries old, knew that the King of Vampires, Sukuna, could never deny his daughter her heart’s content. You were the apple of all four of your father’s eyes, and all you had to do was simply exist.

It had been this way since the beginning. You occupied the largest wing in the castle, which was redecorated every season according to your mood, while the furniture in Sukuna’s own wing remained as permanent as the prime immortal himself, unchanging since the dawn of time. You loved roses, so Sukuna had captured employed a team of alchemists and gardeners to drape the expansive gardens with every imaginable species of the flower, and to ensure they were in perpetual bloom all year round, including winter. Whenever you attended any of your father’s audiences, it was customary to greet you first before Sukuna, and whenever you were absent, it was customary to ask after your well-being before uttering anything else. The more creative a compliment towards you that one could conceive, the more inclined Sukuna was to listen to their plights.

No request you made, however fanciful, however outrageous, was too much for Sukuna to grant. 

Except this. Except when it concerned Satoru Gojo.

“What if I bring Uraume along?” you tried again. “Certainly you won’t object to that.”

“It changes nothing. And Uraume is busy. The blood moon is less than a month away, and there is much left to be prepared for the Red Feast. Our pens are not yet fully stocked. I should like to avoid feeding our guests rat wine during the night of my daughter’s betrothal announcement.”

“Then all the more you should let me go out tonight,” you pressed. “Since, my dear father, I have yet to decide who I wish to be betrothed to.”

“Mmm, and you seem to be taking your own sweet time with it.” Sukuna raised an inquiring brow at you. “I should think a hundred years was long enough for you to find someone to your liking. And since we’re on the topic of suitors, this Zenin boy you are so insistent on meeting tonight—I was under the impression that my daughter had better tastes than that.”

“What’s wrong with Naoya?”

Sukuna did not look amused. “Only in so much as I believe him to be a waste of your time. The boy has no respect for our ways and behaves like a rabid gutter rat during hunting season. If he weren’t a Zenin, I’d have him staked out under the sun by now.”

“Well, I disagree. He’s been perfectly nice to me.”

“Everyone is nice to you, my dear. Unless they’d like to perish most painfully. And I said the boy is a waste of time, I never said he was stupid. He’s a power hungry maniac—“

“Speak for yourself, father.”

“Yes, but I am powerful. The Zenin boy merely thinks he is, in which, he is sadly mistaken. You are my only daughter. The Crown Princess of the Night. You will be the Queen of Vampires when I retire. I’d hoped you’d at least settle on someone more… amenable. Someone who delights in giving you everything as much as I do.”

“But he stirs something in me, father.” You didn’t want to say it was because Naoya gave good head. “And he’s always bringing me gifts. Like tonight. He said he has something he wants to show me, and that I won’t want to miss it.”

“There is not much difference between wanting something and pure stupidity.”

“Are you calling me stupid?”

“Far from it, but you will be if you insist on going out, which you will not. I do not wish to wake tomorrow night only to discover I am short of a daughter.”

Naturally, for someone who was used to getting everything you wanted, hearing the word ’no’ was an unusual experience. You weren’t used to it, and you certainly didn’t like it.

Your beaded slippers tapped the cold stone floor with equal persistence. You huffed. “I fail to see what’s so dangerous about this slayer. It’s all merely rumours. Surely if he’s so incompetent, then there’s nothing to be worried about Satoru Go—“

Your father’s answering growl was vicious, causing you to hesitate. The glow of the candelabras caught in all four of his ancient eyes, and you saw that his irises had deepened from a glittering crimson to icy black voids. 

“Never speak his name in these walls.” But Sukuna must have caught your slight flinch, because his tone softened immediately. He sighed, and put down the tome he was reading, finally paying you his full attention. “Ask yourself this, daughter—if there are rumours abound of a singular individual, then is there not some truth to them? Incompetent he may be, but there is a reason he is called the Six Eyes. And if he truly is as lousy as they say, then why have none of our kind managed to survive an encounter with him?”

You frowned. “That doesn’t make any sense. If no vampire has survived the Six Eyes, then who is spreading all these rumours? And how do we know they’re true?”

Sukuna watched you in silence, as impervious as the gargoyle statues carved into the castle’s exterior. His fingernails, sharpened to wicked points, rapped against the intricately carved mahogany desk before him. 

“That is a story for another day, dear daughter,” he said at last, and picked up his tome. “The only thing you need to be concerned of tonight is staying within the castle grounds. I’m certain you will find something to occupy yourself with for one night. Go torture one or two of the gardeners should it please you. But if you do feed on any of them, remember to let Uraume know so we can find a replacement.” 

He waved one of his four hands, signalling that your conversation had come to an end. 

You wanted to argue. Wanted to stomp your foot and demand he put that tome down again. But you resisted. You were smarter than that. Your father might acquiesce to most of your wishes, but he wasn’t a pushover. Whining he could take, but a tantrum you knew for a fact he wouldn’t tolerate. His default mood was already surly, and toying with his temper by showing your own was a bad way to go about it. 

No. Safer to just do it behind his back. 

Which was why the moment you left your father’s study, you announced to your servants you were going to sulk and wished to be left alone, then proceeded up to the castle’s highest tower, and leapt right out the window. 

Your eyes closed, savouring the sensation as you plummeted down and down and down. The thrill of it. And when you opened them again, you saw that the ground had nearly swallowed up the distance. You grinned.

Not yet. Not until the last seconds. 

A rise in your chest. A tingle. A beat? You clutched on to the feeling. A feeling you couldn’t name but could not resist chasing. 

Three…Two…One… the ground expanded around you.

You shifted.

Great membranous wings sprouted out your back, unfurling. Then you were soaring up and away, into the night sky, the cold winter winds beating against your colder skin, and with your back to the moon, you flew further and further away from the cliffside castle you called home, headed for the forest. 

Up here, among silence and the stars and pale, silvery light of the moon—the only light you ever knew—your breaths eased, and you could not help but wonder if this feeling was as close to what the humans described as peace. 

For vampires did not feel like humans did, yet it fascinated you so. That all it took was a beating heart to conjure an unfathomable amount of emotions, and if you dared admit, was the one thing about humans you envied. Because the thing in your chest—if you even had one—had never once moved. It was still when you were born, and would remain so for eternity.

You spotted the clearing where you were to meet Naoya, the midpoint between the castle, the Zenin Estate and the human settlements. But you remembered your father’s warning about the Six Eyes. That Satoru Gojo was on the hunt tonight. Your predator’s vision zoomed in like a magnifying glass, searching through the darkness of the trees below. 

You saw Naoya. He was in his vampire form. The idiot. Every creature of the night knew to hide their true form this close to the human settlements. No one wanted to scare their food away. If word spread that a vampire was skulking about nearby, the towns would go into lockdown, merchants would stop travelling through the forest routes, and the slayers would be deployed in droves. There would be no food for the vampires to hunt. They’d have to live off animal blood for weeks, a poor substitute compared to their usual sustenance. 

And then you realised Naoya wasn’t alone. He was kicking something on the ground. Something small and limp—

A human. 

You descended, your wings angled for a quick landing, diving into the shadows of the forest. The moment your feet touched the snow-covered ground, silent and swift, you immediately shifted into your human form. 

“What do you think you’re doing?” you hissed, not bothering to greet him. 

Naoya turned around, eyes glinting in the darkness. His arms spread out in welcome. “Finally. Took you long enough. It’s not nice to keep your betrothed waiting, princess. I was growing bored and was about to start without you.”

“You’re not my betrothed yet. And is that...“ Your eyes widened at the bloody lump of flesh, unmoving on the dirty snow. 

“Your gift. To celebrate our union.” Naoya grinned, fangs flashing. “Don’t worry, it’s alive. Barely. But still breathing. I’d never feed you expired produce.”

“Naoya, that is a child.” 

“So it is. Females are always so perceptive, aren’t they?” Naoya spared a glance at the prone body. A girl that looked not even past ten years of human age. “Go on. Have the first bite. Or we can do what we usually do—you may feed on it while I feed on that cunt of yours. You’d like that, wouldn’t you, my little slut—”

“We’re not supposed to feed on children,” you cut him off. “It’s against our rules, and the pact my father made with the first mortal king. You know this. Hunting them down this young will only dwindle our supply.”

But Naoya seemed genuinely surprised. “You’ve never tried a child before? And here I am thinking you’re not as innocent as you make yourself out to be.”

You stared at him. “How long have you been feeding on children?”

Naoya shrugged. “Long enough to know they taste better than aged blood. They’re sweeter. Fresher. Like a clear, crystal lake.” He grabbed the child, dragging its body through the slush of snow and earth before dumping it in front of you. “There’s a first time for everything, princess. Try it. You’ll never want go back to sucking aged blood once you do, trust me.”

“No,” you said, firmly. “Return it. Make it seem like an accident. If the humans find out you’ve been hunting their young, the pact will be annulled and the slayers will have free reign to invade our lands. And the child deserves to experience mortal life before becoming our prey.”

Naoya frowned. “I don’t remember you being this… opinionated. It’s unbecoming of you, princess. I think I much prefer that mouth of yours when it’s moaning my name.”

“I’m serious, Naoya. Put the child back where you found it.”

He moved then, like a fault in time, a warping of space, his preternatural speed placing him behind you before you could blink. With him in his vampire form and you in a human’s, your own reflexes were dulled, and the next thing you knew, he had his fist in your hair, his fangs grazing up your neck. 

Naoya licked the shell of your ear. “Don’t play coy, princess. If this is your way of asking me to fuck you before we feast, then it’s better to just beg.”

“I’m not playing around, you idiot.” You tried pushing him away, but his grip on you tightened, sharp fingernails digging into your skin. Good sex or not, you were starting to question why you liked him at all. “Stop. I mean it. Let go of me or else—“

But Naoya was laughing. “Or else? Or else what?”

A rip. He’d torn through the neckline of your dress. Your sleeve split down your shoulder. 

“Admit it,” he was saying. “You like it when I treat you like a disobedient slut. When I shut that mouth up with my—aargh! What the fuck?“

Naoya’s grip loosened, his head snapping around, then down.

There was something white on the ground. Something so mundane yet so out of place in the middle of a forest that it confounded you just as much.

Was that… garlic?

A rustle in the silence. 

A man was standing in the clearing, as if he’d materialised out of blank space like an apparition. The first thing you noticed was his white hair, as white as falling snow. Then his eyes…

“Ah… excuse me, miss,” he seemed to be speaking to you. In one of his gloved hands was another bulb of garlic. “I couldn’t help but notice you seem to be in a bit of a pickle. Might I offer you some assistance?”

The sudden presence of another—human? Yes, he was definitely human. You didn’t before, but you caught his scent now. Smelled the blood flowing in his veins, rich and heady and oh so sweet…

But how could a human have evaded your senses? Even Naoya, in true form, hadn’t noticed the man until he’d shown himself. It baffled you, and apparently Naoya as well, because he was as speechless as you.

You asked the only question that came to mind. “Who are you?”

The man stepped forward, moonlight casting silver lines across his face, pale and young and pretty; illuminating his tall, lithe figure, clad in the simple leathers of a village hunter. 

He cleared his throat. “Well, you see, I’m a vampire slayer. And that there, as I’m sure you are already aware, is a vampire—“ he gestured at Naoya, somewhat carelessly. “I regret to tell you this, miss, but that thing isn’t going to kiss you if that’s what you’re expecting.”

“You’re a slayer?” 

He must have thought you were rendered stupid because he spoke slower this time. “Yes, ah… I’m sure you’ve heard of the occupation. I slay vampires for a living. As in return them to dust. Vanquish them. Kill them, to put it simply.”

“You pelted me with garlic, you fool,” Naoya growled, having recovered from the man’s unexpected intrusion. “Only an imbecile would do that.”

The man’s—slayer’s—eyes, a deep entrancing blue that glowed in the darkness like the heart of a flame, settled on Naoya. “Well, it caught your attention, didn’t it? So I’d say it worked.” His tone hardened then. “And shame on you. Preying on a child and giving such a lovely lady false hope. I don’t tolerate rakes who go around breaking hearts, much less vampires. And it seems you are both.”

But Naoya was laughing. “Oh, you are hilarious. What kind of slayer confronts a vampire without holy silver? It almost makes me want to spare you out of pity, which I won’t, just so you know.”

The slayer merely grinned. “I’m not asking you to, fiend. In fact, I was actually planning on hitting you in the head again.”

His answer only amused Naoya further because he finally released you, red eyes gleaming with newfound excitement, as if he’d found a new sport.

“Is that so?” Naoya bared his fangs, tongue licking the tip. “Because my suggestion is that you’d better run, slayer. Run fast, and run far. I’m feeling generous so I’ll count to ten, and when I catch you, your throat will no longer be attached to your head.”

To your surprise, the slayer laughed right back. “I wouldn’t bother counting if I were you. I might not use swords, but I’ll have you know I’m quite fast.” He crooked his fingers at Naoya. “Come on, try me.”

Everything in your mind snapped into place then. The man’s sudden appearance. That he called himself a slayer. The garlic. That he wasn’t intimidated by Naoya even without a holy weapon. Your father’s countless lectures swam in your head, solidifying into the only plausible conclusion you now could not deny. 

This man—he was no ordinary slayer. 

You spun to warn Naoya. To tell him to run. But it was too late. He’d already moved, and it was like he’d stretched through the clearing in a single step, no longer next to you but where the slayer stood— 

Or had been standing.

You could have sworn upon your entire undead existence that the slayer hadn’t so much as twitched a muscle. But what you saw with your own eyes was irrefutable. He was there one moment, and then he was simply… not. He’d disappeared like a ghost—no, that wasn’t right. He’d swerved, like a gust of wind, and before Naoya’s fangs could bite into nothing, the slayer was already behind him.

“Watch out!” You shouted. 

The slayer must have thought you were talking to him because he was smiling at you. “Not to worry, my lady. I promise you I have quite a lot of experience in handling vampires—“ Then he did it again, moving as the air moved, feinting another one of Naoya’s deadly slashes. “Not as much as other slayers, come to think of it. Perhaps a higher kill count, though I can’t be sure. Still, quality is better than quantity, that’s what Suguru always told me. Then again, he liked to think he was very profound…”

He continued like this, rambling on and on while he dodged every attack Naoya threw at him.  No matter what Naoya did, no matter how many times he tried, clawing and slashing and pouncing, he couldn’t touch the slayer. Not even a brush. And this only incensed him further. 

“You dare play tricks on me?” Naoya growled, furious, but you could tell he was growing tired. His movements were lagging. “No human can possibly move this quickly.”

Perhaps it was your imagination, but the slayer’s impossible blue eyes seemed to glow brighter. “My gratitudes for the compliment. For that, you get a present.”

It took less than a blink—not even—for the slayer’s fist to connect, fingers splayed as he smashed the garlic he’d been holding this whole time in Naoya’s face. Another hand was wrapped around Naoya’s neck in a chokehold, lifting him off his feet for half a second before slamming him onto the ground. 

Naoya was gasping now. The gasps turned into splutters as the slayer’s boot came down on his face, smooshing the garlic into mush.

“Take—her—princess…”

The slayer put a hand to his ear, but eased the pressure of his boot slightly. “I’m sorry, what was that? You know, it’s rude to speak with your mouth full.”

Naoya heaved, one hand struggling to claw at the slayers leather boot, to no avail, while the other feebly pointed a finger in your direction. “S-spare me—you can have her… she’s the princess...“

Your eyes widened, your body growing rigid. 

Oh, that bastard. He would sell you out to save himself. You suddenly regretted you’d ever entertained him as a suitor at all. 

“Princess?” The slayer lifted a brow, but his boot was twisting into Naoya’s face once more as those blue eyes glanced your way, sparking your veins, yet you never felt your blood turn so cold as it did now. 

“I…” Your mind screamed at you to run. To shift into your winged form and hurtle into the sky. But the compounding thought of your father’s words and the sight before you—Naoya flailing in the snow, the slayer’s unnatural speed, those blue eyes… your muscles were frozen in place, as if dreading the thought of moving. 

“My lady, you never mentioned you were royalty,” the slayer said, perhaps a little awestruck. “You should have said so. I would have addressed you with your proper title. I mean, I knew you weren’t from the villages, because I would have noticed if someone as beautiful as you—ah… my apologies, now I sound like a cad. But you are, ah, that is to say, beautiful. Very much so—“ He paused, glancing down briefly. “Excuse me, Your Highness. I’m just going to…”

He stomped on Naoya’s face again. And again. And again. And you watched in horror as a wet crack pierced through the clearing.

Naoya went still.

“Again, I apologise,” the slayer said, finally removing his now bloody boot off your former suitor. “You shouldn’t have to see that. But I should warn you not to go near it since it’s still alive. There are only two proven methods to completely vanquish a vampire—holy silver and sunlight. Don’t be afraid though, I might not have any silver on me but I have a way to make sure this one won’t regenerate before—“

“You’re—“ you found your voice at last. “You’re the Six Eyes.”

The slayer grinned, and it took everything in you to keep from turning on your heels and running as he approached you.

“At your service.” He bowed, then took your hand and kissed the back of it. “And it’s Satoru, Your Highness. Satoru Gojo.” He winked. “Now, let’s get you and that child home, shall we?”

He was prattling again.

“There, all done. I made this one extra deep, so I don’t think it will be able to crawl out any time soon. Well, I guess it could sprout wings, but I made sure to break all its bones just in case. Besides, I doubt it will wake up until sunrise, so it doesn’t matter since it will be fried to a crisp…”

You stared into the mouth of the pit, in which Naoya had been tossed, his body swallowed by darkness. A part of you almost felt bad for him, but then again, he did try to offer you up on a platter to save his own sorry ass. 

The Six Eyes—Satoru Gojo—dusted his gloved hands, cheerfully, as if he’d finished tending his garden and not condemning one of your kind to dust. “You’re very lucky this one’s quite dense, Your Highness. The only reason I managed to track you down was because it was dumb enough to assume its vampire form this close to the borders. And to think, I was about to take a nap and miss out on meeting the most beautiful person I’ve ever—”

“Are there more of these pits around the area?”

“Huh? Oh, yes. Took some time to dig them all,” he said, a little too proudly. “They’re quite effective, if I do say so myself. Helps to keep the vamps trapped since there’s only one of me, and I can’t be out patrolling all the time. I installed spikes at the bottom, too. Holds them in place until either me or the sun arrives, whichever comes first.”

You didn’t know if you were more horrified or impressed with his methods. They were odd, certainly unorthodox. Every slayer you’d encountered previously (and killed, but he didn’t need to know that) treated a silver sword like their third leg, brandishing and poking the weapon in your face, desperate to impale you with it.

But not the Six Eyes. Not Satoru Gojo. Apparently, he preferred throwing root vegetables and digging holes in the ground. 

So this was what the rumours meant about him being incompetent but effective. All this while, you’d assumed he was just some dunce with luck on his side. But you knew better now. There was nothing lucky about that incredible reflex—Naoya’s speed was unrivalled among vampires, but the way Satoru Gojo had so easily taken him down, as if he was swatting a fly… no mere mortal would ever be able to accomplish such a feat.

“I have a question, Six Eyes” you said, trying not to sound as though you were prying. But you had to know more about him. For your own survival, of course.

“Anything, Your Highness. All you have to do is ask.” He’d picked up the child and was gently cradling its mousy-looking body, and the sight of it—of something so fragile, so helpless, in his arms—you couldn’t help but wonder what it would feel like if it was you instead. “You are under my protection from now on. Until I return you safely to your home, whatever you wish, whatever you desire, I am at your disposal.”

You would have found it charming, if it weren’t for the fact that you were the very creature he hunted. 

“Are you—“ There was no way around it except to put it plainly. “Are you human?”

He seemed genuinely taken aback by this. Perhaps slightly insulted—no, that was not it. You saw his brows furrow, his smile fall away. Almost as if he was…

“Have I given you cause to be afraid of me?” His concerned tone confirmed it. “Do you distrust my nature? Because I swear upon heaven and hell that my blood is mortal. I slay creatures of the night. I’d never hurt you, Your Highness. Please believe me. May lightning strike me dead if I—“

“Well, it’s just that what you did to Nao—that vampire—I’ve never seen a human move that fast.”

“Oh, you mean my excellent perception.” Like a turning of the page, he was back to smiling. “Why didn’t you just ask? It’s not a secret. Not really. I’ll tell you all about it if you want. Takes an hour to reach the nearest village, so we have plenty of time. I’ll drop the child off first and then escort you back to—ah, which kingdom did you say you’re from?”

You stiffened. “Kingdom?” You pointed in a random direction. “It’s that way.”

“Are you sure? It’s all mountains over on that side.”

“Ah… I’m not sure. I thought it was. I’m not very good at… maps.”

“The closest kingdom that way would be where Poenari Castle is. Come to think of it, I did once hear the princess there was renowned for her beauty, but I’ve never been—

“Yes, that’s the one,” you said, quickly. If he’d never seen the place before, then it would make it easier to fabricate a story until you found a way to escape him. 

And you would have to do it soon. In a few hours, to be precise. Before the sun rose and you were turned to dust.

But for the time being, your immediate problem was Satoru Gojo and his insistence on becoming your knight in shining armour. You were not unaware that you were now probably the only vampire to have survived an encounter with the Six Eyes. A disturbing thought, since you were currently stuck with him, and the only thing saving you was your very, very wise decision to stay in your human form. 

“Great! Then we’d better get moving,” he said, and began leading the way, leaving you with no choice but to follow him further away from the vampire territories. “It’s going to take us at least six days’ travel to Poenari Castle."

You halted.

Six days? You didn't have six days. You didn't even have six hours.

"We’ll stock up on supplies and hire a carriage in the village. Can’t have a princess travelling on foot the whole way—“

“I—I can’t go to the village.”

He stopped, and gave you a confused look. “Why not? Are you tired? Are you hurt? Did that vampire bite you somewhere I didn’t see?”

“It’s just—well, the thing is—“ You racked your brain for any plausible excuse, pulling up whatever you could recall about New Transylvania’s human settlements, whatever your father had told you about them. But all you could remember was that it had its own castle, not so different from your own…

A castle. With a king and a queen. And more importantly, there was a prince…

An idea started to form. 

“Well, you see, I can’t go to the village because I don’t want the prince finding out my whereabouts,” you said before you could regret it. “I’m betrothed to him. I—I ran away. I got lost. A vampire found me. Then you came along.”

You felt a strange hammering in your chest when he didn’t reply immediately. When all he did was just look at you with those bewitching blue eyes, and it was as if he had put you under a spell. Was this what humans felt like when vampires compelled them? Because you couldn’t look away either.

Anger. Hatred. Fear. Regret. Humans were so simple to read, even when they thought they were hiding it. But with the Six Eyes, you only had more questions. Had you convinced him? Did he believe you? Or could he tell you were lying? It only drew you in deeper.

But then he was nodding. “Well, that explains everything,” he said at last. “I was actually wondering what a princess from a far away kingdom was doing in the middle of a forest at night in New Transylvania, but I thought it impolite to ask.” He turned sharply in another direction. “Change of plans. No village. We’re heading this way now.”

You hesitated. “Where are you taking me?”

Satoru Gojo’s smile widened. “To my home, of course. I’m guessing you need a place to hide, am I right? And contrary to what everyone believes, I don’t actually live in the trees.”

You should have just gone to the village. 

Now you were stuck in the dining room of a decaying manor, alone with a vampire slayer, trying not to grimace as a bowl of what looked harrowingly similar to sludge was placed on the long table. Thick and brown and steaming. Not so different from the stuff Uraume fed to the humans in your castle’s pens.

And the smell—it was odious. It made you want to gag. But the last thing you wanted to do was insult the Six Eyes. 

“Is something wrong with the stew, Your Highness?”

Your face must have shown it because he’d stopped stirring his own bowl. 

“No, not at all.” You smiled, tightly. “It’s just that… I’m not very hungry right now.”

Unfortunately, your stomach chose that moment to betray you, a growl echoing throughout the silence of the dining room. 

The corners of his eyes crinkled upwards. He pressed his lips together, as if trying to keep a straight face, and perhaps, for the first time, your cheeks warmed.

“I know it’s not on par with the kind of fare you’re used to," he said. "But I promise you it’s not as bad as it looks. You must have been out in the cold for hours. A little nourishment will make you feel better. At least take a few bites before you retire for the night.”

Bite. What you’d really like to bite was him. You hadn’t fed the whole night, and it didn’t help that his scent was very, very appealing. Such as humans had different tastes in the food they ate, vampires, too, had their own preferences. Your father favoured bitter blood, with a healthy dose of misery and suffering. Naoya—before you knew he preyed on children—always took his blood young, barely cross the coming of age. And as for you—

There was no blood that smelled as exquisite as what was flowing in Satoru Gojo’s veins.

You tried not to think about how delicious his neck looked, and forced yourself to pick up your spoon. You skimmed the surface of the stew, avoiding the dubious chunks bobbing about, brought it to your mouth, and took a very, very tiny sip.

It was horrendous. You were better off eating rat shit.

With every five scoops he took, you made yourself take one, swallowing down each mouthful with so much force that it must have looked like torture, because he was grinning. 

You frowned. “Do you find me funny, Six Eyes?”

He chuckled, and leaned slightly forward. “More entertaining than funny, I assure you, Your Highness. And please, it’s Satoru. Only dead things call me Six Eyes.”

You didn’t miss the irony of it. “Right… Satoru—so, do you live here alone?”

“Not exactly,” he said. “There’s my little witch boy, Megumi. But he comes and goes whenever he pleases. Unless I need him for a job, he mostly boils grass and sells them as love potions in the villages.”

You counted your lucky stars. Apart from this Megumi fellow, the only occupants here were Satoru and the child he’d left sleeping in one of the rooms. That should make it easy for you to escape this creepy estate—and creepy it was, even for an immortal predator such as yourself. Unlike the candle-lit halls of your own castle, this place was the epitome of doom and gloom. Barren. Mottled. Inside, the cold stone walls were thick with shadows, the dusty furniture like forgotten skeletons. The grounds surrounding the manor house were not much better, resembling a graveyard for dead leaves and brambles, surrounded by towering iron fences, affixed with spikes at the top.

Thank Lucifer you had wings. You’d wait until he retired for the night, and then make your escape.

You steeled yourself, and finished the foul stew. You had a couple of hours left until sunrise. If you hurried, you’d be able to reach your castle before you were reduced to corpse dust. 

“Thank you for the meal,” you said, standing. “If it’s alright, I’d like to rest now. Tonight’s… adventures have left me positively exhausted.”

“Of course, of course.” He rushed to his feet, and began leading the way out the dining room and up a creaking grand staircase to a hall full of doors. He stopped at one of them, and opened it, standing aside for you to enter. “The best room for the best—ah… never mind. After you, Your Highness.”

As you squeezed past him, this close, all your thoughts narrowed on how good he smelled, and a particularly delicious spot just below his ear. 

Satoru’s voice lowered, his previously circumspect manner switching like the sudden turning of tides to something that sprung heated coils below your stomach. “You’re staring, Your Highness,” he said, those blue eyes fixed on you. “Do I have something on my neck?”

You regretted flinching. “What? N-no. Nothing. I wasn’t…” your voice trailed off. You cleared your throat, and quickly put as much distance between yourself and him as possible. “Well, good night. And you don’t have to call me Your Highness.”

“Oh?” Satoru leaned his broad frame against the door like a very tempting feast. Your empty stomach fluttered. “Then what should I call you?”

“I’m sure you’ll think of something.” It didn’t really matter. It wasn’t as if you’d be around to hear it. “I’ll, ah, see you in the morning.”

He gave you a smile you couldn’t decipher. “I’ll be waiting, princess.”

When he finally left, you loosened the breath you’d been holding all this while. He might still be lurking around so you couldn’t leave just yet. 

Left with time to kill, you began pacing around the surprisingly lavish room. It had been cleaned out, almost like Satoru had expected to have guests. Perhaps this was where he usually slept, and was courteous enough to relinquish it to you for the night. But he was also courteous enough to kill Naoya, so you should stop thinking about him. 

You didn’t know how long you waited, but you deemed it long enough that he was most likely sleeping by now. The bedroom’s window was too small for you to squeeze through, which left you with no choice but to slowly—ever so slowly—turn the knob and inch the door slightly ajar.

The yawning silence of the hallway greeted you as you peeked out. Darkness had never bothered you—your vision was built for it. You slipped out of the room, wincing as the door creaked shut behind you. 

Your feet made no sound as you hurried past the stained glass arches and down the grand staircase, taking two steps at a time. Thankfully, some of your vampiric abilities were still ingrained in human form—night vision, superior stealth—and you reached the carved double doors of the manor’s entrance without any trouble. 

Your hands reached for the dull brass handles when a loud yawn broke through the silence.

You spun, your chest seizing, and found the child Naoya had almost beaten to death standing by a small archway, looking very much alive.

The child yawned again. “About time. I was getting sick of standing around.”

You frowned. “I’m going for a stroll. Go back to sleep, child.”

“A stroll?” A familiar voice spoke then. A voice that froze your entire body stiff. “In the middle of the night? How odd you are, princess.”

Out of the shadows in the archway, like a spectre that hadn’t been there before, stepped Satoru Gojo.

He smiled. “Would you like some company? I’m wide awake, as you can see, and Megumi here doesn’t mind. We’ll bring him along just in case.”

Megumi? Your eyes darted to the child, who grumbled inaudibly. He knew the child? And Megumi was a… he?

Satoru extended an arm towards you. “So, what do you say, princess? It will be safer with the both of us. Who knows what manner of creature might be lurking in the bushes.” His teeth flashed in the most wicked way. “Creatures like you, for example.”

A heaviness seeped into your muscles, calcifying your bones. You couldn’t feel your legs. Neither could you tear your eyes away from his penetrating blue gaze. 

“You know…” your voice was barely audible. If there was ever a good time for your body to move, it was now. But you were trapped. Paralysed. “You’ve known the whole time.”

“I can never understand why you vampires like to think I’m an idiot. Of course I know.” He lifted a finger. “One, my eyes can see through anything. Excellent perception, remember? And no human alive can be as beauti—“ He stopped, as if he’d almost given something away. “Forget number two. You get my point.”

“If you’re going to explain your whole plan, then hurry up,” said Megumi. “I want to go back to sleep.”

Plan? They had a plan?

“You’re ruining the suspense, darling Megumi. I was going to let her—it—ponder for awhile longer before telling her—it—that we’ve been tracking its movements for quite some time now. Weeks, actually. That everything was fabricated and we used you as bait, and it was no coincidence that you were almost eaten by her former lover, which, of course, I’d never let happen to you, my darling Megumi.”

Megumi scoffed. “Not like she’s going to stay to hear the whole story.” He pointed at you. “See, she’s so bored she’s already leaving.”

You didn’t bother answering and threw open the double doors. There was no besting the Six Eyes in a fight, so the only other option was to run. You had to shift into your wings and get as high up as possible before he could catch you. If there was one thing you were sure of, it was that he couldn’t fly. 

Dark open skies stretched above you, and without hesitation, you called forth your wings. 

Nothing happened. 

You were still in human form. 

A lazy tapping of boots followed behind you. 

“Ah… right.” Satoru shrugged, too casually. “I forgot to mention that we might have put something in your stew. A spell, to be exact. Well, Megumi did—not me. But I told him to. Did I mention he’s a witch? So I wouldn’t bother with trying to flap those wings.”

Your lungs hollowed out, and for the first time, you understood what fear truly meant, and it was consuming.

But you were your father’s daughter. The Crown Princess of the Night. If this was to be your end, you would face it with dignity. You refused to die a grovelling fool.

“Fine. You win,” you spat at him, but stood your ground, holding your head high. “If you’re going to kill me, then just do it.”

Satoru raised a brow. “What? Oh no, no, no. You’ve mistaken me. You’re my esteemed guest. I’m not going to kill you… yet. That would certainly do me no favours with your father. And I do so want to meet him again.”

It dawned on you then—the plan he orchestrated, your capture—the real target had never been you. 

The Six Eyes was after the King of Vampires. 

Your voice turned venomous. There was no point in hiding your true nature. Not anymore. “You really are a fool if you believe my father will be so easily defeated.”

Satoru answered with his own grin. “Oh, I don’t believe. I know. Because I now have, in my possession, the only thing Sukuna treasures most in his entire undead existence. And I have no doubt he’ll want it back… most desperately.” He gave you a mocking bow. “A warm welcome, Your Most Immortal Highness. You’re stuck here with us whether you like it or not, so I urge you to make yourself at home.”

You were hungry. 

There was nothing but rodents. Small mice squeaking in the dim corners of the halls, and big, fat rats scurrying about in the barren larder, picking on scraps of rotten vegetables. 

But you would not stoop so low… not until you had to. Three nights had passed since your last feed, and you knew that the Six Eyes knew vampires could technically survive without blood, though they’d be immensely weakened, reduced to a husk—a withered shell of themselves, like a dried prune. But they wouldn’t die. Not truly. 

He was starving you on purpose. The bastard. And perhaps it was even more wicked that he gave you free reign to wander about the manor estate as you pleased, yet denied you of the very sustenance you craved. 

And worst of all? The most delicious blood you’d ever smelled was flowing in the veins of the very man who held you hostage. It seemed you were not only a captive, but captivated with the thought of biting him.

Your skin was starting to itch. The first sign of withdrawal. You’d never experienced it before—being a princess and all that—but it seemed like you were experiencing a lot of firsts as of late. None of them particularly enjoyable. 

You stomped through the garden, as if the snow you crushed underneath your slippers were to be blamed for your current predicament. Dirt clung to the hem of your dress, torn fabric hanging off and exposing your shoulder to the chilly, midnight air. But you’d rather your own clothes than the unsightly peasant’s sack one of them—the Six Eyes or the child—had left outside your bedroom door for you to change into. 

Not wanting to sequester yourself in the manor and breathe the same air as Satoru Gojo—and his maddening scent—you’d come out to the gardens the moment the sun disappeared, only returning to lock yourself in your room again right before dawn. At first, you’d wondered why you weren’t followed. Surely they’d anticipate you would risk the spikes and try to climb over the fence. Your suspicions were soon confirmed when you realised that the fences surrounding the estate had simply… vanished.

And in replacement was an infinite sea of snow, stretching on and on and around the perimeter of the estate. White and never-ending. That little witch boy must have put some kind of enchantment on this place. Whenever you tried to cross what you remembered was the threshold between the property and the outside world, it was like walking in loops, because you’d just pop back out a few steps behind. 

You wandered through the statue garden, where a collection of stern, moss-covered figures stared down at you, as if they were passing judgement on you for disobeying your father, and now you were paying the price for that stupidity.  

“Searching for stray cats to feed on, princess?”

Satoru Gojo stepped out from behind a faceless statue, as if he’d materialised out of thin air. 

You scowled at him. “What do you want?”

He chuckled. “Not so decorous anymore, are you, princess? I was just dropping by to check on how my lovely guest is faring—“

“I’ll fare better when you let me leave this forsaken place.”

“Come now, it’s not that bad. Haven’t I provided you with every comfort? You have a nice room, you can go about the estate as you please, do whatever you wish. Why, I don’t think I’ve treated any vampire this graciously before—well, not that it ever gets to that point since they would already be dead. Like that lover of yours.”

“Stop calling him that. He’s not my lover,” you snapped. “And if you’re here to merely goad me on, then do kindly fuck off. I don’t wish to spend the rest of my walk listening to your inane drivelling.”

“Still pissy, I see, which means you’re doing more than fine.” He shrugged. “Shame. I was going to offer you some blood, but since you’re so energised, I guess you won’t be needing it.”

“If you’re slicing up rats to offer to me, then you can go feed it up your—“

“Rats? Who said anything about rats? You think I don’t know creatures like you are only sustained with one type of blood?”

“You think I’d believe you would draw blood from a human to feed me?”

“Well, I wouldn’t need to draw blood from anyone. I’d just let you take a bite.”

You couldn’t tell if he was being serious. “And who is this person? A condemned prisoner you bought off the gallows? I don’t drink tainted blood.”

“Heavens, no. I would never be so crude, princess. Not even when I slay you…eventually.”

Your eyes narrowed. “Then what kind of human is it?”

“Only the best kind.” His grin widened. “Me, of course.”

Your throat bobbed, and worse, he noticed. He propped himself against the edge of the statue’s pedestal, and tilted his head aside. 

“This is what you’ve been staring at, am I right?” He traced a finger down the side of his neck, taunting. Unravelling the firm grip you had on your self control from the inside out in a matter of seconds. 

You dug your toes into the sharp points of your slippers, refusing to lose any more composure. “How do I know you’re not lying?”

“Why would I? There’s no reason to. I need you looking alive and well for when your father comes to collect you. That is, after he agrees to my demands, which will take some time. It seems being alive for centuries can turn one dreadfully stubborn. Though, I do have something I’d like you to do for me first…”

 He reached into his pocket, and pulled out a small vial filled with shimmering blue liquid.

“It’s the same stuff we put into your stew,” he said, holding up the vial for you to better see. “The previous spell should be wearing off, and we can’t have you suddenly sprouting wings. I’m going to need you to drink it before you drink me. ”

A bargain. You should have known his offer came with conditions. And could it even be called manipulation if he wasn’t trying to hide it?

Whether you accepted or not, the outcome would be the same. You’d remain stuck here. It was either starve and turn into a prune, or take the potion and feed on him. Whichever you chose, you still wouldn’t have your wings.

Why make it harder, was what you convinced yourself as you trudged over and snatched the vial, uncorked it, and poured it down your throat, all the while glaring at him. 

“There. That wasn’t so bad, was it?” He said, catching the empty vial you flung back at him, tossing it aside. He patted his lap. “Come here, princess. Time for your reward.”

The annoying tug in your chest piqued again, progressing to a thunderous pounding as you approached, and lowered yourself onto him.

This close—touching—the heady scent of him engulfed you. Irresistible. Intoxicating. 

But you weren’t about to let him reduce you to a mewling buffoon. He’d had the upper hand for long enough. You were born an apex predator. You held the uncontested throne at the peak of the foodchain.

And you would show him exactly how you treated your prey. 

You smiled, and placed your hands on him, sliding them down the solid plain of his chest. Your voice lowered to a soft melody. “There’s something I’ve been wondering about, and I think you can help me out with it, Satoru…”

You sensed his pulse quicken, but those blue eyes remained fixed on you in calm amusement. “Oh? Now I’m curious. As I’ve said before, all you have to do is ask. Though it doesn’t mean you’ll get the answer you’re hoping for.”

Your hand moved up to his undeniably stunning face, tracing the sharp line of his jaw. “I couldn’t help but notice that you find me beautiful. Is it true? Do I appeal to you?”

A corner of his lips curved upwards. “Are you trying to compel me, princess? If so, you need not bother. I’ll simply tell you that while I may find you very, very attractive, I will never forget what you are. What you and your kind do to humans. What your true nature is—” the glimmer in his eyes darkened. “Cold. Heartless. A stain on this world. A creature that should be sent back to the deepest pits of the underworld.”

You felt something sharp dig into the side of your waist, and looked down.

Silver glinted back at you, pale moonlight reflecting off the polished blade.

“A knife?” You laughed. “Are you flirting with me? How romantic.”

He wound an arm around you, locking you in place against the blade’s tip.

“Thrilling, no?” He smirked. “Wouldn’t want you sucking me dry the first time when we have so many more nights to spend like this.”

Oh, he was good. Too good. You’d never met a human who resisted your compulsion this effectively, and at the same time, compelled you right back. 

But two could play his game. 

Your hand trailed to the back of his neck, fingers weaving into his soft, snowy hair. “Clearly, Satoru, you have never been bitten before. Because you wouldn’t be saying that to me if you had. Because instead, you’d be begging me to drain you to a corpse.” 

You fisted his hair, and yanked his head aside. Your lips grazed up the length of his delectable neck.

“Are you ready, Six Eyes?” you whispered. “If there’s one thing I can promise you, it’s that this will be your awakening, and your biggest regret.”

That delicious pulse of his raced under his skin. But he merely scoffed, “Do your best, princess.”

You parted your lips, and what was previously blunt canine teeth started to elongate, sharpening into two pin-prick points. 

And finally, your fangs sunk into his flesh. 

The taste of him—it decimated the world around you. There was no before. There was no after. Only the overwhelming high that floated inside and through you. An inexplicable, devastating pleasure that gushed down your throat and drummed through every fibre of your being. 

If such a thing as heaven existed, then it was him. 

A soft groan. His grip on your waist tightened. “This is—fuck….”

You gulped down more of him, helpless to the ultimate bliss that consumed you. The better he felt, the more you wanted. More than this. More than blood. You wanted everything.

All of him.

Still gripping his hair, you slid your free hand back down his chest, and then further down, and down some more, until you felt him—the thick, straining length of him, hard against your palm. 

Another groan escaped him, louder this time, as you rubbed him through the fabric of his breeches. And the sound he made…it unravelled you, just as much as you knew you were unravelling him. You wanted to hear him again. You could hear him forever.

“Don’t...” His voice had deepened to a slow lull as you increased both the pressure of your hand and your mouth on his neck. “Oh god—yes…”

A muffled crunch. Something heavy had fallen on the snow, and you knew it was his knife. Then his hands were on you, ripping your dress in half down the neckline. 

Icy winds kissed your cold skin, and then his hand was on your breast, the other underneath your skirt, dragging up and up and dipping between the apex of your thighs. 

You moaned, a stream of blood leaking down the side of your mouth, as his warm fingers met what you couldn’t hide, sliding up the centre of your slick folds. 

Never—never before had anyone made you lose yourself like this. Not Naoya. Not all your past suitors. And for a human to—how was he even moving? He was supposed to be pliant. Limp. A puddle of mush under your thrall. 

Instead, your moans grew louder as his fingers worked you in broad strokes. Your feeding grew careless, more blood spilling out and smearing around your mouth. 

You would eat him alive. You would—

You released the fastening on his breeches, tugging the strings loose.

His breath hitched. “What are you—“

You unlatched, your fangs receding back into teeth as you found his gaze. And in his eyes, you saw a war. A collision of heaven and hell. Temptation and sin. The unmistakable glaze of lust, and perhaps, something more. 

“Hush, Satoru,” you said, placing a finger on his lips. Licking his blood off your own. “I’m not done yet.”

You pulled away, and bent on your knees before him. You yanked his breeches down further, freeing his cock—thick and flushed and hard enough to ache. It was a beast.

And damn propriety, you needed all of it. Now.

You pressed your lips to his tip, and licked him. Licked at the beads of moisture seeping out his slit, and then took him in your mouth, and sucked.

“God, I—you’re… fuck it.” He let out a low, guttural groan. His fingers dived into your hair. He seemed to have collected enough of himself, because his voice steadied. “You want me this bad, princess? You can have me.”

You felt the rough tug of his fists in your hair, gripping you so tight your couldn’t move on your own accord. Then he was shoving the full length of him down your throat. 

You gagged, constricting around his thickness that filled you entirely. Your hands clutched onto his hips for purchase, eyes shuttering as he manoeuvred your head to pump you full of him, right up to the hilt. 

“I will vanquish you,” he said. “One day. This, I swear. But today, I will do it with my cock.”

In one swift motion, he pulled out. The next thing you knew, you were bent facing the statue, hands on the cracked pedestal as he lifted your skirt, and plunged two fingers into you. 

It was—your mind blanked.

You cried out as he drove into you, so deep, so unforgiving, his fingers curling just right, as if he knew the exact way to break you apart. 

“So wet, princess,” he murmured, breath ghosting your ear. “And all I did was bleed for you.”

You didn’t get the chance to retort. His fingers thrust again, harder, obscene sounds spilling from the tight clutch of your body. Every pump made your knees buckle, every curl of his knuckles tore another strangled moan from your throat.

His other hand slid up your spine, fingers trailing your exposed skin until they closed around the back of your neck, making you arch for him like you existed for nothing else.

He pressed his lips to the shell of your ear. “You’re going to come on my fingers,” he said, voice quiet as the knife he hadn’t bothered retrieving. “And then I’m going to fuck you. Right here. In front of all my stone-faced ancestors. Let them watch your fall from grace.”

You should snarl. You should spit in his face.

Instead, you rocked back on his fingers like a starving creature chasing a high.

Because that was what he was—your undoing. The deadly storm you couldn’t help but be drawn into. 

“Look at you,” he whispered, and there was a softness in his tone that didn’t match with the words he spoke. “Princess of the Night, losing herself on a human’s hand. If there’s ever a sight I shall remember, it is this…”

He shoved his fingers deeper. You gasped as he curved inside you, so perfectly, dragging a sound from your throat you didn’t recognise, and you shattered, a brutal climax consuming you so fully you couldn’t think past the blinding stars in your vision. 

He withdrew his fingers, making you shudder at the sudden emptiness—only for him to grab your hips, drag you back against him, and grind the hard length of his cock between your thighs, sliding along your soaked heat.

You nearly collapsed.

“Say it,” he murmured, lips dragging down your throat from behind. “Say you want me inside you.”

You heard it clearer this time. He might not be fully compelled but the aphrodisiac from your bite was still flowing inside him. But beneath the manic frenzy, hidden behind the veil of his rough words and rough hands, you didn’t miss it… his desire. His desperation. For you. 

So you spoke what he couldn’t bring himself to say, your voice spilling into the night like a confession.

Not a plea. A recognition. 

“I want you, Satoru… I can’t help it.”

A hitch in his breath. A tremor in his grip. A ripple of unseen power, stirring like a beast awakened.

“You—” his voice frayed. “You’re—fuck.”

He couldn’t even finish the sentence as he twisted you around to lift you up, legs straddling him, and backed you up against the statue, pinning you tight against unyielding stone. 

Yours mouths crashed together, a clash of tongue and teeth, the leash barely restraining the both of you snapping at last. Your hands were on him. His hands were on you. A melding of fire and ice, consuming one another with no end. 

And with his tongue filling your mouth, he dropped you down on his cock. 

You moaned into him, feeling him go deeper, and deeper still. Until you felt him everywhere. In your bones, in your breath. In the frantic, traitorous flutter you barely recognised as a pulse. 

You shouldn’t feel like this. You shouldn’t feel at all. Not for a human. Not for a slayer. Not for him. What you thought was hunger for his blood was—

He thrusted into you again, and you lost your train of thought. All that you were narrowed on the way his cock was stretching you out, so exquisitely, that you could only clench harder around him. As though your body had decided on its own that he belonged there.

“Why do you—” Satoru bit out, only to choke on a groan as your body clamped around him again like a vice. “Why the hell does this—why must you feel so fucking good—”

Eyes heavy-lidded, you peered up to find his gaze fixed on you. An incandescent blue that overwhelmed you, his pupil blown wide, hair tousled from your grip, dark red smears painted all over his neck.

And you realised what he already had. That he was ruined for you just as much as you were for him.

“You shouldn’t fit me like this.” His lips brushed against yours, so tender it jarred you. “You shouldn’t fit like you were made for me…”

A crackle in the air. A surge of—something bigger… ancient. Something inevitable—coiling between and around your bodies. Humming under your skin. Vibrating through your blood. Like a thread pulled taut. A door the both of you hadn’t meant to open.

Something binding.

Something was wrong. 

Your kind didn’t pull. Your kind didn’t bind. Your kind didn’t—

Then Satoru was laughing. An incredulous, bitter laugh. “Oh, this is cruel... fate just loves to fuck with me.”

Before you could form a reply, he was fucking into you again. Harder this time. Relentless. A man possessed. Your fingers dug into his back, clawing against his tunic. 

“S-Satoru—ahn!” You cried out his name. Over and over again as he impaled you, each deep, savage thrust obliterating your mind to dust. Ripping your soul from your body. 

Release barrelled through you as he pushed you over the edge. A bottomless freefall that wiped your mind clean of anything save the explosive rush encompassing you in its totality.  Then you felt him, warm and spilling into you with a final thrust. 

But you didn’t let go. Neither did he. Your mouths found each other again, moving in a rhythm of pure instinct, long and slow, deep and searching for the very thing you could not yet name. 

If you could, you would stay like this forever, with him buried inside you and the heat of his caresses against your tongue. Wrapped in his arms until your bodies became one. 

And for the first time, you were not cold. 

Then Satoru was pulling away.

Gently, he set you back down, and picked up his coat you just now noticed was lying in the snow. He threw it around your shoulders and pulled it closed, the heavy fabric settling over your bare chest where your dress hung in tatters.

He stepped back, and released a heavy breath. 

“Go home, princess,” he said. 

You didn’t think you heard him right. “You’re—you’re letting me leave?”

“There’s a vial in your right pocket.” He gestured at his coat around you. “It cancels out any spell’s effects. I was going to use it if you had succeeded in compelling me, but I guess you’ll need those wings if you want to make it back before sunrise. Megumi’s barrier enchantment answers to my will, so you should be able to cross the threshold now. Besides, I’d advice against walking—I dug up a lot of pits around the area.”

You stared at him. 

He was serious. The look on his face confirmed it, for it was a look you could only recognise as utter defeat. After everything—your capture, his plan to lure your father, his repeated threats to kill you—he would just…send you off?

“Why?” you asked.

But Satoru was already retreating. He laughed, as if he couldn’t believe it himself. “Now there’s a question that won’t do you any good if I answer.”

You watched him head back in the direction of his miserable, decaying manor. 

Your feet moved before you could think.

“Wait—“ you called out. Saw him hesitate. “What if—what if I stayed?”

His shoulders tensed, but he didn’t turn around. His reply came too quick. To easily. “My, my, and here I am thinking you’re smarter than this.” He waved his hand, flippantly. “Game’s over, princess. Happy flapping.”

This was it. This was your cue to leave. But instead, you were moving faster, as if there was an invisible string tied around the both of you, connecting you together, and it was pulling you towards him. 

You grabbed his arm, stopping him mid-stride. Satoru’s gaze darted to you, as if he hadn’t meant to but couldn’t help it. 

You reached for his face, your palm resting softly against his cheek.

“If you’re going to lie, Satoru,” you said. “At least look at me while you do it.”

A flicker in his infinite blue eyes, and for once he looked… lost. Like he’d stopped fighting. Not surrender, but acceptance. Like he’d uncovered a terrible truth—a force he knew he could not win.

It was snowing. White flakes drifted down from the sky like a shower of feathers, as quiet as Satoru’s voice.

“Princess...” he said. “I—you’re my—“

The sky boomed. 

Not thunder.

A voice. 

A deafening roar that rattled the stars and shook the lands. The furious roar of a great beast smiting his ire down from the heavens. 

A roar you could not mistake for any other.

“Satoru Gojo!” Sukuna’s menacing bellow echoed with the wind, and the night seemed to grow darker. “You thought I wouldn’t find you first?”

Your head snapped up to the sky, at what you could not see outside Megumi’s enchanted barrier. 

You should be relieved. Your father had come to rescue you. He would kill the evil slayer and take you back to safety. 

You held Satoru tighter. 

Satoru spared one more second—just one—his eyes completely fixed on you, and in that glance, you saw his whole world. Everything he would not show you.

Then his mask slipped back on.

“Huh, daddy’s early,” Satoru said. “Doesn’t sound too happy, either.”

The sky wavered, like the billowing of an iridescent sheet, and began melting as the enchantment over the manor estate broke down bit by bit, the endless snowy plains beyond the threshold dissolving away. You saw the the iron gates, the spiked fences, the forest—

And descending from the sky—a great winged shadow that blotted out the night itself.

The ground trembled as Sukuna, all eight arms and four eyes, landed a few paces from you and Satoru. You also saw the shift in his expression. The cold, immortal fury morphing into a viciousness you had never seen in him before, as he beheld the sight of you and Satoru, bodies pressed up against each other, your hands still on his face.

But your father did not shout or snarl. He spoke, quiet as looming death, and it was worse. 

“You took my daughter. You used her to threaten me. And now you dare defile her?” Both pairs of Sukuna’s crimson eyes narrowed on Satoru. “Have you been so desperate for my attention all these years that you would resort to such unscrupulous tricks?”

Satoru scoffed, and pulled away from you, striding forward. “Well, you’re here, aren’t you? So I’d say it worked out fine. I should actually applaud you for finding me this quickly, and for breaking through my barrier. Now if you have no more use for Megumi, do inform your big, fat blood-sucking bird flying above my property to return my witch to me.”

You father’s mouth sliced upwards. “I see your perception has not dulled with age, Six Eyes. Though it will make no difference after I’m done with you.”

Another figure swooped down from the sky, pale and slender, dropping next to Sukuna. 

“My king.” Uraume bowed, and then did the same to you. “Princess. I apologise for the wait.”

But you weren’t focused on any part of Uraume other than what they were holding. Bound with ropes, a gag in his mouth, was Megumi, dangling off the ground as Uraume held him up like hunted game. 

“Has the Six Eyes agreed to the terms yet?” Uraume asked, flatly. 

“I doubt he has a choice, unless he doesn’t mind me gutting his little witch and feeding its intestines to my hellhounds.”

“Father—“ you started, but cut yourself short before you said something damning. It was bad enough that you were wearing Satoru’s coat, and your father was a man who never missed a thing…and it’s implications. “I—he didn’t hurt me.”

All four of Sukuna’s eyes slid towards you, narrowing slightly, as if he saw right through your words. “We shall talk, daughter. But later. I have a bargain I wish to strike with the Six Eyes.”

Satoru’s laugh was humourless. “Bargain? I don’t recall inviting you over for tea and cakes. I called you here to kill you, King of the Night. To fight. One on one. Slayer and blood-sucker.”

Sukuna smirked. “But the battle has already begun, slayer. And you have already lost. Why do you think my daughter hasn’t tried to run to my side? Are you so obsessed with killing me that your Six Eyes can see nothing else?”

Satoru fists clenched. “You killed Suguru.”

“He burnt my wife on a pyre.”

You froze.

Your father had never spoken about your mother before. All this time, he’d led you to believe you were the product of an affair with a low-born vampire. That he’d abandoned her but took you in and raised you as his heir. You didn’t even know her name, if she was even alive and wandering about New Transylvania while you were growing up in a castle with an army of servants at your beck and call. That she’d died. 

“You’ve been a thorn in my side, and menace to my kind for long enough, Six Eyes. It’s time to end this,” Sukuna said, the tips of his claws growing longer and longer to sharpened points. “Listen well, Satoru Gojo, because I will not be so generous if I have to repeat myself again. You will surrender yourself. Willingly. In exchange, I will not kill your little witch. You will be coming with me to my castle, where you will await your execution in front of all my subjects. Uraume will stay here until I have sent word. You will be dead by then, but the boy will be freed.”

What? Your body went rigid. No… 

Megumi bit out a muffled protest and shook his head violently. 

Your legs moved towards your father. Past Satoru, who didn’t stop you. 

“There’s no need for this,” you said. “He was going to let me go when you arrived. Leave him here. We’ll go back home. He won’t come after us, I promise.”

Sukuna glanced down at you, his gaze softening momentarily. But he said, “I do not wish to perpetuate this blood feud any longer, and the only way this ends is with his death. You should have a clean slate when you ascend the throne.”

“I don’t want you to kill him—“

“Not here, daughter. Not now.”

“But I—he and I… I think he’s—“

“Fine,” you heard Satoru say behind you. He sighed. “Have it your way. But if I see Megumi in hell, I will personally come back as a very annoying ghost and haunt you for eternity, which is a long time for someone like you.”

You spun, a horrible pit forming in your stomach. “Don’t,” you said. “You don’t have to do this. You don’t—I can’t let you—“

But Satoru wouldn’t meet your eyes. Instead, he turned to Megumi, still gagged and bound, and said, “Remember to spell the roses. Don’t let them die.” Then he yawned, and stretched his arms over his head. “Alright, shall we get moving before I fall asleep? It’s been a long night.”

The entire castle was convinced you had gone mad. 

The princess… reading? Surely you were not the same vampire they knew. The only times you’d ever stepped foot in the library was during lessons. Even then, you’d always convinced your tutors to conduct them in the gazebo, or while you strolled around your gardens, half listening to whatever they were droning on about. You had not seen a point in suffocating yourself among stale air and dusty tomes when you could be outside with the moon and stars. 

That dastardly Six Eyes must have switched you with someone else, everyone thought. Their Crown Princess was gifted in many things—lounging, frolicking, taking long milk baths and ordering the servants around—but academics was not one of them. 

So it was no wonder you had everyone perplexed, and frankly, immensely concerned, when you arrived back at the castle and proceeded to lock yourself up in the library every single night without fail. It had reached a point where you’d ordered for all of your meals to be taken there, and for a cot to be set up so you wouldn’t have to make the long trip back to your quarters when your eyes couldn’t stay open any longer. 

Because, for once in your immortal existence, you had work to do. That, and you had to preoccupy yourself with something, anything, to keep you from agonising over the fact that Satoru was rotting away in the dungeons below. 

Your father had given explicit orders that no one was to visit the Six Eyes until the Red Feast, which was to be the night of his execution. Not even to sneer or spit in his face. And no matter what you said, or how you said it, he wouldn’t change his mind. 

But tonight would be different. You’d done your research. You’d combed through every text on humans, on slayers, on the history of vampires, from ancient scripts to tomes heavier than a tombstone to the most obscure spell books, until finally finding a thread to follow. 

Slowly, laboriously, you put the pieces together. Slowly, you’d understood.

And now you would confirm it. 

When you entered your father’s chambers, you saw that the thick drapes were pulled open. He was by the window, back towards you, already dressed in ceremonial attire. The pale crimson glow of the blood moon, hanging low in the sky outside, glinted off the rubies embedded into the crown he wore. 

“We should have that talk,” you said, without greeting. He would have already guessed why you were here.

“It will have to wait.” He didn’t turn around. “The feast has begun. We have guests to entertain. You are to announce your chosen suitor tonight. The Zenin boy is dead, so I don’t expect it will be him. But it still doesn’t relieve you of the duty you must fulfil.”

“You are executing my bonded mate tonight, father. I think I deserve answers before you slice him in half.”

Sukuna stiffened slightly. “Are you certain you want to toss that term around so carelessly? Is this why you’ve taken a recent interest in books? I’d advice you not to trust everything you read.”

“Careless I may have been, but it is the truth. I cannot deny it. The same as I cannot deny an impending avalanche. He is my mate. You know this as well as I. Perhaps better.”

“And what makes you think I know anything about it?”

“Well, you should since you had one before. You had my mother. She was your mate, wasn’t she? Before you lost her. She may still be. I imagine a force this strong would be able to persist beyond death. It would explain why you’re always so sullen.”

“If you are hoping I will be persuaded into rescinding the execution, then I will have to disappoint you.”

“I am not hoping for anything. I swear to you I will do my duty and pick a suitor tonight. But first, I want answers.”

For a long while, Sukuna didn’t speak. Then he faced you, and nodded once. Barely. “Ask your questions,” he said. “And I will answer what befits answering.”

“Mother was human.”

“That is not a question.”

“And so am I. Not fully, but enough to… feel.”

“Still not a question.”

You approached him, peering up at his towering figure. “Those are facts, father. What I want to know is why—why would you deny me what completes my soul when you know what it’s like to have lost yours?”

You might have imagined it, but you thought you saw his expression soften. There and gone in less than a blink. 

“Because it is not what we are designed for,” he said. “You are a vampire, daughter. You have been raised as one, and will continue to be one for eons. Until the world had crumbled to ashes and dust, and still you will prevail. Humans are fleeting. They only serve us one purpose. You’d do well to understand this.”

“But Satoru is not fully human too, is he?”

The corners of Sukuna’s eyes tightened. “I do not know what he is—perhaps a sorcerer, but those have been extinct a long, long time ago. What I know is that he is mortal enough. His life is finite. To be rid of him now is a mercy, before the attachment grows. In this, you should trust me.”

“It is already irrefutable, father.” You took one of his hands in yours. The one he always favoured using to stroke your hair when you were little. “Was my mother burnt for being attached to you? Because the humans—this Suguru—found out she was involved not only with a vampire, but with their king?”

You felt his hand tense. Then his fingers wrapped around yours, gently. 

“Listen well, daughter, because I’m only going to say this once—“ Sukuna sighed, and it was the loosening of a breath you suspected he’d held in for a lifetime. “The last time I saw your mother was also the last time she saw you. We’d agreed that we would keep you away from anything to do with humans other than feeding on them. To have a relationship with your prey will only complicate things for you. But your mother could never stay away for long, so every few months, I’d visit her, and take her here. She would disguise herself as a servant and watch you from afar for a few hours. Then I would bring her back to the village before dawn. But on the last night—before she was condemned to die—a slayer saw her. Saw me with her. I wanted to go after the slayer, but she assured me nothing would come of it. She believed no harm would befall her because she was human. I shouldn’t have listened. That is the story. Satisfied?”

He let go of your hand and began striding out the room. “Come. We want to be fashionably late, but not rudely so.”

You followed after him. “So I’m not wrong. You can feel, too.”

A quiet scoff.

“Stare at something too long, daughter, and you will find it stares back.”

Satoru was brought out in chains. 

You hadn’t spoken to anyone since gracing the court with your presence, and had remained brooding in the throne beside your father’s on the elevated dias. Besides the occasional nod, all you did was stare at the roses in the garden—the customary location for the Red Feast—and the moon crowning the night sky, painted the same shade as the flowers you adored. 

Your mercurial demeanour did not go unnoticed, though no one dared comment on it. Especially in front of Sukuna, lest they wanted to end up staked in front of the castle gates. They must have assumed you were not too thrilled about having to pick another suitor since Naoya was no more. It was no secret that he’d been the closest candidate to becoming the prince consort. 

But the moment the music stopped, you sat up straighter. 

Two guards appeared, dragging Satoru through the hush of the parting crowd towards the dias. Heavy manacles bound his wrists and ankles. He was still in the same clothes from that night, now soiled and marred with dungeon filth, his snowy hair limp and matted against his head. 

It seemed your father had succeeded in making the infamous Six Eyes look as pathetic as possible on his last night alive, at least in appearance. But where he’d lost was in Satoru’s expression, for there was nothing pathetic about the resolve in his blue eyes.

Eyes that immediately, implicitly, found yours as he was made to kneel at the foot of the dias. 

A corner of his lips curved upwards.

“Good evening,” he said, gaze fixed entirely on you. “Nice place you’ve got here—beautiful.”

It took everything in you not to shoot up from your seat and run to him. You were clutching the armrests of the throne so hard that the wood started cracking. 

And the court must have seen it, because they took your reaction as their cue to hiss and jeer.

“He is distressing the princess!” someone shouted.

“Scum!”

“Rot in hell!”

“Kill him!”

“Enough,” Sukuna said. 

The silence that followed was instantaneous. 

Sukuna stood, and approached the edge of the dias in a single stride to peer down at Satoru. Your father had never been one to drag a moment with long speeches, preferring to cut straight to the crux of the matter. In this, he was no different.

“I won’t ask if you have any last words, because they are not important,” he said, cold and imperious. “What matters is that with your death, we shall finally have some semblance of peace.”

Sukuna held out his hand. Another guard appeared, hurrying up the dias with a large case, and from it, your father pulled out a simple longsword.

A sword with a blade of silver.

Gasps escaped the gathered court, more than a few retreating back a few steps. 

Sukuna ignored them, and continued. “You will die tonight, Six Eyes, by the very weapon slayers like you use to kill our kind.” He stepped down the dias. “Guards, prepare him.”

You watched as Satoru was forced to bend over on his knees. You couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t hear anything past the roaring storm in your head, the pounding in your chest. You tore your gaze from Satoru to the blade your father was raising high in the air, positioned for a clean cut.

“Let’s get it over with,” Sukuna said.

He brought the blade down. 

“Wait!”

The blade halted, inches from Satoru’s neck.

You were standing. 

Your father was looking at you, and so was every member of the court. 

Satoru was looking at you.

You willed your voice to steady, and spoke. “I have decided on who is to be my betrothed, father. I wish to announce it.”

Sukuna frowned. “It can wait until after the execution.”

“No. It cannot.”

Your body was moving down the dias, then in front of the silver sword and your father.

“It cannot wait,” you said, “because I choose to be betrothed to Satoru Gojo.”

The escalation happened gradually. For awhile, the only sound was the wind as confusion washed through the entire court. They weren’t sure if they heard you right, only for realisation to hit like a hailstorm when you bent down and took Satoru’s face in your hands.

Ever so gently, you stroked his cheek.

“You’re right,” you whispered. “You and me—we were planned all along.”

Satoru stared at you, and in his eyes, you saw his ruination. 

His lips parted. “Princess, I—“

“Traitor!” 

Someone had stepped out of the crowd. Naobito Zenin. Head of the Zenin clan of vampires, and Naoyo’s father. 

“The princess is a traitor,” he seethed, jabbing a finger at you. “Now it makes sense. You think I’d accept that my son, a Zenin, would be killed so easily? She must have conspired with the Six Eyes to murder him. How else can a slayer known to be so incompetent kill so many of us? The princess was never captured. She was helping him. This whole time, she was fraternising with the enemy!”

His accusation seemed to embolden the crowd. Cries of protests resounded through the garden, and now that head of the second most powerful vampire family had denounced you in front of the king, the others were suddenly much braver. 

“Is this how you raised your daughter, King of the Night?” Naobito growled. “To turn against her own kind? To betray us for becoming a slayer’s whor—”

But Sukuna’s own growl shook the very cliff holding his castle. 

“You dare slander my daughter, Zenin?” Your father was no longer calm. “Open that despicable mouth of yours again and I will fill your throat with silver.”

Naobito dared laugh. “You will do nothing of the sort. She may be your daughter, but she’s just signed her own existence to dust. Or is our king not familiar with the law he created himself? Vampires are forbidden from fornicating with humans, on pain of death. She may be a princess, but she is not exempted from it.”

“He is my mate,” you hissed.

That shut Naobito up. But for only a second. Then his face morphed into something hideous. “You are smarter than I took you for—using our most sacred law to hide behind. There hasn’t been a bond amongst our kind in centuries, and even if it is true, merely declaring it will not save you and your human.”

“That is not what I’m declaring, you swine piss. You forget I also named him my betrothed.”

“Irrelevant. Our law forbids a human to sit on the throne—“

“God,” Satoru’s voice cut him short. “You vampires bicker more than my dead grandmother.” He was still on the ground, the manacles around his ankles keeping him from standing, but he straighten up as much as he could. “Look, there’s a simple way to solve this. Just do what you were going to do before and kill me. There, settled. Now you can all stop fighting over me. I will die, and the princess can go back to being a princess. Happy?”

“No.” You knew what he was trying to do, and you wouldn’t let him. You faced your father. “I do not expect you to break your own laws for me, father. So I will adhere to them,” you said. “Line six hundred sixty three to six hundred sixty six, passage thirty three, volume six of the First Scripture—if a bond is in doubt, then the bonded has the right to prove it by invoking the Sun Trial, after which the claimed bond cannot be refuted should they succeed.”

Sukuna said nothing while he studied you, mouth drawn in a tight line. But you’d caught it—the slight twitch at the corners, something almost akin to approval. He exhaled, quietly, then glanced at the guards.

“Release the human.”

Naobito’s fangs flashed. “This is treachery. I will not stand for this—“

“It is in our laws,” Sukuna interrupted. “Laws that you’ve been proclaiming to know better than me. Are you going to dismiss them now, Zenin?”

“The slayer is still human, and the princess has still committed treason. If you are too weak to strike your own daughter down, then I will do it for you.”

Sukuna’s eyes darkened, but he did not stoop to Naobito’s taunt. “By all means, kill her if you want,” he said. “But you will have to hunt her down first, in accordance with the Sun Trial. As for the human—“

The manacles around Satoru’s wrists had barely touched the ground when Sukuna stepped forward and, in one swift motion, pierced the silver blade through his stomach. 

Satoru’s eyes widened as he stared down at the blade pulling out of him. Stared at the dark gush of blood, pooling. Dripping onto the snow-covered ground before his own body fell, collapsing.

“No…” Everything in you shattered. “No, no, no…”

You dropped down next to Satoru. You were calling his name. Using your hands to staunch the blood, but it was futile. 

“The Six Eyes has received his punishment,” Sukuna declared. “The Sun Trial is now commenced. The Crown Princess and her mate will have to survive until the next nightfall, after which their bond will be recognised, and their union protected by our most sacred law. In the meantime, all vampires, from any status, will have free reign to hunt them down until dawn breaks.” He tossed the blade aside. “On your feet, daughter.”

You were shaking. You glared up at your father. “I will never forgive you for this.”

But Sukuna only peered down, cold and imperious.

“You do not need to,” he said. “Now run.”

At his words, you moved on instinct.

You shifted. Your wings unfurled. 

Then you were hauling Satoru up into the sky. 

You were going to die. 

“There,” you said, dragging Satoru behind a dense copse of trees. “We can’t stay long. You’re going to bleed out if we don’t get you to the village soon.”

“I’m… fine…”

“You’re dying, Satoru.”

“Dying… not dead…”

Gently, you leaned him against a tree trunk, and crouched down next to him. You tore more fabric off your skirt and added to the blood-soaked wrappings around Satoru’s stomach. 

Satoru winced as you knotted it tightly over his wound. His lips were pale, his breaths shallow and struggling. 

“You should go,” he said, finally stringing his sentences better now that he was resting.

“I’m not going anywhere without you.”

“We won’t reach the village… you know this.”

You did, but you wouldn’t accept it. You pressed your hands against his stomach, applying more pressure. “We’ll find a way,” you said. 

Flying was out of the question. The sky was infested with vampires. The entire court was out hunting for you, and if you so much as flapped your wings, they would surround you and that would be it. 

The only option was by foot. To dart between the cover of the forest, but darting implied you could move quickly, which wasn’t the case given Satoru’s worsening condition.

His eyes were falling shut.

You slapped his face.

“Don’t you dare close them,” you warned him, panicking. “Not now that I’ve carried your sorry ass halfway through this fucking forest.”

A weak chuckle. “A kiss would’ve been better.”

“I’ll kiss you after we’re done with this blasted trial. That way you’ll have something to look forward to.”

“What if… I say please?”

You hesitated, the thing in your chest you now recognised as your heart, twisting.

You leaned in, and brushed your lips against his. 

Satoru caught your mouth, deepening the kiss, and you couldn’t help but part for him. For his tongue to sweep in and claim you, long and slow, tender and painfully desperate.

“Like heaven…” he breathed. 

You stroked his cheek. “We should get going.”

“I think... I’ll stay here.”

“I told you I’m not—”

“Listen…”

“No. I’m helping you up. We’re going to keep moving—”

“I said listen…” He tilted his head up, and you realised then what he meant.

Because you heard it, too.

The lack of sound. No more flapping wings. No more screeching.

The sky was silent. 

Which only meant one thing.

Satoru’s gaze met yours again. “You have to go…”

But you’d known this would happen. Your plan hadn’t been to reach the village, but to get him as close as possible before sunrise. You’d perish, but at least there was a higher chance another human would pass through and find him. 

You steeled yourself, and took his arm. “Come on.”

“Princess—“

“Stop being so stubborn. How many times do I have to repeat that I’m not going anywhere without you.”

“I’m not… the stubborn one here…”

“Move, Satoru.”

But he refused, slumping his weight down further against the tree trunk. 

“I said move!”

“You move…”

“You stupid, stupid fool!” You wanted to slap him again, but then you thought he might just keel over and die just to prove a point. You dropped back down on the ground. “Fine. Stay if you want. So will I.”

He choked out a laugh. “Am I…so irresistible?” 

“You are annoying, that’s what.”

“Come here…”

You let him wrap you in his arms, careful to lean against him where you were sure he wouldn’t hurt. Snow was falling, the shadows of the forest shrinking as you sat with Satoru in silence. You sensed the uneven beat of his pulse slowing. 

“What is it like?” you asked. “The sun?”

“Nothing… compared to you.”

“You have to say that. We are bonded.”

“We don’t have to be… for me to think you’re… beautiful…”

You brushed away the hair on his face, and your fingers continued tracing down his jaw, over his lips, as if memorising very line and curve of the man you were supposed to kill. The human who was supposed to be your prey. The slayer you were supposed to despise. The mortal you were never supposed to give up eternity for.

“Well, Satoru Gojo,” you whispered. “You’ve done it. You’ve vanquished me.”

His breaths were slow, the lids of his eyes heavy. But he smiled. “How cruel of me.”

A pale, golden glow broke through the trees. You stared at it, entranced, watching the snow covering the forest floor shimmer. Watched the skeletal branches of the barren trees lighten, the texture on the barks growing defined. 

You watched the sunlight, and it was everything you’d imagined it to be.

You skin started to prickle. 

Then it was searing. 

You crumpled inwards. Your whimpers turned into cries into screams. It was like being tossed into a flaming hearth. Like having the constant lick of fire against your skin, eating you to the bone.

The pain… it was excruciating. 

You didn’t notice Satoru shifting until he was on top of you. Until the burning ebbed slightly and you found his body curled over your own. In that moment, you realised why he hadn’t wanted to move. With his own broad frame, and the shadows casted by the closely packed trees, he’d created a shield for you.

But light was ever fluid, and it leaked into the crevices of your shelter. Biting. Gnawing. Like the scraping of a candle flame against the bare spots of your skin. 

“Be still,” Satoru breathed. “Or it will… be worse.”

“It hurts…”

“You’ll be alright… you have… me…” He pulled you in tighter underneath him. “Talk to me… tell me something…”

He was trying to distract you, but you couldn’t think past the burning. 

“I’ll go first,” he said. “The night we met… I think I was already in love with you, but I… I couldn’t admit it… After Suguru’s death, I went mad… Megumi… he warned me against it, but I… wouldn’t listen… I sneaked into Sukuna’s castle… and saw you…”

It was too painful to speak, so you just whimpered. 

Satoru continued, “You were in the garden… in a red dress surrounded by red roses… and I think… I made up that plan partly to… give myself an excuse to see you again… to keep coming back…”

He told you about the first time he saw you fly. That he’d almost ran out of his hiding place when he saw you throw yourself out a window, and then almost given himself away a second time when he heard you laughing as you swooped up into the sky. So beautiful. So free. 

He also told you about the first time he saw you feed, and how he realised he could never have you. That he had planted roses in his own garden to remind himself you had thorns. That you were his enemy. That he tried to hate you, everyday, but always ended up failing spectacularly. 

The sunlight was blinding now, seeping through your lids and frying your eyeballs. Your muscles were screaming, your bones were melting, your body a shaking ball of flame beneath him. 

Every time you thought this was it, Satoru would tell you to hold on. Every time you were about to give in and start flailing, Satoru would tell you it was almost over. Just a little while more, he’d say. The sun was coming down, he’d promised. 

Somewhere in between, the agony and the solid weight of his body had melded together, and you could no longer tell one from the other. Time was an unending void, and the lure of death was tasting much, much sweeter.

But then the light began to wane. The scorching brightness behind your eyes dimmed. The flames scorching you alive eased to sweltering to prickling to a cool, winter’s breeze that had you doubting if you were still of this world.

Your eyes squinted open, and the dark veil of night greeted you once again.

“S-Satoru?” you croaked out. 

He didn’t answer. You didn’t remember when he’d stopped speaking, and you were suddenly conscious of his full weight pressing down on you. 

Struggling, you slowly lifted him off you. His body fell limp on the snow, and your hands were on him.

“Satoru,” you shook him. “Satoru, wake up. It’s night.”

Silence. 

“Wake up.”

You shook him harder. 

“Wake up!”

Nothing. 

You stared at him, and there would never be anything more profound than that of your heart shattering. 

“I thought you were beautiful, too,” you whispered, stroking his face. Skin was peeling off your hands like scrolls of burnt parchment, brittle and grey, but you were numb to everything but him. 

You leaned down, and spoke against his still lips.

“Whatever I have been searching for in the skies, I now know it is you.” You kissed him. “Please, come back to me.”

You felt it then. The whisper of a pulse. Barely there. A thread away from snapping. 

He was still alive. 

You didn’t hesitate. Your fingers morphed into claws, tearing into your skin.

Red, dark and fresh, streamed down your palm. You held up his head, parted his lips, and let your blood flow into his mouth, down his throat.

And you waited. For his pulse to stop and the thread of his mortal life to snap, and when it did, the change was immediate.

His fair skin, once the dull, matted tint of a human’s, took on the pale, ethereal sheen of moonlight. His stark white hair was glossier, thicker, the lines of his handsome face sharpening to an incredible definition, and there behind his parting lips—thin and pointed and drenched with your blood—were the beginnings of fangs.

A cough. A splutter.

Blue eyes fluttered awake, peering up at you. And they were now a blue so impossible, it drowned you. 

“So it is done.” 

The voice who spoke did not belong to Satoru, but to the immortal who had appeared, as silent as death itself. 

The night seemed to bend around your father as he stepped towards you.

“The Sun Trial has ended, and so has this ridiculous feud,” Sukuna said, crimson eyes settling on you and Satoru. “You have made your choice, daughter. And now, he will make his.”

Satoru sat up, still dazed. He stared at you, then at Sukuna, then at himself—at the subtle glow of his skin, the new movement his hands made as he turned them in front of his face, at the wound on his stomach, no longer bleeding. His gaze found yours again.

“You—you turned me into—“

“She did you a favour, slayer,” Sukuna said. “You would have died either way—I made sure of it. And you are not a vampire yet until you have fed.”

“I did not ask for this.”

“Then go ahead and die for all I care. Do you really think it is so simple to become one of us? If it was the case, there would be many more of us and less of you.”

Sukuna tossed a vial of red liquid onto the snow.

“A vampire can only turn a human once in their entire existence, and my daughter has, for better or worse, chosen you. I cannot fathom why—she’s always had bad taste in men—but in doing so, you now have a luxury even kings cannot claim.” He gestured at the vial. “So choose. Do you treasure your mortality so much you would die for it, or do you treasure my daughter more than life?”

But your father’s words swam in your head.

“This was your plan all along, wasn’t it?” you said, fixing him with a look that dared him to deny it. “You waited to execute Satoru so I would find a way to save him. You rearranged the books in the library knowing I would come across the Sun Trial and invoke it. You stabbed him with that sword knowing I would choose to turn him.”

Sukuna merely regarded you, calmly, and said, “If you believe I would go to such lengths for you, my daughter, then I will take it as a compliment.” But you saw the tell-tale sign in his jaw. The feather of a twitch. 

There was no point in wringing it out of your father, so instead, you took Satoru’s hands in yours. 

“Despise me if you must,” you said. “Whatever you choose, I will accept it—I will accept it if you take the blood and leave me. I will accept it if you don’t and leave me. But what I cannot accept is not telling you that I love you. I will never stop. You are the shape of my soul, until I am beyond dust. Until time unending.”

Snow fell in the space between you and him. Satoru looked at you, quietly. Completely. For a long while, he didn’t speak. 

Then he sighed. “Megumi’s going to throw a fit.”

Satoru pulled you against him, and like the force that drew you hopelessly together, your mouths found one another, and it was a kiss to end all that was before, and all that would come after. There was only him and you, and two halves of a desperate wish finally becoming whole. 

“My princess,” he murmured against your lips. “You are the cruelest of them all—making me love you for eternity.”

“Do you not want to?”

“I cannot help it.”

You smiled, and kissed him again.

Sukuna cleared his throat. “If you are done slobbering all over my daughter, slayer, then get it over with. I have other pressing matters than standing here and regretting I didn’t separate your head from your body.”

Satoru simply stuck out his hand.

“Then toss the vial over here, old man. As you can see, the princess is clearly incapable of letting me go just yet.”

It was a time of peace, at least for the humans. The legend of the supposedly incompetent yet deadly Six Eyes had become exactly that—a legend. 

New Transylvania had a vampire prince. A prince who only drank donated blood, and only from his jewel-encrusted goblet. A prince who carried a silver sword around, impaling any immortal who dared step foot across the village borders. A prince whom the vampire king received complaints about to no end. A prince who, everyone and the king himself knew, they would be stuck with for the rest of time, because their beloved (unless one wanted to be staked) princess loved him with all her heart. 

And it was glaringly obvious the prince loved her in return, because he made sure to remind everyone of it—the court, the servants, the guards, and any unlucky creature who had the misfortune of hearing them. Every. Single. Night.

“That’s it, princess. God, you’re so fucking tight I’m going crazy,” he groaned as he pounded you against the library stacks. “Go on, let them know who your perfect pussy belongs to.”

“Ahn! Yes! Satoru—fuck—fuck me harder!”

“Who’s cock do you love? Say it.”

“I love Satoru Gojo’s cock!”

It would continue like this for hours, sometimes until dawn, rendering whatever room or hallway the both of you were fucking in completely inaccessible. And if it was out in the gardens, then the castle occupants had the option to stay indoors, or stay outside and have Sukuna pluck out their eyes later. 

Eventually, when even the king’s own ears were staring to bleed, he was forced to hold an intervention with you and Satoru, to establish certain boundaries. Those boundaries being sending the both of you away to torture Megumi instead at Satoru’s estate every fortnight. 

“After you, my love.” Satoru was grinning as he held out a hand.

You took it, and let him help you up the tower’s ledge. Felt his arms winding around your waist, pressing your back against him. 

His lips brushed the shell of your ear. “Shall I catch you?”

“You’re not fast enough.”

“Really? Then I suppose you’ve conveniently forgotten about all the other times I was.”

“Not tonight.” You smiled as you pushed him away, and leapt off the ledge. 

You heard his laughter follow behind.

Wings spread, you soared up high, and chanced a look back.

Only to find him swerving around and in front of you with swift, leathery wings. But unlike your own—the colour of smoke and shadows—his were silvery white, pale as the moon that watched him pull you against him in the air.

He kissed you, deep and slow, like he had all the time in the world. Like the infinite times he did before and the infinite times he would after. 

“It’s not so bad,” he whispered.

“What is?”

A million stars gleamed in his impossible blue eyes. Satoru smiled.

“Forever.”

thank you for reading to the end ilyyy! i originally intended for this fic to be short, but then i caught worldbuilding disease and now it's a whole soulmate arc >.< what do you think? i'd love to know your thoughts ♡

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He didn’t snap. It’s so much worse than that. At least in the eyes of the arrogant boy who got bested by, what he assumed to be a grade two curse because of how pudgy and stupid it looked. The thing that caught him lacking looked like a fucking blob fish that struggled with crippling anxiety, how the hell was he supposed to know that it could mess with timeof all things? 

One moment he’s laughing at the way it looks, the next he’s in the complete dark. 

That was the first time he’s smiled in months, by the way. 

“Huh?” Satoru huffs out, trying to look around before eventually realizing that he has a blindfold on, and rips it off in annoyance. “Don’t tell me that thing knocked me out,” he begins to grumble to himself. It’d explain why he had a blindfold on… but then he realized he was in a completely different outfit, one that you didn’t put on someone who was currently in rest and recovery. 

He highly doubts Shoko would even change him, anyway, at least not for this. 

“Oh hey, you’re home.” 

Home? 

He looks around, and all he knows is this isn’t the dorm he’s continued to stay in after graduation, purely due to the fact that he was already out on missions for up to 18 hours each day. Not to mention that the penthouse he was currently standing in was too clean to be his. Too warm. Way too comfortable.

You already knew there was something deeply off in those first few seconds of looking into his eyes. This wasn’t your husband— this was the hot mess you met and still fell in love with all those years ago. 

You tilt your head to the side, more curious than cautious, “Everything alright?”

“Yeah,” he snorts, literally the worst liar ever. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

“I don’t know,” you hum, holding eye contact long enough to leave him feeling a bit unsettled. “You tell me.”

First of all, who the fuck do you think you are speaking to him like that?

Second, who even are you?

Something big and shiny on your finger catches his attention, then he looks at his own hand that has an equally shiny band around his ring finger. 

Fuck.

“Honey–”

Satoru physically cringes at the pet name, giving himself away once again. 

“I’m not Satoru,” he blurts out, rubbing his eyes in frustration. “I mean, I am, but I’m not— FUCK– some fuckin’ curse blasted me into the future, and I need to go back.”

Well, that was quick. He’s always quick to fold under pressure when it comes to you— it’s something he’s unaware of though, as he fights back the urge to start pacing back and forth. 

There’s a light smack from your mouth when you go to open it, only for the words to never even come, let alone die out. Nothing about this surprises you. This is not the craziest thing that’s happened since you’ve met Satoru. 

Your lips thin into a smile as you take a deep breath, knowing you had no choice but to accept your new circumstances. 

“Okay.”

“Okay?” He raises a brow at how you just… accepted it.

“Yeah… I believe it.” You respond flatly, then point at him, casually motioning your finger up and down. “Your attitude kinda sucked when we first met.”

He grimaces, taken aback by the statement. “No, it doesn’t–”

“You also liked to argue, too.”

“Okay— whatever,” he waves a dismissive hand, not at all interested in hearing what else you had to say. At this point, it just sounded like you wanted to shit on him, something he actually doesn’t have any fucking time for right now. “You’re a sorcerer… right?” 

“No.” 

“Christ.” Satoru sighs, turning on his heel. “You’re fuckin’ useless—“

You scoff, more humored than offended. “Where are you going?” 

“To figure this shit out!” he snaps, throwing his arms out as he turns around to face you. 

“Okay,” you shrug, still way too calm for Satoru’s liking, as it pisses him off even more. “If you don’t get it all figured out tonight, you can always come back. We have a guest room.” 

“Yeah, thanks.” He huffs out a bitter laugh, as if that was the dumbest suggestion he’s ever heard. “I appreciate the offer.” 

– 

“Yaga” Satoru storms into the principal’s office, ignoring all his cursed stuffed animals, but noticing what he’s done with his hair. “What the fuck happened to you?”

The principal's brows pinch together, wishing he had locked the door to his office. Satoru fucked with him enough today by showing up to a meeting 20 minutes late with some sugary frap in his hand, and now he’s storming into his office, insulting him out of nowhere. 

“Actually, nevemind.” Satoru waves a hand to stop him from even answering his question, reminding himself not to get sidetracked right now. “Look, I need your help. I got sent into the future by some curse, and I need to get back.”

Yaga inhales sharply. “What are you even talking about?”

“Exactly what I just said! I’m from 2009! Not whatever age I am now—”

“31.”

Satoru throws up a little in his mouth. “Send me back.” 

Yaga lets out a long, disappointed sigh. It’s always something with Satoru. Always. Having to deal with the younger version of him was a painful reminder that he’s been dealing with his bullshit for well over a decade now. Nothing surprises him anymore.  

“Let me see if some other windows would be willing to help look through the library. I’m sure you’ll be able to find information on what kind of curse you got hit with.”

“Thank you,” Satoru groans, still not very pleased by everyone’s reactions thus far, but grateful that he can at least get somewhere with Yaga… unlike a certain somebody. 

Hours later, he finds himself at the school’s dusty, unkept library. It looks worse than it originally looked before he walked in. Books sprawled everywhere. Research papers were scattered all over the tables and floor. Assistants running around in every direction, more than half of them terrified at the total 180 in Satoru’s attitude. 

“W-we can’t find anything,” Ijichi says, too old to be acting this scared in Satoru’s opinion. 

He hums, elbows still resting on his knees, not bothering to sit up. “Hey, Ijichi?”

Ijichi gulped loudly, managing to annoy the world’s strongest sorcerer even more. “...Yes?” 

“How are you even more incompetent now than you were before?”

“I tried my best! I swear!”

“Well, it’s not good enough— I’m still here!” he snaps at the nervous wreck of a man. Thank fucking god Ijichi listened to him and just became a window. He sucks at it too, but at least it’s easier for this dumbass to avoid death. “God— what the fuck am I supposed to do now?!”

“This is just one of the libraries, there’s more! And some in Kyoto too, that we’ll have the Kyoto branch check out.”

“Do whatever you need to do. I’m just letting you know right now that if I'm not back by tomorrow, you better watch the fuck out.”

The threat is followed by complete dead silence, aside from a certain someone's breath catching in horror.

“Me?!” Ijichi squeaks out.

The sorcerer doesn’t bother answering that and instead walks away, grumbling something insulting under his breath, just in complete and utter disbelief over how Ijichi truly hasn’t changed. 

—

You figured your husband would eventually come back, so you set some food aside for him, and now you’re sitting at the dinner table, trying not to laugh at the pout on his face as he picks at his dinner with the chopsticks in his hand. 

“Is the food good?”

“Sure.”

“I can warm that up for you, if you want?” you ask, barely trying to hide your amusement. 

“No thanks,” he curtly responds before shoving another piece of karaage into his mouth. He’s known to have a sweet tooth, but chicken karaage’s probably his favorite food, savory wise. You almost want to tell him that he’s allowed to enjoy food even if his day hasn’t gone the way he had planned. “I’d appreciate it if you stopped staring.” 

Your lips twitch, threatening to break out into a fit of laughter. “Right, sorry.”

“Mommy…? Is Daddy home yet?” 

Oh great. As if the day couldn’t get any worse— now there’s a child.

“Yeah,” you respond in a tentative tone, shooting Satoru a look that screams ‘behave or else’, and even though you are currently a stranger to him, it intimidates him enough to behave for the time being. 

A little girl, no older than 4 years old, walks into the kitchen and Satoru’s eyes nearly bulge out of his head upon seeing his daughter. It’s pretty obvious she’s his with her baby blue eyes and stark white hair. Her facial features are entirely yours, though. It’s strange to see.

“Hey… kiddo—” he awkwardly says, not really sure how to address the little girl. You clear your throat, mouthing ‘princess’ when he looks at you, because your daughter also happens to have her dad’s attitude. “I mean princess.”

It’s hilarious how unnatural it sounds right now when he was the one who started calling her that the moment you two took her home from the hospital. 

“You pomis to wead bedtime stowie,” she starts to pout— same exact way he does.

“Did I?” He gives the girl a sympathetic look, albeit fake. 

“Yeah,” she frowns as she walks up to you, giving him the world’s nastiest side eye. “Liar.”

Why is that the one word she’s able to enunciate correctly? She didn’t even stutter.

“Yeah— I was a little busy with work today,” he murmurs, as if she knew what that even meant. With the glare she was giving him, he doubted she’d even care if he broke down what work and the importance of it was. “Maybe mommy can read to you tonight?”

Sai wasn’t having that. 

Satoru spent the end of his night reading her favorite book to her. Multiple times. He almost asked if it was some form of punishment for not upholding a promise he didn’t technically make himself, but decided against it in fear that she’d make him read it one more time. Sai fell asleep… eventually. Despite there being no way to prove it, he knows that the little girl forced herself to stay up out of pure spite. 

But still, he finds himself smiling as he thinks about his nightmare of a future, not wiping it off quickly enough when you lightly knock on the guest bedroom door.

“Here’s some jammys for the night.” You smile back as you walk up and hand him a pair of sweats and a white t-shirt, both neatly folded up. “Figured you wouldn’t want to sleep in your work clothes.”

“Oh uh— thanks.” He clears his throat and forces out a laugh, pushing through the embarrassment of getting caught smiling to himself. 

You’re giving him that look again. The one that’s mixed with amusement and a bit of fondness, where you look like you’re about to start making fun of him, but never do. Satoru would rather die than admit it makes him nervous. 

“What?” 

There’s a small pause as your smile grows. “Do you like your kid?”

“She’s weird.”

“Yeah, no— you wouldn’t believe who she got that from.”

“Fuck off.” A laugh easily slips through his lips this time, unable to stay serious at the thought of her inheriting even just a quarter of the traits he had as a child. Then it grows quiet again as he realizes she probably has the freedom to be a kid. 

He wants to ask, but you beat him to it with a statement that answered the question he had in mind. 

“Your duties as her father don’t end just because you managed to time travel by the way,” you say playfully, though he knows you’re being dead serious. 

He can only guess what other horrors that little girl will subject him to for the rest of his time here. To put it simply, she’s not afraid of Dad. 

For once, somebody doesn’t look at him as a god to fear. 

—

It’s been over a month. 

Ijichi and the rest of the windows are just as useless as they were when they first started trying to find answers. All that’s changed is that Nanami knows, and doesn’t seem to be too thrilled about the fact that he is now involved.

But still, the search for the fix to his predicament continues, turning every library and warehouse upside down. That’s all they could really do— aside from asking the elders for assistance of some sort. 

Over his dead body. 

Knowing they’d most likely do more harm than good, everyone’s agreed to keep this all a little secret from them.

So all that’s left to do, or rather forced to do, is to be patient. It’s hard. Satoru doesn’t do patient— he’s the type to snap his fingers and have a solution magically appear right before his eyes. You can only imagine how difficult it’s been for him to accept that he can’t immediately get what he wants right now.

Not to mention the fact that he had to continue working throughout all of this, but that wasn’t very surprising. 

Now, what was surprising was learning that he has his weekends completely to himself. If anything, he assumed he’d just work more as time went on, but no. Turns out he threatened to kill the higher-ups if they didn’t let him have that when you two got married. 

Satoru looks over your body once. 

Twice. 

He totally understands his future self. 

He looks again for a third time, and you just so conveniently turn around, showing off your cute, frilly little apron covered in flour streaks. 

It’s Sunday— you’ve been baking sweet treats all morning, and he wishes he had been a little nicer to you. Especially a couple of days ago when he snapped at you. 

You had found him sitting alone on the balcony, head in his hands from yet another day of failure. 

“Hey… any good news?”

“No,” he said impatiently. “If there was, I wouldn’t fucking be here right now.” 

“Fair enough.” Your voice took a dip as you looked at the ground, allowing yourself to feel a little hurt for a moment before trying to lift the mood again. “Well… me and Sai stopped by your favorite bakery and got you the cookies you like if you wanted some—“

“No— no,” Satoru cut you off. “I don’t want your fucking cookies. I don’t want to do a family movie night where all we watch is Ms. Rachel. I don’t want to read some book about a mouse trying to become a fucking painter over and over again. I don’t want ANY of it. I want to fucking go home— what part about that do you not get?”

You tried to stand as straight as possible despite your shoulders growing heavier, pushing against the small frown threatening to carve itself across your face. You forgot how mean he used to be, at least during that first year of dating him. It only stings more because the man you married would never raise his voice like that, and you remind yourself that this isn’t him.

After a long pause, he looked up at you and immediately felt guilt wash over him.

“I didn’t mean that,” he tried to meet your eyes as he began to backtrack. “I’m sorry, I just— fuck. I didn’t mean any of that—”

“It’s fine.” You forced yourself to look at him again and smile. “I’ll uh… give you some space.”

The one thing about Satoru is that he doesn’t apologize. Like ever. So, one could only imagine how painfully awkward it was later that night when he knocked on your bedroom door to say he was sorry. It didn’t help that you were in a paper-thin silk slip, skin glistening from the lotion you rubbed all over it— he spent half his time trying not to stare at your tits. Had you been anyone else, it wouldn’t have felt as genuine. 

But thank fuck he apologized, you probably would’ve spent all day ignoring him. 

You raise a brow, and his cheeks start to pink. “What are you staring at?” 

“Nothing, you just–” he awkwardly gestures at your entire body, “there’s flour all over you.” 

It almost sounds like he’s offended by it. He kind of is. You keep your foot on his fucking neck— he doesn’t even know why he came out here. 

“Oh, right— 'cause messes have always bothered you,” you lean over the island ever so slightly. The pink on his cheeks darkens as you do, unable to control his eyes from drifting down to your cleavage. And while he’s not exactly ashamed of looking— you are his wife after all— he can’t help but be a little flustered. 

He’s always had a thing for milfs.

Especially when said milf is talking about messes— he knows a couple of places he could make a mess on right now. 

“Nah,” he rests his elbows on the marble counter as a playful grin stretches across his face. “This is nothing compared to how I like it.”  

You tilt your head, a small laugh escaping you as you rest your chin over your palm, curious to see where this conversation will get you. 

“How do you like it?” you ask, as if you didn’t already know how filthy and depraved he could get when he’s alone in a room with you. 

And you fucking miss that. 

He opens his mouth to respond. 

Then you hear your daughter whimpering about waking up alone. It’s nothing new, and you revert back to mom mode as you watch her turn the corner and waddle towards you. 

Satoru, on the other hand, is not used to this. The slightly bruised laugh he lets out just barely masks his desire to fucking scream. What a fucking cockblock— no wonder you only have one kid. 

His kid completely ignores his existence as she wraps herself around your leg, continuing to whimper despite no actual tears streaming down her cheeks. “I had a nightmawh.”

Meanwhile, there’s Satoru, who has yet to wake up from his very own nightmare. He internally sighs, then attempts to grab her attention because it doesn’t feel very good watching her give it all to you. “You wanna share a muffin with daddy?”

It’s starting to sound more natural.

“Y-yeah,” she sniffles. 

Minutes later, she’s sitting on his lap, absolutely demolishing the blueberry muffin they ended up splitting— a complete 180. He couldn’t be mad, even if he tried. 

His little girl was a dream. 

—

Month two. Ijichi is still as useless as ever. He stopped complaining to you about him, though. You noticed he doesn’t talk about going back to his original timeline all that much anymore.

It’s not like Satoru’s given up hope, he’s just more present, as if he finally realized that wallowing in self-pity wasn’t going to send him back any faster. He’s unknowingly more like his future self— laid back, not a care in the world. 

He’s even sleeping in for once. It’s not that hard though when Sai’s gone for the day. She seemed to care more about getting the hell out of the house with her grandparents than greeting her father a good morning. You didn’t push her to, either— figuring Satoru needed the sleep. He always does. 

It’s too bad that his phone started blowing up at around 10:00 am. Unfortunately for you, he left his phone in the living room, leaving you to get up and grab it since the master bedroom was the closest room to it. With how thick the walls are, you doubt he’d even hear it.

With a long sigh, you rise from bed, rubbing the sleep off your eyes as you snatch the stupid phone off the coffee table. 

The snores coming from Satoru reach your ears before you even open the door. You have to hold back a laugh as you walk in and take a look at him. Face down, his long limbs sprawled over the bed, messy white hair sticking out in all directions. 

You reach out and place a gentle hand on his shoulder, surprised infinity is off. 

“Toru?” He stirs a bit, and you cautiously attempt to wake him up again. “Toru— someone’s been trying to call you for the past 10 minutes now.”

He lifts his head, eyes still sealed shut as he murmurs, “Who?” 

“Uhh,” you look at the screen, unsure of who it might be. “Your contact name for them is nerd.” 

You know it’s not Ijichi because his contact name is “courage 🐶” in his phone. Someone else must've annoyed Satoru for him to change yet another contact. 

Satoru shoves his head back into the pillow and groans before taking the phone off your hands.

It’s Nanami. He, of all people, should know now is not the time to be blowing up his phone right now because he is fucking sleeping. It’s a Saturday for fucks sake. 

Satoru sighs and accepts the call, grumbling into the phone. “What?”

Nanami cuts straight to the chase, as he would rather be doing anything else right now. 

“How long are you planning on hiding your secret from the higher-ups?” he asks in a clipped tone. 

Satoru rubs his eyes, too tired to return the same sense of urgency his friend seems to have at the moment. “Forever.”

“Don’t give me that.” A vein pops up on the side of the usually stoic man’s forehead. “They asked me about you this morning. They know something’s up. I can’t keep covering for you if it means my own safety’s on the line.”

“You really haven’t changed, have you?” It’s more of a statement than a question.

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean—“

“You’ll be fine,” Satoru cuts him off. “They’re always up my ass anyway. I doubt they’re even suspicious. They just don’t know how to mind their own fuckin’ business. Seriously. You’re worrying over nothing right now.”

“I swear to god Gojo, if you—“

“Kay’ good night.” 

Click.

Nanami’s probably fuming right now, but he’ll get over it. Satoru wanted to enjoy this. Lying in a comfy bed, surrounded by nothing but peace and quiet. He closes his eyes and stretches a bit, then rests his hands behind his head. 

He would’ve forgotten that you were still sitting at the edge of the bed had you not lightly cleared your throat. One eye opens to look at you, then closes. The last thing he wants to do is share the reason why Nanami had been blowing up his phone all morning. 

“Just because you can’t see me doesn’t mean I’m not here.” You cross your arms. “What was that all about?” 

“Nothin’,” he easily says. “Just Nanami being Nanami— the guy’s a fuckin’ stickler for no reason.” 

“That’s a little rude, no?” you chastise him. 

“So is waking me up.” 

“Sai wakes you up all the time, though.”

“Sai’s a ball of sunshine,” he says, quickly coming to her defense. “Not a grown man with depression— where is she by the way?” 

“She’s spending the afternoon with my parents.” 

Both eyes open this time, and stay open. “Why didn’t you go with them?”

“No way,” you wave a hand. “I need a break, too.” 

“Yeah, no— I’m sure,” he agrees, feeling flustered all the sudden. 

And Satoru being Satoru, he doesn’t do a very good job of hiding it, once again forgetting that you can read him better than anyone else can.

You smile, scooching closer, “You good there?” 

“Yeah, m’fine,” he murmurs, trying not to shift around too much.

“I can take care of that, you know.” 

“What?” 

“That.” You look down at the boner he’s been trying to hide since finding out it’s just you two here.

“That’s not—“ His brain straight up short-circuits. “You don’t think that’s weird?” 

“No.” You continue to inch forward, getting closer to him. “Do you think it’s weird?”

“No— never,” he shakes his head, answering a little too fast. “Fuck— won’t future me get mad?” 

“Not at all. The most he’d probably do is make me show him what we did.” 

“Make you show him?” he repeats after you in disbelief. 

“Is that a problem?” 

“No, that’s— that’s fuckin’ hot.” 

Minutes later, you’re leaning forward with your hand wrapped around his base, and his breath catches as you start to slowly pump his cock. 

“Feel good?” 

His lids lower as he hums, “yeah— keep going.”

You lean forward, letting a string of spit fall from your lips to the tip of his cock, letting it mix with the precum that was already beading down from it. The wet sounds of you stroking him begin to grow, making the heat in between your legs start to pool.

“Can I sit on it?” You look up at him, batting your lashes as you innocently ask. 

“Please,” he blurts out, just about ready to start begging you to.

You’d be lying if you said you weren’t just as eager as him after all the weeks spent pretending like you don’t notice the way he stares at you. Lustfully. The slip you’re wearing happens to be extra short today, so you forego stripping down and practically pounce on him. Your soaked panties grazing over his rock-hard length as you straddle him, letting yourself get comfortable while Satoru grows impatient. 

His hands find themselves planted on your hips and pull you down. A low groan escapes him as he grinds you against him. “God— fuck me. Please.”

“Well, since you’re being so sweet—”

You reach down, hooking a finger into the fabric of your panties, pulling them to the side. He’s already lining himself up with your entrance, teasing your hole as he runs his tip through your folds, collecting all the slick. His lips part as he watches in awe at how damn wet you are. 

His head tips back as you lower yourself, groaning and rambling to himself as if you weren’t there to hear it all. 

"Fuck. You’re so hot.” His words come out strained as he watches you start to take him inch by inch, slowly working yourself open. “So fuckin’ tight, too.” 

“Mmm— forgot how big you are.” Your voice is all soft and breathy from the fullness, nails slowly digging into his abs as you bottom out.

It takes a minute to adjust— it has been 3 months after all. But then you finally roll your hips, and Satoru almost starts singing praises at how good you are at that—  lifting your hips all the way up and throwing them back, taking all of him. 

"Fuck yeah– just like that," he breathes, fingers digging into the flesh of your hips. "Feels so fucking good."

You murmur back a measly, “kay,” already dizzy from the stretch. You’re able to keep up the pace on your own for a bit, until you feel his grip on you tighten and the sounds of skin slapping against his start to grow as he starts to help you out. 

You wouldn’t exactly call it help though, not when he ended up doing all the work— holding you steady while he practically bounces you on his cock, pulling more and more moans out of you as the head of his cock repeatedly kissed your sweet spot with almost no effort. 

"You take it so good," he groans, pupils blown wide as he starts to feel himself lose control, snapping his hips up a little harder than the last. He wants more, he always wants more— so he pulls you forward and pulls your straps down far enough for your tits to spill out. "Perfect fuckin’ tits. Been thinking about these for weeks."

You let out a surprised gasp as he pops a nipple in his mouth with no warning. You fully believe him with the way he starts sucking and swirling and flicking his tongue over your sensitive bud, all while snapping his hips up harder. 

He pulls back with a pop, looking up at you for approval. “Was that good?”

“Mhm.” There’s a fucked out expression on your face as you weakly nod. “Harder.”

“You want me to fuck you harder?”

“Yeah.” 

Something in him snaps. Eager to please you, he flips you over and folds you underneath him— grabbing the back of your knees and pinning them to your chest so he can drive his cock into you deeper. 

“Better?”

He drives his hips forward again, knocking the air out of your lungs. “God— yes.”

“I can’t— fuck— can’t believe you’re all mine, can’t believe I get to have you,” he starts to ramble as the sounds of him absolutely pounding into you fill the room. “You’re so fuckin’ perfect— all of you.” 

He crashes his lips into yours— the kiss is messy, powered by hunger. Satoru’s always been overwhelming, but it’s been years since it’s been this emotionally intense. He fucks you like he needs you, like he’s been waiting for you all his life. 

Your walls begin to squeeze and flutter around his cock, pulling another groan out of him. “You close?”

“Yeah,” you whine, feeling the pressure begin to coil. “Keep going.”

He’s close too, you can tell by how sloppy his thrusts have grown, no longer trying to control himself as he starts chasing after both of your releases. He shoves his face into the crook of your neck and fucks you faster, harder— balls slapping against your ass with each lewd wet squelch. 

Your orgasm hits you hard after one particularly rough thrust. Scratching at his back as a cry tears through you, and it only goes straight to his dick, not even realizing just how overstimulated you are from the way he drills into you. 

“Fuck.” It’s just one word that comes out of his mouth after realizing how hard he’s about to fucking cum. He bites into your shoulder as his balls start to tighten, squeezing his eyes shut as he braces himself. 

When it happens, it’s a lot. He shoves himself deep inside of you, unaware of all the weight he puts on you as hot spurts of cum begin to flood your walls. Slowly grinding against you, letting your tight pussy milk the rest of him. 

You’re wrecked by the end of it. You both are— lids tired and heavy, bodies sore and out of breath.

And in the end, you just let yourself fall asleep, unaware of the soft kiss pressed against your temple as he watched you.

—

It’s month three, and Satoru doesn’t want to go back. 

What was the point? It’s not like he had anyone or anything to go back to. Jujutsu Society never crumbled from him getting shot into the future. Would it really be that bad if he just never went back and continued on with his life from here?

He hasn’t uttered a word about it out loud, but the way he completely stopped asking Yaga and Ijichi for updates was telling of where he was at mentally.  

Acceptance. 

He likes his life here. 

You’ve come to your own conclusion after these last three months.

No wonder why he was so hot and cold when you were trying to get to know him. Satoru got a little taste of genuine comfort, only for it to be ripped away from him sometime before you two actually met. It explains all the times you wondered why he even tried with you, despite being too emotionally inept to even be in a relationship. He probably went through the beginning of your relationship thinking you could disappear at any second. 

With that being said, he can’t stay here. As much as you’d love to continue being the source of comfort for this version of Satoru, he needs to experience the last year he spent alone before meeting you. He needs to feel cautious around you. He needs to try and fail at opening up a handful of times before getting comfortable with the idea of truly being vulnerable with a person. Getting over that element of fear he had towards getting close to others is what made him a husband and father— he couldn’t just skip that part of his life. 

You have no idea how you’re going to tell him that, though. You’re not one to kick a sick puppy, especially one as cute as him. He’s so happy here with you and Sai that the thought of doing so makes your chest ache. 

He’s having a tea party with Sai right now, limbs way too long to sit in the little stool she pulled up for him to sit in. He drinks imaginary tea from the plastic pink cup she hands him, and your chest aches some more. You force yourself to look away before the tears start. 

You’d do the next 11 years all over again if you could.

“Hey, Honey?” Satoru calls out to you.

There’s a pause before you whip your head around— it’s been months since he’s called you that. There’s nothing but warmth and fondness in his eyes as his gaze meets yours. “Why is Nanami’s number saved under ‘nerd’ in my phone?”

He’s back.

“I don’t know,” you laugh, despite the tear falling down your cheek. “You tell me.”

—

Satoru didn’t want to believe it when everything around him went dark once again. It’s not until his feet touch the ground with a soft thud and he finds himself back in his messy, cold dorm when reality slapped him across the face.

Something between a sob and a gut-wrenching scream rips from his throat. Grabbing the round shades he had hoped he’d never have to fucking wear again, he rips them off his face and sends it crashing into the wall, breaking into a hundred little pieces. He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t give himself a chance to even breathe or think before raising his hand and releasing a purple orb with just a flick of his fingers. 

Impulsive. Reckless. Deadly. 

Satoru was fucking devastated. 

Nobody knew what triggered him that night. All they knew was that the east wing of the school looked like it had been hit by an asteroid by the time he calmed down. He didn’t speak to anyone for a good two weeks following the incident. Everyone wants to think he was lucky the explosion didn’t have any casualties, but then they remembered who he was: Satoru fucking Gojo. 

God’s don’t get punished, nor do natural disasters— it’s hard to tell which one he was at this point. 

One Year Later

“If it’s that small of a curse, why are you sending me there?” Satoru continues to argue with one of the new managers over the phone. 

It wasn’t that small of a curse. It was a grade one. But still, given the sorcerer’s title as a special grade, he was overqualified for the job. 

“I’m sorry, we just don’t have anyone available to take on the case at the moment.” The young woman continues to apologize over the phone. “I think we might have a grade 3 available for the job. I- I can check—”

“Save it.” Satoru cuts her off. He wasn’t that heartless to push the case off to some 15 year old. That’s exactly how Haibara died. “Send me the address.” 

The mission was nothing short of an inconvenience for him. He liked a challenge when exorcising curses, and the damn thing didn’t even put up a fucking fight. He traveled 2 hours to get here just for that? Unbelievable. 

He wasn’t ready to leave and sit on a train for another 2 hours just yet, so he decided to walk around the town for a bit. 

It was a cute place, a little quiet. Kinda boring. That’s never a bad thing, though. Lots of mom and pop shops, a few coffee shops scattered around, one of which he decided to try. A little sugar’s always good, at least to him. 

The smell of vanilla and roasted coffee beans hit him as he walked into the place. There was a decent amount of customers inside. Not too much to feel crowded, but enough to stay busy. He keeps his eyes on the menu the entire time. The line moves fast, and he figures out what he wants just in time. 

“And what can I get started for you today?”

His eyes are still on the screen, reading the item off the menu.

“Can I get a white chocolate mocha frappuccino, with an extra pump of…” his words die out, and his eyes widen as he finally looks at the girl taking his order. “Hey.”

“Hi.” You laugh at the way this stranger loses his train of thought. “Extra pump of white chocolate syrup?”

“Yeah.” He exhales, unable to rip his eye off you as you write the words down on the plastic cup with a sharpie. 

“Name for the order?”

“Go– Satoru,” he corrects himself. “It’s Satoru.”

He’s a little awkward, but you still find him quite charming and smile. “Alright, Satoru. Your order should be ready in about 10 minutes.”

“Awesome. Thanks,” he nods rather pathetically, then goes to sit in an empty corner of the shop with only one thought in mind: 

He has 10 minutes to come up with what to say to get your number. 

Addiction and overdoses are not specific to Hell’s Kitchen, or even New York City. Matt knows that, he owns a small law firm in an urban area, and he’s well versed in the crime underbelly of said urban area. 

But recently, he’s noticed a spike in unconventional overdoses; He goes out at night and comes across one too many bodies on the ground, usually with blood running down their face from their nose, eyes and mouth. Sometimes they don’t die from the drug, they die from choking on their own blood. 

Whatever this new mystery drug is, it’s horrible; Intravenous, he guesses, and from what he can find on his own, the effects include a buzzy, rushing high for a few hours, like Adderall, maybe, and then an intense crash, usually leading to a long, deep sleep. 

Matt spends two nights trying to find an origin, a source, anything that would help him figure out how and why these people are overdosing at such a high rate, other than this being a new street drug that is taking a lot of lives, one which has not breached the public eye just yet. So, when he gets to work on Monday, he uses his resources—

He divulges everything he knows to Karen and Foggy and asks them for help. It takes another day or so, but eventually, he has a lead, a friend of a friend of an old client who had been in and out of rehabs. 

Which lead him to this complex, the most complicated apartment layout he could imagine, a few miles away from his cozy Hell’s Kitchen apartment. This place is making the hairs on the back of his neck stand up, he feels like a cat.

He just hates everything about this place. He can tell there are bright lights on too, he can hear the LED buzzing above him. It’s definitely lab-like, he found a room earlier down this long hallway with large vats—one of the drug he’s looking for, and one of blood. Whose blood, he doesn’t know. 

That’s where the copper is coming from—above the large vat of blood is a thin tube that’s currently depositing blood into it. The tube goes up into the ceiling, and that’s what Matt’s been following for the past few minutes. He’s not sure what he’s expecting to find, but whatever it is, he’s sure he won’t like it. 

He gets to the end of the hallway and stops in front of the door, taking a second to listen—there are sounds he’s not familiar with, he’s sure that there’s too much liquid sloshing around. And there’s something else—a heartbeat. A very faint one. The door is locked when he tries, but he busts the lock open easily and steps inside. 

And there you are. 

You’re not awake, or maybe you are, just barely. He’s not sure. But your breathing is shallow, and your heartbeat indicates to him that you’re quite drugged up yourself. You’re on a standing table, strapped in but tilted back enough where you don’t have to keep yourself standing on two feet; not that you could, even if you wanted to. 

There’s an IV coming from your arm. Maybe fluids to keep you alive, but he’s sure there must be some kind of drugs in there to keep you loopy. Around your face, he notes another tube—a nose cannula provides oxygen to you, and Matt has to assume you desperately need it; especially when he notices the needles sticking out of your skin. 

They’re large things with a glass tube on top of them, connecting to smaller, plastic tubes that all converge into the tube Matt had been following to get here. There are seven of them—three on each arm, and one right into your abdomen. From what he can tell, you’re wearing a sports bra and sweatpants, no socks, no shoes. 

You barely move, barely breathe, and your skin is drained of any flushness, your hands lightly shaking. He peels off his gloves before taking hold of one with both of his hands and feeling the cold, clamminess of them. 

Someone is working awfully hard to keep you alive. 

In an instant, he’s working to try and get the needles off you. You barely stir as he eases the needles out of you, careful not to hurt you. He’s sure he won’t have much time once he gets the needles out, so he works quickly. When the needles are out, he takes the IV out next, and then takes off the nose cannula, before working at your shackles. 

When those are off, you almost fall off the table—but he catches you, your body limp in his arms. He holds you close, cradling you like you’re precious. You’re just some kid, he reasons, and you need to be saved from whoever is harvesting the life from you, literally. 

You squirm a bit in his arms, and he winces. 

“It’s alright, you’re going to be okay.” He says gently, and you must believe him, since you curl into him. 

He thinks about taking you to the hospital, but he’s sure that whoever had you here will look there first. So, he does the only thing he can think to and begins to carry you back to his apartment. You’re still asleep, but he keeps his focus on your heartbeat, making sure that as he makes his way through the shadows, you don’t die. 

You make it back and since it’s been about an hour by the time he makes it there, and you’re still alive, Matt is semi confident that you won’t die just yet. But he lays you on his bed very gently, and before he can even think about taking his own suit off, he’s reaching to bandage your arms. The needles were big, so he’s sure they’ll scar. You have three bandages wrapped around different parts of each of your arms, and then he tenderly places a bandage on your side. 

He checks for other injuries, but he’s sure you’re just weak from the drugs and the blood draining. Or at least, he really fucking hopes so. He gets you a small washcloth, wetting it and squeezing to make sure it’s not dripping, before going back to you.

He listens for your heartbeat again and finds it still thumping. 

“Brave girl,” he whispers softly as he brushes some hair from your face, before placing the cold cloth on your forehead. He’s sure you can’t hear him, but he speaks anyways, “What happened to you?” He wonders quietly. 

That’s about all he can do for you until you wake up. So, reluctantly, he pulls himself from your side, and begins to strip, needing desperately to wash the smell of that place off of him—he wishes you’d be free of the scent too. After scrubbing every inch of his skin with a body wash that only barely smells like vanilla, Matt dresses in a pair of sweats, similar to yours, and an old ratty henley tee shirt. He brushes his teeth, washes his face, and slips his crucifix on, wondering what saints were looking after you while you were being.. tortured? Experimented on? 

Saint Jude, he thinks, Patron saint of desperate and lost causes, or Saint Dismas, patron saint of prisoners. Or maybe, he thinks more bitterly, Saint Januarius, patron saint of blood banks.

He stands in between his bedroom and the kitchen, scratching the back of his neck.

Then, he moves to go make you a sandwich. You’ll be hungry when you wake up, won’t you? Who knows when the last time you ate was—then, he’s reaching for a glass, too. You’ll be thirsty. He can’t fix whatever’s happened to you, but he can absolutely make sure you aren’t wanting for food or water when you wake up. 

He places the plate, complete with some chips he found, on his nightstand near the bed, along with the water.  Then, he realizes you might be cold or want to change when you wake up. He goes to find old clothes that might fit you. 

It’s a real ‘if you give a mouse a cookie’ situation with him. 

Eventually, when he’s sure he’s accounted for everything that you could possibly need or want when you wake up, he grabs the pillow your head is not resting on and stands next to the bed, trying to convince himself to go sleep on the couch. 

He can’t help it. He leans down, kisses your head, and then, turns to make his way out of the room. He stops at the doorway, turning his head back in your direction, just to make sure your heart is still beating, before making his way to the couch, making sure to leave the door cracked open. 

He doesn’t sleep particularly well, what with the mysterious prisoner in his bed, but he does manage to get some sleep. In the morning, when he goes to check on you, you’re still dead asleep. But your heartbeat is stronger than it was, and that’s encouraging, at least.

He replaces the cloth on your head with a fresh one, using it to wipe sweat off your face and neck, as well. He goes back and forth with it for about an hour, trying to decide if he should go to work or not. What if you’re not here when he gets back? 

But, he reasons with himself—even if you do wake up before he gets home, which, he doubts you will, he’s sure you won’t be strong enough to get very far. Besides, maybe you’d appreciate being saved, being left in a warm bed with a plate of food and a change of clothes not too far from you. The office isn’t too far, either, he can keep an ear out for you.

Besides, he knows that if Karen and Foggy don’t hear from him, they’ll only worry. So, reluctantly, he gets ready for work. 

And the day drags, of course. Fridays always do. He almost stays three separate times and then goes when he remembers he doesn’t have any other substantial food in the apartment. You’ll definitely be hungry when you wake up, he remembers, so you need more than a ham and cheese sandwich. He does tell Foggy and Karen about you, who immediately start looking through missing persons files. He doesn’t see the point—he really doesn’t know what you look like, only that you’re weak and scarred. Besides, maybe when you wake up, he’ll learn exactly who you are. 

It takes him a couple of minutes at the Chinese place to decide what you’d like. He doesn’t know you, he reminds himself, but he’s tired, and he’s finding it hard to be focused on anything except the girl in his bed, like he’s known you for years. 

He settles on sweet and sour chicken and some fried rice. Carbs, sodium, and sugars will be good for you, he’s sure. He gets himself beef and broccoli, always preferring this place for how they clean they kept it, how their food never tasted like chemicals or soap. Besides, it was good food. The meal comes with two egg rolls. 

He trudges his way up the apartment stairs, noting the way the day both dragged on and passed with a snap of his fingers, but he’s about to have a much bigger problem on his hands. At the door, he listens for your heartbeat and finds it much faster than when he left. Are you scared? Well, you did wake up in an unfamiliar place. 

He comes inside, before placing the takeout on the coffee table near the door. He takes off his jacket, places his cane to the side, and rolls up the sleeves of his button up before following the sound of your heartbeat into his bedroom. The sandwich is half eaten, the chips demolished and the water gone. 

He listens for a minute, before locating you in his closet—Wait, his closet? You’re sitting in his armoire, curled up on top of the trunk he keeps his suit in. Why are you in there, he wonders? 

He makes his way towards the closet, and then stops, hesitating. Just opening the door might spook you, so he knocks. When he doesn’t hear any reaction, he slowly opens the door. When the light hits your eyes, you squint, taking in the site of this new captor you’ve found yourself next to. He wears dark glasses, and you’re trying to recall what that might mean. You’re sure you would’ve known once upon a time. 

Matt crouches down in front of you, so you’re more eye level. You haven’t changed clothes, he notes. Before Matt can say anything, you pull your knees closer to your chest and start to growl, like a frightened animal. He frowns, then sits on his butt and takes a scootch back so you don’t feel so threatened. He crosses his legs. 

“Hi.” He says softly, “I didn’t mean to scare you, I’m sorry.” He starts. You don’t respond. “But I’m not going to hurt you.” He promises. 

You don’t believe him. But you do stop growling. He exhales softly, not sure why he’s so relieved. 

“I found you in a lab, there was.. well, I guess I don’t need to tell you what state I found you in. But you’ll be safe here.” He says, and then, when you still don’t respond, “I’m Matt.” He says next. 

A long beat of silence. 

And Matt finds himself talking again. 

“It’s okay if you don’t remember your name, but I’d like to know it if you do.” He offers, “Maybe I could help you, find someone who cares about you, who’s worried for you.”

You know two things: Your name, and that you are completely alone. No one is coming to save you. They never were. But this Matthew (How do you know Matt is short for Matthew, you wonder, how do you know anything?) is sitting in front of you and, while you know what men are capable of, you don’t detect any signs of aggression. You don’t trust him, but you know he’s brought you away from that terrible place. 

So, you whisper your name. Matthew echoes it, and it’s weird to hear your name fall from the lips of another person after so long. Then, Matthew does something you find strange. He smiles. 

It’s an awfully pretty smile, and you attempt to bare your teeth back at him, but it doesn’t feel like smiling, it just feels like showing off your canines and molars. He stands, then, and you’re almost dizzy with how much larger than you, curled up in this dark corner, he is.  He offers you his hand. 

“C’mon, it can’t be very comfortable in there. Besides, I got dinner. Or you could shower, change, whatever you want to do.” And despite your instinct, despite every inch of you screaming to run far far away from his kindness, you take his hand. 

Without another word, Matthew leads you out of the closet, and to the main room where he has the food. 

“You can, uh.. sit down. Do you want something to drink?” he asks, as you stand by the couch, quiet and staring at the door. You could leave. You could run. Why aren’t you running? Isn’t this what you’ve wanted for years, to run? He tilts his head at you. “Kid? You okay?” he wonders, and you look at him. He holds up two cans of soda. “Coke or Dr. Pepper?” He asks, not wanting to push on whatever that moment was. 

You reach forward and take the coke can, the idea of sugar making your mouth watery. Food is a luxury for you, and the scent of the food coming from the takeout bag Matt is reaching for is intoxicating. He pulls the containers out much too slowly for your liking, and then, you’re sitting on his couch in front of his coffee table as he reveals the spread of greasy, delicious New York City American Chinese food that you’ll be able to devour. 

“The chicken is for you, help yourself to the rice.” He puts the container of sicky sweet red sauce in front of you too, and then he’s sitting down to eat his beef with broccoli, his fork picking up a scoopful as you—

As you start pulling pieces of chicken out of the container with your hands, shoveling it into your mouth like you haven’t eaten in days. It’s so good, you cannot help yourself. You could cry, it’s so good—you won’t, you hate crying in front of anyone, but you could—and then you’re reaching for the sauce container, ripping off the lid to start drinking it, and that’s when Matt decides he needs to step in. 

“Okay, hey—” he leans forward to grab your hands, and you flinch, looking at him with wide, horrified eyes. He stops and sighs, noticing your tension. “It’s alright. It’s okay, I’m not upset. But if you eat like that, you’ll make yourself sick.” He promises and then hands you a fresh fork. “Here, use this.” 

You stare at the fork. You remember forks, you’re sure. You can identify the name of it, but you can’t remember quite how to use it. Your hand wraps around the stem, and you begin to stab at your chicken like it’s a knife. Matt doesn’t mind. He doesn’t say anything, just keeps eating. He gets the sense you don’t want to talk about whatever it is you’ve been through, and he won’t push. 

You eat in silence, and then, you manage the words out, after a long, disgusting slurp of cold soda. 

“Thank you.” You say quietly, and Matt smiles at you again. You look down at your food. 

He helps you when your stabbing method doesn’t work on the rice, showing you how to hold the fork properly. In the back of his mind, Matt keeps wondering what happened to you, and more than that, he’s wondering how long you had been isolated. 

But, he decides, when you finally are full, and you lean back, stretching your limbs, your bandages still around the wounds of those horrible needles, that for now all he needs to do is let you heal. Let you rest. Everything else can come after he makes sure you know he won’t let anything else hurt you. 

You find the shower when you’re done eating and after showing you how to use it and offering a fresh set of clothes, Matt leaves you alone as he cleans up dinner, but the sound of your sobs coming from the bathroom makes him pause. But you’ve been through so much, he reasons, you’re more than allowed to cry.

When you come out of the shower, clean and no longer smelling like blood and antiseptic, Matt rewraps your wounds with fresh bandages, and asks, 

“Do you need anything else? Are you tired, would you like to go to bed?” He asks, and you are tired, you won’t deny that... but, your eyes drift to the two egg rolls that sit on the table still. Matt smiles a little. “Just so you know, I can’t see. Not with my eyes anyways.” Your head tilts at this. “But I can tell you’re eyeing those egg rolls.” He reaches over and picks up the container, offering them to you. “Go on, take one.” And you do. 

You take a large, crunchy bite, and remember that you like egg rolls. They’re delicious, you’re quickly recalling.

Matt must sense this, although you’re not sure if that’s part of his ‘seeing but not with his eyes’ thing, so he tells you that you can have his, too. 

-

You like Matthew’s friends. In the small bit of your brain where you can access memories from before the lab, memories you can only reach on the brink of falling asleep or right when you wake up, you’re sure you’d be good friends with them if you were normal. 

You’re not sure if they like you. 

Matt had asked Karen and Foggy to come over to meet you yesterday, when he was sure you were settled in enough to not freak out on him. 

“Dude.” Is all Foggy has said for the past half hour. You look normal, besides for the big tee shirts you’ve stolen from Matt. You’re wearing pants that are a size too big for you, and socks that are thick and soft. They feel like cuffs after years of being barefoot, but you’re managing. 

“Dude.” You chirp back, smiling up at them from your place on the couch. Karen sits on the other end of the couch, looking at you.

“This is insane, you must see that!” Foggy demands and you shake your head, tapping the space between your eyes. 

“Can’t see.” You offer. Matt sighs, hands on his hips. It’s your favorite thing to say, anytime anyone makes an indication that Matt might be able to see, figuratively or not, whether it’s Matt himself or someone else. 

His one hand leaves his hip and rests on your head for a second. 

“Yes, Kid, we know, I can’t see.” Then, he’s turning back to Foggy to continue their conversation. 

“She hasn’t told you anything except her name? She doesn’t remember anything about who took her, or—” You bring your knees to your chest, curling into yourself. Karen cuts herself off, tilting her head when she notices your change in body language. “You don’t want to talk about it, do you?” She wonders, and you shake your head. She watches as you get this far away look in your eyes. 

She shares a look with Foggy, and Matt steps away from you, closer to them. In a low voice, he begins to talk, 

“Listen, whatever happened to her, I know it’s bad. I know it kind of..” he sighs. “Broke her brain, I guess. I don’t even know how long she was in there for, and you guys know that even a few weeks of torture and isolation can destroy someone, let alone..” his head tilts back to where you sit, as you begin to rock a bit, before your hands move to play with the blanket that drapes over the couch, picking at stray bits of fiber. You hum a tune none of them recognize, and Matt has noticed you do this when you’re stressed. You make sounds, instead of words. 

Humming, purring, growling, cooing. 

Foggy sighs. 

“I’ll call my sister, see if she has any old clothes she’s not using. They’re about the same size. Then, I’ll see if I can get my hands on some missing persons reports that match her description.” He offers, unable to deny his bleeding heart. 

“I’ll talk to Ellis,” Karen offers, “See if he has any leads on the manufacturers who had her.” 

“Thank you,” Matt smiles, and your eyes drift up to watch the three of them, talking at the other end of the couch. You feel the familiar bitter swirl of jealousy in your stomach. Would anyone ever love you as much as Matt loves his friends, and his friends love him? Had anyone, before you knew nothing, except pain and blood? 

You feel the familiar urge to run, to get as far away as possible, but you can’t move. You also want to cry, but you force yourself not to, as you stare at the glass of water Matt had poured for Karen when she came in, forcing yourself to stare at it instead of one of them. 

Their chatter becomes dull noise in a roar of dissociation, static filling your brain as you relish in all the terrible things floating around in your brain. 

You’ve always been alone, you’re sure. You don’t know exactly how long you’d been in the lab, but you’re sure it was a long time, long enough that it’s strange that no one ever came for you. Maybe you went willingly. Maybe you went by your own accord, and that would mean that this is all your fault. That you did this to yourself, that you deserve the scars from those needles, since no one forced you to be experimented on, you did this all to yourself. 

You sink deeper into the darkness. Into the blood that sloshes around your brain, blurring your memories. 

Why do you even let Matt help you? You don’t deserve it. You’re only putting him in more danger, more than you’re worth. You’re not worth anything, you’re a blood bank, remember? Matt, maybe he made a mistake, when he saved you. He’s good, he helps people, he’s so kind, and you’re horrible. You’re angry, and bitter, and sad, and selfish. Maybe you should’ve just died in that lab. 

The water starts to bubble like it’s being boiled on the table. 

You’re just not worth all of this effort, not when you’ve done so many horrible things, not when your blood has been used for things you can’t even begin to describe, not when you did this to yourself. Maybe there’s still time to fix it, you reason—maybe you should just end it. Maybe you should just kill—

The glass of water shatters, glass and water spilling everywhere. All three heads turn to it as Karen gasps, obviously surprised. Your eyes are wide with surprise too. You’re trembling now, and you can smell blood, but you’re not sure why. You’re dizzy. Your chest heaves up and down, and Matt notices your frenzied state. 

He frowns, and grabs a rag from his kitchen, going over to the coffee table. His head tilts towards yours with a gentle smile as he begins to clean it up, 

“It’s okay. No harm done, it was an old glass, anyways.” He assures, scooping glass into the wet rag. He goes to dump it out in the trash, and as he passes Karen and Foggy, he mumbles, “Oh, yeah. There’s that too.” 

You put your head between your knees and try to breathe. You only flinch when you feel a warm hand on your head, gently petting your hair.

-

One night, Matt wakes up to the sound of you crying. Your gentle sobs wrack your body from the other room, as you try and control your breathing. And although every bone in Matt’s body is aching for sleep, he pulls himself up off the couch, rubs his eyes and makes his way to his bedroom. 

He’s been sleeping on the couch since you got here, and he can’t deny that he misses his bed. But he’s happy to give you your privacy, sure that you aren’t used to that luxury. Besides, he feels bad that he falls asleep to the thought of you every night. Not because he’s worried for you, but because he longs to be close to you. 

He’s definitely going to hell. This alone is enough to damn him. 

He wears dark sweatpants and an old Columbia tee shirt, and the sound of your crying is making his heart ache. He can’t help himself as his feet begin to move towards the bedroom door. He stops there, listening for a long moment. You’re crying, but your movements are subtle. You’re twitching, and Matt’s face softens when he realizes you’re having a nightmare. 

He opens the door as quietly as he can, and makes his way over to his bed, where you’re sobbing in your sleep, flinching like you’re hurting, your leg moving like you’re trying to run. He goes over to the bed and sits near your head, his hand gently resting on your arm. 

“Hey,” he begins, “Hey, kid, c’mon, wake up.” He tries, gently shaking you, and when you keep crying he sighs, “C’mon, brave girl, wake up for me, I promise, you’re okay. I wouldn’t let anything hurt you.” He leans down to press a kiss to your forehead, and you choose that exact moment to wake up, and move your head right up—your forehead hitting Matt’s nose with a light crunch!, as you panic, gasping for air as you move away from him. 

Matt whimpers and scrunches his face, his hand coming up to hold his nose. But you didn’t hit hard enough to break his nose or draw blood, so he’s not super worried about it. However, you know he’s hurting, and you feel horrible, because all Matt has done is save you, feed you, try to make you feel safe, and you hurt him. 

God, what a waste of space you are. 

You keep crying, and you hate yourself for it. For all of it, but especially this. You swore of crying in front of anyone a long time ago, so long you can’t remember when you did, back when you still had some sort of resolve, when you didn’t want to show whoever was hurting you how vulnerable you really were.

Matt reaches for you instinctively. 

“Hey, it’s alright,” he says it softly, like he’s talking to a skittish animal, which, you’re not too far off from, “You’re safe, I’ve got you, baby,” he says, and neither of you are in the state to address that slip. “Can I hold you?” He requests, and you only sob, wishing to go home. 

Where even is home? Did you ever have one? Do you have parents out there, somewhere? Folks who raised you, who made you soup when you were sick, who knew when your birthday was, and never missed it? 

Matt takes your crying as a yes, scooting over a bit and wrapping his arms around you, pulling you close. He cradles you close, your head tucked under his chin. Your nose rubs against his Adam’s apple, against the bottom of his scruff, as his hand gently pets your hair. You clutch his other arm with both of your hands, afraid he’ll disappear. You don’t stop crying. 

“It was just a nightmare. You’re safe here, I’ve got you.” He whispers it over and over again, like a prayer, just barely rocking you. “Just a nightmare.” 

A nightmare you can barely remember now, but it felt so real. 

Your tears slow, simply because you have nothing left to give. You’re still trembling. Matt hates it when you shake. Just tell me how to fix it, he wants to say, but that would be a load of shit—he can’t fix what you’ve been through. He can’t even fix how you’re feeling right now. 

But even if you’re not crying, you’re still hyperventilating, so he starts to rub slow circles into your back with his hand. 

“Kid, you have to breathe. Just breathe with me, okay? In,” He inhales, listening for you to follow suite, and then exhales, “Out.” The two of you sit like this for a long moment as you match his breathing, no longer breathing in a way that deprives your brain or your lungs of the necessary oxygen. Matt thinks of the nose cannula you had on when he first met you. “Do you want me to go get you a glass of water? Or I can go—” But you start shaking again at the idea of him leaving. 

Your hands cling to him, gripping his arm tighter. 

“Stay.” You request, and Matt nods, pulling you closer. 

He presses a kiss to your head. 

“Okay, I’ll stay. I’m not going anywhere, I promise.” He says softly. 

And true to his word, Matt holds you until the sun rises, and you’re completely sure you’re not in any danger. Although, in the back of your mind, you are worried for the way you melt into him, the way you trust him, the way you wish you could stay in his arms forever. 

-

You haven’t eaten in days and Matt’s beginning to get worried. He knows you, or at least, he likes to pretend that he does. Aren’t you hungry? 

You haven’t had much of an appetite lately, anyways, but you usually can stomach some soup or something light. 

But for the past three days, you haven’t had an appetite at all; Matt knows it’s hard, he’s had a hard time taking care of himself before, but he can’t help but wonder what he could do to help you eat something. You were so fucking hungry when you first met, where did that go? Where is his girl that would shovel handfuls of takeout into her mouth? 

As a compromise with himself, he decides to tuck you into bed and tells you he’ll be back in a few hours, that Daredevil must make an appearance for the night. It’s been a few days since he’s really let himself get into it. 

He spends hours throwing punches, swinging kicks and getting punched right back. He crawls into the apartment at around three in the morning, sweaty and smelling as he tries to make his way through a rattled brain and into the shower. But he hears you in the kitchen, rummaging through the fridge. So, he heads towards you. 

“Hey, kid,” He says as he limps towards the kitchen, pulling off his helmet. His hair is drenched in sweat, sticking to his forehead despite the short length, “What’re you doing up?” he asks, and you stop, not realizing he was there. 

You slowly turn towards him, a mouth full of raw ground beef as your hands dig into the package you have taken the raw meat from. You don’t say much, you tend not to, and Matt really doesn’t mind. Except, maybe, for the fact that you’re the lovely girl he’s been developing feelings for, and he wishes he could hear more of your voice. 

You let out something resembling a coo, and then clear your throat,

“Hungry.” You tell him, scooping a big handful of ground beef into your mouth letting out a hum as you enjoy the texture. Matt frowns softly and goes over to you. He has no idea what’s wrong with you, why the first thing you’ve eaten in days is raw meat. 

“I know, I mean,” He pulls off thick gloves and sighs, “I bet you are. This is the first time I’ve seen you eat in days.” He reminds, approaching you. You don’t flinch, you just reach for another bite, and Matt lets you have it. 

Then, you shake your head. 

“Can’t see.” Your pointer finger comes up to run along the bridge of Matt’s nose, right between his eyes. He tenses a bit, a small smile on his face as you rub small grains of raw beef on his forehead. 

“Yeah, you’re right. I meant I know you haven’t eaten in days. I’ve been worried about you.” He confesses. You tilt your head. 

“Not worried.” You assure, with a small shake of your head. Matt smiles a bit. 

‘Yeah, I know you’re not worried. You’re never worried about you. That’s why I am.” He reminds, and when he senses you going for another bite of the raw beef, he gently wraps his fingers around your wrist. “You can’t keep eating raw meat. You’ll get sick.” You let out a whine and try to pull your wrist back, and Matt lets you but he also pulls the raw beef from your hands, and then you whine louder. “I know, I’m sure it tastes good, but you’ll get sick, and you’ll feel awful, honey.” 

You pause. 

“Honey?” 

Matt sighs, feeling bad about the slip up. He shouldn’t be using pet names for you, he has no idea how much you do or do not understand about the world around you. It’s why he feels so bad that he likes you so much. He tosses and turns, goes back and forth, is it even okay, morally, to fall for someone if you don’t know that they understand what love is? Does it make him even more of a sinner than he thought? 

“It’s just a nickname. For friends, I guess.” Matt sighs. 

“We are friends?” You ask, and Matt nods. 

“We are. We take care of each other, right?” He wonders, and if you had the words, you’d tell him that he takes care of you far more than you take care of him. You look from your hands, covered in specs of meat, then to Matt, sweaty, tired and a little bit beaten up. You frown softly when you notice a cut on his head. 

“Matthew Hurt,” You chirp, and you go to touch his forehead, but again, his hand wraps around your wrist, oh, so gently, 

“I’ll live. It’s okay. Can you wash your hands, please?” He really does not need your ground beef hands on him. Again. And you oblige, washing your hands as he sticks the raw meat in the fridge again, and when you turn back to him, you reach past him to try and get into the fridge, but he’s blocking your reach. 

“Hungry.” You echo, and Matt sighs. 

“I know,” He promises, “I’ll get you whatever you want.. but raw meat isn’t good for you. I could cook it for you, if you want.” And to that, you make a face, with a disgusted ‘ick’, sticking your tongue out. “Okay, I won’t cook it for you. How about..” Matt turns, goes back into the fridge and finds edible cookie dough. He hands you the tub, and you take it begrudgingly. 

“Fine.” You grumble, and you open the tub of cookie dough, taking a scoop. The sweetness makes you hum, licking the dough off your fingers. “Thank you, honey.” You hum, and Matt smiles. 

“You’re welcome. How about you eat, while I shower?” He wonders. You know this is the routine, even if you’re usually asleep for it. 

“Then we cuddle?” You wonder, and Matt smiles. Sure, he shouldn’t be falling for you, but how could he deny such a request? 

“If that’s what you want, then sure.” He promises, “But no more eating raw meat, okay?” He confirms and you take a second. Then, you nod. 

“Okay.” 

-

Matt doesn’t really care about bookstores, especially the big ones, mostly because they’re usually too loud for a store with a limited number of books he can actually read. But you’ve made your way through the two or three books that had been left at his place from old flings at least twice. 

So, of course, he stands a foot away as your fingers graze against the spines of various books. You’re examining all of the titles, trying to find something familiar. You know, from the few books you’ve been able to get your hands on since meeting Matt, that you really like reading—

You’re sure you did. You miss feeling normal, even though you cannot remember what that was really like. Matt keeps assuring you that it’ll get easier, that you won’t feel this way forever. You don’t respond when he says this, but you want to tell him that maybe this is it; this is as normal as you’ll ever be. 

You find yourself in the young adult section—why, you do not know. Then, you pluck a book from the stands, finding a.. familiar title. The Hunger Games. You blink, startled. You know this book. 

You love this book. 

Although, you cannot for the life of you remember why, or what the story is about.

You clutch the book in your hands and immediately open it, starting to read the first page, and although you don’t remember the contents of the story now, you are hooked on every single word. 

In the middle of the aisle, you sit down, your eyes still following the sentences, only getting to the end of the page when you hear Matthew’s voice—

“Honey, you can’t just sit in the middle of the aisle and start reading. We’re here to shop, remember?”

“Can’t. Your favorite word.” You’re getting better at full sentences, and Matt is hoping that through reading, you’ll only get better.

“I’m sorry,” He sits down next to you in the aisle, and you find yourself not minding his closeness. “Was that sass?” he wonders, and you glare at him, although there’s no anger in it. Not yet. You know he’s teasing. You hate it when he teases, your face always gets too red. But you hate the silence more.

“I want to read.” You grumble, looking down at the page. You squirm when you feel Matt’s hand on the back of your neck. 

“I know,” he promises, and he’s honestly on the verge of pissing you off. You really like him, he’s the only person you feel safe with, and yet, you can feel yourself grow frustrated. He’s cooing at you, like you’re stupid, but you’re not stupid, you just don’t have the words to express yourself, not like everyone else does. “But we should find you more books, that way we can—”

“No.” You say firmly, turning the page of your book. You want to know more, you want to understand why you feel so drawn to this book, why it was so important to you once upon a long fucking time ago, and Matt doesn’t understand. Does he understand what it’s like to lose everything, to feel so disconnected from who you once were? 

“Kid, I know, you want to read, but—”

Oh, my god, you hate this. Why isn’t he listening to you? He’s supposed to be on your side, and you can feel your heart beating faster with frustration, your head rushing—you can hear the blood rushing through your skull, and you hate it more than you hate this frustration--

“No!” You snap, and when you do, a nearby light overhead goes out with a dramatic snap!, causing numerous gasps to erupt form nearby patrons, and you close your eyes, trying to get control of your breathing. You can’t think about Matt right now, can’t think about how horrible you feel. Why are you like this? Once you’re sure you won’t do it again, you open your eyes to look at Matt. “I did not…” you shake your head, and his face is tilted up towards the light, face twisted in confusion, as if he’s trying to figure the light out. 

“I know,” he repeats, and you exhale, trying to not get more upset. “I’m not mad—"

“Say something else.” You demand, and his shoulders deflate. He nods, before continuing, 

“Maybe you could read some of your book to me.” He offers, and your lips tilt up a bit, the tension melting from your shoulders. 

“Okay.” You say softly, and then Matt gently rubs your arm up, and down. 

“Would you like to pick out a few more books? Maybe we could stop by the CD section, too.” He offers, and you smile more. You glance down to your book, and you know you can’t keep being so stubborn, that you need to agree to going with him, because he’s assuming you can’t understand as much as he does. 

“No money.” You sigh. 

Matt shakes his head and waves his hand, like it doesn’t even matter. 

“My treat.” He says, and then he stands up, and offers you his hand. “C’mon. I’m getting hungry, anyways.” You know he’s not, but he always says that when your stomach rumbles, and you’re wondering if he’ll always have the upper hand on reading you, on knowing your cues. 

Then, you think it’s nice to be known so well, and you can’t find it in yourself to be angry about it. 

-

You find that you really love the sun. You love the way the warmth feels on your skin and you love the brightness of it—closing your eyes and tilting your head right up to see all these different dull oranges behind your eyelids. 

Maybe Summer was your favorite season, before. Maybe you had days like these, before. 

Karen hates that you’re always so cooped up in Matt’s apartment. He’s your only friend, and when he’s at work, Karen wonders what you do to keep yourself entertained all day. Matt says you have books and music, but how fulfilling can that really be? 

So, Karen asked you if you wanted to go to the farmer’s market they were having by the docks. When the sun shines and it’s warm, the people of New York tend to come out of hibernation, so Matt was a little worried about you being suddenly around so many people. 

But he didn’t save you from that lab just for you to stay cooped up in his apartment all day when he’s not around. He told you that you should go. 

You wore one of Matt’s button ups and a pair of shorts he had gotten for you, your shirt only half tucked in, sleeves rolled up to your elbows. Your arm hooks around Karen’s, mostly because it’s what you’re so used to doing with Matt. She smells different than him, though, more like lavender and clean laundry than his coffee-cologne, hint of vanilla scent. You don’t mind, it’s a good different. Ten minutes into your exploration of the farmers market, you bought a small bouquet of roses, before picking the petals and popping them in your mouth. You tried Karen’s strawberry matcha from one of the booths, and you thought it was fine. You sipped a lemonade as she perused some pretty crochet creations that a young woman with many piercings was selling—you were amazed by her piercings.

Overall, you were having a nice day. 

You’ve been happily humming for a few minutes now, letting yourself be guided by Karen, only occasionally pulling her towards something that catches your eye. 

Your eyes scan the crowd, back and forth, just looking. Maybe you’re watching for danger, although, you aren’t sure what danger there would be in this place like this, where younger kids wander far from their parents who don’t want to stop their wine tasting to look at blind boxes. 

Your eyes land on a man—he’s staring at Karen. He’s staring at her like he wants something, and it makes your nose twitch. You don’t like it. Your humming ceases as you stare the man down, your gaze hardening as Karen finishes buying some tea she knows Foggy wanted to try. She turns back to you when she hears you start to growl, the type of low, back of the throat growl a pitbull might do when they sense danger. 

You’re not sure why, but as you glare at him, your ears start to ring, and you hear the rushing of blood—but not your blood. His.

You’re weird. She knows that. She doesn’t really mind it, all things considered. But, she’s trying to learn your cues. 

“What’s wrong?” She asks, then follows your gaze to the man who’s staring at her. She scoffs and then rolls her eyes. “Weirdo. Don’t worry about him, okay?” You can’t stop worrying about him even if you wanted to, but you’re pulled back to reality when Karen hooks her arm with yours again, before smiling. “Don’t worry,” She taps her bag with her hand, and you listen to the faintest click of metal, “Mine’s bigger than his.” 

You don’t fully know what the joke is here, but she says it with the same cadence as Matt does when he’s joking, so you know she’s not worried or upset. So, you laugh, and it makes Karen laugh—and the two of you walk away from the staring man to go get lunch at one from one of the vendors on the other side of the farmer’s market. 

When you find something yummy, you and Karen sit next to each other on a bench, people watching as you eat and sip, like nothing about either of you is anything except completely normal. 

And then, your mouth starts to water when you notice a pig being set up to be roasted, still raw, and the illusion of normalcy is broken.  

-

You have good days and bad days. 

Today is a bad day. 

You wake up restless. You wake up unable to find words, unable to talk. You’re looking over your shoulder all through breakfast. You’re watching Matt get ready for work. You’re tapping your foot anxiously, as if you’re trying to outrun your fears, all while sitting in the same place. 

You know there’s uncooked steaks in the fridge, and you have this desire to sink your teeth into them, lick the drops blood out of the container. Everything is wrong. You can hear Matt’s blood swirling through his veins. You’re dizzy. 

“Doin’ okay over there?” He asks, a small smile on his face. He really tries to keep a sense of normalcy when you have these bad days, but it’s not easy. He’s worried about you, he’s so fucking worried, and you won’t talk to him. 

You let out a whine, and the smile drops from his face.

“I’m sorry, honey,” he starts gently. “Is it the food? Can I get you something else?” 

Of course it’s the food, but It’s also everything else. 

You whine again, burying your face in your hands. Matt’s frown deepens, and he steps closer to you. 

“I can’t help you if you don’t talk to me,” He reminds, and you want to kill him. You’ve never had that thought about Matt before, it scares you, but you’re mad. You’re mad that he doesn’t understand that you can’t, that the words aren’t even available for you to use. You want to cry, but something in you insists that you don’t, that you cannot show vulnerability, even to this man that you lo—really enjoy the company of. 

Matt sighs at your silence, as his shoulders fall. 

“Okay.” He nods, “Okay. Then, I have to go to work.” He moves away from you and goes to the door to get his jacket. You’re up in an instant, following him. The only thing worse than him being so close is him not being here at all. Your breathing becomes uneven as you struggle with the thought of being without him. You need him, you think, you cannot live without him, you won’t—you’re not safe here without him, you’re not safe anywhere without him. 

Matt is also dealing with an internal conflict. He wants to hold you, cradle you close. But you need to work through your emotions, you need to be able to not shut down every time you have a bad day, you need to heal. And if he babies you, if he keeps running to your aid whenever you whine, you never will. 

And then you’ll spend the rest of your days in this apartment, where he’ll fall deeper and deeper in love with you. 

Besides, Matt never claimed to be a perfect man. 

You grab at his arm, pulling him away from the door. It doesn’t do much, instead leaving Matt more annoyed than before. 

“No, C’mon, you know I have to go.” But this isn’t good enough for you. You tug harder, willing yourself to communicate without words that you need him, that you’re sorry, that you’ll never ever do anything bad ever again. Matt sighs, before putting his free hand on his hip like a disappointed mother. “Tell me. Use your words and tell me you want me to stay, and I will.”

You try. You open your mouth to tell him, but the words die in your throat. In your captivity, you had forgotten how to speak. Now, the effects of what you have gone through render you speechless once more. 

Matt tries not to let his frustration show on his face. 

He moves his hand from yours and brings it up to your face, cupping your cheek. 

“I’m sorry. I gotta go. But I’ll bring home food, we’ll have a nice meal, and I’ll hold you for as long as you want. I promise, Honey, it’ll all be okay—”

But you’re not listening to a word he says. Your eyes are glued onto his arm, static and the sound of rushing blood filling your ears again. Your mouth starts to water, and whatever primal instinct that has aided your survival up until this point wins when he retracts his hand. 

In a flash, Your teeth sink into the skin of his forearm. Not the light, teasing nibble of a lover, but the crazed, blood thirsty gnaw of an animal, one that has been tortured for too long. You draw blood, tear skin, and then, Matt pulls his arm away with a cry. 

For a moment, you don’t even feel bad. You relish in the taste of him, in the way his blood overwhelms your tastebuds, at the way his skin tastes. You don’t tear off a lot of flesh, but it’s enough, and he’s bleeding. It’s not pretty. 

Then, Matt loses it. 

“Are you.. fucking kidding me?!” He doesn’t mean to raise his voice, but you just tore a chunk out of his arm, after weeks and months of gentle care. “Did you just bite me?! I cannot believe you,” he huffs, and he doesn’t process your shaking or the way you flinch away from him. He’s just so angry. 

You back away from him, before turning and walking towards the bedroom. That makes him even angrier. 

“Hey! Don’t walk away from me!” He snaps, “You bit me like a damn animal, you do not get to walk away from me—” He follows you, but you can’t hear him. You can’t breathe, everything about this is nauseating. You walk into the bedroom, and Matt sighs. He takes a deep breath, not realizing how uneven his breathing had become. “Honey, I’m sorry, I—” 

You slam the door behind you, and Matt blinks, flabbergasted. He holds his bleeding arm with one hand but quickly drops it. 

“Fine! You want to be like that? Like a fucking stray dog that I picked up? Fine!” His hand forms a fist and he slams it against his—your bedroom door. It rattles the entire wall, and he can hear you wailing on the other side, but he’s so angry—he does have the devil in him, after all, as much as you have a deep-rooted bloodthirstiness in you. 

You cover your ears with your hands, as the lights in Matt’s room flicker, a glass mirror he had bought for you, when he realized he didn’t have one in the apartment, when he realized you probably had no idea what your reflection even looked like, cracks, and then shatters. 

Matt, too angry at himself, and honestly, at you, simply grabs a dishtowel from his kitchen, pressing it into the fresh wound in his arm. God, he’s filled with a rage he hasn’t been in months. You calm him, as strange as you are, but this is other worldly. It seems, just as much as you can calm him, you fuel the fire of rage that settles in the pit of his stomach. 

He slips on his jacket and leaves, slamming the door behind him. He forgets his cane. 

Of course, he’s angry the entire walk to the office and when he gets there. He stews, and then rants, angrily, to Karen and Foggy about it as Foggy fishes his through the first aid kit that he keeps, specifically for when Matt gets his shit rocked during the day instead of late at night. 

And then, of course, he feels horrible. 

He knows he’s allowed to feel frustrated, that he’s allowed to be upset, that even anger has it’s place. But, you’re not just a girlfriend he’s had a rough fight with. You’re the poor girl he saved from a lab, where your blood was being extracted out of you. And you’re some kind of freak of nature (Although, Matt would put it much more delicately than that), desperate for any sense of normalcy. 

And he failed you. Yes, you absolutely did bite him, and he’d have a whole conversation about that with you, but when you were vulnerable, when you really needed him, he let his emotions get the best of him and yelled at you. 

He feels awful about it all day. He barely gets any work done, but he assumes you need space. By the end of the day, his wound has clotted, and he’s called in to the Chinese place you both like to get you dinner. You were crying so much, you must be hungry. He thinks about the bitemark on his arm. 

He’s home by ten to five, but you’re not there to greet him. He places the takeout on the table near his doorway, takes off his jacket, and then his glasses. He sighs, and then he listens for where you are. 

You’re in the closet, on top of the trunk, just like the first day he really met you. He makes his way to the bedroom, and then, to the closet. He notes the broken mirror, and the pillow stained with tears. 

He knocks gently on the armoire door. 

“Honey?” he asks gently. You give no response. Matt’s heart aches in his chest. “I’m gonna open the door now.” He sighs, and then he does. You cower into the corner, like the frightened animal you are. And he can’t deny the way he missed you today. You’re whimpering, and dry heaving like you want to cry more, but you can’t. And of course, you’re trembling. Matt hates it when you shake.

He sits down in front of the closet like he did that first day. 

“My arm is fine. And I’m not mad at you.” Then, he pauses. “Well.. I am, but.. we can talk about that later. I shouldn’t have reacted like that. I should’ve stayed home.” He sighs. You still don’t respond, so he offers, “Can you please come out here, so I can hold you and apologize?” He wonders, and you, being just as devoted to him as he is to you, and having had hours to make yourself sick with guilt, completely dissipating your frustration, crawl right out of the armoire and into his lap.. like a cat. He sighs, wraps his arms around you, and just like he does when you have a nightmare, rests his chin on the top of your head as it curls into his neck.

“There she is, there’s my girl.” He mumbles, and the tiniest part of you, you’ll admit, wants to bite him again. Not out of anger, but out of a need to taste the love he has for you. You overcome that instinct. 

The two of you sit in silence for a long, long while, before he talks again. 

“I’m so sorry. I never should’ve yelled at you. You’re just.. scared, and alone..” And doesn’t he remember how that felt? How horrible it felt to have nothing, and no one? “I’m sorry.” And he presses a kiss to your head to prove it. You purr in response. He can’t help but smile. 

You trace patterns on his arms, before finding your first words since you woke up this morning,

“I’m sorry.” It’s a gentle whisper, but Matt hears it all the same. 

“I know,” He sighs. “We’re both awful, and we’re both sorry.” He decides, before shaking his head. “No, You’re not awful. I’m sorry, you’re wonderful.” He presses another kiss to your head.

But you are awful, you want to tell him, but it hurts to think, let alone talk. 

Matt holds you for a long moment, before asking, 

“Can you tilt your head up for me?” He wonders, “I want to see your face.” 

And although talking feels like a herculean task, you cannot help but offer him an olive branch. Your hand leaves his arm, and a finger traces the space between Matt’s eyes, down the bridge of his nose. 

“Can’t see.” You whisper, and Matt smiles. What a pretty smile, you think for the millionth time. 

“I know,” he says softly, “Just let me..” his hands move now, coming up to your face. Even with his senses, he needs this right now. He places his hands on your cheeks and begins to map out the details of your face with the pads of his fingertips. “Oh my god, You’re beautiful.” He says softly, and it almost comes out as a whine. 

Then, because Matt really never claimed to be a perfect man, his lips are on yours. It’s perfect. You taste of salty tears, a vague mint toothpaste and.. a copper taste he doesn’t care to think about. But you’re perfect. You’re beautiful, and you’re perfect. He’s kissing you, cradling your face with his hands, and then, he comes to his senses and pulls back.

“I’m so sorry,” he gasps, “I never should’ve—I should’ve asked you before I did that, please don’t—” But then, you’re kissing him. And he likes that even more. He responds with a hum and he continues to kiss you, your hand gently rubbing small, comforting circles around where you bit him. 

You pull away and bring his arm to your lips. He inhales sharply, and you kiss where you’ve torn his flesh with your teeth over the bandage.

“I’m sorry.” You mumble softly, and Matt shakes his head. 

“I told you, we can talk about it later.” He offers, and then he kisses you again, but he pulls away after a moment. “But maybe you should wash the taste of it out of your mouth. Just so I can keep kissing you. Then, we can have dinner.” He offers, and this seems reasonable enough, besides, you need to wipe the crust and exhaustion from your meltdown away with a warm washcloth. 

But, you can’t help yourself.

“Kiss?” You wonder, the word coming out as a chirp more than anything else. 

And of course, Matt obliges you. Even if he thinks, maybe, he can taste his own flesh on your lips. It’s not exactly a turn on, but you’re his beautiful, perfect, freak of a girl. So, he kisses you again. 

-

Well, tonight sucks. It didn’t start out so bad, not really, and then it started to rain. It always made it harder for him to be Daredevil in the rain, the extra noise always distracting him or hiding sounds. As he made his way home, it really started to pour, just as Matt was really processing the growing ache in his side from when someone landed a particularly powerful punch.

Then, as he made his way home, back to his beloved apartment, his apartment where you wait for him, where you sleep soundly in his bed, completely oblivious to the bad night he’s having, he hears a woman cry for help, the click of a gun, and a whisper for her to stay quiet. 

She got away as soon as Matt dropped down, as soon as the man who deserves much worse than Matt will ever give him turns his attention towards the devil. But a loud clap of thunder caught Matt off guard, and suddenly, he’s the one who’s getting the shit beaten out of him.

If he can survive tonight, tomorrow is going to be just as bad, he’ll be in pain and you’ll be so sad, and the idea of that is somehow worse than when the man hits Matt right in the nose and he hears a devastating crack!

Then, the man finds his gun that Matt had kicked out of his hand. 

Matt’s thankful he can only hear so much since he’s so concussed. 

He was stupid, letting his guard down like that.

Now, he’ll die the same way his father died, with someone waiting for him to come home, depending on him. He feels the end of the gun on his forehead, ribs aching every time he inhales or exhales. Will you ever know how much he loves you? Will you ever know what happened to him, how he was really on his way back to you, to your arms, to your lips, when he died? 

Will you ever know that he would do anything for you, that the very love you’ve been craving is just two blocks away, head throbbing? 

He thinks about the sounds you make when you cry, and it makes his heart ache. He’s saved you just to tear you right back down, devastating you by rehabilitating you, making you fall in love with him, and then, leaving you. 

His weird, perfect girl with scars from needles, with an affinity for blood, a craving for flesh, and an ability you probably don’t quite understand yourself. His perfect, strange girl who he could drink up like lemonade on a sunny day, who snuck up on him, and yet, he feels like his life lead right to your side. 

Silly, silly him for thinking he could be happy. For thinking that things could work out for poor, tortured Matthew. 

He closes his eyes behind his mask and waits to die.

But the shot never comes. 

Instead, the man drops his gun from Matt’s head, as he starts to cough, and then, Matt can smell his blood. 

From what he can tell, it’s dripping down the man’s face from his nose, then, he’s gurgling on his own blood as it pours out of his mouth, and then, blood is coming from his eye sockets, and the balls of his eyes roll back— complete with a subtle snap, coming from somewhere in the man’s skull. He falls to the ground then, lifeless. 

Matt feels like he can’t breathe, and that’s when he processes you, at the end of the alleyway, blood running down yourface from your nose. Your hand comes up to wipe it away, and then you’re kneeling in front of him, your hands on his cheeks, cradling him softly.

He’s shaking now, and you hate the man you just killed with everything you have for making him so scared. 

“You are hurt,” you tell him, studying his features. Matt shakes his head, even though that makes it worse,

“I’m okay...” He mumbles, which is true, he will live but he does feel shell shocked, not to mention his numerous injuries. “I’m alright.” He comforts, and then he pulls you in close, wrapping his arms around you, still shaking, still freezing from the rain, still concussed and still terrified, of dying, of the man lying on the ground— and you wrap your arms around him, gently stroking his head like he has done to you so many times— 

“It’s okay, Honey.” You echo a familiar comfort, and then, your lips are on his, kissing him. Matt can’t help himself. He didn’t think he’d be able to kiss you again, so he relishes it. The idea that any kiss with you could be the last one freaks him out, maybe even more than the thought of dying. 

Matt has exactly one thought as he inhales the smell of so much blood—

Your father nearly wept from joy. His daughter was to be the Caesar’s wife! His bloodline would forever be tied to the imperial house. His name was secured in marble, law, prayer now! He agreed so quickly the ink had hardly dried before the whole city knew.

James, meanwhile, didn’t care about your father’s joy, or his bloodline, or the Senate’s approval. James cared that you looked at him with heart eyes during the betrothal feast, smiled behind the rim of your cup, and made the emperor of Rome feel like a trembling boy offering flowers at a goddess’ altar.

Years passed after James took you as his empress consort, and impossibly, over the years, James loved you more.

It should have gentled with time, but it did not. If anything, it grew worse. James loved you like conquest, like you were the only law Rome had ever written that he cared to obey. He would have waged war for you without blinking. He would have emptied the treasury if you asked nicely enough. He, in fact, fed every senator who insulted you to the lions and slept peacefully afterward with his face pressed to your stomach.

And gods, you loved him, too. Not because he was Caesar. Not because the city screamed his name or because provinces bent beneath his standards. You loved James when the laurel came off. You loved the man who crawled into your bed exhausted and kissed your hand like victory in the political chambers of Rome meant nothing until you touched him. You loved the man who could command armies and still looked at you before making any choice that mattered, as if your nod was worth more than every omen in Rome.

When he came home from war missing an arm, Rome held its breath.

James raged through fever and pain, half-mad with humiliation while physicians whispered of new medicine generals paced outside his chamber like war dogs without a master. The bronze-and-gold miracle that would become his new arm had not yet been forged. Rome only knew that its emperor had returned from campaign broken, and that was enough to make the Senate bare its teeth.

You had no heir yet. For whatever reason the gods had chosen to keep your womb empty, and every ambitious old man in the capital looked at your husband’s missing limb and your untouched nursery, and mistook them for weakness.

You thought it was laughable, really.

So you stepped into court in his place.

You wore imperial purple for three years. You sat beneath his eagle. You lifted your chin and reminded them, with a smile cynical enough to pass for mercy, that James was still Caesar, still beloved by the legions, still chosen by Rome, and still very much alive. How dare they look upon his suffering and see an opportunity to seize the throne? How dare they mistake recovery for surrender? How dare they question your husband’s rule?

After that, the Senate learned to approach you with caution.

You listened to senators and praetors attempt to test you. You answered them so coldly, that their little traps died in their mouths. By the time James could stand again, Rome had already learned to bow twice: once for Caesar, and once for the woman who guarded his throne. 

Some whispered you must have been Minerva's daughter. There was no other explanation to how you won the war your husband started. 

Others were wise enough to whisper nothing at all, because they feared you almost as much as they adored James.

Even the consuls, Sam and Steve, your husband’s oldest friends, who had seen James bloody, foolish, young, and half-starved in campaign tents, bowed their heads to you with the same loyalty they gave him. Not because James demanded it, but rather because you had earned it. Because while your husband learned to live with the automaton arm his engineers built for him, you kept Rome from eating itself alive.

James never forgot that.

The arm made him look more divine to the people. It was a beautiful bronze and gold fitted over what war had taken from him, plates shaped so elegantly to his shoulder and muscle that poets started calling it proof the gods still favoured Caesar. To Rome, it was a miracle of empire and invention. A gleaming symbol that James could not be diminished, not by blade, not by blood loss, not by any foreign king foolish enough to think removing one limb could make him less of an emperor.

But you knew the truth that the inner workings were vibranium.

It was gift from the Wakandan royal family, though gift was too simple a word for it. You had built that alliance during James’s absence from the throne. You saw the ink on treaties and felt the weight of foreign jewels in your palm. The Wakandans gave you the brilliance hidden beneath Roman gold because you had loved him so much, entire nations had to answer.

But you also knew where the straps bit into his skin. You knew the phantom pain. You knew the days he hated the weight of the arm, hated the shine, hated the way people looked at him like he had become myth when all he felt was wounded and less himself. You knew the nights he woke shaking, bronze fingers clenched hard enough to dent the bedframe, and you climbed into his lap, took his face between your hands, and held him there until Caesar disappeared and he was only James again.

The worst of it was that he could no longer train with his men.

Not because he was too weak, but rather because he was too strong.

The first time he returned to the camp, everyone cheered until he picked up a practice sword and nearly shattered the post clean through. The second time, Sam laughed at him, lifted his shield, and was promptly driven backward so hard the rim split beneath James’ bronze hand. Steve didn’t fare much better. His shield lasted longer, which only made James more annoyed when it finally cracked straight down the centre.

You had to write to Wakanda again for stronger shields, because the emperor’s consuls could no longer survive sparring with him, and your husband was becoming insufferable about it.

James had sulked for three days, though denied it, of course. He sat in your chambers with his jaw set and his arm gleaming in the lamplight, pretending to read reports while glaring at nothing. You had climbed into his lap without asking, plucked the scroll from his hand, and kissed him until his bad mood gave way under your mouth.

“You broke two shields, my love,” you murmured against his lips.

“They were poorly made.”

“You hit them like you were trying to punish the gods.”

James’ mouth twitched into half a smile, but he tried very hard to hide it, so you kissed him again, sweeter this time. His human hand settled at your waist first, then tightened as if he could not help himself.

“I miss it,” he admitted eventually, so quietly you almost did not hear him.

You smoothed your thumb over his cheek. “I know.”

He missed the clash of bodies and the bite of exertion. James had always loved bloodsport, but now that he could no longer trust himself in the training yard, watching the gladiators in the arena became much more than just a pastime.

It was to scratch an itch he could not reach.

At first, he made appearances for occasional big matches. Then, he did so more often. He would eventually watch with a focus you recognised too well, the same hunger he brought to battlefields.

So he started choosing champions, but they never seemed to last very long. 

He once chose a man who had power, but no discipline. Another had beauty, but no instinct. A third had the crowd eating from his palm until he started believing applause mattered more than survival. James favoured them briefly, dressed them well, sent royal physicians to make sure they survived longer, placed bets through Sam just to annoy the Senate.

And every single one disappointed him in the end.

“They never last,” James said one afternoon, grim and irritated, as he came to you smelling faintly of sun-warmed marble and arena dust. “My champion is dead. Again.”

You looked up from where you were reading scrolls by the window.

He was trying to sound merely inconvenienced, but you knew him better than that. He wanted someone worthy to look at. He wanted a gladiator to hold his attention. brutal enough to make him forget, for a little while, that his own hands had become too dangerous for friendly combat.

The fallen champion had been strong, James told you. He was strong enough to please the crowd for a season, strong enough to make the bookmakers nervous, strong enough that his death in the arena that morning had earned a proper roar.

But he clearly wasn’t strong enough to be remembered.

He looked less like a grieving patron and more like a man offended by mediocrity.

“I need a new one,” he said. “Someone worthy. Someone the people can love too.”

You glanced up from your scroll and smiled. “May I come with you and choose?”

James turned to you, and for one brief second, he looked every inch the emperor: A man who commanded legions and broke kings. Then you tilted your head and blinked up at him through your lashes.

His whole face softened into hopeless defeat. The same sweet love that had ruined him in a theatre years ago, with the absolute stupidity of a young emperor in love, that Rome could burn as long as he had you.

So he walked across the room, took your hand from the scroll, and pressed his mouth to your knuckles.

“Of course, darling,” he said, because he would have rearranged the empire just to see you smile.

—

The training grounds were less like a spectacle and more like an animal pit. From the upper gallery, the yard looked almost elegant: warriors moving through dust as trainers calling instructions like generals shifting pieces on a map. Up here, with James’ hand resting at the small of your back, it smelled of sweat, leather, old blood baked into sand, and ambition so desperate you could almost taste it. Every man in that yard knew the emperor was watching. Every man wanted the patronage.

You adored it, which meant James noticed immediately.

He stood beside you in purple, watching the men below with the stern dissatisfaction of a man who had been disappointed too many times. But even as he observed the fighters, you knew part of his attention remained on you. James liked to pretend he was above jealousy when he indulged you. He was not. He simply loved you more than he hated wanting to keep you all to himself.

One of the trainers hurried to meet you, bowing deeply to James and then to you. He began explaining the men on the field, naming strengths, records, bloodlines, schools, failures, promising bodies and disappointing minds. James listened, but you drifted past the words. 

And to be fair, you didn’t even know what you were looking for until you saw him. 

He was not the largest man on the grounds, though he was broad enough through the shoulders to make the others look unpolished. He didn’t posture for the trainers or laugh with the other fighters or glance up at the imperial gallery in desperate hope of being noticed. He stood still while his opponent circled him, a delicate knife in one hand, head slightly tilted.

“That one,” you said, tilting your chin, “What’s his name?”

The trainer followed your gaze. “Dex, domina.”

Dex. Short, almost abrupt. You liked the sound of it at once, liked the way it sat in the mouth.

“He has not bloodied the Colosseum yet,” the trainer continued, careful not to overpromise in front of Caesar. “But he is promising.”

Promising was a dull little word for what happened next.

The man opposite Dex rushed him with too much confidence and not enough patience, and Dex simply let him come. He didn’t meet force with force. He waited, watched, measured the distance with a lovely accuracy your James had once loved. When the man came too close, Dex moved aside and threw his knife without flourish. The blade struck his wrist and the sword dropped. A second knife from his belt hit the sand beside his throat as he fell, close enough to make every man in the yard freeze. Dex stood over him, breathing steady, blood on his face, one last blade still waiting in his hand.

Gods.

James glanced at you.

You were smiling.

Not the smile you gave senators when you wanted them afraid but unsure why. This was private, because you were delighted. James knew this expression too well, because it was the same one you had worn the first time you saw him return from battle with dried blood at his cheek and fury still in his eyes.

He exhaled through his nose. “I’m not blind.”

You looked up at him, innocent as a temple offering. “I did not say anything.”

“You did not need to.”

The trainer suddenly became extremely interested in adjusting the leather strap on his wrist. Wise man.

James’ mouth twitched, but there was recognition under the amusement. He knew you had a type, and unfortunately for his dignity, your type flattered him enormously. You liked men with soldier’s bodies and haunted eyes. Men who could kill without hesitation, but would go still beneath the right touch. Men who seemed dangerous to everyone else and obedient only when they decided you had earned it. Men who looked like they slept badly, loved violently, and needed a hand at the back of their neck more than they needed mercy.

James, tragically, fit the description perfectly.

And now this gladiator in the yard did, too.

Dex was called into another match. He wiped blood from his eye with the heel of his hand and left a red smear across his temple, making himself look worse and better at once. The second fighter was quicker than the first, cleverer too, and now even James gave him his full attention then. You felt it in the way his hand shifted against your back, fingers pressing more firmly through the fabric of your gown. Dex moved like he was learning the man in front of him piece by piece. Not just fighting. He was studying, letting his opponent reveal himself, then punishing every mistake with precision.

By the time Dex put the second man down, James was no longer merely indulging you.

He was watching.

Dex straightened in the sand, chest rising and falling, blood bright against the pale angles of his face. Someone spoke to him, but he didn’t answer immediately. His eyes lifted instead, drawn up to the imperial pair standing at the upper gallery. For one breath, he looked at you, and there was enough heat in it to amuse you, enough interest in your beauty to make your smile widen.

Then his eyes moved to James.

And stayed there.

Oh.

It was not a simple admiration. It was not the clumsy hunger of a man looking at power and wanting proximity to it. Dex looked at James like a starving man looking at a fixed point in the sky. Like the emperor was not simply a patron or ruler, but a direction he needed to survive.

The trainer cleared his throat delicately. “He needs refinement, domina. But the instinct is there. 

James turned his head slightly, finally looking down at you.

He was already yielding. He had been yielding from the second your attention caught and held. 

“You think he is the one?” James asked.

“I know he is.”

“You like him because he is covered in blood.”

“I like him because he looks good covered in blood.” James gave you a flat look, but the corner of his mouth betrayed him.

“And,” you added sweetly, he does not seem to care whether the other men like him. He wants to be useful more than admired.”

James’ gaze slid back to Dex, who was now standing alone while the trainers spoke around him. His shoulders were squared, not arrogant and simply waiting.

“Useful,” James repeated.

You touched James’ wrist, thumb sliding over the seam where living flesh met metal miracle. “Can we please have that one, my love?”

James closed his eyes for half a second, as if asking every god in Rome to grant him patience. After all, James would have choked on his own laurel before denying his empress anything.

“As you wish,” he said.

You beamed up at him.

The trainer bowed quickly, already prepared to run off and make the necessary arrangements, but you lifted one hand to stop him.

“And have him washed properly,” you said, watching Dex stand bloodied in the sand. “Then send him to dinner.”

James froze.

You kept your face serene, as though you had suggested nothing unusual at all, as though inviting an untested gladiator to dine with the emperor and empress was merely a practical extension of patronage and not an indulgence you had already begun to enjoy.

James turned his head slowly. 

“He should meet his patrons properly,” you nodded.

“His patrons,” James repeated. He stared at you for a moment longer, then sighed as he lifted your knuckles to his mouth and kissed them with all the resignation of a man who had already lost.

—

Dex arrived washed clean and dressed in a fresh tunic.

The blood was gone from his face, which you thought was a shame, but the bath had left him flushed in a different way. His hair was damp at the ends. His skin still held the warmth of steam. The clean linen made him look too soft. He stood at the entrance of your private dining chamber with his hands at his sides and his eyes moving over everything: servants, exits, lamps, table, knives, James, you.

He was careful about it, which only made it more obvious. Dex did not stare like the bored nobles at public feasts. He looked, stopped himself, then looked again when he thought no one noticed. His attention caught on the gold at your throat, the bare line of your shoulder, the way James’ gold hand rested against your waist with shameless familiarity, as if even the emperor’s miracle of an arm had been made to hold you.

James had been touching you since Dex entered the room. Nothing scandalous by your standards, even when his hand dropped to circle the inside of your thigh over the imperial robes. You and James had done far worse in rooms full of senators, so half the Senate probably thought the two of you were indecent. The clever half knew better than to say so.

So this, really, was nothing.

It was just marriage, by your measure.

Dex looked as if he didn’t know what to do with it.

That pleased you.

“Sit,” James said.

Dex obeyed at once.

Not meekly, but as if command gave him relief. He sat with his spine straight, eyes lowered just enough to be respectful, hands still and visible beside his plate. The servants brought wine, figs, roasted game, olives, and honeyed cheese. Dex didn’t touch his cup until James lifted his first, and when he did drink, it was careful, almost ceremonial, like he was learning the rules of the room by copying one gesture at a time.

You smiled.

James sighed, and his hand settled over yours between you, bracketing your fingers. He could pretend to scold you all he liked, but he loved this too. The imperial couple on one side, the chosen champion on the other. It was a hierarchy so clear it didn’t need to be spoken aloud.

Dex loved it even more. You could see it in the way his shoulders eased when James asked him about his weapons, in the way his eyes relaxed when the conversation turned to balance, weight, and accuracy. The way he seemed to settle into himself once he understood what was being asked of him. Dex didn’t want flattery. He didn’t want aimless attention. He wanted direction. He wanted to know where to stand, when to speak, what pleased the people holding his future in their hands.

James was good at that.

For all the war stories, your husband had always been a diplomat when he wanted to be, even if nowadays it was harder to come by. He listened, and yet he could turn a question into a leash even the other man thanked him for it.

“So,” James said, watching Dex over the rim of his cup. “The throwing knives.”

Dex’s expression steadied at once. “Yes, Caesar.”

“Why do you prefer them?”

Dex glanced at the dinner knives on the table, decorative and useless, then back to James. “A blade is only honest if the hand is honest first.”

James chuckled and nodded.

There he was. Your James. The soldier under the emperor. He understood Dex before, and that was precisely what made him curious.

You leaned into your husband’s side. “Like you, my love.”

James didn’t look at you, because he knew he’d fold if he did. “Don’t start.”

Dex looked between you both, but his attention was fixed on the ease, the teasing, the way you could prod at Caesar without fear, and the way James allowed it, even craved it. The way his hand tightened around yours when you called him my love, as if the title mattered more than emperor ever could.

Dex understood hierarchy.

And this hierarchy was intoxicating.

James belonged above the world. You belonged beside James. And somehow, you had both looked down into the sand and chosen him.

“My wife has a good eye,” James said.

Dex turned to you with restrained attraction, made more tempting by the effort he put into controlling it. He thought you were pretty. Obviously he did. Most men did, and far less gracefully. But Dex looked at you like it was only part of the problem. You were not merely aesthetically pleasing to him, but you were the hand that had pointed. The reason he was sitting at an imperial table instead of sleeping in a barracks with blood under his nails.

It was almost too easy to see the obsession beginning.

“Did you know I chose you?” you asked.

Dex swallowed. “No, domina.”

His eyes dropped to your mouth for half a breath, then to where your hand rested inside James’. He corrected himself quickly, eyes returning to the table, but James saw it and smiled, though not kindly.

“My wife is beautiful, don’t you think so, Dex?”

You tilted your head toward your husband, amused. “James.”

“What?” he asked, almost scowling. “It’s a simple question.”

It was not simple at all, and Dex knew it. There was no safe answer, only a correct one. Too eager, and he disrespected the emperor. Too restrained, and he insulted the empress who had chosen him. Silence, and he failed the test entirely.

Dex took one careful breath. “Yes, Caesar.”

James hummed. “Only yes?”

You bit back a smile.

“She is…” Dex stopped, and for the first time all evening, his composure faltered. Pretty was insulting. Even divine felt dangerous to say in front of the emperor, though looking at you made him understand why men built temples, why they dragged marble from mountains, why they carved women into goddesses and still failed to make stone look alive. His eyes dropped, as if staring too long might be its own kind of offence. “She is the most beautiful woman I have ever seen.”

You arched a brow, amused by how hard he was trying not to make it sound like confession.

“But,” Dex looked down for half a second, then forced his face back up. “She is difficult to look at properly.”

James frowned. “Difficult?”

“Yes, Caesar.”

“Why?”

Dex swallowed once. His hands remained perfectly still beside his plate. “Because looking too long feels disrespectful. Looking away feels impossible.”

Huh.

James stared at him, jealousy and pleasure moving behind his face in such quick succession that anyone else might have missed it. James liked the answer. Hated that he liked it. 

“Good,” he said.

Dex’s attention snapped to him.

James leaned back, one arm draped behind you, bronze fingers resting near your shoulder like a visible claim. “Would you fight for her?”

Dex didn’t hesitate. “Yes, Caesar.”

James’ smile deepened. “Of course?”

Dex lowered his head in certainty, and echoed him. “Of course.”

You felt James’ hand tighten gently against you. “And if she asked you to bleed?”

Dex looked at you then. There was no performance, no arena bravado. There was no desperate attempt to charm you. 

“If she asked,” Dex said quietly, “I would try to make it worth her attention.”

Oh. Oh.

You leaned in and kissed your husband’s cheek before his pleasure could sour into jealousy. His hand rose automatically to your face, thumb brushing beneath your chin, touch possessive and tender all at once. Dex watched that too, like he was studying not only you, but the sacred rules by which you and James existed together.

James gave him structure.

You gave him purpose.

Together, you gave him a north star to follow.

And from that night onward, Dex didn’t merely want to win.

He wanted to be chosen again.

—

Dex’s first fight in the Colosseum was meant to be a test. A public measure of whether your chosen gladiator could survive when the sand was real, the blades were real, and the crowd was real.

Dex did more than survive.

He made the Colosseum go quiet.

There was a stunned pause after the first knife left Dex’s hand and struck true, after his opponent lost the use of his sword arm before he even got close enough to swing. The crowd had expected a strong man with a shield or a loud man with charm. 

Instead, they got Dex.

Cold, bloodied, silent Dex, moving across the sand like he already knew how the fight would end. He didn’t roar or preen. He didn’t waste himself trying to be loved. His knives flashed in the sun, and men twice his size fell around him.

By the time the last opponent hit the sand, the silence shattered and the Colosseum erupted.

Dex stood at the centre of it, blood streaking down one side of his face, one blade still loose between his fingers. The people screamed his name like they had known it for years.

Dex. Dex. Dex.

It rolled upward, shaking the imperial box beneath your feet.

You looked at James.

James was already looking at you.

His face was composed for Rome, of course. The emperor didn’t gape at his own gladiator. The emperor didn’t look openly pleased. The emperors certainly didn’t look at his wife with irritation, awe, and reluctant arousal all tangled together, as if he hated how right you had been and loved you far too much to resent it properly.

You laughed beside James, delighted, your hand tightening around his bronze fingers as Dex lifted his eyes to the box. Not to the roar of Rome offering him its first taste of worship, but to James first. Then to you.

The people screamed his name, but Dex looked only at the two of you, blood on his face and chest rising beneath battered leather, waiting for command more than praise.

“He is good,” he said simply.

You turned your head toward him.

“He was wonderful.”

James didn’t answer.

Gods, he knew that tone. You had used it for jewels you didn’t need, silks you wanted, and treaties you had already decided he would sign because your mind had reached the end of the game before his advisors knew they were playing. 

You wanted Dex.

And of course because James could not please you, and definitely not because anything was missing in your marriage. James knew exactly how to make you fall apart. He knew the sounds you made when no one else was permitted to hear them, knew the vicious sweetness of your mouth when you wanted to ruin his dignity.

You did not need Dex.

You wanted him.

And James, jealous as he was, could deny you nothing.

“What prize could possibly match that?” you asked innocently.

James’ bronze fingers flexed. The plates clicked once, quiet beneath the thunder of the crowd.

“Coins,” he said.

You hummed, unimpressed.

“Better quarters.”

Another hum, but sweeter this time. 

“New knives,” James added, already hating himself for negotiating with a woman who had conquered him years ago.

“All lovely,” you murmured, leaning closer until your lips nearly brushed his ear. “But not enough.”

James closed his eyes for half a second.

He didn’t need you to spell it out for him. He knew when you desired. He could feel it in the way you held his hand, in the pleased little smile you wore while Dex stood bloodied below.

“You want him,” James said.

You didn’t pretend otherwise, but you did dress up nicer. “No,” you shook your head, “after that showing, he deserves me.”

The honesty was worse than coyness would have.

James looked at you then: his wife, empress. His impossible problem. 

You were not a coin purse. Not a trinket. Not a feast favour to be tossed to a victor.

To James, you were the prize above all prizes.

That was what made this make sense.

If Dex had fought like that, then no gold in the treasury was enough. No better room was enough. No blade, no title, no public honour could match what James valued most in the world.

Only you.

Only a night in your presence.

Only the empress he adored so completely that even his jealousy was no match for her wants.

James’ jaw tightened. “He is my champion.”

You smiled, slow and devastating. “Yes, my love.”

His eyes darkened at the patience of it. You lifted his bronze hand and kissed the cold knuckles, gentle as worship, cruel as victory.

“You do not have to,” you said, and you meant it.

James almost laughed.

Because of course he had to. Not because you commanded him. Not because Rome expected it. Because you had asked, and you were looking at him like that, and James had never survived your requests with his pride intact.

Below, Dex bowed his head toward the imperial box.

James stared at him for a long moment, jealousy and interest twisting together until he could no longer tell which one was which. Dex wanted structure. You wanted Dex. And James, doomed with how much he loved you, found the decision already made inside him.

James signalled one of his soldiers closer.

The man approached at once, bowing low beside the imperial seats. “Take him from the arena,” James said.

The soldier waited.

James’ bronze hand tightened around yours once.

Then, with the grim authority of an emperor giving away the only prize worthy of such a victory, he said, “Feed him and have him sent to the empress’ private baths.”

—

Dex entered your private baths like he expected to be punished.

It was the first thing you noticed. Not the blood drying along his temple, though your eyes caught there immediately. Not the sand still on the edges of his hair, or the bruises beginning to bloom beneath the torn straps of his armour. Not even the way he looked, battered and too beautiful for a man who had just made the Colosseum forget how to breathe.

It was the careful way he crossed the threshold. It was the way his gaze found you as he stood at the edge of the baths with victory still hot in his blood and confusion written plainly beneath all that discipline.

You were waiting for him in silk that the steam had made damp against your skin, standing barefoot by the water like you belonged to the marble and the gold and the heat rising between you. Dex looked at you as if he had been handed a god’s favour and didn’t know what to do. 

“Domina,” he said, bowing a little. 

You smiled. “Come here.”

He obeyed.

That was already becoming your favourite thing about him, how command settled him, how it gave his hunger something to latch on to. He moved closer until he was standing in front of you, close enough that you could smell blood beneath the clean mineral steam. Close enough that you could see how hard he was trying not to stare at you.

You reached up and touched the cut at his brow.

Dex’s breath caught.

“You’re still bleeding,” you murmured.

“It’s nothing.”

“I didn’t ask if it hurt.”

His eyes lifted to yours, confused for one bare second before you leaned in and licked the blood from the sharp line of his cheekbone.

Oh, that ruined him.

His whole body locked, because the arena had never prepared him for this kind of your tongue over blood, your lips at his skin, your fingers curled at the torn leather near his shoulder, holding him in place while you cleaned the red from him like you had every right to taste what his opponents had put on him.

When you pulled back, his pupils were blown wide. Lust moved through him like a blade drawn from its sheath.

“Domina,” he said again, but this time it sounded less like respect and more like a warning to himself, a reminder of your rank within the imperial roman household.

You smiled against his jawline. “You did such a good job.”

His hands twitched at his sides.

The praise struck deeper than your mouth at his skin. You watched him absorb it, watched the arena drain from him in pieces.

“You were beautiful out there,” you continued, fingers moving to the fastenings of his armour. “You let them think they had a chance.”

Dex swallowed.

“You liked that?” He asked. 

“I loved it.”

His gaze dropped to your hands as you began to strip him of the leathers, buckles, and strap. The armour that had made him look brutal became clumsy beneath your fingers. Piece by piece, you took the Colosseum off him.

Dex let you.

He endured it like reward and torture were becoming the same thing. His breathing changed when your fingers brushed bare skin. His jaw tightened when you kissed the blood at his throat. He looked almost offended by how carefully you touched him, as if no one had ever taught him bedroom manners. 

“You don’t know why I’m doing this,” you realised.

His eyes flicked to yours. “N-no.”

So honest. 

You laughed.

“You won,” you said. “You pleased the crowd. You pleased the emperor.”

Dex’s whole focus sharpened at James’ title.

“And me,” you added.

That was worse.

His eyes dropped again, not submissive in the way men faked for favour, but overcome by the structure of it. His emperor had sent him here. His blood had bought him not just survival, not just applause, but your attention.

You slid your hand to the back of his neck and drew him down.

“You understand now?” you whispered against his mouth. “This is your prize.”

Dex’s breath broke.

For a heartbeat, he looked genuinely lost.

Then you kissed him.

He didn’t move at first, and not because he didn’t want to. Want was written all over him now, in the tension of his shoulders, the heat of his skin beneath your hands, the painful restraint.

So you gave it what he understood best: an order. 

“Touch me, Dex.”

His hands found your waist with startling care, large and callused and still faintly dirtied from the fight. He kissed like he fought, concentration and instinct, learning you with frightening attention. He didn’t rush until you told him he could. He didn’t take until you made it clear you wanted to be taken. Every sigh you gave him became instruction. Every pull of your fingers in his hair became permission. His hands tightened at your waist when your robe slipped loose in the steam, the silk drifting from your shoulders like it had never belonged there at all. 

You, now bare before him, made him hungry.

You made him good.

You backed him toward the edge of the bath, kissing him down each marble step until the warm water closed around both of you and the last of his uncertainty burned away beneath your mouth. His breath hitched when you praised him again, cruel against his lips. “You’re so good for me.”

That was when you knew you had him.

That was when he accepted his reward because he realised he had earned you.

Because he had fought well enough for James to send him here.

Because Rome could scream his name until the stone cracked, and still nothing would matter as much as your hands on him, your mouth on his, your voice telling him he had done well.

“Again,” he said before he could stop himself.

Your brows lifted, finding his courage of demanding anything from his empress endearing. “Again?”

His eyes dropped. “Say it again.”

Oh.

You touched his face, thumb dragging gently over the place your mouth had cleaned. “You did so good, Dex.”

He kissed you harder then, like gratitude had finally turned into need.

The bathwater stirred behind him as steam curled around both of you. The marble pressed cool beneath your bare feet while Dex held you as if he had been given a prize too precious and too dangerous to survive mishandling. He was careful until you made him bolder. He was quiet until you pulled sound from him. 

And when you let him have you, when you rewarded him with your body, Dex learned that he would burn the whole Colosseum down just to earn you again.

—

Nothing changed after Dex.

James had expected a crack in the holy marble that is your marriage. Maybe an ugly distance when you returned from the baths smelling of steam, oil, and another man’s hands. Maybe a punishment from the gods for giving his champion the one prize in Rome James valued above gold, glory, and his own pride.

Instead, you came back to him.

The first night, he was waiting in your chambers with a scroll open in his hand and not a single word of it read. He looked composed because the emperor had to look composed, even when jealousy had been chewing through him for hours. But the moment you stepped inside, damp-haired from the baths, that composure went thin.

You smiled at him.

James put the scroll down.

You climbed into his lap, and tucked yourself beneath his chin like you had only gone away to return sweeter. His bronze arm locked around your waist first, then his living one followed, holding you so tightly you laughed against his throat.

“There you are,” you whispered.

His mouth pressed to your temple. “Was he obedient?”

You smiled and nodded.

That was how it started, with James holding you in the dark, jealous beneath you, asking in that dangerous voice whether his champion had listened. Whether Dex had touched you only when told. Whether he had waited. Whether he had been good.

So you told him.

You told him how Dex looked at you when you praised him. How he held you with those careful hands, so precise it almost made you sigh. How he kissed like he was learning a battlefield. How he never rushed until you gave him permission. How every sound you made changed him and taught him exactly where to aim next.

James listened like it hurt.

And then his hands would move, and that became the ritual. 

Dex fought. Dex survived. Dex won. Rome screamed his name louder each time because, unlike James’ other favourites, he didn’t die quickly or disappoint. He lasted. He learned. He bled and endured and kept earning the reward James had been furious enough, insane enough to give.

By the third time, telling James of your affair felt like foreplay.

By the fifth, neither of you bothered pretending otherwise.

You would enter his chambers with your robe loose and your mouth still swollen from kisses James had not given you, and he would already be waiting. Sometimes he dragged you to him before you spoke. Sometimes he made himself sit still just to torment himself

Then he would ask.

“Tell me.”

So you did.

You told him where Dex had touched you. How his hands had searched, learned, and course corrected. Dex was the picture of pinpoint accuracy, touching you like every reaction was a target he intended to strike cleaner the next time. He was careful until you made him desperate, until your praise pulled noise out of him, obedient in a way that made James’ heart beat quicker every single time you described it.

James was different.

James was brute force.

He was never careless with you, but he was hungrier. After the arm, he was a war machine trying to imitate a knife throw. He could pin you with effortless strength and still kiss you like he was asking forgiveness for wanting so badly. He had years of knowing you, years of loving you, years of learning exactly how to make your voice break.

Sometimes James copied what you told him Dex had done and did it better.

He would place his hand exactly where you said Dex had held you, lower his mouth to the same place, and ask against your skin, “Here?”

You would try to answer. He would make that difficult.

Other times, he would try to copy him and be worse because jealousy made him clumsy, and you loved that too.

You’d whine and pout and say, “He was gentle there,” and James would go still for one terrible second before pulling you under him with a sound that was almost a growl. 

“With my wife?”

“Mmhmm,” you would whisper, because you were cruel.

Then he would lose the thread completely.

There were nights when the jealousy became filthier, though James never would have admitted in daylight. The palace physicians tracked your cycles with incredible precision, and on your request they would tell you exactly when an heir would be impossible to produce. 

On the days the physicians had marked safe, you let Dex finish inside you, feeling him convulse in your walls as you moaned loud enough for the guards to be suspicious of your… activities. 

Then, you would step through the threshold of your chambers in a loose robe, with warm, sticky, white liquid running down your thighs. 

For one breath, James would only look.

Then he’d catch you by the waist and drag you against him with a ruined noise.

His bronze hand would close at your hip, heavy and cold through silk, while his living hand pulled the robe open like he had run out of patience for knots, fabric, distance, all of it.

“You let him,” he would say, voice rough against your mouth.

“Would you rather I not?”

His jaw would tighten, because no. 

He wanted you like this. He wanted Dex to leave something for him. 

So James would drop to his knees because he had decided that no trace of another man’s victory would remain on you unless he had tasted it too. He grip your thighs, and press his mouth to your core with a hunger that made your hands fly into his hair, and made sure Dex’s seed ran down his throat, too.

He would never admit how much he loved it. But there, in the dark, James loved the filthy proof that you had wanted, taken, returned. He loved the salt-sweet ruin of you, the heat of your body, the intimate evidence of Dex’s reward folded into your own pleasure. He loved turning jealousy into devotion.

Afterward, he would hold you like he had won a war.

You would lie against his chest, satisfied and adored, while his metal fingers traced idle circles over your hip.

“You enjoy this too much,” you murmured once.

James’ mouth brushed your hair. “I hate it.”

“No, you don’t.”

You would earn a small pause before he sighed. “No. I don’t.”

Because James would be lying if he said it was only jealousy.

Yes, Dex had touched what James loved most in the world. But he also loved the filthy thrill of hearing your pleasure described in your own voice. It was the unbearable sweetness of you coming back to him every time. It was the way Dex’s hands gave James something to compete with, something to imitate, something to conquer and fold back into your marriage.

And you loved both.

Dex’s focus. James’ strength. Dex’s careful hands. James’ golden grip. Dex asking to be worthy. James proving he already was.

And James, jealous as he was, kept sending Dex back to you.

—

One day, after a particularly brutal bout, Dex left the arena bloody enough to make even James’ head tilt..

That was how you knew his performance had been exceptional.

Three men had fallen in the sand. One had crawled, one had begged, and the last had gone limp with Dex’s knife buried so close to his throat that the whole Colosseum gasped before it screamed. By the end, Dex stood alone in the middle of all that golden victory, hair slick with sweat, blood at his mouth, chest rising beneath battered leather while Rome howled his name like it had always belonged to them.

But Dex did not look at Rome.

He looked to James as if telling him, I will have my reward now, Caesar. 

Your husband’s bronze fingers tightened around the railing.

“He’s going to the baths,” James said, like routine.

You should have been satisfied with that. Usually, you were. Usually, you let James pretend he was merely rewarding his champion, and you let Dex pretend he was only accepting what his emperor gave him, and afterward you returned to your husband flushed, and smiling, ready to tell him every detail until jealousy turned him needy.

But this time, you didn’t move toward the corridor to change into your robes.

This time, you moved closer to your husband.

Your hand slid over the cool gold of his arm, then up to his shoulder, your body pressing into his side in a way that was far too intimate for the public eye, 

James didn’t stop you. He only looked down at you with those ocean-blue eyes, already bracing himself against whatever impossible task you were about to ask of him.

“My love,” you murmured.

His eyes narrowed, because he knew you too well, because he knew that tone too well. “No.”

You smiled. “I haven’t said anything.”

“You have.”

You bit your lip and giggled, and his teeth clenched because he loved that sound and hated what it did to him. Below, the crowd still screamed for Dex. Above, you tilted your face toward your husband and let your lips graze the edge of his chin, light enough to be deniable, warm enough to ruin him.

James’ hand caught your waist.

You looked down toward the arena again, at Dex being led out beneath the arches, bloodied and unaware that his fate was being changed in real time.

“You’ve seen what he can do alone,” you said, low and sultry. “You’ve watched him throw knives. Watched him bleed. You have witnessed him win.”

James said nothing.

You turned back to him, your fingers curling into the fabric at his chest. “Don’t you want to witness what he does when the prize is in front of him?”

His breath changed.

Even a small break in the emperor’s composure was a little victory, proof that he was imagining it despite himself. He was imagining Dex and you at the baths, the champion he had chosen try to be worthy of the empress James adored.

“You are asking for trouble,” he said through gritted teeth.

“I’m asking for you.”

James looked at you then, and for a moment he was not Caesar at all. He was only your husband, furious with himself for wanting what you wanted, already bending his limitations because he had been bending for you since the day he ever laid eyes on you.

You cradled his cheek.

“If I want you there,” you whispered, “will you deny me?”

His eyes closed for half a second.

And you could see his beautiful, familiar, inevitable defeat.

James could deny senators and kings and entire armies and sleep well afterward. But not you, especially when you asked like that. Not when your mouth was so close to his and your hand was on his face and your eyes the exact sort of desire he had spent your marriage failing to resist.

“If you want me there,” he said, voice rough, “then I’ll be there.”

—

Dex stopped dead at the threshold when he found not only you, but James, at the baths.

The emperor sat in the corner on a low chaise lounge, half-shadowed by steam, dressed in nothing but a loose dark robe belted carelessly at his waist. For the first time since Dex met him, he had no laurel on. It was just James, bare throat lit gold by the lamps, arm resting along his thigh, his eyes fixed on Dex with a calm so heavy it felt like a hand around his neck.

Dex went still in the doorway.

Was this a trap? He thought.

What were the other options?Of course the gods would let him believe he had been chosen, rewarded, wanted, only to place Caesar in the room and watch him hang himself on desire. He straightened his scarred spine, hands open at his sides as if surrendering weapons he did not even carry.

“Caesar,” he said, carefully.

You chuckled from the edge of the bath.

You were standing in loose silk robes, as usual, hair pinned badly enough that a few strands had slipped against your throat. Beautiful, and smiling like you knew exactly what his mind had done to itself the second he saw your husband in the corner.

“Come here, Dex.”

He obeyed, because he didn’t know what else to do. Because despite everything, he still believed he deserved you. 

You reached for him the moment he was close enough, fingers curling into the front of his tunic, pulling him down. His eyes flicked once to James, instinctive and panicked, but you only smiled against his mouth before kissing him.

“Don’t worry,” you murmured. “I invited him to watch.”

Dex didn’t believe you at first.

How could he? The emperor sat ten paces away, watching his champion stand half-ruined in the empress’ hands. Dex could feel James’ stare on him like a blade. 

Then James shifted.

Dex looked before he could stop himself.

The emperor’s face had not changed much. His posture was still almost lazy against the chaise. But his bronze hand had disappeared beneath the loose fall of his robe.

He was stroking slowly, Dex realised.

Dex’s thoughts stopped.

Oh.

James was not there to punish him.

James was watching.

More than that, James, who had scowled all the way here, saw him and instantly realised that he actually wanted to watch.

You smiled and kissed the corner of Dex’s mouth. “There you are.”

Dex swallowed, eyes still fixed on James for one helpless second before he forced them back to you.“He’s—”

“Yes,” you said, sweet and cruel. “He is.”

From the chaise, James’ voice came low through the steam. “Please her.”

Dex’s whole body went rigid, but not with fear this time.

With purpose.

You laughed as his grip tightened on you, as the command settled into him like a blade finding its sheath. Poor thing. He had walked in expecting a trap, and instead found his emperor watching, touching himself, giving him the only order that mattered.

So Dex, who loved structure, who loved command, who loved being chosen by the two of you more than he loved the roar of Rome, bent his head and obeyed.

At first, he was careful. His hands stayed at your waist, gripping silk instead of skin, as if the emperor’s order had given him purpose but not quite absolution. He kissed your mouth, then the corner of it, then your nose, learning each sound you made with the same terrible focus he brought to knives and open throats.

“Dex,” you breathed, tugging at the front of his tunic.

At this point, that whine was familiar to him: it meant you were impatient. It meant you were needy.

Just like that, his mouth turned hungrier. His hands rose, rough and reverent, sliding over your ribs until his thumbs brushed beneath the loosened silk at your chest. You arched into him, and Dex made a groan so deep it was almost wounded. Behind him, James’ breath changed.

You smiled against Dex’s mouth.

“Did you hear that?” you whispered. “The emperor likes watching you touch me.”

Dex froze for half a second, eyes flicking over his shoulder.

James’ robe wasn't fully open, but it was opem enough to ruin any pretence of dignity. His human hand moved lazily beneath the fabric, but there was nothing lazy about his face. He looked furious. He looked starving. He looked like he wanted to drag Dex away from you and crown him for the privilege.

“Don’t stop,” James said, though, voice rough.

That was all Dex needed to push you back against the marble wall.

It didn’t hurt, but it was firm enough that your breath left you, firm enough that the cool stone kissed your bare shoulders as Dex followed you in, his mouth finding yours again while your hands worked at his clothes. Buckles came loose and damp linen slipped. His tunic fell somewhere forgotten near the bath steps, and yours followed after it, silk pooling at your feet.

Dex looked at you then, and even now, he still nearly forgot how to breathe.

“Touch her,” James ordered from the chaise.

Dex obeyed beautifully.

His mouth dropped to your throat first, then lower, kissing over warm skin while his hands explored places that made your fingers tighten in his hair. He touched your breast, careful until you mewled, until you dragged him closer and made it clear you wanted less worship and more ruin.

“Good,” James murmured.

Dex shuddered at the praise like it had landed under his skin.

You caught his face and made him look at you. “You like when he tells you that?”

Dex swallowed. “Yes, domina.”

Oh, James liked that.

Dex’s head turned just as James’ bronze hand punched into the wall beside him, splintering a white fracture through the marble.

For one suspended second, no one moved.

James stared at the damage, teeth clenched, breathing hard, hand still half-buried in the broken stone.

Then you laughed delightedly.

“My love,” you said, voice sweet as poison, “jealous?”

James dragged his bronze hand free with a painful scrape. “Continue.”

Dex looked between you both as if he had walked into a temple and found the gods wanting him bloody on the altar.

You reached for him again. “You heard your emperor.”

Dex lifted you before you could take another breath, hands firm beneath your thighs, carrying you to the nearest marble table like your body weighed nothing. He set you down on the edge with shocking care, then stepped between your legs and kissed you until the room narrowed to your lover and your husband’s command still ringing in the room.

His fingers slid between your thighs.

You gasped, head tipping back, and Dex followed the sound like instinct. He watched your face as he touched you, learning where your breath caught, where your thighs trembled, where your body tried to close around his hand.

His grip tightened at your knee.

“Mmm,” Dex hummed, voice ruined with obedience borrowed from another man’s authority. “Keep your legs open for the emperor.”

James made a sound from the chaise that almost sounded like a curse.

Your eyes fluttered toward him.

He was watching everything now. His human hand was moving harder now, rougher, while his bronze fingers flexed against his thigh as if he was seconds from breaking something else just to keep from joining in.

Dex saw it too, and gods, the sight changed him.

He touched you with more confidence after that. He had been ordered to please you, and James was watching him succeed. Every sound you made became proof of it. Every desperate little movement of your hips made Dex’s mouth part like he could taste triumph in the kisses you gave him.

“There,” you breathed.

Dex’s eyes snapped to yours.

“Here?” he repeated, curling his digits in you. 

You nodded, lips parted, fingers digging into his shoulder. “There, Dex.”

He did it again.

James’ bronze hand closed around the arm of the chaise. The wood cracked beneath his grip.

Dex smiled for the first time in a flicker of understanding, because he finally knew that this must be his greatest prize: You trembling open beneath his hand. James watching with jealous, hungry eyes. 

“G-good boy,” you managed, the praise breaking on a gasp as the pleasure finally snapped through you, your thighs tightening around his wrist while you came undone around his fingers.

Dex nearly dropped to his knees.

He would have, if not for your hand catching beneath his chin.

It was just enough to guide him back up, thumb pressed lightly under, making him look at you while his breath came uneven and his hand still trembled between your thighs.

“Oh, sweet thing,” you murmured, smiling as his eyes searched yours. “You please my husband, you know.”

Dex went very still. “W-what?”

You hummed, standing up though your legs still felt flimsy from the orgasm, dragging your thumb along the line of his jaw. “You pleased my husband in the arena. Didn’t he, my love?”

You looked past Dex.

James had gone silent.

That was how you knew the question had struck home.

He sat half-undone like he was holding himself back by the strength of his own pride. His face was unreadable to anyone else, but not to you. You could see the heat there, the terrible fascination he had no hope of hiding now that Dex stood before you, so desperate to be told what to do.

“James,” you said sweetly. “Join us?”

For one second, he didn't move.

Then the emperor stood.

The steam curled around him as he walked by the baths, bare beneath the slightly loosened robe. Dex watched him approach as if watching the sun descend from the sky. His breath caught when James stopped behind you, close enough that the heat of him at your back.

You leaned into your husband with a pleased little sigh.

“Tell him,” you whispered. “Tell him how he pleases you.”

James’ shoulder muscles worked once.

“You’re… precise,” James said at last, voice low. “You don’t waste movement. You don’t beg for the crowd, and that makes them beg for you.” His blue dragged over Dex’s pretty face, possessive now, and not for you. “You obey well.”

Dex shuddered.

You smiled. “There,” you murmured. “See?”

James’ hand settled at your waist. You reached back, caught his wrist, and lifted his bronze knuckles to your mouth. “Now kiss him for me.”

Dex’s eyes widened.

James’ didn’t. He only looked at you, long enough to pretend there was still a decision to make.

You pouted up at him. “Please?”

That was the end of that discussion, of course.

James caught Dex by the back of the neck and kissed him.

It was not gentle. It was not sweet in the way James was sweet with you. It was command first, hunger second, jealousy beneath both, and Dex didn’t push him away. He kissed his emperor like he had been waiting for the order his entire life. His hands hovered uselessly for one breath, then clenched at his sides. You laughed softly. “Poor thing. He doesn’t know where to put his hands.”

James broke the kiss slowly, breathing rougher than before.

You looked at Dex. “Take his robe off.”

Dex obeyed.

His hands were careful as they found the dark fabric at James’ shoulders. Your husband hated how much he liked being handled with such frightened precision. The robe slid down one shoulder, then the other, falling open beneath Dex’s touch until your husband stood bared in the golden steam, all scarred muscle, living flesh, and divine metal.

Dex forgot how to breathe again.

You stepped closer behind him and took his wrist.

“Here,” you whispered against the gladiator’s ear, guiding his hand forward. “Not so nervous. He won’t break.”

James gave you a look.

You smiled sweetly. “Well. Not from that.”

Dex’s fingers touched James with almost unbearable hesitation.

James inhaled.

Oh.

There it was.

You felt the shock of recognition move through all three of you at once. Dex liked this. James liked this. And you, standing between them with your hand wrapped around Dex’s wrist, liked it so much you nearly laughed.

“You pleased my husband in the arena,” you whispered to Dex, your mouth brushing the shell of his ear. “Now let me show you how to please my husband in bed.”

You guided Dex slowly, teaching him the shape of your husband’s pleasure, the pressure, the rhythm, the little changes that made James’ breath catch despite himself. Dex learned with terrifying focus. Dex did everything like survival depended on getting it right, and now he had James in front of him, breathing harder each time Dex followed your murmured instruction.

“Like that,” you praised. “Good boy. Watch his face.”

Dex did.

James hated that. James loved that.

And he did not stop it.

He did not even want to.

Dex looked wrecked by the privilege of it, eyes flicking between James’ face and your hand over his. You could feel his pulse jumping beneath your fingers. You could feel the moment obedience became hunger, the moment he understood this was not punishment, not indulgence, not a trap.

It was an invitation. Especially when you gently pushed him on his knees for his next lesson.

James reached out and caught Dex’s chin, forcing his gaze back up.

“Well?” James said, voice rough enough to scrape. “If you’re going to please me, you should learn from the best.”

—

Well.

After that, it became less about teaching Dex and more about watching both of them realise they liked the lesson.

At some point, your hands fell away from Dex’s wrist because he no longer needed the guidance. James had kissed him harder, meaner, with the kind of lust that should have made the room hostile, except Dex only leaned into it, too. They moved together badly at first, James trying to keep his pride intact while Dex tried to obey and compete at the same time. It was almost funny, really, how quickly your careful little plan had turned into your husband and his champion touching each other with the same hunger they usually reserved for pleasing you.

So you took your rightful place on the chaise.

You sat back in, watching them fuck each other like wild lions in captivity, both in heat. James with his bronze hand braced against the marble, body tense and beautiful, mouth parted around Dex’s name like it annoyed him to say it. Dex on his knees, then standing, then dragged close again, learning your husband the way he learned you, chasing every moan as if he was addicted. They forgot, for a while, that you were anything but witness and goddess and judge.

And gods, you enjoyed watching.

You touched yourself lazily, smiling when Dex looked over and nearly lost himself at the sight of you. James noticed, and grabbed Dex by the cheeks and turned his face back with a possessive warning, and you laughed because neither of them understood yet that this was exactly what you wanted all along. By the end, the baths looked half-destroyed.

There were cracks in the marble where James had gripped too hard. The lamps had burned low. The steam had thinned. Dex was on the chaise now, with his face resting in your lap, loose-limbed and wrecked, his cheek pressed to your thigh while your fingers combed gently through his damp hair. James sat on the floor beside you, back against the chaise, one arm draped heavily over your legs as if he intended to keep both of you there by imperial decree.

Both men looked ruined in the prettiest way.

Your husband’s mouth was still wet from having Dex come undone in his mouth, his breathing still uneven, and when he finally managed to lift his eyes to you, there was accusation there beneath all that dazed satisfaction.

“You planned this,” he said.

You paused with your fingers in his hair. Then you shrugged.

“I don’t see either of you complaining.”

James huffed a laugh against your knee.

Dex shut his eyes, mortified and pleased all the same. 

Of course not.

Dex was still in your lap when James moved closer, bronze fingers brushing damp hair away from his temple before he leaned down and kissed him there.

It was almost nothing, barely a claim.

Dex still froze, though.

James lingered there, mouth close to his skin, voice low enough that it felt meant for the three of you and no one else in Rome.

“Next time,” he said, “I want him with us in our bedchamber.”

Dex’s breath caught.

He looked up too quickly, hopeful before he could hide it. “Next time?”

You tilted your head, almost amused.

Of course there would be a next time.

As if James could look at him now and decide he had no further use for him outside of the colosseum. As if you could watch your husband kiss his champion and not already be thinking about how pretty they would look together again.

James’ eyes narrowed. Dex realised the mistake at once.

His lashes lowered, voice softened into obedience.

“Yes, Caesar.”

—end. 

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To distance yourself from the ranch, you take up a job at the convenience store in town. Rhett teaches you how to drive his truck; or, to put it more accurately, he tries to teach you, but the vehicle is far too bulky and cumbersome for your liking. He devotes himself to acting as your personal driver, taking you into town himself or lending you his old bicycle when he’s too busy with ranch work or training for his next rodeo. 

For the most part, the convenience store is menial work. As long as you keep your hands moving and stay busy, you can’t complain. It gives you a chance to socialize with people other than your self-appointed caregivers — mostly elderly folks, who politely inquire as to where you’re from and how you made it to Wabang. Your current cover story is that you’re a friend of the Abbotts from out of town, and they’re taking care of you after a health scare; you can explain the amnesia better that way, and their pity is equal enough to their curiosity that you can divert the conversation by saying it’s “hard to talk about.” 

More importantly, you feel like less of a burden when you’re not sitting around on the couch waiting for someone to give you a task to do like an obedient little dog. You can only get by washing dishes and cleaning the Abbott house for so long. 

After another slow day at the store, you wait around outside, sitting on the curb with a magazine. You flip through it idly, perusing whatever article about homemaking you’ve stumbled upon for cheap reading material, when the familiar crunch of tires rolls up before you.

“Hey, good lookin’.”

Rhett greets you with a grin, tipping his hat as he pokes his head through the window. Pushing yourself to your feet, you stroll up to the truck, resting your arms on the passenger side window and tilting your head. 

“Ah, my personal chauffeur. I was wondering where you were,” you tease.

“Ha. Very funny.” The man rolls his eyes, chuckling dryly as he leans over to pop the door open for you; you hop in enthusiastically, rolling up the magazine in your lap. He shifts the truck into gear and glances at the shiny, colorful spread of pages between your hands. “Whatcha readin’ today? Celebrity gossip?”

You side-eye him, unfurling the magazine to show off the cover: a beautiful woman standing in the middle of a cozy-looking cabin, right beside a full length dinner table and a man with an entire roasted turkey on a silver platter. Rhett squints at it as he pulls out of the gravel parking lot, brows furrowed.

“What am I lookin’ at?”

“It’s about homemaking,” you helpfully supply, delightfully amused by his wrinkled nose. 

Rhett snorts. “Why the hell are you reading that? Not happy with our setup?”

You scoff playfully, but you look down wistfully at the magazine nonetheless. 

Lately, your hunger pains have felt damn near unbearable. It’s hard to deny your natural instincts; ever since your initial incident with the poor, mangled field mouse, you’ve had a regular urge to feed on the blood of living things. Now, you’re no expert on the supernatural, but you’ve gathered enough to know that you’re not exactly as human as you thought yourself to be. It terrifies you — what if you can’t control this thing forever? What if somebody gets hurt? With all of these thoughts filling your mind, you’re beginning to look for a way out.

At your lack of response, Rhett glances at you whilst slowing down at a stop sign. His gaze lingers on you just long enough to get a sense of your faraway mind. He can practically smell the indecision on you.

“You’re thinking of leavin’, aren’t you?”

Your eyes dart up to Rhett, but by then, he’s already looking at the road again. The truck engine purrs as he rolls forward, crossing the intersection to head out of town. Your expression falters, sagging under the weight of everything. 

“Yeah. I thought I oughta start looking for a place of my own.” You chew on your lower lip anxiously, weirdly shy to admit the truth. “Not that I’m not grateful or anything. You’ve all been so kind to me, but I’d just hate to impose—”

“Oh, don’t start. You don’t have to explain. I get it,” Rhett replies sincerely, flashing you a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. He shifts in the driver’s seat, his fingers flexing against the steering wheel. “I could help you look, you know. We all could.” But it’ll be strange to see you go, he almost says, biting his tongue to hold back the comment. It feels too intimate to admit.

Admittedly, Rhett has grown rather fond of you. He’s quick to write it off as simple protectiveness: you’re alone, you’re amnesiac, you have nothing to your name. It doesn’t help that you’re relatively close in age; he can’t help imagining himself in your position, of being lost and without anyone to turn to aside from a family that — however kindhearted — are still complete strangers to you. He hates to admit that he got attached so quickly. Ever since you landed in the field from who-knows-where, he’s felt a tug in his chest every time you’re around, like the pull of a leash guiding him to you. Rhett can’t tell if it’s some kind of instinctual wolf thing or not; he’s far too embarrassed by these new feelings to ask his father or Perry about them. 

If you notice the tension in Rhett’s disposition, you don’t mention it. You just nod, running your thumb over the glossy spine of the magazine in your lap. “Thank you. You don’t have to do that.”

He smiles again, strained but sincere. “‘Course I do. My mom would kill me if I didn’t, anyway.”

“I’m sure she would,” you playfully agree. “Still — thanks. For everything.”

The cowboy doesn’t reply, looking a bit shy upon hearing your gratitude. You’re so sweet sometimes that it catches him off guard. To avoid the subject of his blush, Rhett leans over and turns on the radio. Country music rasps through the speakers, fuzzy and familiar, as he takes you home.

. . .

On a Friday night, you find yourself sitting in the stands with the Abbotts during Rhett’s latest bull riding competition. 

The rodeo is buzzing with energy. The seats fill up all around you as the fans and loved ones file in, boots thudding against hardwood and metal. You situate yourself between Amy and Cecilia, who you laugh with while the guys head down to get you all something to eat. Perry returns with nachos for you and Amy to share; Royal offers you a can of beer, which you accept with a smile. 

“So,” Cecilia starts, turning to you with a smile while she sips her own beer. “Rhett tells me that you’re thinkin’ of moving out.”

Your expression turns sheepish. Cecilia is quick to put her hand up, waving off your hesitance.

“I’m not offended. If you’re ready to go off on your own, we won’t keep you here. I just want you to know we’re here to help.” Even as she says it, you can see Cecilia’s sad smile.

Beside you, Amy tugs on your sleeve. “You’ll still visit after you go, right?” Her innocent little face is enough to make your heart heavy.

“Of course I will,” you reply warmly before looking back at Cecilia. “Thank you. It means a lot to me.”

She nods, smiling against the aluminum rim of her beer can. “No need to thank me, honey. God knows you’ve been a help to this old lady,” she muses, bumping her shoulder against yours. 

Beside her, Royal rubs his wife’s back, shooting her a look. “Don’t go callin’ yourself ‘old lady.’ That makes me an old man.”

“You are an old man,” Perry pipes up, grinning. 

Royal shoots his son a glare — playful, far from scathing — and you stifle a laugh behind a sip from your beer.

You quiet down when the competition finally starts up; you can’t see Rhett from your seat, so all you can do is anxiously await for his name to be called while the other riders perform. The crowd is buzzing with excitement, cheering and tossing up their arms in exasperation when a rider fails to perform to their standards. As entertaining as this all is, you do wish you had earplugs to drown out the noise; grown men whistle and shout behind you loud enough to make your sensitive ears ring. It takes maximum effort not to wince.

Eventually, though, you’re distracted by the sight of Rhett across the ring, setting up for his ride and mounting his bull.

“There’s Uncle Rhett!” Amy calls, dropping a nacho when she points him out. Cecilia and the others cheer him on beside you, and you clap encouragingly as they announce Rhett’s name loud and clear. He has a number of fans in the crowd, given that he’s the hometown rider; it brings a smile to your face as you lean forward, trying to make out his expression from afar. 

Rhett is utterly focused on the competition, taking deep breaths as he situates himself to hang on to the bull for dear life. He lowers his hat on his head, keeping it firmly in place, waiting for the moment the gate swings open and all hell breaks loose. 

With the blare of a horn, the metal gate swings out, and the bull is released. It gallops through the ring, huffing and puffing in its attempts to buck Rhett off its back. Rhett’s free hand remains poised in the air as he steadies himself with his legs, locking them around the bull’s torso, clinging tight as he sways violently to and fro. 

Royal whoops from the stands as each second passes. You lean forward so far that your beer tips over and spills onto the toe of your boot; Cecilia clasps her hands together beside you, watching in awe.

At the last second, the bull tosses Rhett off its back. The time is barely eight seconds. 

The crowd is riotous despite a few mixed reactions. You cheer loud enough that your throat burns, and the family beside you is quick to join in. Rhett, who is currently pushing himself to his feet, brushes the dirt off his knees and searches the crowd.

He hears his family calling for him, but his eyes focus entirely on you, who stands and cheers louder than anybody else. He cracks a smile, tossing his hand up to wave at you; you beam from the acknowledgement and — although his performance was little more than average at best — it feels like he’s winning with the way you look at him with such unbridled joy.

You don’t get to see Rhett again until after the last of the riders perform; the whole family files out of the stands and heads down to speak to Rhett through the gate. Royal is the first to reach him, encouraging his son for his next competition, reassuring him that he’ll surely place higher in the next circuit; the rest of his family congratulates him after that, beaming and pinching his cheek through the gate. 

You linger behind them with your arms crossed, waiting patiently to offer your felicitations. When the rest of the family begins to head to the car, you stay behind, intending only to say a quick message before catching up with them, but Rhett doesn’t even let you start. 

“Looked like you were havin’ fun,” he teases, referring to your enthusiastic cheering.

With a bashful chuckle, you nod, leaning against the metal railing. “I did. You were great.”

The simple compliment is enough to make his dark eyes twinkle under the bright stadium lights. “Glad I put on a good show. Could’ve been better, though.” He grins, slipping his riding gloves from his hands to shove them in his back pocket.

Rhett leans on the railing, too, and he’s close enough for you to smell, in agonizing detail, the sweat and blood on his skin. He must have gotten a few scrapes when he fell from the bull; the scent of iron is stronger when his body bows closer to yours. You have to dig your nails into your arms and bite your tongue to keep from having a full body reaction to the smell. He notices the way your fingers press into your skin, and his smile grows wolfish.

“You should come drink with me,” he suggests. “There’s a bar not far from here. You’ll like it.”

Your attention is blessedly ripped from his heady redolence, and you manage a nod. “Sure thing. I’ll pay — don’t start,” you warn him before he can argue. “Let me. It’s celebratory.”

Rhett rolls his eyes. “Sure, sweetheart. Why don’t you go wait by the entrance? I’ll meet you over there when I finish up.”

You walk away with a small smile, your heart fluttering upon hearing the pet name slip from his lips. 

You only have to wait a short while before Rhett reappears. He’s no longer wearing his riding gear; it’s safely tucked away in a duffel bag, which he has slung over his shoulder. He’s only wearing a blue flannel over one of his white T-shirts now; the sleeves are rolled up to show his forearms, displaying the long, reddish-pink scrape that drags down to his elbow. To keep from salivating at the vague taste of iron in the air, you point at his arm, leaning against the entrance gate.

“Are you okay?” It’s much more courteous to be concerned than drooling over what he might taste like; your guilty conscience is a good cover.

Rhett shrugs, smiling at you easily. “Trust me, I’ve suffered worse. My shoulder’s been fucked up more times than I can count. I got off easy today.” The cowboy takes you in, eyes looking you over with concern. “It’s cold. You don’t have a jacket?”

You shake your head; you can’t exactly explain that you don’t feel the cold at all. “No, I’m—”

“Take mine,” he interrupts, already unzipping his duffel bag to pull out his favorite brown utility jacket. 

You’re not about to argue with the chance to wear his clothes.

Without further question, you accept the offer and tuck your arms through the sleeves, breathing in his scent when it wafts up to your nose. When the jacket sits comfortably over your shoulders, he shoots you an apologetic smile.

“Sorry. Probably stinks,” he snorts, always endearingly awkward when he ends up acting too sweet on you. 

Truthfully, when you smell his jacket, it’s almost too much for you. You want to press your nose into it to keep from lunging at the poor guy. You catch a clear whiff of his sweat, of the cologne and soap he uses. His aroma is infused deep into the fabric alongside traces of detergent and the signs of daily wear; he couldn’t get the scent out if he tried.

You’re definitely overdue for something to eat.

With enough restraint to put Atlas to shame, you smile, forcing yourself to meet his eyes. “Yeah, pretty awful,” you joke as if you weren’t just about to drool all over the collar. 

Rhett drives you to the bar, talking to you the whole way while the radio hums with the static of a country music station. He parks his truck out front and holds the door for you on the way in; the bar is loud and already full of drunk, rowdy bodies. It is a Friday night, after all.

Rhett puts his arm around you to keep you close — an action that makes you weak in the knees — and he orders drinks for you both. A few strangers come up to compliment Rhett on his riding tonight; evidently, a few other patrons just came from the rodeo, too. 

“Didn’t realize you were this big of a celebrity,” you muse over the rim of your glass.

Beside you, Rhett chuckles. “That only happens ‘round here. The second I leave town, I’m competition. Dirty looks left and right.”

“Still,” you shrug, elbowing him lightly. “Think you can get a free drink out of it?”

Rhett hangs his head and laughs, nearly choking on his drink. “I knew I liked you for a reason.”

The rest of the night is full of mirth, mooching off Rhett’s fans, and laughing until your ribs hurt. You completely forget about your earlier promise to pay until Rhett tosses money to the bartender before you leave; you frown, furrowing your brows at him as he puts an arm around you, tugging you to the door. 

“Hey, I was gonna get that.”

Rhett laughs, swaying beside you. “Too late, slowpoke. I wouldn’t have let you, anyway.”

You pout, leaning against his side for support. The alcohol has made your head feel pleasantly warm and fuzzy, though your coordination is far from graceful; Rhett helps you into his truck with a laugh, watching you sink into the passenger seat. He climbs in after, beginning the drive back home. You nuzzle into his jacket, which hasn’t left your back since he offered it to you — not because you feel cold, of course, but because you want to live in this moment, with the smell of him surrounding you and the buzz of alcohol in your system.

“You good over there?” He asks, glancing to the side. The headlights of his truck sweep across the dirt road as he drives.

“Mhm,” you hum in response, smiling as you swathe yourself in the fabric. You eventually turn your head to look at him, unabashedly staring at the outline of his face — handsome, rugged, familiar. Your eyes stray to his neck, where his Adam’s apple bobs when he swallows and you can practically see the veins pulsing beneath his skin. You pull your lip between your teeth to keep your thoughts at bay — he’s not someone you want to sink your teeth into. Never. 

He catches you staring — you’re being intensely obvious about it — and he lifts his brows. “What?”

You pull your gaze back up to his face, blinking slowly. “Nothin’,” you murmur softly. Your hands ball into fists in your lap; it’s all you can do to reign yourself in. 

Rhett huffs, confused but somewhat endeared by your focused expression. It makes his heart twist beneath his ribcage. “Cute,” he mutters, low enough that he thinks you don’t hear it.

A smile curls at your lips. “You think I’m cute?” 

He startles at the quick response, not expecting you to call him out so easily. His ears burn, and he wishes he could hide under his hat; his only saving grace is that it’s so dark out. If only he knew how easily you could see that blush of his.

“‘Course I do,” he mutters, clearing his throat. You watch the way the muscles move when he speaks. “Anybody would.”

All you do is hum, your gaze unwavering. It makes his spine tingle.

When Rhett finally rolls up outside the house, the tension within the truck is thick enough to cut with a knife. He turns off the ignition, and only the slowly dimming headlights and the porch light illuminate you both. Rhett unbuckles his seatbelt with a click, and he turns to you from his seat. “Ready to head in?”

You nod, but you don’t make any move to toss the door open. Your hands are slow to free the seatbelt; Rhett is starting to wonder if it was a bad idea to let you drink so much. It’s not like you could have known your tolerance, and he definitely shouldn’t have let you stay out so late. God, what was he thinking? He’ll be lucky if his family doesn’t kill him for the hangover you’re sure to have come morning. 

He forces himself out of the truck without waiting for you to hop out. He breathes in the cool night air, letting it fill his lungs for some clarity. When he’s collected himself, he realizes you’re still sitting in the truck. With furrowed brows, he walks around to the other side, pulling the handle to open it up for you.

He’s about to ask if you’re alright, but then you’re slipping out of the passenger seat and stumbling into his chest. Rhett catches you before you can trip and fall in the dirt; he’s definitely regretting his decisions now, even though the sound of your drunken giggle is like music to his ears.

“Sorry,” you mumble, smiling up at him while your fingers curl into the front of his flannel. 

Rhett drops his gaze to you, his hands sitting respectfully upon your forearms. “Easy. I got you,” he says softly, and it’s not unlike the first day you met, when he helped you to your feet from your place in the tall grass. 

Your eyes look bigger than they ever have as Rhett looks down at you. He startles at the strangeness of it; you remind him of a cat on the hunt, your eyes gleaming and hyperfocused even in the darkness. It’s like you’re seeing into the depths of his soul, ready to reach inside him and tug his heart out from his throat.

Before he can get another word in, you tug on his flannel. His heart jumps when you bring him down to your height and press your mouth to his. Rhett sucks in a breath, leaning into it quicker than he’d like to admit. He’s spent too long pretending he hasn’t wanted to kiss you a hundred times over the past several months, and the contact makes his senses go haywire. His mouth covers yours in a bruising kiss, and his hands traverse from your forearms to the small of your back. 

You tip your head back so far that you stumble back towards the truck; Rhett advances with you to keep you steady, leaning you against his truck while he keeps kissing you. When your body bumps against the door, you moan, sliding your fingers up and around his shoulders until they’re combing through the hair at the back of his neck. You’re salivating, kissing him even as he starts to lean back for air. You manage to bite his lip briefly before he pries you off him. There’s a thin trail of saliva between your mouths; it gleams in the moonlight. At this very moment, there’s nothing more you want than to keep kissing him until his lungs burst.

“Easy,” he pants, his breath coming out delightfully ragged. “Easy. Gotta breathe.”

“Come back.” You plead even though you know he needs a second, even though you know if things keep going, you might just tear his lip off and lick the wound clean. You’re so full of want that it makes every muscle in your body ache. 

With a stunned laugh, Rhett shakes his head. He removes his hands from your body, taking a step back. He’s similarly worn thin; you smell amazing — a little bit like him now, thanks to his jacket — and you taste like beer and heaven. It takes everything in him not to look at you lest he gets the urge to jump on you and take you right here, bent over the hood of his truck — even the thought of it is too much. He shakes his head again to rid the image from his mind — firmly this time, like a twitchy dog trying to bat a fly off its ear. 

“I’m really tryin’ to be a gentleman,” he mutters. His voice cracks as he says it.

You stare back at him, bringing your hand to your kiss-swollen lips. Your own breathing is labored; on top of that, you have to wipe away the drool that nearly spills down to your chin. To make matters even worse, your fangs are prodding at your lower lip. You pray that Rhett didn’t notice in the heat of the moment. With a slow, reluctant sigh, you rip your gaze away from him.

“...Sorry,” you murmur. “Got carried away.”

He laughs, running a hand through his hair. “Don’t be. Jesus, you’ve got no reason to—” He swallows, pausing a beat. “It’s okay. I just wanna take you out first.”