1-800-hot-n-fun

it was backstage at a music show when it happened.

you were dressed in this flawless, pressed, immaculate stage persona. eyes lined, jaws sharp, and the deep navy silk of your shirt tucked in just right. gojo had barely looked at you all evening, except for a few long, hungry glances.

you were used to his teasing— had been exposed to the flirty flurry of his words moving about like sunlight. you were used to gojo satoru— cocky, charming, obnoxious.

but that night?

something was different.

the both of you just finished an on-stage bit for the show. you’d exchange a playful hug with geto suguru, a well-known actor and host. you’ve known him ways back, so it was nothing unusual— a friendly arm over his shoulder, a lean-in joke to his mic, some laughter from the crowd.

but when you stepped backstage and got back to the comfort of your dressing room, gojo didn’t say a word. no teasing remark, no obnoxious joke, not even a playful banter.

gojo walks up behind you. just close enough that the heat of him pressed through the fabric, through your breath.

the room was quiet, save for the beat of your heart that you swore could be heard by the people outside.

you turned slowly to look up at gojo and simply uttered, “what?”

he doesn’t smile.

gojo leans in, caging you with his arms; one hand to the mirror behind your head. the other rested on your hip— not tight, but firm.

a beat passes by before he says anything.

“didn’t like that,” gojo muttered.

you blink as you feel your heartbeat skip, “didn’t like what?”

“the way he touched you.” his voice was low. not angry, but dangerous. jealous in a way you had never seen before on a man like gojo satoru. “put his arm around you like he could.”

you breathe, suddenly feeling warm.

“he couldn’t,” you said, although unsure why you even needed to explain. why you had the urge to placate the man before you.

gojo’s fingers curled slightly, “i know. but still.”

still.

that word echoed.

your breath gets stuck in your throat as his hand moves, slowly sliding from your waist to the small of your back as he turns you toward him. it anchors you in a way that’s possessive. not aggressive. just… there.

“you like that?” gojo asks, head tilting as his mouth achingly stays a few inches away from yours. “when i get like this?”

something in you wanted to say no.

you wanted to say that it was ridiculous. that he was overreacting. that all of this was unnecessary. that it was all for show.

but instead—

you feel your eyes flutter shut and you clench your hands in his shirt and you whisper a weak “…yeah.”

gojo exhales like a man relieved. as if he’d been holding back and just got permission to stop.

he kissed you then. deep. slow.

with claiming in it.

and that was the moment you realized that you loved it.

you loved being gojo satoru’s.

not just in the playful ways, the teasing bits on camera, or the flirty exchanges in interviews.

no. you loved this. the rawness of it all. the way gojo’s need slipped beneath his skin like heat. the way it melted all that ingrained stage-polish and control off him in seconds.

the way it said: you don’t belong to anyone else. you’re mine. i’m yours.

you didn’t need the words.

you just needed the look. and the hands. and the way gojo kissed you like you were his biggest secret he’s struggling to keep in.

because you were.

you scroll up once, then twice, then a third time. you pause, taking in what you see on the screen. you scroll again. then again. each swipe a little faster than the last.

the first tear hits the back of your hand, and the phone slips from your fingers—it barely has time to settle on the mattress, abandoned with the screen still lit and open to the camera roll, before you've already made it out the door.

rintarou is still in the living room where you left him after your argument, only now he's face down on the sofa with his left arm and leg dangling pitifully off the edge.

"rintarou," your voice is shaking when you call to him, weak and watery and strained.

he's upright in an instant, his eyes—a little red at the corners but wide with concern—on you.

you don't say anything. you just... look at him for a moment.

the tears that you've been only half-successfully fighting against swell unexpectedly, and a little sob rips through your chest. you cover your face in embarrassment, but there's no concealing your tears now.

"hey," rintarou is in front of you quicker than you can follow, prying the hands you've hidden your face under away so that he can see you. "what's wrong, baby?"

"i'm sorry," you croak out, your voice breaking halfway through the apology—like an audible testament of the moment your pride finally gives away. "i'm really sorry."

"oh," rintarou's tone is gentle as he tugs you against his chest, a hand cradling the back of your head. "it's okay. it's okay. it was just a little argument. it was my fault, too."

you lean into him as he runs his hand down your back, comforting you.

"it was so stupid," you say.

"yeah," rintarou agrees in a way without any condescension or condemnation. he just holds you a little tighter.

"i was mean," you whisper, your tears still falling and soaking into the front of your boyfriend's hoodie.

"well, i was being an idiot. and you know i kinda like it when you're mean," rintarou offers in a misplaced but completely well-intentioned effort to console you.

you snort, a sort of gross, wet sound. when you finally peel yourself away from him to look up at his face, that same expression is still there. the one you've seen so many times. the one that made you feel so guilty. the one so full of love it eats away at you—that softens you like a tide erodes a shore.

"how can you still be a pervert when i'm getting snot all over you?" you ask him with a weak laugh, scrubbing at your face to wipe away the mess of tears and god only knows what else you've got all over you. rintarou stops you, nudging your hands away and using the cuff of his hoodie's sleeve to take up the task—in a much gentler way than you had been.

"because i love you," he says softly, wiping a tear off your cheek. it's so earnest. so honest. it's his own apology, in a way, even without saying the words.

and you know he means it.

You were two clicks away from glory.

The last mechanism in the vault lock was nearly purring under your tools, an intricate thing of gears and whispers that had taken you three nights to decode. The room was dim, lit only by the warm flicker of a stolen lantern and the soft red glow of rune-etched stone along the floor. Whoever built this place wanted the treasure buried and forgotten, but they hadn’t counted on you.

You adjusted your gloves, fingers nimble as the final latch gave the faintest click. Satisfaction hummed through you, the kind that only came from outsmarting kings and walking away richer.

And then you heard it.

A crunch.

You froze.

Not the stone-shifting crack of an ancient trap. Not the telltale grind of armoured boots. No—this was sharper. Wetter. Smugger.

You turned your head, slowly, already dreading what you’d find.

And there he was.

Satoru Gojo. Leaning casually against the far column, biting into a red apple like he’d strolled into a marketplace instead of a cursed noble’s vault. White hair gleaming. Mask angled just enough to be obnoxious. His boots were dusty, his grin shit-eating, and his eyes—fuck. Of course, he didn’t bother hiding them.

"Don’t stop on my account," he said, juice running down his wrist. "You looked so focused. It was adorable."

You stared.

Then blinked.

Then said, flatly, “What the fuck.”

He gestured with the apple. “Hi.”

“Did you follow me?”

“Technically, I was here first. I just took a more dramatic entrance route.” Another bite. “Rooftops. Rope. Possible broken window.”

You looked past him, and sure enough, one of the stained glass panels high above was cracked open, edges glittering with fresh damage.

“You’re a fucking legend,” you muttered, turning back to the vault.

"Aww, you do know me."

“I also think you're a fucking nuisance.”

Gojo laughed, low and pleased. "You say that like it’s mutually exclusive."

You exhaled slowly, jaw tightening. “You planning on standing there eating fruit while I do all the work?”

“Actually,” he said, and there was the sound of something metal shifting behind you, “I was thinking I’d help.”

You spun, knives drawn in a blur.

But Gojo wasn’t threatening you—he was kneeling beside the pedestal now, peering at the exposed vault like it was a puzzle box.

He whistled. “Damn. You already disarmed the pressure plates?”

“You’re loud,” you said, circling him warily. “And messy.”

He looked up at you, bright-eyed. “But cute, right?”

Your blade hovered an inch from his throat.

“You’ve got five seconds to leave.”

“Oh?” His smile widened, infuriating. “Or what? You’ll stab the most charming outlaw in the land?”

“If it shuts you up, absolutely.”

“Harsh.” He leaned in, voice lower now. “You always this violent on first meetings, or am I special?”

You narrowed your eyes. “You’re impossible.”

"And you're hot when you're mad."

The moment stretched between you like a tripwire. His smile didn’t falter, but his fingers twitched near the hilt of the blade at his hip. Not drawn, not threatening. Just… prepared.

So he wasn’t an idiot. That was disappointing. You liked idiots. They bled easier.

“I know who you are,” you said finally.

“Everyone does.”

“I don’t mean your wanted posters. I mean your real reputation. You get people killed.”

His expression didn’t change, but something cold flickered behind his smirk. “People get themselves killed. I just make it interesting.”

You hated how good that line was. Hated more that it made you want to smirk back.

Instead, you sheathed your knives and moved past him to the artifact.

Small. Black. Humming with a pulse you felt in your ribs. The voidseed, they called it. One wish. One curse. Same odds, depending on how desperate you were.

Gojo stood too, closer now. You felt him behind you, tall and warm and irritating.

“Any chance you’ll split it?” he asked.

“Not even if you begged.”

“Mmm. I am good at begging, though.”

You straightened, turned, and faced him properly for the first time.

Sharp white hair. Lashes too long. Lips still stained from that damn apple. He was every kind of trouble, wrapped in silk and arrogance, and now he was standing between you and the exit.

You sighed. “I’m not fighting you in here. Too cramped.”

“Shame. I like it cramped.”

You stepped around him, slow, purposeful. “Touch me again and I’ll bury a dagger in your throat.”

He chuckled, following. “That’s not a no.”

You reached the exit passage, then paused. Looked back at him.

“You planning to follow me out?”

Gojo shrugged. “I’m not leaving empty-handed.”

“So rob someone else.”

“But you’re so much more fun.”

You stared. He smiled.

Then you threw a smoke vial to the ground and vanished into the haze, vaulting up the hidden escape shaft you’d scouted days ago. You didn’t bother looking back.

Let him chase you if he wanted.

You’d cut him off at the knees later.

---

The city was quieter at night—if you could call this a city. It was more like a stitched-together sprawl of forgotten temples, crumbling stonework, and wealthy cowards playing noble. Beyond the roofs stretched the distant outline of forest, where the real dangers lived. Where you were planning to disappear.

If not for the man currently chasing you.

You moved fast, vaulting from rooftop to rooftop, leather boots gripping slick clay tiles. The wind tugged at your coat and hissed in your ears. You landed, rolled, and sprang again without pause—muscle memory and adrenaline making you feel half-feral, half-myth.

Gojo was still behind you.

Gods, how was he still behind you?

You glanced back just as he landed a story down, arms outstretched like a damn acrobat, long coat flaring, silver hair glowing in the moonlight. He looked delighted. Delighted.

“This is the most cardio I’ve done all year!” he called, grinning. “Is this foreplay? Feels like foreplay.”

“Try dying!” you shouted back, and dropped smoke behind you again.

But he didn’t slow. Didn’t stumble. If anything, he laughed harder—like this wasn’t a chase at all but a fucking game, and you were the only one pretending to play it seriously.

You hated how good he was at this.

You hated that it was kind of fun.

You pivoted hard, ducked under a broken arch, and slid down the angled side of an old cathedral roof, boots skimming the rain-slick edge. You landed in the alley with a sharp grunt, breath visible in the cold.

Then silence.

No footsteps. No Gojo.

You waited five, ten seconds—ears straining—then exhaled slowly and melted into the shadows, slipping through the gap between buildings you’d marked earlier. It led into the narrow passage behind the bell tower, where the stone was warped from age and easy to scale.

You climbed three stories before you heard it again.

Crunch.

You looked up.

There he was.

Leaning against the spire like a gargoyle, eating another fucking apple.

You stared. “How—”

“I’m very light on my feet,” he said cheerfully, tossing the core into the dark. “Also, you take the exact same route every time. Predictable, but sexy.”

Your hand twitched near your knife. “If I kill you, does the bounty double?”

He cocked his head. “Are you flirting?”

You didn’t answer. Instead, you reached the top of the roof and sat, boots swinging over the edge, chest rising and falling from the sprint. Gojo watched you, then flopped down beside you like this was all part of the plan.

Below, the city was a patchwork of flickering lamps and watchfires. The guards hadn’t spotted either of you yet. You could still vanish. You could still shake him. But for some reason, you didn’t move.

“I should stab you,” you muttered.

“You keep saying that,” Gojo replied, voice lighter now. “But here we are.”

Silence stretched between you. Not tense, exactly. Just full—with things you weren’t going to say and things he probably already knew.

Gojo broke it first. “That vault was yours?”

“Obviously.”

“You cracked it clean.”

“Obviously.”

He grinned. “I’m impressed.”

You glanced at him. “That doesn’t mean anything coming from you.”

“It does to me.”

And there it was again—that thing he did, that flicker behind the jokes and showmanship. Like he saw something in you that he wasn’t supposed to. Like he was trying to get under your skin on purpose.

“Why do you keep chasing me?” you asked, finally. “You could be halfway to the next kingdom by now.”

Gojo stretched his legs out, boots scuffed and dusted with rooftop grit. “Maybe I like shiny things.”

You rolled your eyes. “You didn’t even want the artifact.”

“Nope.”

“Then why—”

“I wanted to see who got there first.” He looked at you. Really looked. “And what they’d do with it.”

You met his gaze and felt something tighten in your chest.

“You think I’ll use it?”

He shrugged. “I think you’re not as heartless as people say.”

You laughed once, short and bitter. “And what gave you that idea? The knives or the running?”

“The way you looked at it. Like it scared you a little.”

You didn’t answer.

He leaned back on his elbows, tilting his head toward the stars. “I’ve seen men go mad for things like that. Or worse—get hopeful. That’s always when it breaks them.”

“Hope?”

Gojo nodded. “It’s a fragile thing. Makes people desperate.”

You turned away. Looked down at the artifact in your coat pocket. Still warm. Still humming. Like it was alive. Like it knew it had just become yours.

“I’m not desperate,” you said quietly.

“No,” Gojo agreed. “You’re angry.”

You didn’t ask how he knew that. Maybe he didn’t. Maybe he was guessing. Or maybe he really did see straight through people the way they said he could. Whatever it was, it made your skin itch.

“You gonna tail me all night?” you asked, voice back to flat.

“Depends,” he said, stretching. “Are you gonna make it worth my while?”

You stood abruptly. “Don’t follow me, Gojo.”

He didn’t rise. Just watched you from where he lay, too relaxed for someone who could be skewered in two seconds.

“You’re not the only outlaw after that thing, you know,” he said casually. “You might want backup. Or a partner.”

You looked over your shoulder. “I don’t do partners.”

“You might change your mind.”

“I won’t.”

Gojo smiled, softly this time. “I’ll see you again anyway.”

You disappeared into the shadows before you could give him the satisfaction of a reply.

And still, somewhere behind you, you heard him laughing.

---

You smelled blood before you stepped inside.

The tavern was quieter than you remembered, and that was saying something—it was already a shithole on a good day. You’d holed up here before: halfway between two borders, just obscure enough to be ignored by local law. Perfect for laying low after a heist. Perfect for disappearing.

But tonight, something was… off.

You kept your back to the wall and your hood up, fingers tracing the hilt under your coat as you passed between half-empty tables. A few men looked up—one blinked too slow, another’s hand twitched toward his belt. You kept walking.

The barkeep didn’t speak. Just jerked his chin toward the back room.

You slipped through the curtain.

Kaito was waiting. Ex-fence, part-time drunk, full-time coward. But useful—if you were willing to stomach the smell.

“You got it?” he rasped, eyes wide. “You actually got it?”

You didn’t answer. You pulled the object from inside your coat, still warm and faintly pulsing. The voidseed sat between you like a heart torn from a god. Kaito leaned forward, reverent.

“Shit,” he whispered. “You really pulled it off.”

“I need papers,” you said. “New name. New country. And I need it fast.”

Kaito nodded too quickly. “Yeah, yeah, I got a guy—wait, no—had a guy, he moved east, but I can get—”

The door behind you slammed open.

You turned just as the first knife whistled through the air. You ducked. It hit the wall behind you with a dull thud.

Four bounty hunters. Maybe five. All armed. All grinning.

You moved before they could surround you, flipping the table and vaulting over it. The room exploded into motion—Kaito shrieked and disappeared under a bench, typical—and you drew both knives in one smooth motion, spinning as the first man lunged.

You slashed his thigh, ducked a club, kicked the third in the stomach hard enough to hear ribs crack. It was fast. It was brutal. But they kept coming.

They weren’t just here for blood.

They were here for the artifact.

Shit.

You were outnumbered, boxed in, and—

The window shattered.

Something slammed into the room in a blur of white and blue. The air twisted, and suddenly three men were on the floor, groaning or unconscious. One tried to crawl away. A boot stepped on his hand.

Gojo.

“Miss me?” he said, smile sharp and stupid and radiant.

You didn’t answer. You threw a bottle at the last standing hunter and watched it explode against his face.

“Charming,” Gojo said. “Didn’t know you could throw like that.”

“I’ll throw you if you don’t explain how they found me.”

Gojo crouched, yanked a bounty poster from one of their belts, and tossed it to you.

You caught it.

And froze.

Your name.

Your face—sketched, but unmistakable.

And scrawled beneath it in fat, blood-red ink:

WANTED – DEAD OR ALIVE – POSSESSION OF AN ANCIENT CURSE REWARD: 5,000 GOLD COINS

You stared. “Five thousand?”

Gojo whistled low. “Even I’m not worth that much.”

“This wasn’t here yesterday.”

“Which means someone talked.”

You turned to Kaito. He held up his hands. “I didn’t say anything, I swear—!”

You kicked over his table. He screamed and ducked.

Gojo chuckled. “So. What’s your plan now?”

“Run,” you snapped. “Fast and far.”

“You won’t make it through the border checkpoints with that poster circulating. Every pair of eyes from here to the capital’s gonna be looking for you.”

“Not if I move fast.”

“Not if you move alone.”

You stopped.

Gojo smiled, all lazy amusement. “Travel with me. We’ll cut through the cliffs and loop around the marshlands. No patrols, no checkpoints. I’ve got people there. We’ll be ghosts.”

“I don’t trust you.”

“That’s mutual.”

You glared. “Then why help me?”

He looked down at the voidseed, then back up at you.

“Because,” he said, voice lower now, “you’re not the only one who wants to know what that thing does. And I’ve got a map.”

You paused.

He added, “To the place it came from. The one no one dares go near. Not unless they want answers. Or power.”

You didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

You could stab him. You could go alone. You could disappear into the woods and take your chances with the bounty on your back and the hunters at your heels.

Or you could take the risk.

You sheathed your knives. “Fine. One week. Then we’re done.”

Gojo grinned. “Whatever you say, partner.”

“I’m not your partner.”

“We’re travelling together. You’re not not my partner.”

You shoved past him. “If you talk this much while we’re walking, I will kill you.”

“That’s fine. You’ll miss me.”

You didn’t answer.

But you didn’t look back, either.

Because for the first time since stealing the voidseed, you weren’t running alone.

And you hated that it made you feel a little less doomed.

---

You hated traveling with other people.

They slowed you down. They made noise. They had opinions about things like “breaks” and “which direction the cliffs are” and “not threatening every barkeep you meet.” And yet, here you were.

With him.

Gojo Satoru walked like a man who’d never feared a fall. Long strides, loose limbs, like the world was his to trip through. He hadn’t shut up for hours—about the voidseed, about local legends, about a mythical hot spring he swore was nearby and probably full of naked people.

You barely grunted in response.

Mostly to stop yourself from saying something you’d regret.

He didn’t seem to mind.

“So,” Gojo drawled as you both passed through the last arch of the ruined bridge, the cliffs yawning on either side like jagged teeth, “are you always this fun, or am I just special?”

“You talk too much.”

“And you glare like it’s a love language.”

“I’m thinking.”

“About killing me? Or kissing me?”

You didn’t answer.

Gojo laughed. “Ah, so both.”

The path ahead narrowed—just a crooked trail winding down into the ravine. No signs, no markers. You knew this route, barely. Smugglers used it sometimes, but it wasn’t exactly a highway. The wind picked up as you descended, sharp and biting, tugging at your coat and snapping branches overhead.

Behind you, Gojo sighed dramatically. “So… what’s your plan once we get across? Sell the voidseed? Hide it? Build a shrine and worship it?”

You glanced over your shoulder. “You really think I’d tell you that?”

“No,” he said. “But I like your voice. Could listen to it for hours.”

“You’re lucky I don’t slit your throat in your sleep.”

“I am lucky,” Gojo agreed. “Every day.”

You rolled your eyes. And still—somehow—didn’t stop walking next to him.

You camped that night in a hollowed-out cave, tucked into the cliffside like a secret. You’d found it years ago, when you were still running jobs with people who were now either dead or very, very far away. It was dry. Sheltered. Just big enough for two.

Which was annoying.

Gojo flopped down beside the fire you built, unbothered as always. He peeled off his coat, set down his sword with something resembling care, and stretched like a damn cat.

“You know,” he said, watching the flames dance, “you snore.”

“No, I don’t.”

“You do. It’s kind of endearing. Like a very angry bear.”

You threw a twig at his face. He caught it, grinning.

“You know you’re insane, right?” you said.

Gojo shrugged. “Takes one to know one.”

You didn’t reply.

The fire popped softly. Outside, the wind howled through the canyons like a warning. But in here, it was warm. Almost… peaceful.

You hated it.

“You’ve done this before,” Gojo said, after a beat. “Stolen something dangerous. Run from a bounty. Lived with a target on your back.”

Your jaw tensed. “You haven’t?”

“Oh, I have,” he said lightly. “But I tend to leave a trail of ash and broken hearts. You’re more subtle.”

“You say that like it’s an insult.”

Gojo turned his head, looking at you through the flickering light.

“No,” he said. “It’s impressive.”

You stared at the flames. Let the silence grow teeth again.

“I’m not interested in your compliments,” you muttered.

“And yet, here we are,” he murmured. “Sharing fire. Sharing risk.”

“Not a team.”

He didn’t argue.

Didn’t need to.

The next day, you crossed the ravine and headed toward the outer reaches of the valley—closer to the forgotten routes that led to the Wastes. That’s where Gojo said the answers were. Where the voidseed had been found once before.

But first, you needed supplies.

And supplies meant towns.

You picked a smaller one. Backwater. No central guard. Fewer chances to be recognized.

Or so you thought.

The minute you stepped into the town square, Gojo nudged your side. “Don’t react.”

You didn’t move.

But you saw it.

A new bounty poster.

Your face, again.

And Gojo’s. Right beside it.

Same scrawled headline: WANTED FOR THEFT OF AN ANCIENT RELIC – EXTREMELY DANGEROUS REWARD: 7,000 GOLD – DEAD OR ALIVE

“Didn’t know you were that popular,” Gojo muttered.

“I thought you said your contacts were clean.”

“They were. Someone’s really invested in finding us.”

You ducked into a side alley, heart thudding. Gojo followed.

“What now?” he asked.

You were already scanning. Thinking. Calculating.

“They’ve got spotters,” you said. “We can’t stay long. We grab supplies and get out.”

“They’ll flag the wanted faces the second we walk into the market.”

“Then we won’t walk in as us.”

He blinked. “You’ve got disguises?”

“Better,” you said grimly. “A local custom.”

Gojo raised a brow. “Oh no.”

“Oh yes.”

Two hours later, Gojo stood beside you in front of the town registrar, wearing ceremonial robes that didn’t fit and smiling like he was having the time of his life.

You, on the other hand, were trying not to punch someone.

The registrar blinked down at the paperwork. “So… you’re here to register a bond?”

“Just passing through,” Gojo said brightly, sliding his arm around your waist. “But my beloved and I are finally tying the knot. Isn’t that right, sweetheart?”

You gritted your teeth. “Ecstatic.”

The woman beamed. “Well, congratulations! I’ll just need you both to sign here—”

You grabbed the pen before Gojo could write something stupid.

You didn’t look at him when you scribbled your name—fake, of course—but you could feel his eyes on you. Amused. Curious. Warm in a way you didn’t want to think about.

“Done,” you said. “Can we go now?”

The registrar handed you a scroll. “Welcome to marital bliss!”

Gojo winked. “We’ll try not to kill each other.”

“Please don’t!” she called cheerfully as you walked away.

Later, back in the woods with the supplies stashed and your cover intact, Gojo laughed until he almost fell over.

“Oh my god,” he wheezed. “We just got fake married.”

You didn’t respond.

“Do I get a honeymoon? What about a kiss? Should we consummate the union?”

“Shut up.”

Gojo slung an arm around your shoulders. “C’mon, hubby. Admit it. You liked holding my hand.”

“I was restraining you.”

“Semantics.”

You elbowed him in the ribs. He laughed harder.

And somehow, you weren’t annoyed.

Not really.

Because for the first time since this whole cursed job started—you didn’t feel like you were running. You felt like you were walking beside someone who might actually survive the ending with you.

Maybe.

If he didn’t die first.

---

You knew something was off the moment the birds stopped singing.

It was dusk. The sky had softened into gold, trees slicing the light into ribbons as you and Gojo crept along the overgrown trail just past the ridge. You were supposed to be half a day ahead of any bounty trackers. Supposed to be deep enough in the forgotten woods that no one would dare follow.

But the silence gave it away.

Not natural. Not safe.

You stopped moving.

Gojo stopped too. “What is it?”

You didn’t answer. Just drew one of your knives and slipped into the trees.

Behind you, Gojo made a low sound—approval, maybe. He followed without complaint. Quiet. Efficient. Annoyingly graceful.

Then the first arrow struck the dirt near your boot.

You reacted instantly, diving behind a fallen log as the air exploded with motion. Figures burst from the brush—five, six, maybe more. Faces masked, blades out, a full ambush party and not the amateur kind. These weren’t bounty hunters.

These were bounty killers.

Gojo cursed behind you. “Friendly crowd.”

You gritted your teeth. “They were waiting.”

“For us?”

“For me.”

“God, you’re popular.”

You didn’t dignify that with a reply.

Instead, you moved.

Two in front. One on the ridge. Another circling left. You lunged for the closest figure, catching them by surprise, your blade slicing across their thigh as you twisted to avoid a second strike. Blood splattered the leaves. They went down with a grunt.

Gojo was beside you in a blink, staff spinning, cracking skulls with that infuriating ease of his. But you could tell he was holding back. Always did. Like he was dancing, not fighting. Like none of it really mattered.

Until it did.

Because one of them got close—closer than you expected. A blade slashed across your arm. Hot pain bloomed. You staggered, just a second too slow.

Gojo turned, face shifting from amused to lethal.

The man didn’t even get to scream before Gojo drove his palm into his chest with a sickening crack.

Then silence.

Not quiet like before. Not suspicious.

Just stillness.

Bodies on the ground. Blood steaming in the cool night air.

You hissed, clutching your arm. “Fuck.”

“Let me see.” Gojo stepped closer.

“I’m fine.”

“You’re bleeding.”

“No shit.”

“Stop being difficult,” he muttered. “You’re not impressing me.”

You glared at him but let him push your coat off your shoulder. He knelt beside you, fingers brushing the torn fabric gently—almost too gently. His hands were warm. Steady.

“Not too deep,” he said. “But it’ll scar.”

“I don’t care.”

“I do.”

You froze.

Just for a second.

Then you scoffed. “You care about a lot of things that don’t concern you.”

Gojo didn’t answer.

Just tied the bandage tight and stood.

You stood too, slower this time. Wincing. You wiped the blood off your blade and sheathed it again, staring down at the bodies.

“They knew we were coming,” you said.

“Looks like it.”

“Which means someone’s tracking us. Close.”

Gojo was quiet.

Then: “Geto.”

You looked up.

He wasn’t joking. Wasn’t teasing. That brightness he usually wore like armor had dimmed, pulled back like a tide.

You swallowed.

“You think he sent them?”

Gojo nodded once. “Yeah.”

You didn’t ask how he knew.

Not yet.

But something in your chest twisted.

You made camp deeper in the woods, away from the blood. The night was colder now, as if it knew something had changed.

Gojo didn’t joke. Didn’t chatter.

You didn’t push.

Instead, you sat with your back to the fire, knife in your hand, watching shadows flicker against the trees. You could still hear the sound of that last man’s chest caving in. Still feel Gojo’s hands on your arm. Still—

“You were good today,” Gojo said softly behind you.

You didn’t turn. “I’m always good.”

He huffed a laugh. “Yeah. You are.”

Another pause.

Then:

“Thanks for not dying.”

You looked at him then. Really looked.

He was leaning back, arms behind his head, hair messy, eyes soft and unreadable in the firelight.

And for once, he wasn’t smiling.

You didn’t know what that meant.

So you said, “Don’t thank me yet. We’ve still got a long way to go.”

He met your gaze.

And this time, he didn’t look away.

---

The village wasn’t on any map. It didn’t even have a name, just a rusted sign by the gate that read STAY OUT in faded red paint. That didn’t stop Gojo from walking right in, of course—whistling like he owned the place.

You followed him reluctantly, steps slower, warier. Something about the place made your skin itch. The houses were squat, sagging under their own weight, and the streets were too quiet. Not the kind of quiet that comes with sleep or peace—but the kind that settles when something is wrong.

You passed a farmer hammering wooden planks across his windows. He didn’t look up.

Gojo leaned toward you, voice light: “Charming little vacation spot, huh?”

You didn’t smile. “Let’s find a place to rest. In and out. No distractions.”

Gojo just nodded, but you knew better. The man couldn’t resist poking the bear—especially if the bear was cursed, dangerous, or full of secrets.

It wasn’t hard to find the inn. It was the only building still standing straight. The sign above the door read The Hollow Lantern in cracked gold paint. You pushed the door open, and the air inside smelled like dust and oil and something faintly metallic.

A woman sat at the counter. Her eyes flicked to you, then to Gojo. “Rooms?”

“Two,” you said quickly.

She shook her head. “Only one left.”

Of course.

Gojo didn’t miss a beat. “We’ll take it.”

You didn’t protest. Not out loud. But the look you shot him could’ve burned a hole through stone.

He just grinned.

The room was small—barely enough space for your bags, your weapons, and the one creaky-looking bed shoved up against the far wall.

The silence stretched.

Gojo flopped onto the mattress like it was a king’s feast. “Not bad! Sheets even smell clean.” He rolled onto his back, arms behind his head. “You want left or right side?”

You stared at him. “I’ll take the floor.”

“No you won’t. You’re still injured.”

“I’ve had worse.”

“Doesn’t mean you have to suffer through worse now.” He patted the space beside him. “Come on. I promise I won’t bite—unless you ask nicely.”

You flipped your knife once between your fingers before sliding it back into your boot. “Keep your hands to yourself.”

Gojo smiled, but didn’t answer. For once, he let it be.

You didn’t lie down. Not yet. Instead, you stood by the window, eyes scanning the dark street below. Somewhere out there, the forest still whispered. The same forest that had nearly buried you both in bodies just hours earlier.

Something wasn’t right.

You turned to Gojo. “Why this village?”

He blinked at you, sitting up. “What do you mean?”

“You didn’t ask. You didn’t hesitate. You just… walked in. Like you were looking for it.”

Gojo looked away then, expression shuttering. His smile faded—just for a moment, but enough to catch.

“There’s a rumor,” he said finally. “Old one. Says this place was cursed after a voidseed burst under the mountain. Says anyone who stays too long starts hearing voices in their sleep. Seeing things that aren’t there.”

You raised an eyebrow. “And you thought we should spend the night here?”

He shrugged. “If it’s cursed, it means no one will look for us here.”

You didn’t have a counter to that.

But you still didn’t like it.

You lay down reluctantly that night, fully dressed, your back to Gojo, your hand never straying far from the hilt at your hip. The bed was warmer than expected. You hated that. Hated the way your muscles loosened despite yourself. Hated the way Gojo’s breathing, soft and even beside you, almost calmed you.

Almost.

“You awake?” he asked.

You didn’t answer.

He continued anyway. “I get why you don’t trust me.”

Your jaw tightened.

“But I’m not your enemy.”

You turned your head slightly, just enough to see his profile in the moonlight leaking through the cracked shutters. His eyes were open. Bright. Watching the ceiling like it held the answers.

“I’m not anyone’s ally either,” you said. “I work alone.”

“I know.”

Another pause.

Then softer: “You don’t have to, though.”

You closed your eyes. Tried to pretend it didn’t make something sharp twist under your ribs.

You dreamed that night.

Of fire. Of eyes in the trees. Of a voice calling your name in someone else’s tone. You woke up in a cold sweat, heart pounding—and Gojo was already sitting up beside you, alert. Barefoot. Shirt rumpled.

He looked at you like he’d seen something too.

“You felt it too?” he asked.

You nodded slowly. “Something’s here.”

Gojo’s voice dropped. “Voidseed.”

You stared at him. “How do you know?”

“I’ve felt it before.”

There it was again. That crack. That space where the mask slipped.

You sat up. “How many times?”

Gojo didn’t answer. Instead, he stood, crossing to the window.

“Geto used to track them,” he said finally. “Years ago. Said they were pieces of a bigger magic—older than anything in this world. Said if you collected enough of them, you could change fate.”

“And you believed him?”

Gojo gave you a sad smile. “I believed in him.”

You stood too.

And the floor creaked between you, quiet and heavy, like it was holding its breath.

Morning came gray and slow. You packed in silence. Gojo didn’t press you again. But something had shifted between you. Not quite trust. Not quite warmth.

But something.

You left the village by noon. The innkeeper watched you both with tired eyes. And just as you passed the edge of the woods again, Gojo looked at you sideways.

“One bed,” he said casually.

You grunted. “What about it?”

He smirked. “You didn’t stab me.”

You didn’t smile.

But you didn’t deny it either.

---

You’d barely made it past the village border when Gojo started whistling again. Same tune, same arrogance, like the ambush, the cursed bed-sharing, and the voidseed whispers hadn’t left even a scratch on his soul. You, on the other hand, were nursing a splitting headache and a very real ache in your side that you absolutely were not going to let him notice.

“Stop that,” you muttered.

“Stop what?” he said, cocking his head with a mock innocence that didn’t fool you for a second.

“That noise.”

“I’m creating ambiance. Mood. Vibes.”

“Your vibes are making me homicidal.”

Gojo grinned, “Well, at least they’re working.”

You didn’t dignify that with an answer. Just adjusted your coat, made sure your dagger was still where it belonged, and scanned the horizon ahead.

A town lay a few miles out—marked on Gojo’s stolen, half-burned map as “Rookridge.” He’d claimed there was a shortcut through its back alleys that would take you both to the pass ahead. You didn’t trust him, or the map, or frankly even the ground beneath your boots right now. But it was the only real lead you had. That, and the faint whisper of voidseed still lingering like smoke on the wind.

The town looked normal at first glance. Dusty. Quiet. The kind of place where people didn’t make eye contact unless you paid them for it. But Gojo slowed slightly as you entered the main square, steps lighter than usual. His hand brushed yours—barely.

“Careful,” he murmured, just for you. “We’re not alone.”

You didn’t ask how he knew. You felt it too. That ripple in the air. That hunter’s tension curling along the back of your spine.

And then they stepped into the street.

Two of them. Dressed like theatre villains, all leather and buckles and unnecessary capes. One was tall and lean, with a blade so polished it shone like a mirror. The other was shorter, broader, and carried a spiked flail that looked like it belonged in a torture museum.

But it was their faces that made your stomach sink.

They were smiling. Like they’d been expecting you.

“Well, well,” the tall one purred, pointing his sword lazily between you and Gojo. “If it isn’t the infamous sorcerer and his grumpy little bodyguard.”

Gojo perked up. “You think I’m infamous? Aww, stop.”

“I won’t,” the shorter one said, cracking his knuckles. “The price on your head is enough to buy a kingdom.”

You tilted your head. “Whose head?”

Both bounty hunters blinked.

Gojo elbowed you lightly. “Aw, don’t be shy. They’re clearly here for me.”

“You wish.” You rolled your eyes, but your hand was already on your dagger.

“Don’t fight over me,” Gojo sighed. “There’s enough bounty to go around.”

The tall one moved first—fast, practiced, but not fast enough. Your blade met his mid-air with a clash of steel and a flick of your wrist that sent him staggering back.

“Whoa!” Gojo laughed. “Look at you go, sweetheart!”

You didn’t answer. You were already moving—ducking a strike, spinning, slashing low. The flail swung behind you, a whistle of iron in the air, and Gojo intercepted it with a wall of crystal-clear magic that cracked the earth.

“Oh, come on!” the shorter bounty hunter shouted. “Magic?! That’s cheating!”

Gojo grinned. “I know.”

The fight spilled into the square, drawing attention from the nearby tavern and market stalls. But no one stepped in. They just watched—silent, sharp-eyed. Rookridge didn’t seem like the kind of place that interfered.

The tall one tried a fancy move—flipping off a crate and aiming for your head with a scream of overconfidence. You ducked, grabbed his belt mid-air, and slammed him into the ground.

He groaned. “You’re… stronger than you look.”

“Yeah,” you said, flipping your dagger once, “I get that a lot.”

Gojo, meanwhile, had turned the fight into a performance. He was laughing, spinning, summoning brief flashes of light to blind and dazzle. Every move was unnecessarily theatrical, but undeniably effective.

The flail came flying again, and Gojo sidestepped with a flourish. “You know, I thought about becoming a dancer once,” he mused. “But bounty hunters make such terrible partners.”

The flail-wielder screamed in frustration and charged.

Gojo just blew him a kiss and raised his hand—boom. A pulse of energy sent the man flying into a water trough.

Silence settled.

You stood over the tall one, breathing hard, dagger pressed to his throat.

“Still want that bounty?” you asked.

He wheezed. “You’re… both insane.”

Gojo popped a piece of dried fruit into his mouth and winked. “And you’re boring.”

The bounty hunters crawled off eventually, muttering curses and threats. You didn’t follow. You’d made your point.

“Do you always piss people off that quickly?” you asked Gojo, wiping blood off your blade.

“Only the people worth pissing off,” he said cheerfully. “That guy’s sword was too clean. He needed humbling.”

You glared at him. “They could’ve killed us.”

He tilted his head, mock-thoughtful. “But they didn’t. Because you’re terrifying and I’m fabulous.”

You exhaled hard and kept walking.

That night, you ended up at a tiny tavern on the edge of Rookridge. The innkeeper gave you both a once-over, eyes narrowing.

“You bonded?”

You blinked. “What?”

“Town’s prepping for the Moonbind Festival,” she said. “Only bonded pairs can stay the night. Security measures. Too many outlaws and opportunists about.”

You turned to Gojo. “Tell her we’re not staying.”

Gojo slung an arm around your shoulders before you could move. “Of course we are! My darling and I just survived a double bounty ambush—we deserve a real bed.”

The woman squinted at you both.

You forced a smile. “We’re very happy.”

She handed over a key. “Only one bed.”

Gojo winked. “Even better.”

You didn’t punch him. That counted as restraint.

---

You woke up to the sound of bells.

Not the sharp clang of alarms or the echo of church towers—these were delicate, wind-chimed things, threaded between banners overhead and strung along doorways like blessings. The whole village had changed overnight. Rookridge was unrecognizable. The market stalls were blooming with silk and smoke, incense curling between jewel-toned tents, and the streets were packed with masked dancers who moved like water.

Gojo was already outside when you stumbled down from the room, leaning against the inn’s outer wall with a pastry in one hand and glitter on his cheek.

“Happy Moonbind,” he said, offering a bite like you hadn’t nearly murdered him in the night for stealing the blanket.

You took it anyway. “What the hell is Moonbind?”

“Seasonal festival,” he said, chewing lazily. “Magic’s thin during the solstice, so towns get nervous. The masks confuse spirits. The dancing keeps things grounded. And the baths—oh, those are for purification.”

You arched a brow. “You sound like a tour guide.”

He winked. “I did a season as one. Got fired for seducing the clientele.”

You didn’t respond. Mostly because you were too busy trying to ignore the fact that he looked really good in the morning light. Loose shirt. Messy hair. Smudged charm and the kind of smile that had ruin me written all over it in invisible ink.

You hated him. You hated him.

You were starting to like him.

The festival carried on around you, full of performances and half-magic rituals. You watched a child pluck fire from a bowl with bare hands and turn it into confetti. A woman offered to tell your fortune for a coin and a strand of hair. Gojo convinced an illusionist to make him float six feet in the air, lounging like a cat on an invisible hammock, just so he could yell at you from above: “You should try smiling sometime, y’know!”

You did smile. A little.

Just not at him.

Not that he noticed.

Or maybe he did. Bastard probably noticed everything.

By midday, you reached the temple.

It looked abandoned—half-sunken stone and creeping moss—but the inside pulsed faintly with something ancient. The puzzle room was beneath it, down a spiral staircase so narrow Gojo kept bumping into you “on accident.”

“You don’t have to keep touching me,” you said.

“I know,” he whispered, too close. “But it’s more fun if I do.”

The trial was designed for two. Pressure plates. Mirrors. Glyphs that lit up when touched simultaneously from opposite ends of the room. It was built for partnership. Trust.

You hated it.

But you worked through it—together.

You read the symbols. Gojo solved the riddles aloud like a smug professor. At one point, he grabbed your hand to guide it toward a panel and didn’t let go.

Neither did you.

Not immediately.

At the end of the trial, a vision struck.

You touched the relic in the center of the room—and it hit you like a punch to the chest. You saw yourself, older. Alone. Blood on your hands. Gojo—gone. Or worse.

You stumbled back, dizzy with the weight of it.

Gojo caught you. Didn’t say anything. Just braced your fall like he’d known it was coming.

“Don’t touch it again,” he said softly, voice suddenly too serious.

“What did you see?” you asked, still breathless.

His smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Something I deserved.”

You didn’t talk much after that. Not through the walk back, not through dinner, not even when Gojo tried to distract you by juggling apples for a group of children.

You kept thinking about what you’d seen.

Not just the blood. Not just the loss.

You were starting to understand why he moved the way he did. Like he was running from something.

Same as you.

The bathhouse was empty when you entered.

Steam curled along the surface of the water, warm and thick. The stone walls were carved with crescent symbols, and candles floated in little wooden bowls, their reflections soft and golden.

Gojo was already in, of course. Neck deep, hair slicked back, eyes half-lidded.

“You coming in or just planning to stare dramatically from the doorway all night?”

You didn’t answer. Just undressed, slow and deliberate, like it didn’t matter.

But his eyes tracked every movement.

You slid into the water across from him and leaned back.

Neither of you spoke.

The silence was charged—thick as steam, warm as blood.

Gojo broke it first.

“You really trust me this little?”

You opened one eye. “It’s not about trust.”

“What is it about, then?”

You hesitated. “I don’t know.”

He moved through the water slowly. Closer. Close enough that his knee brushed yours.

“You looked scared today,” he said. “When the relic showed you something.”

“So did you.”

“Yeah,” he admitted. “But I’ve been scared of that future a long time.”

You watched him.

He wasn’t smiling now. No jokes. No theatrics. Just Gojo—quiet and tired and real.

And maybe it was the warmth. The silence. The ache in your chest that hadn’t left since the trial.

But you moved.

Just a little.

And he moved too.

When your mouths met, it wasn’t a kiss. It was a collision. Desperate. Sharp. You gripped his hair. He tugged you closer. Water splashed between you, arms and mouths and heat tangled like you were both afraid the other might disappear.

His lips trailed down your jaw. “Still hate me?”

You exhaled hard. “You talk too much.”

He laughed, breathless, and pulled you into his lap like it cost him nothing.

But it did. You could feel it—in the way his hands shook slightly when they touched your waist, the way he kissed like someone trying to memorise the taste of safety.

You let him.

Let him press against you, skin to skin, steam rising around your joined bodies like a prayer.

It wasn’t soft.

It wasn’t rough either.

It was real.

Slow, gasping, fingers on hips, lips at neck. Your body burned. His voice broke. And for the first time in a long time, you didn’t feel hunted. You didn’t feel like an outlaw.

You just felt wanted.

After, you stayed in the water.

Gojo rested his head against your shoulder, quiet. For once.

You let him.

You didn’t say it. Not out loud.

But you were falling.

And it was already too late to stop.

---

The last time Gojo saw Geto Suguru, the world was on fire.

Not metaphorically. Not emotionally. Literally. Flames licked the rafters of the old church they’d hidden in for weeks, smoke curling like claws through the broken windows. Geto had been standing at the centre of it all, calm and golden and furious.

“You were never going to stay, were you?” he asked.

Gojo didn’t answer. He was too busy choosing which lie would hurt less.

Geto already knew the truth.

They’d grown up together—same orphan network, same underground circuit, trained to steal from sorcerers and run cons on temple grounds. Geto was the planner. Gojo was the charmer. And between the two of them, there wasn’t a vault in the empire they couldn’t crack.

They’d talked about building something. Not a gang—a sanctuary. A real home. For people like them. Outlaws. Half-magic runaways. Curse-born kids. No one else would give them peace, so they’d make their own.

But then the Voidseed came into play.

An artifact that didn’t just show the future—it rewrote it, anchored by whoever held it long enough to burn their soul into it. And Geto... Geto wanted to use it. Not to steal gold, but to change everything. Uproot the monarchy. Collapse the sorcerer courts. Win.

Gojo said no.

It wasn’t because he disagreed. It was because he knew what it would do to Geto. And to himself. You don’t touch a god and walk away unchanged.

So he stole it.

And ran.

Geto found him three days later with blood on his sleeve and the Voidseed gone.

“You always think you know better,” Geto said, voice like thunder in the silence. “You always think you’re saving people. But you only ever save yourself.”

The building collapsed before they finished that fight.

They haven’t seen each other since.

But Gojo still wakes up some nights with ash in his lungs and Geto’s words etched into his ribs like scripture.

---

You didn’t talk much after that night.

Which was funny, considering the things you’d done to each other in the water.

Gojo didn’t seem interested in defining anything. Just kept walking beside you like always—cracking jokes, stealing fruit, humming off-key under his breath like nothing in the world could touch him.

But it had.

You saw it in the way he paused before reaching for you now. The way his smile lingered longer than necessary. The way he said your name softer, like it meant something new.

He didn’t push. You didn’t ask. Whatever this was, it was becoming something more. And it terrified you.

The forest had grown thicker the closer you got to the outskirts of Serinfall.

Birdsong had vanished. The air was too still. Even the trees seemed to lean in, eavesdropping.

That’s when you felt it.

Pressure. Wrongness. Like the kind of curse that leaves no mark but still crawls into your bones.

You stopped walking.

“Don’t move,” you muttered.

Gojo froze, one hand halfway to his coat pocket. “You sense it too?”

Three shadows dropped from the trees. Silent. Sharp. Their movements weren’t human—smooth like oil, reeking of borrowed magic and blood money.

One of Geto’s, you realized. Or maybe all three.

“Well, well,” the tallest one said, voice like spoiled honey. “Look what the moon dragged in. Satoru Gojo and his latest fling.”

Gojo didn’t rise to the bait. He just tilted his head and smiled like he was bored. “You should’ve brought more than three.”

You didn’t wait for them to strike.

You moved.

It wasn’t clean. Fights never were.

Steel met steel. Cursefire crackled in the underbrush. You ducked, rolled, blocked a blade with your forearm and sent your dagger into the bastard’s throat before he even blinked.

Gojo handled two of them at once. No blindfold this time—just power barely held in check, lighting his hands like wildfire. He moved like sin, like something too beautiful to survive this world. You hated how much you liked watching him fight.

When it was over, you stood with blood in your mouth and a tear in your sleeve.

Gojo looked worse—cut lip, bruised cheekbone, smile still in place.

“You alright?” he asked.

You stared at him. “Did you let one of them punch you?”

“…Maybe.”

“Why?”

“I wanted you to worry about me.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“You’re in love with me.”

You didn’t answer.

Because it was starting to feel a little bit true.

You set up camp that night under a sky full of stars.

The fire crackled. The silence stretched. Gojo poked at the flames with a stick like a bored child.

You finally broke it.

“Why’d you leave him?”

He didn’t pretend not to know who you meant.

“I thought I was saving him,” he said, softly. “And I was wrong.”

He didn’t look at you. Just stared into the fire like it held the answer to a question he still didn’t want to ask out loud.

“He had a plan,” Gojo continued. “A big one. Clean the slate. Destroy the courts. Give power back to the cursed-born. But the relic… it doesn’t work like that. It takes. It always takes. It would've eaten him from the inside out.”

“So you stole it.”

“I stole everything,” he said. “His trust. Our future. Maybe his soul.”

You sat there in silence for a long time.

Then you leaned against him, shoulder to shoulder.

“You don’t look like a hero,” you said.

He huffed a laugh. “You don’t either.”

You let his hand find yours in the dark.

Neither of you said anything after that.

But the fire burned warm, and the stars didn’t feel so far away anymore.

---

You felt it thrumming. Like a heartbeat that didn’t belong to you.

The Voidseed.

Still tucked safely in the hidden lining of your coat. Still pulsing like it knew you were close — too close. It had started earlier that morning, a low buzz under your ribs, and hadn’t stopped since.

“You’re twitchier than usual,” Gojo said, walking just behind you.

You didn’t turn. “Twitchier than you when someone tells you no?”

“Please. I thrive on rejection.”

The path narrowed as the trees thinned into pale, bone-dry rock. You could smell the vault now — stone and decay and something that didn’t belong in this world. A place that had been locked away for good reason.

And yet, you were headed straight for it.

Gojo adjusted the strap of his pack with a whistle. “So. End of the road.”

You exhaled. “Not yet.”

“Close enough.”

He caught up, his shoulder brushing yours. You didn’t move away.

“It’s still with you, right?” he asked, voice low but easy. “The Voidseed.”

“Yeah.”

“No sudden urges to use it? Wield a little death? Rewrite the laws of the known universe?”

You rolled your eyes. “Not today.”

“Good. Would’ve hated to kill you before dinner.”

You almost smiled. Almost.

The vault sat buried beneath the ruin of a forgotten temple — jagged stone stairs leading down into shadow. The door was etched in old language, crawling with vines. No lock. No trap. Just a sense of wrong that made the skin on your arms rise.

Gojo stood beside you, quiet for once.

“What happens if we open it?” you asked.

He didn’t answer right away. Just stared at the door like it had whispered something only he could hear.

“Depends,” he said eventually. “What Geto wants… it’s not just power. It’s change. Revolution. Burn-it-all-down kind of change.”

“And you don’t?”

“I wanted it too,” Gojo said. “Once. But not like this.”

He looked at you, eyes clearer than they had any right to be.

“I want to live. That’s different.”

You looked away.

Because suddenly the Voidseed felt heavier.

Because his hand was brushing yours again, and you didn’t pull back.

Because you weren’t sure who you were anymore without the violence, the chase, the lie.

And because you might want the same thing.

---

The air changed the moment you stepped inside.

Colder. Thicker. Like something was pressing down on your lungs, or maybe pressing in—watching. The stairs spiraled tight, stone slick with condensation and old blood. Each step you took felt louder than the last.

Behind you, Gojo didn’t say a word.

He hadn’t spoken since the door unsealed itself at your touch.

Didn’t have to.

You both knew what this place was.

Not just a vault. Not just the end of the map.

It was the place the world came to die.

At the bottom, the space opened wide.

A dome of black stone, pulsing faintly with light from no source at all. Runes crawled across the walls like scars. And in the center — a dais. Empty. Waiting.

You felt the Voidseed in your coat begin to ache.

Gojo stepped forward slowly, gaze moving across the carvings.

“This is older than the clans,” he murmured. “Before the curses. Before the courts. Before the Nine.”

“You think Geto knows that?”

“I think he doesn’t care.”

He turned, eyes meeting yours.

“You know he’s here, right?”

Your jaw tightened. “How long?”

“Since the last town. Maybe longer.”

You exhaled through your nose. “And you didn’t say anything?”

“I didn’t want to ruin the honeymoon.”

You almost laughed. Almost.

But the temperature dropped again—hard.

The shadows in the corners moved.

And then he stepped out.

No disguise. No mask.

Just Geto Suguru, dressed in travel-worn robes and half a smile.

He looked like a man who’d already won.

“Hello, boys.”

Gojo didn’t flinch. “You’re late.”

“I figured I’d let the newlyweds have their privacy.”

He glanced at you—at the Voidseed you hadn’t yet drawn.

And smiled.

“You brought it,” he said softly. “I knew you would.”

You held your ground. “I didn’t bring it for you.”

“No?” Geto tilted his head, almost fond. “Then why come at all?”

Gojo moved slightly—just a step, a shift in weight, the start of something violent.

And Geto raised one hand.

The air shattered.

A blast of cursed energy slammed the space between you, forcing you back.

Gojo caught your wrist to steady you, his own energy flaring like lightning beneath skin.

Geto didn’t press.

He just looked at the two of you like something hurt.

“You could’ve come with me,” he said. Quiet. Intimate.

“You could’ve stayed,” Gojo answered.

Their gazes locked. A thousand memories between them. All knives.

And you stood between them—Voidseed burning against your ribs, heart in your throat.

Because the real question wasn’t who was right.

It was who you were going to choose.

---

The air cracked.

No warning, no flare of ego, no last chance to run—just Geto, moving. His cursed energy split the silence like a fault line, and suddenly you were airborne, legs kicked out from under you by a wave of force that struck faster than thunder.

Gojo caught it before it could reach you again—his arm out, barrier flaring with that same searing white-gold burn that lived behind his blindfold.

“Language of violence, huh?” he muttered. “Guess we’re skipping the dance.”

You rolled to your feet. “Weren’t you the one saying he was sentimental?”

Gojo grinned without humor. “Yeah, and now I remember why that’s terrifying.”

Geto didn’t wait.

Another flick of his wrist and the temple shuddered, a wall of blackened energy exploding upward like a tide—jagged, writhing, wrong. Gojo met it mid-air, a flash of his Limitless energy spiraling into the blast and cracking it apart like glass.

You moved then. No hesitation. No warning.

Your dagger—your favorite one, the one hidden in the boot heel you never took off—was in your hand before your mind caught up, your body cutting toward Geto in a blur. He saw you coming. Let you come.

“You’ve been walking with him all this time,” he said as you struck. “Does he even know what you are?”

You didn’t answer. Didn’t need to. Your blade met the edge of his cursed barrier and burned—not from contact, but from your own energy spiking harder than you expected. The Voidseed pulsed once against your chest, like it wanted out.

Geto’s eyes flicked to it.

And then he struck.

A cursed lash shot out from his palm like a whip of shadow, aimed not at you but through you—targeting Gojo. You twisted, took the hit sideways instead of clean through. The energy scraped through your side like acid, but you didn’t fall.

You screamed something raw and wordless—maybe Gojo’s name. Maybe just rage.

Gojo answered with silence.

And violence.

He vanished. Reappeared behind Geto with that cruel smirk he wore like armor. His hand curled around the base of Geto’s skull and slammed him forward, into the stone floor. The ground cratered. Dust filled the vault.

Geto coughed blood, cursed energy flaring around his body like a second skin.

“Still hiding behind your pretty face, Satoru?” he rasped. “Still scared of what you could be if you stopped playing the hero?”

Gojo didn’t reply.

This wasn’t about philosophy.

This was about the Voidseed. About you. About the temple that was not meant to open, and a past that refused to stay buried.

You pressed your palm to the wound on your side, felt the hot, slow trickle of blood. The Voidseed thrummed harder now, wild and hungry, like it was tasting the end before it came.

The world narrowed. Geto was rising. Gojo’s hands curled into fists.

And you? You moved toward the center.

Toward the dais. Toward the thing you’d carried through storms and near-death and stupid arguments and fake marriages and quiet, aching mornings where Gojo let you rest your head against his shoulder and didn’t say a thing.

It was time to decide what to do with it.

Whether to keep running.

Or finally let the whole world burn.

---

The Voidseed was screaming now.

Not with sound, but with want. With a pressure behind your eyes, a song in your teeth. Your skin burned where it touched your chest, your blood responding in time to its pulse. It wanted to be used. To become something.

You staggered toward the dais, vision tunneling. Behind you, Gojo and Geto were still locked in war—flashes of cursed energy so bright they lit the room in strobes, tearing cracks through ancient stone and memory alike.

“Satoru,” Geto was snarling, somewhere in the wreckage. “You always were too soft.”

“And you were always too bitter to admit you lost me first,” Gojo spat back. “Don’t take it out on him.”

On him.

You turned sharply. Gojo wasn’t even looking at Geto anymore. His eyes were on you.

Blood dripped from his temple. One arm hung at an awkward angle. His barrier flickered like a dying star—but his focus was clear. Steady. Like you were the only thing keeping him upright.

“Hey,” he called out, half-laugh, half-desperation. “Don’t let it eat you. You’re more stubborn than that.”

Geto moved to strike him down. A flick of the wrist, a curse erupting in a black wave— —but you moved first.

You didn’t think.

You threw the Voidseed.

It spun in the air like a star too bright to touch— —and exploded.

Not outward. Not in heat or fire or destruction.

It unfolded.

The world warped inward, colors leaking, time hiccuping. Everything twisted like you were looking through broken glass. You felt your feet leave the floor. The dais cracked beneath you. Gojo and Geto were both flung backward like dolls caught in the mouth of a storm.

But you… You were still standing.

Because it had chosen you.

You don’t remember grabbing it again.

But suddenly, the Voidseed was in your palm, blooming like a flower carved from shadow and light.

And Gojo was dragging himself toward you, chest heaving, hand outstretched.

“Don’t—” he said, voice wrecked. “Don’t use it. Not like this.”

Geto, on the other side of the rubble, laughed—ragged, ruined.

“You think he hasn’t already?” he spat. “You think he’s yours now?”

Gojo didn’t look away from you. Not even for a second.

“He’s his own.”

You looked at him.

At the man who saw you break open a vault, who shared meals and bathtubs and one stupid bed. Who let you steal the Voidseed and never once asked you to give it up.

And something inside you—something poisoned by rage and survival and so many lonely nights—broke.

“I’m tired,” you whispered. You weren’t even sure who you were talking to.

Gojo was there in an instant. Hands on your wrists. Warm. Real.

“I know,” he said. “I know. Just stay here. With me.”

The Voidseed flared.

And then—

You turned.

You faced Geto.

And you chose.

---

You didn’t remember lifting the Voidseed. You just remember how quiet it got.

Geto rose from the rubble, his body wrecked and bleeding, but still standing. He looked at you like he pitied you. Like he thought you were still small.

“You don’t know what that thing will do to you,” he said softly, like a prayer gone bitter. “It’s not a weapon. It’s a mirror.”

You stepped forward, past Gojo’s outstretched hand. Past his warning. Past your own fear.

“I know,” you said. And you let it bloom.

The world peeled open.

No light. No sound. Just pressure — the unbearable density of everything at once. Your breath caught as the Voidseed unraveled in your chest, carving lines of raw power across your skin like constellations.

Geto braced himself. Raised his hand.

But he wasn’t fast enough.

The Voidseed reached out like a second spine, like your soul had teeth, like the universe remembered you owed it something — and this was how you’d pay.

You spoke his name.

Not out loud.

Not in a language with words.

You just spoke it, and the power knew what to do.

Geto didn’t scream. He just— folded in on himself.

Unmade. Quietly.

Not as revenge. Not even as punishment.

Just as balance.

When the light returned, the temple was cracked open like a wound.

You were still standing. Barely. The dais had crumbled beneath your feet, the Voidseed now dark in your palm — used, emptied, but still warm. Like it hadn’t left, just gone quiet.

You dropped it.

It didn’t bounce.

Gojo caught you before you fell, one hand steady under your ribs, the other cradling the back of your head like something fragile had survived.

“I thought I told you not to use it like that,” he murmured.

You blinked at him, blood in your teeth. “You also told me not to flirt with bounty hunters. We both ignore good advice.”

He laughed, then kissed your forehead like he needed to know you were real.

You didn’t speak for a long time after that.

You sat with him in the broken vault, backs against the ruins, breath syncing up again. The kind of silence that meant you weren’t running anymore. Not today.

Eventually, he nudged your shoulder.

“You still got one bed in you?” he asked. “Because I’m thinking hot springs, low ceilings, terrible fake names.”

You looked at him — messy, bleeding, half-destroyed.

And grinned.

“I’ve got a hundred.”

© carnalcrows on tumblr. Please do not steal my works as I spend time, and I take genuine effort to do them.

it was backstage at a music show when it happened.

you were dressed in this flawless, pressed, immaculate stage persona. eyes lined, jaws sharp, and the deep navy silk of your shirt tucked in just right. gojo had barely looked at you all evening, except for a few long, hungry glances.

you were used to his teasing— had been exposed to the flirty flurry of his words moving about like sunlight. you were used to gojo satoru— cocky, charming, obnoxious.

but that night?

something was different.

the both of you just finished an on-stage bit for the show. you’d exchange a playful hug with geto suguru, a well-known actor and host. you’ve known him ways back, so it was nothing unusual— a friendly arm over his shoulder, a lean-in joke to his mic, some laughter from the crowd.

but when you stepped backstage and got back to the comfort of your dressing room, gojo didn’t say a word. no teasing remark, no obnoxious joke, not even a playful banter.

gojo walks up behind you. just close enough that the heat of him pressed through the fabric, through your breath.

the room was quiet, save for the beat of your heart that you swore could be heard by the people outside.

you turned slowly to look up at gojo and simply uttered, “what?”

he doesn’t smile.

gojo leans in, caging you with his arms; one hand to the mirror behind your head. the other rested on your hip— not tight, but firm.

a beat passes by before he says anything.

“didn’t like that,” gojo muttered.

you blink as you feel your heartbeat skip, “didn’t like what?”

“the way he touched you.” his voice was low. not angry, but dangerous. jealous in a way you had never seen before on a man like gojo satoru. “put his arm around you like he could.”

you breathe, suddenly feeling warm.

“he couldn’t,” you said, although unsure why you even needed to explain. why you had the urge to placate the man before you.

gojo’s fingers curled slightly, “i know. but still.”

still.

that word echoed.

your breath gets stuck in your throat as his hand moves, slowly sliding from your waist to the small of your back as he turns you toward him. it anchors you in a way that’s possessive. not aggressive. just… there.

“you like that?” gojo asks, head tilting as his mouth achingly stays a few inches away from yours. “when i get like this?”

something in you wanted to say no.

you wanted to say that it was ridiculous. that he was overreacting. that all of this was unnecessary. that it was all for show.

but instead—

you feel your eyes flutter shut and you clench your hands in his shirt and you whisper a weak “…yeah.”

gojo exhales like a man relieved. as if he’d been holding back and just got permission to stop.

he kissed you then. deep. slow.

with claiming in it.

and that was the moment you realized that you loved it.

you loved being gojo satoru’s.

not just in the playful ways, the teasing bits on camera, or the flirty exchanges in interviews.

no. you loved this. the rawness of it all. the way gojo’s need slipped beneath his skin like heat. the way it melted all that ingrained stage-polish and control off him in seconds.

the way it said: you don’t belong to anyone else. you’re mine. i’m yours.

you didn’t need the words.

you just needed the look. and the hands. and the way gojo kissed you like you were his biggest secret he’s struggling to keep in.

because you were.

nsfw

when i say he values physical touch, i mean it.

he has to have his hands on you

he likes to hold on to your waist the most

in private, he uses your chest as stress balls 👍🏻

but he’s somehow more of an ass and thighs man … he likes to hold on to your thighs when you have sex

so yes… he likes missionary best. to see you writhe under him while he tightly holds on to your thighs sends him to heaven every time

does foreplay for you :]

big big big on aftercare. likes the intimacy of it all :)

doesn’t like toys i feel…

has a jealous streak, as i’ve said

if he definitely is jealous of some guy/girl, he’d take it out on you !

does angry sex best that it would have your legs shaking. best believe you’d be stuck in your bed til the next day

goes fast and hard when angry! this man !!! this man !!!!!

definitely has a breeding kink !

big acts of service typa man he’d prefer to eat you out than the other way around

whiny when you tease him and ride him out slowly :] dEAR LORD THIS MAN !!! when he has enough of your games he will take control, get ahold of your hips tightly and thrust into you as he likes

this man !!!