꧁✰⫷αsԵɾօղ⫸✰꧂

soon enough, his eyes stopped looking which pastries he's going to eat next. his eyes started following your figure going back and forth to serve customers while looking out for the goods you shoved in the oven. he watched the way flour dusted your face when you try to wipe your sweat off with the back of your hand. the bright smile you gave every customer while thanking them for their purchase. it was way prettier than the way you decorate your cakes.

slowly, the pastries became a mere excuse. you were the real confection. the missing ingredient in his hollow life. being near you did something frantic to duke!satoru's biology. the man known for his unshakable composure became completely unhinged under your gaze. whenever you walked over to clear his plates or ask how he likd the daily special, he experienced a literal, intoxicating sugar rush. his heart would hammer violently against his ribs. a frantic, euphoric heat would flush his face and his pupils would dilate heavily.

he became addicted to that high, he began coming early before you'd even open the bakery. you'd let him in while you're still getting the pastries in the oven and serve them to him while it's hot and fresh. he began to expect you to look at him and smile, to speak to him when he couldn't get the words out of his mouth, and touch him when you hand his a warm roll.

he would buy out your entire display just to see you smile and close early, only to leave the sweets to the orphans because he only truly wanted to consume you. eventually, seeing you for only a few hours a day wasn't enough. the withdrawals when he returned to his cold mansion were agonizing. he needed you in his space.

using his true identity and status, he finally approached you with a grand offer of hiring you as a chef in his estate. but you, proud of the business you built witg your own two hands, gently refused. life would definitely become much easier for you if you had accepted his offer but you loved your bakery. you loved the community.

you thought that would be the end of it, but duke!satoru doesn't take no for an answer. he wouldn't force you to his kitchen himself, he just changes his strategy. he reshapes her entire world until she has nowhere to run to. his obsession of you may be sweet but his methods are ruthless.

he targets your livelihood. suddenly, your flour suppliers will stop delivering, claiming they are out of stock. other merchants you buy your other ingredients from are facing crisis because bandits stole their products and the ship couriers were invaded by pirates. with nothing left to continue your business, it forced you to close your shop for the meantime.

duke!satoru would still visit your closed bakery even if you couldn't serve him any baked goods. he watched your spirit go down, losing hope in reviving your own dream. then, he brings up his offer again. before, you didn't think twice to refuse it, but now, the situation is difficult and you also need to make a living. the next day, you accepted it and went to the duke's mansion with him.

he imports the ingredients you needed from any place that has the finest quality (you suspected him of not doing his job right because how come the lord of this dukedom could easily import product but the merchants struggle?) and provides you a kitchen solely for your use. the pastries would come out fresh every morning and afternoon. you accompany him at his every tea time because he insisted on wanting to be closer with you.

he acts like he has nothing else to do, as if there's no work waiting for him at his office when he burst into your kitchen, and watch you knead dough and whisk the egg whites into a stiff peak merengue. you feel his eyes on you the whole time. even at times when you're resting in your quarters alone, you feel like you're being watched.

the lack of sleep and anxiousness made you physically sick, duke!satoru personally took care of you. he made you comfortable enough for you to pay no mind at how he's holding your hands tightly, he way his hands linger on your face longer than necessary when he changes the towel on your forehead, and the way he's invading your personal space. by the time you've recovered, you've become closer.

it doesn't take long before you got used to him breathing down your neck. until he would hold you close to him and press kisses on your skin, it made you feel good. you forgot about the things you were so worried about. you would stare into space, all that you could think of was satoru.

duke!satoru treats your body like the finest, most decadent confection he has ever been allowed to touch. he will spend hours mapping your skin, kissing you with a frantic, desperate hunger as if trying to taste the very sugar that runs through your veins. he will bite gently at first, then it becomes harder, leaving deep, dark bruises on your neck down your chest.

he marks you like a prized possession. he became entirely dependent on your scent. burying his face on your neck for hours as he sleeps, he inhales so deeply it feels like he's trying to breathe you into his lungs. if you try to pull away, his grip tightens. he's a knight, and his strength is terrifying when he is experiencing a rush of you.

duke!satoru will bring the finest glazes, melted chocolate, and the whipped cream you've reserved from the kitchen into your now shared chambers. he would drizzle or smudge them on your skin just to slowly, meticulously lick them off you. he'd use them especially during foreplay, you'd be covered in his saliva and feel sticky before you even get to the main course.

his length never fails to leave you breathless every single time. he'd mercilessly pound into you once you've adjusted to his size, gripping your hips when it becomes too much and you try to escape him mid sex. he kneads your breasts like he's kneading dough. he'd fold you into half like you'd do with your croissants and fill you up with his warm, thick cum like he's filling a donut with cream.

it doesn't just end with one round though. he doesn't stop until his sweet cravings of you was satiated. when morning comes, he'd be left feeling like he's in a food coma but in a good way. while you're basking on the after sex, he'd pepper you with wet kisses and the slight nip of his teeth on your skin made you feel like he's literally eating you.

he'd consume all of you, even to the very last strand of your hair, you're his. if only he could swallow you whole, he would. ah, no. there's no way he'd satiate his hunger once you're gone. but the thought of literally merging your bodies into one sure is tempting.

his kisses trailed down to your stomach, looking at the blissful expression on your face as you sigh. he stops for a moment to stare at you, swallowing. you opened your eyes to look at him and ask why he stopped but before you could say anything, he goes down again. he licks his lips before burying his face in between your thighs.

your breath hitched, letting out a soft moan when his tongue licked your slit. his hands held yours down, letting your thighs squeeze around his head. yes, suffocate him in you, he thought as he flattens his tongue on your wet folds again and shook his head side to side, making you cry out loudly and squirm. he went on and on, ignoring your desperate please. only loud slurping sounds and you helplessly moaning filled the room. what a great music for the servants to wake up to.

⋆ 𐙚｡⋆𖦹.✧˚༘˚⋆𐙚｡⋆𖦹.✧˚༘˚⋆𐙚｡⋆𖦹.✧˚༘˚⋆𐙚｡⋆𖦹.✧˚༘˚⋆𐙚｡ ⋆

“You couldn’t have picked someone normal to bond with?” you ask the dragon.

Sukuna blinks slowly, entirely unfazed, then shifts his massive head a fraction closer to your shoulder. His scales catch the sunlight like dark, wet marble, but the way he’s leaning into you gives him all the menace of a particularly clingy housecat. A housecat with fire breath, razor claws, and the ability to level a village if he ever got bored enough.

Satoru, stretched out on the grass beside him, grins. “Don’t blame Sukuna,” he says, resting his weight back on his palms like he owns the hill, the sky, the whole bloody island. “He can’t help liking you better.”

“Everyone likes me better.”

“Mm. Bold claim.”

“True claim,” you retort. You scratch absentmindedly under Sukuna’s jaw, right where the scales give way to smooth skin, and he lets out a deep, throaty rumble of pleasure. It vibrates through the ground beneath your feet, a sound that would send most of Berk sprinting for the hills. You barely flinch. He’s impossible not to soften toward—something Satoru has weaponised far too often.

“I’m just saying,” Satoru drawls, “you might be his favourite person on the island.”

“He doesn’t have many options,” you say.

“Wow. And here I thought we were friends.”

You roll your eyes. “We are not friends.”

“Acquaintances?” he tries, silver hair glinting in the sunlight and blue eyes far too bright and mischievous and knowing.

“Barely.”

“Brutal,” he says. “You talk to all your barely-acquaintances this much?”

“Only the ones who refuse to shut up.”

“That’s most people, though.”

“Maybe you’re the problem,” you shoot back.

It’s exhausting, really, how he manages to talk in italics, every word tilted just enough to keep you bristling. He’s the single most aggravating man on the entire Isle of Berk—and that’s saying something, considering the place is full of dragon riders who think personal boundaries is a suggestion, not a rule.

You’d like to say you hate him. Really, you would. It would make things simpler. But hate implies he occupies actual space in your head, and the problem—the infuriating, inescapable problem—is that you refuse to give him the satisfaction.

“Why are you even here?” you demand finally, because you’ve learned the only way to deal with Satoru Gojo is to stay on the offensive.

“Sukuna wanted pats,” he repeats.

“Pretty sure Sukuna can find his own way here.”

“Yeah,” Satoru says, grinning wider, “but I can’t.”

You blink. “Are you—are you implying you used your dragon as an excuse to see me?”

“No,” he says immediately, dragging the vowel out. “Definitely not. I have so many better things to do.”

“Name one.”

He opens his mouth. Closes it. Thinks for a second. “…Patrolling?”

“That’s not better.”

“Depends on who you ask.” He falls back fully onto the grass, folding his arms behind his head, one long leg bent at the knee. The picture of ease, like he hasn’t just dropped the suggestion that he wanted to see you and then refused to elaborate. Like he hasn’t steadily been driving you insane since the day you met him.

The wind shifts over the hill, carrying with it the salt of the distant sea. Berk stretches out below—scattered houses of stone and timber, smoke curling from chimneys, dragons wheeling in the sky above the watchtowers. Out past the cliffs, the ocean flashes silver under the sun, calm for now but never for long.

“Illegal trapping’s been getting worse,” Satory says idly after a moment.

You glance at him. “And yet you’re here annoying me instead of dealing with it?”

“Hey, I’m off-duty.”

“You’re never off-duty.”

“True,” he admits, shameless. “But my boss doesn’t need to know that.”

You roll your eyes. The boss in question is Yaga the Vast, chief of Berk, who has approximately zero patience for stragglers like Satoru and yet, somehow, keeps putting him in charge of things anyway. Probably because when he isn’t being insufferable, Satoru is annoyingly good at his job.

Sukuna shifts closer again, massive head nudging your shoulder with a low whuff. The force of it nearly knocks you off balance.

“He’s so needy,” you mutter, scratching under his jaw again.

Satoru props himself up on his elbows to watch. “You love it.”

“Do not.”

“Do too.”

“Do not.”

“Do—”

“Finish that sentence,” you warn, “and I swear I will throw you off this hill.”

He smiles, unbothered. “Can’t, gorgeous. Sukuna would just catch me.”

“Shame,” you say.

Sukuna rumbles again, louder this time, as if laughing at the both of you. Which is ridiculous, obviously. Dragons don’t laugh. Probably. You’re still scratching absentmindedly at his jaw when the shout comes from below the hill.

“Gojo! We’ve got movement near the cliffs!”

It’s one of the younger riders—Yaga’s apprentice, maybe. You don’t remember his name. He’s sprinting uphill, out of breath, waving both arms wildly.

Satoru sighs. “And here I was enjoying my day off.”

“Trappers?” you ask, already knowing the answer.

“Yeah.” He pushes to his feet. “Looks like it.”

The apprentice finally reaches the top, panting. “They spotted nets near the west cliffs,” he manages. “Could be setting up for a catch.”

Satoru dusts off his hands lazily, as though he hasn’t just been summoned to go handle the exact kind of people who would love to get their hands on a Night Fury. On Sukuna. You glance at the dragon, who’s gone very still beside you. His tail flicks once, sharp and restless.

Satoru notices too. “Relax,” he tells him softly, before turning that insufferable grin back on you. “Rain check on the head pats?”

“Not my dragon,” you remind him.

He winks. “Technicality.”

With that, he swings easily onto Sukuna’s back, all long limbs and practiced motion, like he was born in the saddle. Sukuna launches into the sky a moment later, wings snapping wide, dust kicking up in their wake. You watch them go, a dark shape against the sunlit clouds, until they’re nothing but a speck over the cliffs.

You’re still staring at the empty sky when the young rider clears his throat.

“Uh… hi,” he says awkwardly. He’s about your age, maybe a bit younger, with a nervous energy that makes you want to pat him on the shoulder and tell him to relax. He’s holding a map, which he’d pulled out of his pocket and now folds and unfolds with frantic hands. “You’re, uh, you’re the mapmaker, right? The one who lives by the sea?”

“That’s me,” you say, forcing yourself to look away from the horizon.

He nods, relieved. “Right. Yaga said to give you this. It’s the new coastline for the north. He said you’d be able to sketch it out better than anyone else.” He holds out the piece of parchment.

You take the map, unfolding it to see the jagged lines and rough sketches of a coastline you haven’t visited yet. The lines are crude, but the general shape is there. “Thanks,” you say. “I’ll get on it as soon as I can.”

“Right,” he says. “So… you and Gojo. You guys are… close?”

You stiffen. The question is innocent, but it feels like an accusation. “No. Not at all.”

He looks skeptical. “He talks about you a lot. Like, a lot lot. Says you’re the only person who can keep up with him.

You fight the urge to groan. “He’s a liar.”

“Yeah, he is.” The young rider laughs, a short, nervous sound. “But I don’t know. It’s weird. He’s always, like, looking for you. Or waiting for you.”

You don’t know how to respond to that. It’s too close to the truth. You just shrug, then look at the map. “I should get going. I have a lot of work to do.”

“Right. See you around, then.” The rider turns to leave, jogging down the hill with a newfound energy, happy to escape the awkwardness.

You look at the map, then at the sky where Sukuna and Gojo disappeared. You can’t stop thinking about the way Gojo smiled when he told you that Sukuna was just an excuse to see you. It was a joke, you know that. He’s always joking, always playing with words. But the way he said it… it felt like there was a kernel of truth in it, a tiny, infuriating admission that you didn’t want to acknowledge.

You trace the lines on the map, but your mind is elsewhere. You’re picturing him, the way he looks when he’s serious, the way he talks when he’s trying to get under your skin. You’re picturing Sukuna, the way he leans into your touch, the way he rumbles with contentment. You’re picturing the two of them, a perfect pair of chaos, a storm of annoying energy.

You shake your head, trying to clear your thoughts. You have work to do, a map to sketch. But you can’t help but wonder if Gojo and Sukuna are okay. You can’t help but wonder what he’ll say the next time you see him.

A soft breeze, smelling of salt and distant rain, carries the sound of Sukuna’s contented rumble. You look up from your work, the firelight from your cottage flickering on the parchment in your lap. The Night Fury, a silhouette against the moon, lands with a soft thud, a dark shadow in the growing dimness. You can’t help the small, reluctant smile that tugs at your lips. It’s a happy sound, that snort of his, and it’s hard not to feel a little bit of warmth toward the gigantic reptile. The smile vanishes the moment you see Satoru Gojo dismount.

He slides off the dragon’s back and lands on the packed dirt with a huff. His silver hair, usually perfectly styled, is now adorned with a scattering of leaves and twigs. He looks ridiculously pleased with himself.

“Looks like you had a hard day,” you say, voice dry. You don’t bother looking up from your map, a new survey of the eastern coast that is proving to be a nightmare of jagged inlets and hidden reefs.

“The hardest,” he replies, walking toward the fire. Sukuna follows, a low purr rumbling in his chest as he nudges your shoulder gently. You stroke the smooth scales under his jaw.

“Did you, by any chance, get your head stuck in a bush?” you ask pointedly.

He laughs. “Just a little turbulence. But don’t worry, it was for a good cause.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Oh? And what’s that?”

“Well, you know,” he says, pulling a stray leaf from his hair. “I had to make sure the trappers didn’t get away. Can’t have them messing up the ecosystem, can we?”

“But your impeccable hair and abysmal flying skills get a pass, I suppose.”

“Priorities, you know.” Satoru sits down on a log across from you, the firelight glinting in his bright blue eyes. “What are you up to? Still drawing pretty pictures of rocks and water?”

“I’m creating an accurate navigational chart for the fishing fleet,” you correct. “So that they don’t end up on the bottom of the sea.”

“Right, right. Important work,” he says. “You’d be a lot faster if you had some help.”

“I’m perfectly fine on my own.”

“I’m just saying,” he drawls, “a second pair of eyes could be useful. Especially mine. They’re very, very good eyes.”

You roll your own. “I’m not interested in your help, Gojo. Or your eyes, for that matter.”

Sukuna, who had been contently nuzzling your shoulder, chooses that moment to let out a slow, mournful sound, as if he understood the conversation and is deeply disappointed by your attitude. He nudges Gojo’s head with his own, then your shoulder again. He goes back and forth, like a pendulum. It’s slightly annoying.

“See?” Gojo says, a smug grin spreading across his face. “Even Sukuna agrees. He thinks we should be friends.”

“Sukuna thinks you should be less annoying,” you counter, reaching out to pat the dragon’s large head. He lets out a low rumble, pleased.

“That’s a matter of opinion,” Satoru says. He leans forward, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “He told me on the way here that he thinks we would make a very handsome couple.”

You snort. “He has terrible taste. You’re lucky he hasn’t left you for a better rider.”

“Impossible,” Satoru scoffs. “I’m the best. And he knows it.”

“And the most modest, too,” you mutter.

Sukuna lets out a deep, throaty rumble, and gently nudges you closer to the fire. The action is subtle, but a piece of your parchment slips off your knee and lands with a quiet rustle on the ground near Satoru’s feet. He bends down to pick it up, his long fingers brushing against yours as he hands it back.

“Clumsy,” he says, but the glint in his eyes tells you he’s not talking about the paper.

You ignore him, focusing on the map, but your hand trembles slightly, and the ink bleeds on the line you’re trying to draw. You let out an exasperated sigh, and Sukuna, with a loud huff, settles down between you and Satoru. It’s a deliberate move. The dragon’s nothing more than a massive, scaly chaperone.

“Look at him,” Satoru says, his voice softer now. “He’s tired. Trappers, you know. They’re more persistent than usual.”

“Did you catch them?”

“Most of them. They had nets—one almost got Sukuna. If he hadn’t been so fast, it would have been a rough night.”

You look at the dragon, who is now snoozing with one eye open, the firelight catching the dark, wet-looking scales on his hide. A sudden wave of protectiveness washes over you, a familiar feeling when it comes to the dragon. But then you look at Satoru, and see the deep weariness in his eyes, the faint lines of stress etched around his mouth, and that familiar wave of protectiveness becomes tangled with something else, something you refuse to name.

“You should get some rest,” you say, the words feeling foreign and heavy on your tongue.

He looks surprised. “Worried about me?”

“I’m worried about Sukuna,” you shoot back, and the warmth in your stomach curdles into a familiar acidity. “He needs his rider to be in top form. The last thing he needs is to be stuck with a tired, insufferable oaf.”

He laughs. “You wound me. But thank you. It’s nice to know someone cares.”

“I don’t care,” you insist, and you know you’re lying. You also know he knows you’re lying. It’s a game you play, a tense, stupid dance.

Sukuna lets out a snort. He flicks his head towards Satoru, then towards you, as if to say, just talk to each other, idiots. You want to kick him. Affectionately, of course.

“Well,” Satoru says. “I suppose I should go. Duty calls and all that.” He stands up, stretching his arms over his head before shaking it.

“You’re going back out?” you ask, a note of alarm in your voice that you can’t control.

“Nah,” he says, smiling a little softer now. “Just kidding. Yaga told me to stay put until morning, ‘cause he said I caused enough trouble for one day.”

You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding.

He reaches down and ruffles Sukuna’s head, though his words are addressed to you. “I’ll be back tomorrow for some more pats, okay?”

Sukuna huffs happily in response.

Satoru turns and walks away, a long, lanky shadow disappearing into the darkness. Sukuna watches him go, then turns his gaze back to you, his garnet-coloured eyes flashing. He nudges your hand again. You know what he wants. He wants you to talk to Gojo. He wants you to go after him.

You sigh. “Don’t look at me like that. I’m not his keeper. I’m not yours, either.”

Sukuna snorts, a clear, exasperated sound, and settles his massive head on your lap. He’s warm, a solid weight of comfort in the cool night. You don’t bother to shoo him away. You simply sit there, under the moonlight, and stare into the dark where Gojo disappeared.

“It’s a fool’s errand,” you say, dropping the rolled-up parchment onto Yaga’s desk with a resounding thud. The Chief of Berk, a man with a beard as formidable as his temperament, looks up from the horn he’s polishing.

“What is?” he asks.

“This,” you say, pointing an accusatory finger at the map. “The north coast. It’s impossible to draw from the ground. I’ve only been there twice, and I spent most of the time trying not to fall to my death. The cliffs are sheer drops. The inlets are jagged and hidden. I need to map it from above.”

Yaga stares at you for a long moment, his gaze unwavering. You hold his stare, a silent challenge. You’ve never been one to back down from the Chief, a fact that both annoys and impresses him.

He sighs. “Fine. You’re right. You’ll need a rider.” He looks around the hall, his eyes scanning for a likely candidate. Your heart sinks into your stomach when he lands on the very last person you want to see.

“Satoru!” he bellows.

Satoru Gojo, leaning against a support beam, in the middle of conversation with Yaga’s apprentice, gives you a little wave.

“Yeah, boss?” he calls out.

“You’re taking our mapmaker to the north coast,” Yaga says. “She needs to draw it from the air.”

“Pleasure’s all mine, Chief,” he says, sauntering over to the desk. “North coast, huh? A little chilly for you, isn’t it?”

You resist the urge to punch him. “I’ll manage. Let’s just get this over with.”

He claps his hands together. “Excellent! My calendar is wide open.”

The next morning is cold and brisk. A light mist hangs over the village, and the air smells of wet stone and woodsmoke. You’re waiting by the flight academy, a satchel slung over your shoulder and your sketchbook clutched in your hands. You’ve been waiting for ten minutes, which is ten minutes longer than you’d like.

Just as you’re about to turn and leave, you hear a loud, familiar whoosh of wind and the deep, throaty rumble of a Night Fury. Sukuna lands right in front of you. Satoru leers at you, seated on his back.

“Ready to fly, gorgeous?” he asks.

“I’m ready to get this done,” you correct.

You climb onto the dragon’s back, settling behind him on the saddle and placing your sketchbook and charcoal pencils carefully in your lap. Sukuna lets out a low purr, a rumble that you can feel vibrating through your body. He nudges his head back, giving your hand a soft, affectionate lick.

“He’s excited,” Satoru says. “He loves when we all go out together.”

“He’s excited about the snacks I brought him,” you say, pulling a piece of dried fish from your satchel and holding it out to Sukuna. He devours it in one gulp.

“You brought snacks?” Satoru asks. “For the dragon, and not for your very handsome and talented pilot?”

“You are not my pilot, and you are not getting any of this fish.”

He kicks his feet against Sukuna’s side, and the dragon launches himself into the air. You grip the saddle, your knuckles turning white. The wind whips at your hair and clothes, and you close your eyes for a moment, letting the sensation of flight wash over you. It’s a feeling you’ve never gotten used to, and it’s always a little terrifying, a little exhilarating.

Satoru leans back. “You’re good at this. Not screaming, I mean.”

You grit your teeth. “I’m a mapmaker, not a child. I’m used to dangerous situations.”

“Oh, I know,” he says, and you can practically hear the smirk in his voice. “You’re the one who saved my ass, remember?”

The memory of that night, of his blood on your hands, of the raw fear in your gut, flashes through your mind. You shiver, a cold feeling that has nothing to do with the wind.

“I’d rather not,” you say.

He doesn’t respond. Sukuna, as if sensing the shift in the atmosphere, lets out a low, questioning snort. He banks left, heading toward the northern cliffs.

The gentle, rolling hills of Berk give way to a brutal, unforgiving coastline. The cliffs are dark and jagged, the sea a churning mass of white foam. You pull out your sketchbook and begin to draw.

You work for hours, meticulously sketching every rock formation, every inlet, every hidden cove. You direct Satoru to turn this way and that, and he, for once, doesn’t argue. He lets you work, his body a steady, comforting presence in front of you, ensuring Sukuna’s movements are smooth and controlled.

At one point, you get so focused on a particular series of sea caves that you lean too far over the edge of the saddle, and almost lose your balance. A long, strong arm wraps around your waist, pulling you back against a warm, solid chest. You stiffen, your body rigid with surprise.

“Careful,” Satoru whispers, his breath warm against your ear. “Don’t want you falling to your death.”

You push him away, heart pounding. “I had it under control.”

“Sure, you did.”

Sukuna lets out a low, knowing chuff, a sound that makes you want to smack him. You ignore him, focusing back on your drawing, but it’s hard to stop thinking about the feeling of his arm around your waist, the warmth of his body against yours.

“You’re quiet,” he says after a while.

“I’m working.”

He hums. “Right. I just thought, you know, we could talk. Get to know each other. Since we’re going to be hanging out more often, we might as well be friends.”

“We are not going to be friends,” you say for what feels like the hundredth time.

“We are,” Satoru says. “We’re a team. You and me. And Sukuna, of course.” He reaches forward and strokes the Night Fury’s head, and the dragon rumbles with contentment.

“He’s your dragon,” you mutter.

“He likes you, too. More than me, I think,” Satoru says, and there’s a flicker of something in his voice—something soft and genuine—that makes you look away from your sketch and at him instead. His eyes are fixed on you, a strange mixture of warmth and… something else. You can’t quite place it.

You look away, your heart pounding again. You can’t handle this. You can’t handle this man, this dragon, this strange, dangerous intimacy that has sprung up between you.

You land back in the village as dusk is falling. The air is colder now, and the stars are beginning to peak out. You slide off Sukuna’s back, your legs shaky from the long flight. You feel a hand on your arm, steadying you.

“You did good,” Satoru says.

“So did you,” you say.

He smiles, a real smile, one that reaches his eyes and makes them crinkle at the corners. It’s a smile that you realise you haven’t seen very often. It’s a smile that makes the hollow cavity inside your chest where your heart lies skip a beat.

You turn away, clutching your sketchbook to your chest. “I’ll bring this to Yaga in the morning.”

“Right,” he says. “I’ll see you around.”

You walk away, but you can feel his gaze on your back. You can feel the warmth of his hand still on your arm. You don’t look back.

You make it to your cottage, but you don’t go inside. You sit on the stone step, your sketchbook still in your hands, and stare at the sky. You think about the north coast, about the cliffs and the caves, but also about Satoru. About the way his arm felt around your waist, about the way his smile made you feel, about the way he wasn’t being annoying for once.

You hear a soft thud. Sukuna stands behind you, a small branch in his mouth. He drops it at your feet. A branch from a Night Fury’s nest. He jabs at your hand with his nose, his eyes fixed on yours.

You know what he’s doing. He’s trying to tell you something. He’s trying to tell you that Satoru is not so bad. There’s a place for you in his life, in their life.

You reach down and pick up the branch, then look back at the dragon. You sigh, a long, drawn-out sound.

“You’re a terrible matchmaker, you know that?” you whisper to him.

Sukuna lets out a low purr and nudges you again. You don’t know what to do. You’re a mapmaker, a person of logic and order, and this man and his dragon are nothing but chaos. There’s absolutely no way anything good could ever come out of this.

“Head pats? Again?” You shoot Satoru an unimpressed glare, though the effect is rather diminished by the fact that you’re hanging upside down, trying to fix a hole in your roof. “At least come up with a better excuse.”

“Can’t. The dragon wants what the dragon wants,” Satoru says. “And what the dragon wants, the dragon gets.”

You grunt, shoving a loose thatch of straw back into place. Your ankles are looped around a wooden beam, your torso dangling over the edge of your cottage’s roof. The world is a strange, inverted place from this angle. The grass is a vibrant green sky, the clouds are a white, fluffy ground. Satoru Gojo’s annoyingly perfect face is floating in the air below you. He’s leaning back, his hands in his pockets, watching you with a smile. Sukuna is a little ways off, chewing on a large branch.

“And what the dragon wants is for me to risk breaking my neck just so you can make a terrible joke?” you ask.

“No, no, the dragon wants head pats,” Satoru corrects, shaking his head. “I’m just here to deliver the dragon to the head pats. A simple go-between.”

“You’re a go-between for your own dragon?”

“Look, it’s a complicated relationship,” he says. “He’s a very discerning dragon.”

You roll your eyes, a motion that makes your head throb. You pull yourself up, muscles straining, and clamber onto the roof. You sit on the ridge, straddling the peak, and pull a loose piece of wood from the hole. The wood is rotten, and the smell of mold and wet earth makes you wrinkle your nose. A sudden gust of wind snatches a loose piece of cloth from the edge of the roof, and you watch as it flutters to the ground and lands directly at Satoru’s feet.

He picks it up and says, “Lost something?”

“It’s just a rag,” you say.

He examines it, shaking it out with a flourish. “Looks like a perfectly good rag to me.”

“It’s not,” you say. “It’s old and worn out. Just leave it.”

He doesn’t. He folds it carefully and places it in his pocket, before walking over to where Sukuna is lying, and pulls out a piece of meat from his saddlebag. He tosses it to the dragon.

“So,” Satoru says. “Roof problems?”

“No,” you say, “I just enjoy dangling from high places.”

He laughs, a clear, loud sound that makes your stomach feel weird. “I get it. You’re a thrill-seeker. It’s one of your many charming qualities.”

“I’m not a thrill-seeker,” you say. “I’m a mapmaker. I prefer quiet, predictable things.”

“Still,” he says, “here you are, hanging from a roof, and here I am, your friendly neighbourhood… well, whatever I am.”

You groan. “You’re a pain. That’s what you are.”

“And you’re my favourite pain,” he says. “You’re the only person on the entire Isle of Berk who doesn’t fall all over themselves to talk to me.”

“That’s because I have a working brain.”

He laughs again, and you find yourself staring at him. He’s leaning against Sukuna’s side, his arms crossed over his chest. His silver hair catches the sunlight, and his bright blue eyes are fixed on you. He’s the most infuriating man you’ve ever met, but you can’t deny that he’s also breathtaking.

You tear your gaze away, a flush of heat creeping up your neck. You turn back to your roof, your hands shaking slightly as you try to hammer a loose piece of wood into place. You miss, and the hammer clatters to the ground, landing with a soft thud on the grass.

“Fuck,” you say, eloquently.

Satoru bends to pick up the hammer, turning it over in his hands. “For someone who claims to like quiet, predictable things, you have a funny way of living on the edge.”

You scowl down at him from the roof ridge. “I’m fixing a hole, Satoru. Not fighting a dragon barehanded.”

“Could be both, if you fall on Sukuna.”

Sukuna, hearing his name, glances up, tail flicking idly. He looks like he’d catch you if you fell. Probably. Maybe. If he felt like it.

“Very reassuring,” you mutter. “Give it back.”

“Come get it,” Satoru says, grinning.

You glare at him. He leans back against Sukuna’s side, one long leg crossed over the other. He looks like he could stay here all day, bothering you from ground level while you slowly lose your mind above him. You wipe the sweat from your brow with the back of your wrist. The sun’s beating down hard, pressing heat into the back of your neck. Your hands are already splintered from the wood, your hair sticking to your cheeks. You have an entire day’s worth of mapping to do but here you are, arguing with Berk’s most irritating dragon rider over a hammer.

“Fine,” you say. “Keep it. I’ll just tell everyone you bullied me into falling off my own roof.”

“But you didn’t fall,” he says. “Yet.”

You wish you could throw something at him. Preferably something heavy. Like a rock. Or maybe the entire cottage.

Instead, you clamber down from the roof ridge to the small platform just under it, wiping your palms on your trousers. From here, the world tilts alarmingly close. Satoru watches your careful descent with the faintest smirk tugging at his mouth.

When you reach the edge, you stretch your hand out. “Hammer.”

He taps it against his chin thoughtfully. “What do I get in return?”

“Your continued survival.”

“Tempting.” He tosses it up, easy and careless, then finally lobs it towards you. It arcs through the air, spinning end over end, and you snatch it out of the air just in time, the impact jolting through your wrist.

“Show-off,” you say.

“You’re welcome,” he says.

You don’t dignify that with a response, instead crawling back to the hole and fitting the new piece of wood into place. The hammer thunks steadily as you nail it down, the sound mingling with the wind and the distant crash of waves against cliffs. Satoru hums something under his breath, a lazy, tuneless thing. It carries upward, curling under your skin despite yourself.

You focus very, very hard on the roof.

When the piece finally holds, you sit back, wiping your forehead again. Your arms ache, your knees are bruised, and you can feel bits of straw clinging to your hair. Glorious, really.

“Done?” Satoru asks.

“For now,” you say.

“Good,” he says, pushing off Sukuna’s side. “Because Sukuna’s patience is running out.”

At the mention of his name, the dragon lets out a short, sharp huff, nostrils flaring. The branch he was chewing lies in two neat halves at his feet. His pupils have gone wide, round as coins—his version of puppy eyes.

You narrow yours. “This is emotional blackmail.”

“It’s effective,” Satoru says cheerfully, already strolling over to you. “C’mon, he’s been waiting all day.”

You glance from the dragon’s enormous, hopeful stare to Satoru’s infuriating grin and feel, very distinctly, like you’re being tag-teamed.

“Fine,” you mutter, hopping lightly off the lower edge of the roof. You land in a crouch, knees absorbing the impact, then stand and dust yourself off. “But only because he asked nicely.”

Satoru bows low, one hand over his heart. “As the humble messenger of the dragon, I thank you for your generosity.”

“Shut up,” you say, but there’s no real heat behind it.

Sukuna lowers his massive head as you approach, scales gleaming like wet stone. He makes a low, thrumming sound as your hand comes to rest between his eyes, the tension in his frame melting instantly. It’s absurd, how such a creature—so powerful, so feared—can melt into warmth at something as simple as a touch.

You scratch behind his jaw, feeling the rumble travel through your palm. “You deserve a better rider,” you murmur, just loud enough for Satoru to hear.

Satoru presses a hand to his chest. “Wounded. Absolutely gutted.”

“You’ll live.”

He leans against Sukuna’s shoulder, close enough that you catch the faint scent of wind and leather and something warm underneath. “You always say that like you’re sure.”

“I could be wrong,” you say sweetly.

“Now who’s emotionally blackmailing who?”

You roll your eyes. The wind picks up again, tossing Satoru’s hair into his eyes. He doesn’t move to fix it, just grins at you through the mess like he knows exactly what kind of picture he makes—irritatingly golden in the sunlight, with the dragon at his side and the whole damn world under his heel.

“You really are full of yourself,” you say finally.

He tilts his head. “Takes one to know one. Speaking of which, did I tell you about the trappers that thought they actually had a chance against Sukuna? Even I don’t stand a chance against Sukuna, and that’s saying something.”

“Trappers?” You raise an eyebrow, keeping your hand moving against Sukuna’s scales. “I thought you lot scared them off two weeks ago.”

“We did,” Satoru says. “Or so we thought. But the funny thing about pests—” He leans lazily against Sukuna’s massive shoulder, folding his arms. “—is that they always crawl back when you’re not looking.”

You frown, not at him for once, but at the idea of it. “Where?”

“Southern Coves,” he says. “A little group at first—three, maybe four men. We figured they were amateurs, probably thought they’d make their fortune dragging a few Terrible Terrors back in cages. Easy enough. Send them running, burn a net or two. Job done.”

The way he says it—casual, dismissive—doesn’t sit right with you. It rarely does, when Satoru Gojo talks about problems like they’re inconveniences rather than… well, problems.

“But then?” you prompt.

“But then,” he says, drawing out the words, “we found another group. Bigger. With better equipment. Steel nets, reinforced cages, the whole shebang.”

Your hand stills against Sukuna’s jaw. “Reinforced cages?”

“Mhm.” He tilts his head, watching your reaction like it’s more interesting than the story itself. “Not something you find lying around unless you’ve got coin. Or connections. Or both.”

Sukuna shifts beneath your touch, nudging his head into your palm like he can sense the tension in your shoulders. You scratch harder, both to soothe him and yourself. “That doesn’t sound like a coincidence,” you say.

“It doesn’t sound like much of anything,” Satoru counters flippantly. “Could just be a few desperate men pooling what they’ve got. Could be something else. Either way, we’re keeping an eye on it.”

“And by we you mean…”

“The riders. Me, Suguru, Kento, Haibara—the usual.”

You narrow your eyes. “You mean the same group that considers dive-bombing into cliffs a legitimate training exercise?”

“Worked out fine for me,” Satoru says with a shrug.

“Everything works out fine for you,” you shoot back.

That earns you a flash of his grin—bright, boyish, and infuriating. But it fades, just a little, and he says, quieter, “Doesn’t always.”

It’s the kind of admission that makes your stomach twist, because it’s true. Riders don’t always come back. Dragons don’t always survive. Trappers—real trappers, the kind with coin and steel and a hunger that isn’t easily sated—don’t play fair.

You exhale slowly. “You think they’re after Sukuna.”

“Everyone’s after Sukuna.” He says it like it’s a joke. “Last Night Fury, blah blah blah. People can’t help themselves.”

You glance at Sukuna. His pupils are still round, content beneath your touch, but his tail lashes once, like even he knows the weight of those words. A rare thing: fear dressed up as restlessness.

An unease worms its way beneath your ribs. It feels like the calm before a storm, the air just a shade too still, the sea too quiet. The trappers Satoru described don’t seem like scavengers chasing scraps. They’re organised. Equipped. Waiting for something—or someone. You hate it. You hate that Satoru can stand opposite you, hands tucked in his pockets, as though the world isn’t about to tip over its edge.

“You should be more worried,” you say finally.

“I worry plenty.”

“You don’t act like it.”

“Would it help if I wrung my hands and wept dramatically at your feet?”

“I’d pay good money to see that,” you say automatically. Sukuna nudges you again, harder this time, nearly knocking you off your feet. You steady yourself with a laugh that comes out thinner than you’d like. Satoru watches the two of you, his smile softened into something that almost looks like thought. Then, just as you’re about to ask another question, a shrill whistle splits the air from somewhere down the hill.

“Show time.” Satoru straightens, stretching his arms overhead. “Sounds like they’ve spotted another group near the coastline.”

Your stomach sinks. Already?

Satoru clicks his tongue, turning back to Sukuna. “Up, big guy.”

The Night Fury rises in a smooth, graceful motion, all coiled muscle and gleaming scales. His wings snap open, blotting out the sun for an instant, and you step back instinctively. Satoru sings into the saddle. He doesn’t look at you until Sukuna’s already crouching low, ready to launch.

“Don’t worry too much,” he says. “We’ve got it handled.”

“You don’t know that.”

He grins down at you. “Sure I do. I’m me.”

“Again?” You stare at Yaga the Vast like he’s sprouted another head—which, considering the man’s already broad shoulders and beard thick enough to hide a small family of sparrows, would be quite a sight. “You want me to map out the north coast again?”

“Yes,” Yaga’s voice rumbles, his arms crossed over his chest. The firelight in the great hall casts half his face into shadow, making him look even more immovable than usual. “But this time, you go deeper. Past the cove, beyond the breakers, to the inlets we’ve yet to mark. Unless we map out our neighbouring areas, how will we be able to defend Berk?”

You blink slowly, as if stalling will make the task shrink back into sanity. “Defend Berk from what, exactly? The world’s deadliest flock of puffins?”

“From anyone who thinks Berk is ripe for the taking,” Yaga replies. His thick fingers drum against his arm. “We can’t pretend we’re isolated forever. Already, the trappers sniff at our borders.”

You mask the prickle of unease that shivers down your spine with a scoff. “So your solution is to send me to traipse along the most dangerous stretch of coast known to dragon or man?”

“You won’t be alone. Take that scoundrel of a dragon rider with you.”

You groan, dragging both hands down your face. “Not him.”

“As if there were any other scoundrel I could mean,” Yaga says, almost indulgent.

“Satoru Gojo,” you say, lowering your hands and scowling, “is less of a companion and more of a—what’s the word—parasite. Loud, obnoxious, impossible to get rid of once he latches on.”

“He’s effective,” Yaga says.

“He’s insufferable,” you say.

“Both can be true,” he says. “And if you want Berk defended, if you want us to have some place to safely hide, or if you want your precious maps to mean something, you’ll take him with you. End of discussion.”

You gape at him, outrage coiling hot in your chest. But before you can muster a reply sharp enough to singe even Yaga the Vast’s vast beard, a familiar voice cuts through the hall.

“Did somebody say my name?”

Of course. Speak of the devil and his Night Fury, and both shall appear.

Satoru Gojo strolls in; his hair is a windswept mess of silver, his tunic is half-untied, and there’s a cocky grin already plastered on his face. Sukuna pads in behind him, the great black beast moving silent as shadow, his eyes glowing faintly in the dim hall light.

“Perfect timing,” Yaga says. “You’ll be escorting our mapmaker along the north coast. Deep waters. High cliffs. Dangerous territory. See to it that she comes back alive.”

“Yes, boss,” Satoru replies. His gaze slides to you, and his grin widens. “Couldn’t stay away from me, huh?”

Your hands curl into fists at your sides. “Believe me, if I had a choice between this and swimming naked through eel-infested waters, I’d be halfway to drowning by now.”

“Romantic. You always know how to make a man feel wanted.”

Sukuna rumbles low in his throat, the kind of sound that could be a laugh if dragons were capable of such a thing. You swear he’s mocking you, too.

Yaga heaves a sigh. “Enough. The pair of you leave at dawn. Supplies will be waiting at the stables. Make sure you chart everything—caves, currents, shoals, nesting grounds. The more detail, the better.”

You open your mouth to argue, to plead, to hurl one last desperate objection into the flames. But Yaga fixes you with the kind of look that ends battles before they begin. You clamp your jaw shut.

“Fine,” you mutter. “At dawn.”

“Looking forward to it,” Satoru says brightly, clapping you on the shoulder. “You, me, the sea, a few deadly cliffs. It’ll be fun.”

You glare at him. “You have the worst definition of fun I’ve ever heard.”

He leans down, so close you catch the faint scent of leather and salt. “That’s because you haven’t tried my kind of fun yet.”

Before you can throttle him, Yaga clears his throat. “Gojo,” he says. “I want your usual post-mission report for this one as well. How Sukuna flies, how he fights—everything. Not a single detail should be omitted.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Satoru says. “Wingspan, firepower, mood swings. Got it.”

“Not just that,” Yaga presses. “Every maneuver. Every burst of speed. How he responds under pressure. The trappers are adapting. If they’ve learned to counter one type of dragon, they’ll learn to counter another. We need to be ready.”

“Of course, boss.”

Satoru says it so confidently that it makes you want to hit him with the nearest tankard. He doesn’t care about reports—he’s probably never written anything down properly in his life—but somehow Yaga keeps trusting him with “observations” and “evaluations.” And somehow those “reports” always end up getting him exactly what he wants: more freedom, more lenience, more time spent to annoy you.

“I’m serious,” Yaga says. His gaze sharpens, sliding briefly to you before returning to Satoru. “I want precision. Not exaggerations, not flourishes. If there are trappers along that coast, I want to know how they move, what they use, where they hide. If Sukuna faces them, I want to know every reaction. Understand?”

It’s subtle, that pause on Sukuna’s name, but it hooks in your gut like a barbed fishing line.

“Your last report,” the chief continued, “was ten pages of what Sukuna ate, and a drawing of your own face in the margins.”

You can’t help it—a bark of laughter escapes you. Satoru grins wider, like he’s proud of the memory.

“Historical accuracy,” he defends breezily. “Someday, bards will want to know I was the handsomest man alive while Sukuna was saving lives.”

Yaga doesn’t look amused. In fact, the firelight catches on the hard planes of his face, casting the deep creases at his brow into shadows that look almost like cracks. “Enough,” he says, but this time there’s a finality to it—like stone slamming into place, sealing a tomb.

You should probably let it go. Keep your head down, accept the assignment, and try not to imagine all the ways you might die tomorrow. But Yaga’s words stick in your ears like thorns. He’s always been thorough, sure, but the way he said it makes something twist uneasily in your gut.

Why does it feel less like he wants a record of Berk’s defenses and more like he wants a catalogue of its weaknesses?

You frown, shoving the thought down before it can root itself. Paranoia. That’s all it is. Spending too much time around Satoru Gojo rots the brain.

“Sir, yes, sir,” Satoru says, snapping a salute. “We’ll chart your cliffs, your caves, your currents, your… cozy little hidey-holes. And if the trappers do come sniffing around, we’ll have a nice little map all drawn up for them, won’t we?”

It’s meant to be a joke. You know it is.

Yaga’s eyes cut to him, sharp and assessing, but then—to your surprise—soften into something close to approval. “Just bring me the report.”

You’re dismissed. Or maybe exiled. Hard to tell with Yaga.

Satoru stretches like a cat as you both step out into the night air, his hair catching silver in the moonlight. Sukuna slips behind him, shadow melting into shadow, only the gleam of his garnet eyes betraying him.

“This is gonna be fun,” Satoru says.

You snort. “You heard him. Reports, details, flight maneuvers—like you’re some glorified scribe. What’s he going to do, publish a book?”

“Who knows? Maybe Yaga just really likes bedtime stories.”

“You’re going to fall if you keep bending over like that.”

The words brush the back of your neck, almost lost to the roar of the wind. Satoru’s voice, of course, because if anyone was going to ruin the thrill of flight over the North Sea cliffs, it was going to be him.

“I’m not bending over,” you snap, leaning forward on Sukuna’s broad back to adjust the rolled parchment strapped at your hip. “I’m securing the maps so they don’t blow away. Some of us actually care about documenting this trip.”

“Mm,” he hums, far too close behind you. “You say that, but it looks a lot like you’re presenting yourself to me.”

You jerk upright so fast you nearly throw yourself off balance. “I will throw you off this dragon.”

Sukuna rumbles beneath you, wings slicing through the wind. The cliffs roll past below—jagged teeth rising from the sea, waves smashing themselves to froth at the base. A treacherous coast, all jagged rocks and narrow inlets, the sort of place even seasoned dragon riders avoided unless they had a death wish. But, you remind yourself, you’re riding with Satoru Gojo. Death wishes are practically stitched into his skin.

“Relax,” he says lazily, shifting so that his chin rests on your shoulder, bold as anything. “If you fall, Sukuna will catch you. Probably.”

“Probably?”

“Eighty percent sure.”

You elbow him hard in the ribs. He laughs. The wind whips against your face, tugging at your hair and lashing past your chin. You should be focusing on the coastline, on the cliff formations and hidden coves Yaga wanted mapped. Instead, you’re stuck with Satoru practically wrapped around you like an overgrown barnacle.

Below, the sea shifts from deep sapphire to frothing white, currents curling against each other in unpredictable swirls. You sketch the outline hastily, balancing parchment on your knee, your fingers stiff from the cold. The smell of salt, the tang of brine—it all presses sharp in your nose, mixing with the faint smoke curling from Sukuna’s nostrils as he exhales.

“You’re making that bay too small,” Satoru says, peering over your shoulder. “It’s at least twice that size.”

Your head snaps towards him. “You’re a dragon rider, not a cartographer. Shut up.”

“I’m just saying,” he says. “If you want this to be accurate, maybe listen to the guy who’s actually looking down at it.”

You jab your charcoal against the parchment with unnecessary force. “I am looking down. You think I’m staring at the clouds?”

“Wouldn’t blame you. They’re very fluffy today.”

You grit your teeth. It’s either throw him off Sukuna’s back or commit to your map and pretend his voice doesn’t grate against your ears.

The coastline curves sharply, forcing Sukuna to bank hard. The sudden tilt knocks your knee against the saddle, the parchment slipping sideways in the wind. You swear under your breath, catching it just before it can flutter away.

“Careful,” Satoru drawls. “Wouldn’t want all your precious squiggles to drown.”

“They’re maps,” you snap, tucking the roll more securely under the leather strap. “Not squiggles.”

Sukuna lurches again, this time with a force that wrenches you off balance completely. One moment you’re clinging to leather straps, the next, you’re weightless—dangling over empty air, your stomach dropping out as the sea roars up to meet you. Your scream is swallowed by the wind.

Cold air slams against your face, your limbs flailing as the ocean surface rushes closer, white spray licking like fangs. You think, absurdly, that this is it. Yaga will get his precious map back water-stained and half-torn, and Satoru will laugh at your funeral pyre.

The sea devours you whole. Salt scorches your mouth, icy shock steals the breath from your lungs, and the water closes like a fist around your ribs. You kick, thrash, but the waves drag you under, tangling your limbs. The North Sea swallows you whole, dragging you down, down, down. Your maps slip free, parchment dissolving into sodden clumps as the current claws them away. Panic claws harder.

Through the blur of bubbles, a shadow streaks above—massive wings cutting the sky. Sukuna. You can just make out the gleam of his scales as he dives, but the current twists you sideways and drags you deeper.

You feel hands.

Hot even through the freezing water, strong fingers hook beneath your arm and haul you against a solid chest. Your head knocks against leather and chainmail. You cling without meaning to, nails biting into Satoru’s sleeve as he kicks upward, legs cutting the water with terrifying strength. The world tilts again, the suffocating weight of the sea giving way to open air as he breaks the surface.

You cough, choking up brine, the cold biting so deep it feels like your bones are splintering. But there’s air—ragged, salty, glorious—and Satoru’s arms are still wrapped around you, keeping you afloat.

“See?” he says, breathless. “Told you one of us would catch you.”

“Shut—” you hack, spitting seawater in his face, “—up.”

With one arm, Satoru signals upward, and Sukuna swoops low, skimming the waves. The dragon’s vast shadow falls over you both, wings slicing the mist. With a smooth, practiced motion, Satoru boosts you toward the saddle. You land gracelessly, half-sprawled, coughing into your sleeve. Sukuna steadies his flight. Moments later, Satoru swings up behind you, water dripping from his hair.

You twist, glaring, salt-stung eyes narrowing. “You dropped me!”

“I saved you,” he says.

“If you’d stop distracting me, I wouldn’t have fallen in the first place.”

“Aw, admit it,” he says, tugging you back against him as Sukuna banks into the wind again. “You wanted me to play hero.”

Your jaw locks. You want to scream, punch him, and shove him straight off Sukuna’s back. But the truth sticks bitter at the back of your throat: without him, you’d be a corpse rolling in the tide right now.

Instead, you grit out, “The only reason you’re still alive is because I’m too cold to kill you.”

“Sure, gorgeous,” Satoru says, far too cheerfully for someone who just dove into the North Sea like a loon. He pats Sukuna’s neck. “Land over there, big guy.”

Sukuna banks again, wide wings slicing through the mist as he angles toward a rocky shelf jutting from the cliffs. It’s not much—a spit of grass clinging stubbornly to stone, slick with sea spray and battered by wind—but it’s flat enough for a Night Fury to perch. The dragon’s claws scrape against the stone before he settles down.

You peel yourself upright, every muscle trembling from the cold. Water streams from your hair and sleeves, soaking into the saddle leather, dripping in miserable rivulets down your legs. You feel like a half-drowned cat.

Satoru swings off Sukuna and immediately shivers, shaking out his hair. Droplets fly everywhere.

“Ah!” You swipe your face with your sleeve. “Do you mind?”

“Not even a little,” he says.

You clamber down less gracefully, boots squelching against stone. The moment your feet hit solid ground, the wind slices through your wet clothes. Your teeth chatter so hard it feels like they might rattle loose.

“Right,” you say, hugging your arms around yourself. “Let’s make this quick. I need to salvage what I can of the map before—”

“Before your hands freeze off?” Satoru interrupts. He crouches to scratch Sukuna’s chin, even though he’s dripping seawater like a broken barrel. “Sorry, cartographer, but your squiggles can wait. We’re both shaking. That’s a fast track to hypothermia.”

“I’m fine.” Your voice wobbles with a shiver. “We don’t have time to—”

“You’re not fine.” He straightens, eyeing you in that annoyingly perceptive way of his. “Your lips are purple. You’re shivering so hard I can hear your knees clacking. Don’t make me be the sensible one here, sweetheart—it feels unnatural.”

You glare. “If I die of cold, I’ll haunt you.”

“Oh, you already haunt me.” His grin softens the jab. “Now, strip.”

“I— Excuse me?” you splutter.

“Your clothes are soaked,” he says matter-of-factly, already tugging at the laces of his tunic. “Wet fabric sucks the heat right out of you. The best thing we can do is get ‘em off, huddle together, and hope Sukuna doesn’t roast us in our sleep.”

You blink at him, scandalised, even as another violent shiver racks your body. “You’re insane.”

“True. But I’m also right.” He pulls his tunic over his head in one easy motion, tossing the dripping cloth onto the stone. The setting sun’s light catches across his bare skin—broad shoulders, pale scars scattered across his abdomen, lean muscle shifting as he moves.

You pointedly do not stare.

“You’re ogling me,” he says.

“I’m glaring at you.”

“Your glare looks a lot like ogling.”

“Die.”

“Already almost did,” he says lightly, wringing out his sleeves. “Your turn.”

Every inch of you bristles at the command. Still, the damp fabric clinging icily to your ribs argues louder than your pride. You peel off your own tunic with stiff fingers, ignoring his wolf-whistle, and spread it on a rock to dry. The wind hits your bare skin, covered only by the slip you’ve worn inside, cold and merciless, goosebumps rising instantly.

Satoru’s eyes flick toward you, lingering longer than you like. He doesn’t comment. Doesn’t need to. The curve of his mouth says enough.

“Don’t you dare say a word,” you warn, hugging your arms over your chest.

“Not one word,” he promises. “Plenty of thoughts, though.”

You groan, dragging your hands down your face. “This is torture.”

“No, this is survival.” Satoru pats Sukuna’s flank, and the dragon obligingly lowers himself, curling his massive body into a crescent. His wings arch inwards, a living shelter against the wind. Heat radiates from his scaled belly.

“See?” Satoru gestures grandly.

You want to argue. You really, truly do. But your legs wobble under you, and the promise of warmth tugs at you. So you crawl into the nook of Sukuna’s body, pressing against his side. Satoru follows, sprawling next to you, then tugging you firmly against him. His skin is startlingly warm, even damp as it is, and his arm slides around your shoulders.

“Move,” you grumble, trying to twist free.

“Nope,” he says, tucking his chin on top of your wet hair. “You’ll freeze.”

“You’re unbearable.”

“So you’ve said. Multiple times.”

You want to snap back, but the heat of him seeps into your skin. Sukuna’s breathing is a thunderous rhythm behind you, the rise and fall of his chest as steady as the tides. Satoru’s warmth presses into your back, his heartbeat steady against your spine.

The shivering ebbs. Your eyelids grow heavy.

You think, just before sleep drags you under, that maybe it isn’t so bad—being held like this, the storm kept at bay by dragon wings and an irritating idiot who refuses to let you drown or freeze. You’d rather die than admit it out loud.

“Oh, my Gods.”

The voice snaps you awake like a slap. Your eyes peel open blearily, gritty from salt and sleep. The first thing you see is scales—Sukuna’s broad, ridged side, still warm beneath your cheek. The second is pale dawn light seeping over the horizon, turning the sea into hammered silver. The third, and the worst by far, is Yaga’s apprentice standing ten paces away, gawking at you like you’ve sprouted a second head.

You jolt upright so fast your skull cracks against Satoru’s chin.

“Ow—fuck!” Satoru lurches back, clutching his jaw. His hair is sticking up in ten different directions, his chest bare, his arm still heavy across your waist. He blinks owlishly, still half-asleep, then follows your line of sight.

“Oh,” he says. “Morning, kid.”

The apprentice—gangly, freckled, barely old enough to grow a proper beard—turns a shade of crimson so bright it could signal passing ships. His dragon, a lumbering Gronckle, looks pointedly in the other direction as though it, too, is practicing modesty. The apprentice’s mouth opens, closes, then opens again. “I—uh—you—Chief Yaga sent me—”

You scramble upright, hugging your damp tunic to your chest as though it might shield you from the apprentice’s wide-eyed horror. “It’s not what it looks like.”

The boy squeaks. “It looks like you and Gojo—”

“It doesn’t,” you snap. Heat crawls up your neck, sharp as the morning chill.

“Actually,” Satoru drawls, still lounging half-naked against Sukuna’s side, “it’s exactly what it looks like.”

You kick him in the shin. He hisses through his teeth but grins anyway. Bastard.

The apprentice makes a strangled sound and stares very hard at the cliffs instead. His ears are scarlet. “Chief Yaga said—he said it was urgent. Two dragons were stolen last night.”

“Stolen?” you ask.

He nods quickly, eyes still fixed anywhere but at you. “By trappers. They slipped past the watch posts by the southern coves. Took a Nadder and a Zippleback. Riders tried to give chase, but they were gone before dawn.”

You freeze, cold in a way seawater could never manage. Images slam unbidden into your head: chains biting into scaled hides, muzzles forced over mouths, wings bound and flailing. Dragons screaming as they’re dragged into cages.

“Shit,” Satoru says, the first hint of sharpness cutting through his lazy tone. He pushes to his feet, water-dark trousers hanging low on his hips. Sukuna rumbles beside him, wings twitching restlessly.

The apprentice swallows, wringing his hands, as his Gronckle hovers above the ground. “The Chief sent me to find you. He said you’re needed immediately—both of you. He was… angry that you weren’t at the watch last night, Gojo.”

You flinch. Angry. Of course he was. You were out here, tangled up in a mess of salt, warmth, and sleep, while dragons were dragged away into darkness. Your stomach knots.

Satoru’s hand brushes yours. “Not your fault,” he murmurs.

You want to believe him. You don’t.

“Which direction?” Satoru asks crisply.

“East,” the apprentice answers. “Towards the mainland, we think. Scouts found broken nets on the tide and claw marks on the rocks, but… there were too many tracks. More than just one ship. It’s—bigger than usual.”

You hug your tunic tighter, your unease curdling into something colder. Too many tracks. Bigger than usual. And Yaga, always conveniently aware of where the trappers struck, always pushing for maps that stretched further, deeper, as though he wanted Berk’s vulnerabilities laid bare on parchment. Something ugly stirs at the back of your mind.

“Great job finding us, kid,” Satoru says. “Go on back, tell Yaga we’re on our way to Berk.”

The apprentice nods and urges his Gronckle away. Silence stretches after his wings vanish into the horizon. The only sound is the crash of waves and Sukuna’s low, restless growl.

You finally tug your tunic over your head, the fabric clammy against your skin. “Two dragons. Gone. While we—” You swallow down the lump in your throat. “While we weren’t there.”

Satoru’s gaze flicks to you. “We’ll find them.”

You want to argue. Want to spill the unease clawing at your ribs—that this isn’t coincidence, that someone is feeding the trappers information, that Yaga’s heavy insistence on maps and watch-posts feels less like defence and more like design. But Satoru swings into the saddle, his hand extended down to you, and all you can do is shove the suspicion somewhere deep down where it won’t choke you.

Later. You’ll think about it later.

The ride back to Berk is wordless. Sukuna cuts through the dawn sky with a speed that makes your bones rattle, the wind lashing your damp hair against your cheeks. The village comes into view—first the crooked rocks of the cliffside, then the smoky thatched rooftops, and finally the wide stone courtyard where riders and dragons gather in knots of uneasy conversation.

Yaga waits at the centre of it all, arms folded across his massive chest. His scowl alone could ward off a sea storm. You’ve seen him angry before, but this—this is something else.

Sukuna’s talons scrape stone. Riders hustle across the square, tightening harnesses, checking saddlebags, shouting clipped reports to one another. Dragons bristle and shift, their restlessness bleeding into their humans. You slide down from Sukuna’s saddle, boots hitting the stones. Satoru follows, rolling his shoulders once.

“Come,” Yaga’s voice booms from the centre. “Where were you?”

“Taking the north coast maps you wanted, remember?” Satoru says. “Thought you’d be proud I was finally listening.”

Yaga’s jaw ticks. “While you wasted time drawing cliffs, two dragons were stolen from right under our noses. A Nadder and a Zippleback. Good, loyal beasts, now likely in chains.”

You open your mouth—an instinctive we didn’t know, we would have been there if—but Yaga’s eyes cut to you, and the words wither in your throat.

“And you,” he says, quieter but no less cutting. “Distracted.”

Your cheeks burn hot as a furnace. You force yourself not to look at Satoru, not to flinch under Yaga’s disappointment.

“Careful, Chief,” Satoru says, stepping forward. “Sounds almost like you’re blaming us instead of the ones who actually stole the dragons.”

Silence. Riders shuffle uneasily at the edge of the square, pretending to busy themselves with tack and gear. Yaga exhales. He gestures with a curt hand, and says, “Enough. We’ve no time for excuses. Gojo, you’ll take Sukuna east. Track the trappers. If they’ve gone towards the mainland, we need to know which paths they’re using. Don’t engage. Don’t be reckless.”

“Reckless?” Satoru echoes. “Chief, that hurts me.”

“It’s meant to.”

Yaga turns to you. You think—hope—he’ll send you with Satoru. You’ve flown the coasts enough times now, you know the currents, the cliffs, the possible landing points. Together, you’d be faster.

“You,” Yaga says instead. “Stay here. The maps you made—finish them. Copy them properly, mark all the coves and hideouts. We’ll need every detail if we’re to tighten our defenses.”

“But—” You start. “With all due respect, I should go too. I was with Satoru when we—”

“No.” Yaga’s eyes harden, the finality in them brooking no argument. “We need accuracy more than we need an extra set of hands in the sky. Your maps will serve Berk better than you will.”

Heat floods your chest: anger, shame, suspicion all jumbled together. The same suspicion that had gnawed at you when the apprentice spoke of too many tracks, bigger than usual. The same suspicion that whispers now: why does he care so much about these maps?

Satoru’s hand brushes yours again, quick, almost hidden. When you glance at him, his expression is unreadable, but his mouth quirks, almost imperceptibly, in reassurance.

“Don’t worry, gorgeous,” he says aloud, stretching his arms. “I’ll bring your lizards back safely. Maybe even some extra, if they’re feeling friendly.”

“Go,” Yaga growls.

Satoru vaults back into Sukuna’s saddle. The Night Fury launches skyward in a storm of wings and air, climbing so fast your stomach flips just from watching. He doesn’t look back, but you feel his absence immediately, like the ground beneath you has shifted.

“Chief,” you try again, forcing the tremor out of your voice, “if there are more ships than usual, if this is bigger than—”

“Finish your maps,” Yaga cuts you off, turning away.

You stand there for a long moment, your fists clenching around nothing, as riders murmur and scatter and dragons snort restlessly at their sides. Something in your gut twists again, sharp and certain. Yaga doesn’t just want you out of the mission. He wants you blind, and you don’t know why.

Satoru Gojo doesn’t arrive back with the rest of the riders and it takes you about four hours to swallow down your pride and admit that something has gone terribly, horribly wrong.

At first, you tell yourself he’s late because he’s lazy. Because he got distracted chasing a gull or decided to nap on Sukuna’s back somewhere over the cliffs. That’s his style, isn’t it? Careless, infuriating, utterly impossible to pin down. But when the other riders return—faces set in grim lines, dragons shuffling uneasily on the packed earth—there’s no trace of him.

The knot in your stomach hardens into stone.

The courtyard empties slowly, mutters and wary glances trailing after you as you linger by the dragon pens. You can’t ask them where he is, not when your throat is tight with fear. You can’t ask Yaga either—at least, not openly, when you already suspect he doesn’t want you to know the answer.

Instead, you find the apprentice.

He’s lugging a basket of fish towards the Gronckle pens, shoulders hunched. You stride over and plant yourself in his path.

“Where’s the Chief?” you demand.

The boy nearly drops the basket, mackerel slopping over the edge. “Wh-what?”

“Yaga,” you say. “Where is he?”

He stammers. “He—uh—he’s in the great hall, I think. With some of the elders. I’m not supposed to—”

You move before he can finish. The great hall looms at the centre of Berk. Its roof rises steeply, carved dragon heads snarling from the beams. The heavy double doors are shut, but a warm glow seeps from the cracks—torchlight, flickering against the chill dusk. You shouldn’t be here. Yaga will flay you alive if he catches you sneaking where you don’t belong. But the thought of waiting, sitting idly while Satoru doesn’t come back doesn’t sit right with you.

You slip inside.

The hall stretches wide and long ahead of you, the walls lined with shields and old weapons that gleam in the light. Long tables stretch out across the floor, empty, a few littered with tankards and scraps of parchment. The far end is dominated by Yaga’s chair, carved from mahogany, massive enough to dwarf even him.

It’s empty.

You turn away from the chair—because on the nearest table is your map.

Or rather, it should be there. The stack of parchment you left after your last session of furious sketching is gone, only a faint smear of charcoal dust staining the wood. The straps you’d used to tie them together still sit at the edge of the table, neatly coiled, but the maps themselves have vanished. Your stomach lurches.

The map of the north coast. The one you risked half your life to sketch, nearly drowned for. Every cove, every inlet, every hidden path marked out in careful strokes of charcoal—gone.

Your hand curls tightly around the strap left behind, the leather cutting into your palm. The room spins, your thoughts snarling into one conclusion: if Yaga has the maps, he didn’t take them to protect Berk. And if he doesn’t have them, then someone else does. And Satoru still hasn’t come back.

You hurry out of the hall, past the empty pens, past the wary stares of villagers who pull their cloaks tighter as you barrel through. The sky is already bruising into night, gulls wheeling overhead in harsh cries that grate against your nerves. You don’t think. You just turn—towards the cliffs, the only place that makes sense. The north coast, where your maps pointed. Where Satoru isn’t supposed to be.

The path narrows as you climb. The wind rises, sharp and cold, tugging at your tunic. The sea roars below, white foam smashing itself against black rock. Each gust shoves at your balance, each step rattles your teeth. You know these paths—you’ve sketched them, charted them—but tonight they feel alien, hostile.

Your lungs burn. Your legs ache. Still, you push forward, clutching your side, muttering curses under your breath.

A shadow moves above you, massive fast, cutting across the purpling sky. The figure drops lower, angling towards you. You stumble to a stop, heart hammering, and tilt your head back.

Sukuna.

The Night Fury flies through the dusk, scales glinting dark blue where the light catches. His cry rips through the cliffs—sharp, haunting, enough to send a flock of puffins exploding from their nests. The wind from his wings slams into you, sending you staggering backwards.

He’s alone. The dragon banks sharply, almost skimming the sea, and you see a saddle still strapped tight, leather dark with seawater, reins dangling loose.

He lands on the cliffs just ahead of you, talons tearing furrows in the stone. His wings flare wide before folding in, each movement rippling with tension. He’s restless, furious, his chest heaving and his tail lashing like a whip.

“Sukuna,” you breathe, your voice cracking.

He turns at once, those twin rings of garnet eyes locking onto you. Recognition flares, but it’s not soft. It’s sharp, wild, like he’s on the edge of bolting right back into the sky. His nostrils flare, smoke curling as he huffs out a growl.

Your legs move before your mind catches up. You rush towards him, arms out, words tumbling uselessly from your mouth. “Where is he? Where’s Satoru?”

Sukuna lowers his head, nostrils flaring again as though scenting the wind. His scales are slick with salt, his wings ragged from the flight, his whole body coiled tight with an agitation you’ve never seen in him before. He paces, restless, claws scraping sparks against the stone. The saddle’s empty. Satoru’s gone.

The thought claws at your skull, frantic and ugly, but you push it down, shove it away, refuse to let it root. “Take me to him,” you say. “You hear me? Take me to him!”

Sukuna freezes. His head tilts, eyes narrowing, sharp and assessing. You think he’ll refuse, that he’ll vanish into the sky without you. But he shoves his massive snout against your shoulder, hard enough to nearly knock you flat. His wings flare again. It’s not an invitation. It’s a command.

Your hands fumble with the saddle’s straps as you clamber up, fingers numb, stomach twisting. The moment you’re seated, Sukuna surges forward, leaping into the air and spreading his wings. The world drops away beneath you, cliffs shrinking, sea spreading endless and merciless below. Wind tears at your face, your hair, your clothes. You clutch the straps tightly, the air freezing your cheeks, your heart slamming so hard you can’t tell if it’s fear or relief.

Sukuna doesn’t soar, doesn’t play with the air currents or bank lazily just to terrify you the way Satoru likes to. He cuts through the night like an arrow, wings beating ruthlessly, each downstroke flinging you forward until your stomach lurches. The North Sea yawns before you, and the cliffs crawl past in uneven shadows.

“Where are you taking me?” you shout, though the wind steals most of it away. Sukuna’s neck stiffens, his flight angled low, purposeful.

The further north you go, the rougher the landscape grows. The cliffs rise higher, crueler, sharpened by centuries of waves gnawing at their base. The moon breaks through the clouds in flashes, silvering the rocks. You’ve charted these shores on parchment, every inlet and alcove, but in the dark, they look unfamiliar.

Sukuna dives. The drop rips the breath from your chest and tears your stomach into your throat. You can only cling and pray as he folds his wings tight and plummets. At the last possible instant, he flares his wings wide, landing with a shuddering crash onto a stretch of uneven stone, claws biting through moss and shale.

You scramble down, your boots skidding on slick rock as Sukuna growls. Ahead, the cliffs hollow into a cove, a natural amphitheatre of stone and sea. Torches burn inside, small orange flames that lick against the rock, wrong against the wild dark.

In the centre of it all: Yaga.

The Chief of Berk stands with his arms crossed, broad shoulders squared and cloak snapping in the wind. His great beard glints ruddy in the torchlight. But it isn’t him that makes your heart stutter. It’s what’s at his feet.

Satoru.

He’s on his knees, wrists bound in thick rope, head tilted at an insolent angle that doesn’t quite hide the blood streaking down his temple. Even half-slumped, gagged with a strip of cloth knotted cruelly between his teeth, he radiates infuriating carelessness—eyes narrowed, expression hovering between boredom and mockery.

You make a sound—something strangled, something useless—and stumble forward, only for Sukuna to block you with a sweep of a wing. He growls again.

“Finally,” Yaga says. His voice booms off the rock, heavy, immovable, the kind of voice that fills halls and commands loyalty. “I was beginning to think you’d abandoned him.”

“What are you doing?” you manage to ask.

“What I should’ve done the moment that creature set foot on Berk.” His eyes cut to Sukuna. “That dragon is too dangerous to be left in the hands of a fool. Or worse, shared between fools. Give him to me, and I may let Gojo live.”

Satoru makes a muffled noise behind the gag, rolling his eyes so hard you half-expect them to stick. You can almost hear his voice anyway: Don’t listen to the old man, gorgeous. He just wants my dragon ‘cause he doesn’t have one of his own.

Your chest feels too small, your pulse hammering against your ribs. “You—you can’t mean that. Sukuna’s not a weapon. He’s not—”

“He’s a Night Fury,” Yaga says. “Do you have any idea what that means? The power he carries? No village could stand against us if he were ours. No trapper would dare threaten us. Berk would be untouchable.”

“He’s not yours,” you say.

Yaga’s gaze flicks past you. “And yet here he stands, listening to your commands. Think, child. You’ve seen the cliffs, the danger at our borders. Berk is one storm away from ruin. I won’t gamble its survival on the whims of a dragon who answers only to Gojo.”

Satoru gives a muffled, derisive laugh that earns him a kick to the ribs. He tips his head back, gag muffling whatever clever retort he tries to spit out.

“Is that why you funded the trappers to surround your own village, Yaga?” you ask, mustering up all the courage you own.

Yaga stills. His boot rests against Satoru’s ribs, his shadow thrown long against the cove wall. His lips twitch beneath his beard—not surprise, not shame. Annoyance.

“You shouldn’t know that,” he says slowly. “The apprentice talks too much.”

“You set them on us. You set them on him.”

A sound splits the night—metal ringing against stone, boots crunching over gravel. From the shadows at the edges of the cove, men appear. Rough-spun leather, ragged furs, nets rolled thick over their shoulders. Their faces gleam with salt and grease, their eyes hungry. Dragon trappers. You know them by the stink alone: fish oil, blood, old smoke. They slip from the dark like wolves, more than a dozen, their movements practiced, circling.

The torchlight catches iron chains coiled in their fists. Hooks. Bolas. Shackles built for wings, not wrists.

“You’re working with them?” you say.

“I’m using them,” the chief says. “They have the means, the tools that I don’t have.”

You think of the maps gone from the hall, the apprentice’s trembling mouth, the sidelong glances of riders who returned without their strongest, without him. Pieces snap into place with a sickening clarity.

“You sold us out,” you whisper again. “You sold him out.”

“I did what I had to. Berk survives because I make hard choices. You, girl—you make sketches. You play at your little maps, but I—I see storms on the horizon. Dragons beyond counting. Trappers fattening themselves on our weakness. Do you think a village of fishers and smiths can stand against that? No. But with a Night Fury—with that beast, Berk rules the seas.”

Sukuna’s growl reverberates through the rock beneath your feet. His pupils pinprick, his wings hitch upward, every line of his body coiled to strike. You know he understands enough: tone, intent, threat. He does not know, yet, how to forgive.

“Tell me,” Yaga says, low and inexorable, “what’s one boy’s life against the safety of a whole people?”

Satoru chooses that exact moment to lurch upright against his bindings, muffling something sharp and entirely unhelpful through the gag. You catch the roll of his shoulders, the tilt of his chin. One boy? Try national treasure, old man.

You almost laugh.

Chains rattle. The trappers are closing in. Their boots scrape the shale, torches lifting higher, nets poised to fly. The scent of pitch and iron stings your nose. There aren’t raiders in passing—they’re hunters, professional, and they’ve been waiting.

You step forward, planting yourself between them and Sukuna’s flank before you even think it through. “If you think he’ll ever obey you, you’re a bigger fool than I thought,” you bite out. “Sukuna isn’t a weapon. He isn’t yours to wield.”

“He will be.”

The nearest trapper lunges. A net arcs through the air, weighted corners sparking as they whip forward. You throw yourself sideways, but you needn’t have bothered—Sukuna’s blast rips it to cinders mid-flight. The explosion lights the cove for a split-second, dazzling white, searing afterimages into your vision. Rock shatters, smoke plumes, men scream.

The Night Fury roars.

The sound is primal, thunder given flesh. Sukuna surges forward, plasma bursting from his jaws in ragged, relentless blasts. Trappers scatter like startled crabs, some diving for cover, others spinning their chains desperately to keep him back. One man screams as his bolas ignite mid-spin, molten metal splattering his arm.

You drop to Satoru’s side in the chaos. He turns his head sharply, eyes catching yours, blue in the firelight, furious and alive. Your fingers fumble at the knots. The rope is soaked with seawater, swollen tight, cutting into your palms as you fight with it.

“Hold still,” you hiss, though he’s hardly moving.

He snorts through his gag. The knot slips at last. The rope slackens, and Satoru jerks his wrists free with a hiss. He tears the gag from his mouth, coughing once before grinning up at you, that same insufferable smile that somehow hasn’t dulled even after being tied and bloodied.

“Miss me?” he drawls.

You shove his shoulder. “Get up.”

“Oh, I plan to.” Satoru’s gaze flicks past you, to Yaga still looming at the centre of it all.

Sukuna lashes his tail, knocking two trappers flat, and whirlls his head back towards you both, plasma building in his throat again. The trappers rally, more of them pouring from the shadows at the mouth of the cove, their nets glowing with oil to withstand fire, their bolas gleaming with sharpened edges meant for wings. Their shadows jitter grotesquely against the cove walls, wolfish and endless. Sukuna’s blasts have rattled them but not broken them—they circle tighter, nets at the ready.

A horn splits the night.

It’s high and keening, rolling down from the cliffs above: Berk’s call to arms.

Shapes tear through the dark sky. Dragons. Not one, not two—a little less than a dozen, wings beating hard, riders silhouetted against the clouds. Their cries cascade through the air—the iron thrum of Nadder wings, the heavy, beating thunder of a Gronckle, the shriek of a Zippleback.

The riders dive. Bolas meant for Sukuna snap backward, suddenly tangled in fire. A trapper screams when a Deadly Nadder’s spines pin his arm to the cove wall. Yaga’s apprentice clings desperately to his dragon—far too small for this fight, a Gronckle, wings buzzing frantically—but his horn blast keeps sounding, rallying the others.

“Traitors!” Yaga bellows. His face is red with fury, veins bulging in his temple. “Do you side with him over your own chief?”

“Over a traitor, yes!” the apprentice shouts back.

The cove fractures into chaos—dragons wheeling, trappers shouting, nets burning in mid-air. Sukuna tears through them, plasma lighting up the night. You turn towards Satoru, only to freeze.

Yaga’s hand clamps down around your arm, thick and brutal, yanking you off your feet. The world spins; your back slams against his chest, his arm like an iron band around you. He drags you towards the cliff’s edge, gravel skittering into the black maw of sea below.

“Stop!” His roar drowns even the dragon cries. “Or she falls!”

Sukuna halts mid-pounce, talons gouging sparks in the stone. The other riders hover, their dragons’ wings beating the air in slow, heavy pulses. Even the trappers hesitate, chains slack in their hands. The sea crashes below, white foam gnashing against the rocks, a drop so sheer it makes you feel nauseous.

Yaga’s breath rasps against your ear. “The Night Fury, girl. Give him to me or you’re gone.”

You twist, fighting against his grip, nails digging into his arm, but he’s immovable, a wall of muscle and conviction. He jerks you closer to the edge, and the heel of your boot slips on loose gravel. Your weight tilts towards the abyss.

Somehow, impossibly, you make eye contact with Satoru—astride Sukuna. His white hair gleams in the torchlight. Sukuna crouches beneath him, plasma pulsing faintly in his throat, tail still twitching.

Satoru’s lips move.

Eighty percent.

You blink, barely comprehending. “What?” you croak out.

Eighty percent.

Suddenly, you know. He wants you to trust him. He wants you to fall. It’s insane. It’s impossible.

The apprentice screams your name from somewhere above. The riders shout warnings. The trappers lunge forward, seeing their chance. Yaga tightens his grip, preparing to hurl you like discarded cargo into the sea.

You make the choice first.

Your knees buckle, and you let yourself go slack. His grip loosens in shock—just enough. You wrench sideways, twist hard against his hold, and throw yourself forward into the air.

The sea roars up to meet you. Wind tears your scream to shreds. There’s only the black water yawning wide, jagged rocks slick with foam—until Sukuna dives down, his wings folded tightly. He rockets down the cliff face, plasma sparking in his jaws. You glimpse Satoru’s silhouette against the stars, leaning low in the saddle, eyes locked on you.

The air sears past your skin, the spray of the sea already stinging your face. Claws close around you.

Sukuna’s talons scoop you from the air. The force of it nearly rips the breath from your lungs, but the relief, the sheer surge of it, blinds you more than the wind. He angles upward in a steep climb, wings snapping wide, hauling you clear from the rocks and the ravenous waves.

You’re pressed tightly against his chest, his claws curled just enough to cage you without harm, his scales hot with exertion. Above you, astride the saddle, Satoru twists in his seat, grinning down at you.

“See?” he calls. “Told you. Eighty percent.”

You want to kiss him. You also want to scream. Instead, all you manage is a hoarse, furious, “You’re an idiot!”

Your first kiss with Satoru Gojo occurs because of Sukuna.

Not because you wanted it to. Gods, no. You’d rather have wrestled a Gronckle with one arm tied behind your back than admit you were even remotely tempted by the smirk plastered across Satoru’s stupid face. But Sukuna, traitorous beast that he is, decided that enough was enough.

It starts when the Night Fury refuses to let either of you down. You’re sore from the fight, ribs aching where Yaga had grabbed you, salt still drying and sticking to your skin. You’ve been through enough for one night, and all you want is the ground. Just solid ground beneath your feet.

Sukuna, it seems, has other ideas.

He lands not on the village cliffs, not near the dragon pens, but on the highest bluff overlooking Berk. A windswept place where he knows neither of you can escape quickly. He lowers his head, eyes narrowing with that calculating look he always gets when he’s three steps ahead of everyone else.

You try to slide off the saddle. His tail lashes, blocking your path.

“Really?” you snap, shoving at the scaled wall of muscle. “I’ve had enough for today.”

“He just doesn’t want us to leave,” Satoru supplies. “Can you blame him? We make such a great team.”

You whirl on him. “You nearly got yourself killed.”

“Nearly. Keyword.”

Your teeth grind. The wind snaps your hair into your eyes, the sea growls far below, and Satoru is—well, Satoru. All flippant grins and infuriating calm, as if Yaga’s betrayal, the trappers, the near loss of Sukuna, none of it left so much as a scratch on his spirit.

You jab a finger at his chest. “You think this is funny? You were gagged and tied and—”

“—and you swooped in and saved me,” he says. “Admit it, you couldn’t stand to see me suffer.”

“You—” you splutter. “I— That’s not—”

Sukuna rumbles, wings settling around you both like a barricade. His eyes gleam faintly in the dark, twin garnets pinning you where you sit. You realise too late: he’s cornered you.

Satoru tilts his head. “You hear that? He’s saying we should kiss and make up.”

“He is not,” you say flatly.

“He definitely is,” Satoru insists. He leans in just slightly, enough to test the boundaries, enough for your heart to betray you by stumbling over itself. “C’mon. Wouldn’t want to upset him. He’s had a rough day too.”

You glare, but the problem is that Sukuna seems to agree. He nudges the both of you closer with the blunt force of his snout, nearly toppling you into Satoru’s lap. The dragon huffs smoke, satisfied, before curling into the stone and laying his head flat as though to say, Now behave.

You should shove Satoru away. You should storm off, make the climb down the cliffs yourself, risk the dark. Anything but this.

The adrenaline of the fight still thrums through your veins. Your pulse hasn’t slowed since you saw him bound on his knees, blood dripping from his temple, smirking like a madman even then. You remember the feel of the ropes cutting your palms as you freed him, the wild terror that maybe you’d been too late.

Maybe that’s why you don’t shove him away. Maybe that’s why you let him close the distance, why your lips meet his halfway in a kiss that’s less a decision and more a consequence, inevitable as the tide.

It’s clumsy, at first. You’re too angry, he’s too smug. But he softens into it, just a little, and you hate the way the ground seems to tilt under your feet, how the world narrows to salt air and warmth and the reckless promise of him.

When you finally break apart, breathless, Satoru grins like he’s just won a war.

“Knew you liked me,” he says, blue eyes sparkling.

You shove him hard in the shoulder, though your face burns. “That was for Sukuna,” you say.

The dragon rumbles again, smug as any beast can be. Satoru only laughs, tipping his head back, and pulls you in for another kiss.

It’s ecstatic, the feel of Satoru’s tongue lapping at your folds.

His tongue is wet and hot as it laps over the sensitive nerves, and you can feel the way he hums happily as he laps at the juices that drip onto his waiting mouth. You’re sure his face is going to be covered in your slick by the end of this, but it seems like he couldn’t care less, if his moans and groans are any indication. Your fingers tangle in his white strands of hair, gripping hard to keep him where you want him. His arms are wrapped around your legs, keeping them open as he feasts on your cunt. You can see the muscles in his back flexing as he tries to get closer, get deeper, and you can only hold on for dear life, feeling the way he drives you higher and higher towards your orgasm.

Satoru is making a mess of himself, and you know he has a thing for being covered in your slick.

The moment the thought passes through your head, you can’t help the cry that escapes, a full-body shiver wracking through your body. He groans into you, the sound vibrating against your skin, and you feel his tongue move in a way that you know has him spelling his name, over and over again. You tug at his hair, trying to move him, but his arms tighten and he doesn’t budge.

You let out a moan, trying to speak. “Satoru, I—I need you. Inside me. Now.”

He wraps his lips around your clit, sucking harshly. “One more, gorgeous. Give me one more, and then I’m all yours.”

You whine, feeling the heat in your stomach build, and Satoru continues to eat you out. Your back arches off the bed, and you grip his hair tighter. Your thighs start to close around him; he lets go of one of your legs to press two fingers into your heat, pressing right into that spot that has you crying out his name, curling his fingers as his tongue flicks rapidly over your clit. Your body shakes, and you cry out his name, feeling the way your cunt tightens and throbs around his fingers.

Satoru groans, moving his face away from your core and watching as the aftershocks of your orgasm make your body tremble. He pumps his fingers slowly, prolonging your pleasure, and you whine at the sensitivity.

He smiles softly, kissing the inside of your thigh, before removing his fingers, bringing them to his mouth and licking the juices that cover them. He lets out a pleased moan, eyes locked onto yours, and moves to kiss you.

His lips are warm, and you taste yourself on his tongue. It only serves to rile you up more when you feel the way his cock throbs where it presses against your thigh. You raise your legs to wrap them around his hips, and you push him lightly. Satoru moves willingly, letting out a moan as he lies on his back. He grips the sheets in anticipation, watching as you straddle his lap. He groans, feeling the way your cunt settles on his thighs. You smile, running a finger down his chest, and he bucks his hips in response.

You let out a gasp when the tip of his cock rubs against your folds. He moans.

Satoru’s hands grip your hips tightly, and his thumb rubs circles on your skin. You can feel the way he trembles under you. Your hand wraps around his cock, pumping lightly; he whines. You position the tip at your entrance, rubbing it against your clit, and moan.

“Stop teasing,” he groans, and you grin.

“Or what?” you taunt, grinding against his length. “Are you going to punish me, Satoru?”

He growls, hips jerking upwards. You gasp, feeling the tip rub against your folds, catching at your slit, and try to lower yourself. But Satoru tightens his hold, not letting you sink further onto his cock. You glare at him.

“I should,” he says, and suddenly his arms are around you, flipping you onto your back.

He settles between your thighs, his arms framing either side of your head. His hair falls into his eyes, and you can feel his cock brushing against your folds. You move your arms to wrap around his shoulders, nails scratching lightly down his back.

Satoru groans, burying his head in your neck, nipping lightly.

“Fuck,” you breathe out, feeling his hips jerk.

The tip of his cock rubs against your clit again. He lets out a breathless laugh.

“I will,” he responds—only to be interrupted by a loud, keening wail from outside your cottage door.

The sound is so piercing, so demanding, that for a moment you think some villager has wandered into mortal peril right outside your door. But no—no, you recognise that guttural, almost petulant cry. You and Satoru both freeze.

“Was that—” you start.

Another wail, louder this time, rattles the hinges of your cottage, followed by the unmistakable scrape of claws against wood.

Satoru drops his forehead against your collarbone. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

The Night Fury wails again, insistent, tail thudding against the doorframe. You bite back a laugh, half-giddy, half-exasperated, and say, “I think someone wants attention.”

Satoru lifts his head, hair mussed and eyes narrowed. “He’s the worst cockblock in history,” he mutters. “Tell him to go hunt some haddock or terrorise the chickens, or—Gods, literally anything else.”

The next sound isn’t just a wail. It’s a low, mournful croon that slides under your ribs and squeezes. Sukuna isn’t just loud—he’s lonely.

You soften, even as Satoru makes a strangled noise of despair above you. “Satoru…”

“No,” he says, rolling off you onto his back. “No, no, don’t you dare give him those eyes. He doesn’t deserve those eyes. I was right there, gorgeous—right there.”

You’re already tugging your tunic back over your shoulders, laughing despite the ache in your belly. “He’ll tear the cottage down if we don’t.”

Satoru throws an arm over his face, groaning into the crook of his elbow. “I hate him. I actually hate him.”

But when you slip to the door and crack it open, Sukuna is there, his massive head lowered to the threshold, those garnet eyes glowing with expectation. He snorts the moment he sees you, bumping his snout against your chest.

“Alright, alright,” you murmur, your hands automatically smoothing over his warm snout. “Head pats. Happy?”

Sukuna rumbles, pressing harder into your palm. Satoru groans again. “Unbelievable. My dragon just stole my girl. I’m doomed.”

You glance over your shoulder to find him sprawled on the bed, hair a disaster, chest heaving, the blankets thrown over the lower half of his body. He’s sulking. You grin.

“Maybe he just knows when to step in,” you tease, scratching gently at Sukuna’s scales.

“Step in? He barged in.”

Sukuna lets out a little huff and nuzzles harder against your hand.

Satoru groans once more, louder this time, dragging the pillow over his face. “I’m moving out.”

Satoru felt a surge of nausea. His knuckles turned a ghostly white as he gripped the spine of his textbook, the hard edges digging into his palms. "Toru, this is cruel," he said, his voice vibrating with a rare spark of heat. "Even for you. She’s a person, not an assignment you can just delegate because you didn't do the required reading."

Toru’s eyes went flat, the way they did right before he won an argument. He stepped forward, invading Satoru’s personal space, the metaphorical distance between them feeling larger than ever despite their identical height.

"You owe me one, remember? Unless you want me to just text her 'we’re done' and block her number. At least this way, she hears it from a face she knows." Without waiting for an answer, he snatched his signature leather jacket from the bed and tossed it. The heavy, scent-soaked material hit Toru’s chest like a physical blow. "Don't mess it up, brother."

At 2:00 PM, the light filtered through the high, frosted windows in beams, hitting the white surface with a blinding glare of the ice rink.

Satoru’s eyes were screaming. The contacts Toru had forced him to wear were dry and scratchy, a constant reminder that he was currently living a lie. Without his glasses, the world was a smudge. He stumbled slightly on the concrete stairs, his boots clattering too loudly in the hollow space.

Then, the world seemed to sharpen. He saw you.

You were a blur of motion, a shadow spinning in the dead center of the rink. Your headphones were on, sealing you away in a world of rhythm that only you could hear. You moved with a terrifying, disciplined precision, launching into a double axel. For a heartbeat, you were suspended in the air, graceful, lethal before your blade cut back into the ice with a sound like a diamond scratching glass.

You carved a wide, elegant arc across the ice, surging toward the barrier. You stopped inches from the wood, the spray of ice crystals hitting the toes of his shoes like tiny diamonds. You pulled your headphones down, letting them rest around your neck.

Your gaze was a cold, sharp sweep. It made Satoru feel like a specimen under a microscope. He tried to adjust the leather jacket, tried to channel Toru’s arrogant stance, the way his brother leaned against walls as if he owned the building.

"What are you doing here, Satoru?"

The name hit him like a physical strike. His heart did a frantic, uneven dance against his ribs. He hadn't even opened his mouth. He was wearing the jacket, the jewelry, the cologne, he was a perfect physical replica of the man you were dating.

"I... urm..." he stammered, the cocky persona evaporating instantly. "How did you...?"

"Toru doesn't come here," you said, your voice indifferent but sharp as a razor blade. "He finds the cold unflattering. And he certainly doesn't look at me with guilt in his eyes." You leaned against the railing, your eyes narrowing as you took in his trembling hands. "If your brother is too much of a coward to say it himself, then consider the message delivered. Tell him we’re broken up. From this second."

You’d known Toru since freshman year. You knew every inch of his ego. And you knew, within three seconds of seeing this man walk through the door, that the soul behind those blue eyes was much, much softer.

Satoru’s shoulders slumped. The lie was dead before it even started. "I'm sorry," he whispered, looking at his shoes. "I really didn't want to do this. He... he just wouldn't listen."

"Save it," you snapped, turning to skate away. "You weren't going to apologize if I hadn't known."

"No, that’s not true," he called out, his voice cracking with a rare flash of spirit. "I’m still sorry. I hate this. I didn't want to hurt you."

He watched you skate away. Toru had always called you judgemental , but Satoru saw something else, a girl who was fiercely protective of her own time and dignity.

A week later, the world felt as gray as the campus concrete. The meeting with the Dean had been short and devastating. “Academic excellence is a requirement for this scholarship,” she had said. Between the heartbreak and the grueling hours at the rink, your focus had fractured. If you didn’t fix your Physics grade, you wouldn't just lose your spot on the team, you’d lose your future.

That desperation led you to the back of the lecture hall. You waited until the room emptied, leaving only one person behind.

Satoru was methodically packing his bag, sliding his notebooks into his bag with precision. He looked like himself again. The cologne-soaked ghost of Toru was gone, replaced by the boy with the thick, black-rimmed glasses and the soft, oversized hoodie. He looked approachable.

You stepped into his line of sight, blocking the light. "If you were really serious about making it up to me," you said, your voice steadier than you actually felt, "consider this the way. I need a tutor. Specifically for Physics."

Satoru froze, a strap of his bag halfway over his shoulder. He blinked, his eyes appearing huge and startled behind his lenses. For a moment, he just stared at you, his brain seemingly catching up to the fact that you were actually speaking to him.

A soft, betraying pink crawled up his neck and settled in his cheeks. "Tutor you?" he managed to ask, his voice an octave higher than usual.

"I'm at risk of losing my scholarship," you added, leaving no room for him to argue or offer pity. "7:00 PM. The West Wing of the library. Come if you want to." You didn't wait for an "okay." You turned and walked out, feeling his stunned gaze lingering on your back like a physical warmth.

The library was a tomb of hushed whispers. You were tucked into a corner booth, hunched over a textbook, a steaming vanilla mocha sat by your elbow, but it had long since gone cold.

"That's not quite right."

The voice was soft, appearing right by your ear. You hadn't even heard him sit down. Satoru leaned over, he pointed a long, steady finger at your notes.

"Check your constants here," he murmured, his face so close you could see every speck in his blue eyes. "It’s h-bar, not h. If you don't use the reduced Planck constant, your uncertainty principle calculation is going to be off by a factor of 2pi."

You stared at the scribbled numbers, the symbols blurring together. The frustration of last week bubbled up. "I don't understand," you admitted, your voice cracking just a fraction. "None of this makes sense anymore."

And for the next hour, the world narrowed down to the scratching of lead on paper. Satoru was a natural teacher. He didn't get annoyed when you asked for clarification. He noticed the way you tapped your pen against your chin when you were stuck, a small, rhythmic tic.

The library's ventilation kicked on, blowing a draft of icy air across the table. You shivered, pulling your arms tight against your chest.

Suddenly, a weight settled over your shoulders. It was warm and heavy. You looked up to see Satoru standing there in just his graphic t-shirt, having draped his hoodie over you.

"The ventilation here is terrible," he whispered, his ears turning a vivid, brilliant red as he quickly sat back down and avoided your gaze. "And you can't focus if your core temperature is dropping. It’s basic thermodynamics. Energy diverted to maintaining heat is energy taken away from cognitive function."

You looked at the sleeve of the sweater, then at him. You didn't say thank you but you pulled the hoodie tighter, burying your nose in the collar for a fleeting second.

"Listen, I’m still so sorry about earlier," Satoru said, his pen hovering over a diagram. "Toru... he didn't tell me the truth. He described you as someone who... well, someone who wouldn't leave him alone. I was wrong to judge you based on his ego."

You felt a sharp, familiar sting in your chest. You set your mocha down, the plastic lid clicking. "I asked him questions about his day because I thought that’s what people in a relationship did. I didn't realize that caring was the same thing as an interrogation. What's wrong with wanting a boyfriend to show up to his own anniversary dinner?"

Satoru’s pen stopped mid-graph, his voice thick with disbelief.. "He missed your anniversary?"

You looked Satoru in the eye, wanting him to see the hurt Toru had caused. "I sat at that Italian restaurant for two hours on our anniversary while he was at a frat mixer three blocks away. He didn't even text. When I found him, he told me I was being demanding."

"I don't think you're high-maintenance at all. I think Toru just doesn't know how to look at the things that actually matter."

In the weeks that followed, the loud, chaotic frequency of Toru was replaced by the steady, low-humming presence of Satoru. Twice a week, he would wait for you at the rink. He’d be holding a styrofoam cup, the cardboard sleeve damp from the steam.

"Vanilla mocha," he’d say. "Extra shot. You looked like you were losing the war with gravity this morning."

You’d wrap your frozen fingers around the warmth, wondering how Toru hadn't known your favorite drink after three years, yet Satoru had memorized it in a few days.

One night, the library was closed for maintenance, so you were studying in your dorm. The room was a mess of sticky notes and open laptops.

You came out of the bathroom, drying your hands, but froze at the threshold of the room. Satoru was sitting on your bed, his phone pressed to his ear. The volume was up so high that the voice on the other end felt like a physical intrusion in your private space.

“YO! Did you see the video I sent?" Toru’s voice was unmistakable and slurred.. "I'm at this house party. Man, I met these two girls who think I'm a literal sculpture. Anyways, how’s the skater? Did she cry? Please tell me she didn't get snot on my leather jacket. That thing cost more than her skates." The laugh that came made your skin crawl.

Satoru’s head snapped up. His eyes met yours, and in that moment, he looked like he was watching a car crash in slow motion. The blood drained from his face, leaving him pale.

“Uhh... yes, Professor. Yes, I’ll send that lab report soon,” Satoru stammered, his voice trembling as he frantically fumbled for the end call button. His lie was pathetic, a flimsy shield against whatever just happened. 

The silence that followed was suffocating. It was heavy and smelled of the betrayal you thought you had moved past. You didn't scream or react in any way.. You just walked over to the bed, your movements robotic.

“You’re a terrible performer, Satoru,” you said softly. “Both times now. So maybe stop trying to cover for him and just stick to physics.”

Satoru sat rigid in his spot, his phone still gripped tightly in his hand. He looked like he wanted to disappear into the walls. 

You picked up your highlighter, the yellow ink staining the page as you began to work again.

The cafe was a sanctuary of amber light and the comforting smell of coffee. Between them, two vanilla mochas sat like peace offerings, the foam dusted with cinnamon. The steam rose in identical, lazy curls, swirling together in the center of the small table, connecting their separate worlds.

Satoru’s eyes flickered from the drink to her face. For the first time in a while, a soft, genuine tug pulled at the corner of his mouth, a real smile that reached his eyes, crinkling the skin behind his glasses.

“Maybe I ought to give this a try, too,” he murmured, his voice dipping into a warmer register that made the hair on her arms stand up. He took a tentative sip, the sweetness a stark contrast to the bitter black coffee he usually drank to keep himself awake. “I usually stick to the basics, function over form, but clearly, you have superior taste. It’s... actually quite good.”

Satoru traced the rim of his paper cup with his thumb, his expression shifting from guarded composure to something animated and raw as he started talking about his love for gaming.

“It’s not just about the buttons or the graphics,” he said, his voice dropping into that quiet, intense tone people use when they’re sharing a secret they’ve kept locked away. “In a strategy game, the universe is governed by logic. There are rules. If you work hard enough, if you learn the mechanics and account for the variables, you can protect everyone. You can actually win.” He looked down at the table, his fingers stilled. “When I’m deep in a build, I feel like I finally have a grip on the world. It’s a closed system. It’s... satisfactory.”

He looked up suddenly, a self-conscious flush hitting his cheeks as he realized how much he’d revealed. “I probably sound like a total nerd. It’s just a lot of sitting still and overthinking.”

She didn't laugh. Instead, she leaned forward, her hands tracing invisible patterns on the scarred wooden table as if she were marking the ice with her blades. “No, Toru. I get it. It’s about control, isn't it? The world is loud and messy, but your world has a rhythm.” She looked at him, her eyes bright with a sudden, shared understanding. “For me, it’s the exact opposite of sitting still, but the feeling? The feeling is exactly the same.”

“I was seven the first time my mum brought me to the rink,” she said, her voice softening as she drifted into the memory. “I remember stepping through the heavy  doors. The air was so cold it felt like breathing in tiny glass needles. It hurt, but in a way that made me feel awake.”

She closed her eyes for a second, and Toru found himself holding his breath, watching the way the cafe light caught the bridge of her nose.

“But then you push off,” she continued, her hands moving gracefully over the table. “There’s this specific sound, a crisp hiss of steel cutting through ice. In those minutes, the gravity changes. You don't feel like you’re in this world anymore. You’re just... gliding. Freely. No one can reach you there.”

“The expectations, the noise, it all just fades into the background,” she whispered, her smile turning wistful. “When I’m mid-rotation, the world loses its edge. It becomes a blur of colors, and the only thing that’s real is the bite of the skate and the rhythm of my own lungs. It’s the only place I’m actually me, instead of the girl everyone expects me to be.”

Satoru watched her, his own drink forgotten and cooling. He’d seen her in crowded lecture halls, and he’d seen her standing beside his brother like a trophy, but he realized with a jolt of clarity that he had never actually seen her until this second. 

“A blur of colors,” he repeated softly, nodding as if he were memorizing the phrase. “I think I’d like to see that sometime. 

For the first time, the air felt lighter. He listened to her with an intensity that made her feel like the only person in the room, his gaze never wavering, his blue eyes finally steady.

Three weeks later, the afternoon sun cut through the campus windows. Satoru rounded the corner to meet her after her afternoon seminar, but his pace faltered.

There, leaning against the lockers, was a guy from the soccer team. He was a carbon copy of Toru’s brand of charisma, the athletic slouch, the expensive team jacket, and a smirk that suggested he owned the very air people were trying to breathe. He was blocking her path, his shadow sprawling over her like an eclipse.

Satoru’s chest tightened, a physical constriction that made it hard to swallow. He searched her face for discomfort, but she was wearing a small, polite smile.

The sensation that hit him was involuntary. It was a sharp, jagged heat that soured into a hollow ache in the pit of his stomach. Was this jealousy? The thought was terrifying. He had no claim to her. But as he watched the soccer player lean closer, invading her space, Toru felt like he was watching a rare manuscript being handled by someone who couldn't even read.

For a split second, Satoru considered retreating. He could go to the library, hide behind a stack of books, and nurse his bruised ego in the silence he was used to. He wasn't a fighter. He wasn't the guy who won the girl.

Then, she looked up.

Her eyes bypassed the athlete’s smirk entirely and locked onto his. “Satoru!” she called out. Her voice bright and unmistakably relieved.

The hollow ache in Satoru’s chest vanished instantly, replaced by a surge of light. He watched, mesmerized, as she deftly sidestepped the athlete, leaving the guy mid-sentence as she hurried toward him. The soccer player’s brow furrowed, his expression shifting from smug to genuinely baffled as he watched the girl choose the quiet guy with the glasses over him.

Satoru didn’t know what came over him. Maybe it was the lingering heat of jealousy, or maybe it was the way she looked at him like he was a lighthouse. When she reached him, he stepped into her space boldly and pulled her into a short, firm hug.

He could feel the coldness of the hallway air on her jacket and the faint scent of vanilla mocha that always seemed to linger around her.

“Hey,” he said, his voice steadier and deeper than he felt. “Ready to go?”

“Uhh, hi,” she chirped, a soft, beautiful flush creeping up her neck. She stepped back, looking a little dazed, before turning to lead the way toward the library.

Satoru glanced back over his shoulder. The soccer player was still standing there, jaw clenched, looking like a man who had just realized he’d lost a game he didn't even know he was playing. Satoru felt a dizzying, giddy sense of triumph as he turned back to her and matched her stride.

The kitchen of Satoru’s shared apartment with Toru was a battlefield of flour, steam, and Shoko’s cigarette smoke drifting in from the open window. Suguru Geto, ever since he found out Satoru was tutoring you, decided you all needed to have a bonding day and that a homemade meal was the only cure for stress. He was currently leaning against the fridge, a smirk playing on his lips as he watched Satoru meticulously dice carrots into perfectly equal cubes.

"You're prepping dinner, Satoru, not performing surgery," Suguru teased, his voice full of mischief.

"Precision matters, Suguru." Satoru muttered, though his ears were pink.

Because the kitchen was designed for two people and currently held four, the counter space was limited. You found yourself squeezed into the corner with Satoru, your shoulder pressed firmly against his. There was only one large cutting board left, forcing you both to share the wooden surface. Every time you reached for a potato, your hand brushed against his. The contact was brief, a flicker of skin against skin, but it sent a jolt through you that had nothing to do with the heat of the stove. Satoru shifted his weight, making more room for you, his presence a steady hum at your side.

From her perch on the counter, Shoko  took a long drag of her cigarette, careful to blow the smoke outside and squinted at the two of you through her tired eyes. She traded a knowing, silent look with Suguru. The kind of look that said 'Look at these two idiots.'

"So," Shoko started, her voice lazy. "Is the genius here actually teaching you anything? Or is he just reciting the laws of motion until you fall asleep?"

"He's a great teacher," you said, not looking up from your work, though you could feel the heat rising in your face. "He makes the complicated stuff feel... simple."

Satoru’s knife stopped moving. He stared intensely at a carrot, his face darkening into a deep, unmistakable crimson.

"Oh, he's definitely dedicated," Suguru chimed in, his eyes glinting with a predatory kind of amusement. "I don't think I've ever heard Satoru talk about 'maximum penetration depth' with quite so much... passion. It’s all he’s been focused on for weeks."

Satoru cleared his throat loudly, the sound a bit strangled. He knew exactly what Suguru was implying. 

The heavy ceramic pot on the stove suddenly hissed, the broth bubbling up and threatening to spill over the sides. In a flash of shared instinct, both you and Satoru reached for the lid.

Your hands met squarely over the steam-slicked handle. His palm was large and warm, completely covering yours. The world seemed to stall. The sound of Suguru’s laughter and the clink of Shoko’s lighter faded into white noise. You didn't pull away and neither did he. You stood there in the steam, connected by a pot of soup and a feeling that was becoming too big to ignore.

Satoru’s gaze flickered down to your joined hands, his chest rising and falling in a ragged breath.

"I've got it," he whispered, his voice vibrating in the small space between you.

As you finally pulled back, your heart hammering against your ribs, you caught Shoko smirking into her drink. Suguru had started humming a low, annoying tune. The kitchen felt smaller than it had ten minutes ago, the air thick with a new weight that neither of you knew how to put back into the box.

The sky had turned dark by the time you finished your last lecture. The moment you and Toru stepped through the heavy doors of the department building, the clouds finally broke. 

"The new cafe is five blocks away," you said, watching the water bounce off the pavement. "We'll be soaked before we hit the corner."

Satoru looked at the rain, then back at you, his expression unreadable behind the glare of his glasses. "Maybe... you could stay at my dorm," you suggested, "Just until the rain gets lighter. We can study there."

The walk to your dorm was short, but the air between you felt charged, as if the lightning outside had followed you indoors.

The dorm room was small, making his presence feel twice as large. You were sitting side-by-side at your desk, the drumming of the rain against the window providing the only soundtrack. Satoru leaned over to point out a complex line of text in the textbook and his hand brushed against yours.

Usually, he would pull away instantly. But today, he stayed. His skin was warm, and you could feel the slight tremor in his fingers. The room felt suddenly stiflingly hot, the tension from the kitchen with Suguru and Shoko still hanging over you.

As he began to explain a diagram, you leaned in closer, close enough to catch the scent of clean laundry. He could clearly smell your perfume and the closeness  seemed to short-circuit his brain. His voice faltered, then stopped altogether. The silence that followed was heavy, vibrating with everything neither of you was saying. Slowly, Satoru set his pen down on the open book.

"Are you going to finish the explanation?" you whispered, your voice barely audible over the storm outside.

Satoru turned his head. His blue eyes were dark, focused entirely on your mouth. "I can’t... I can't right now: he admitted, his voice rough.

He reached out, his hand trembling as he tucked a stray strand of hair behind your ear. His fingers lingered, tracing the line of your jaw making your breath hitch. When you finally leaned in, the kiss started off slow, a tentative exploration of lips, testing the waters to see if the other would pull away.

But when you pressed closer, the spark ignited. The kiss grew deeper, hungrier. Satoru pulled back just long enough to rip his glasses off his face, tossing them blindly onto the desk, before crashing back into you with a desperate kind of intensity.

Satoru’s hands, which were usually so steady, were shaking as they found your waist. In one sharp, decisive motion, he pulled you off your chair and onto his lap.

The air left your lungs as you straddled him, your knees hooking on either side of his chair. The sudden weight of you seemed to break whatever remained of his composure. His head was thrown back, the sharp line of his throat exposed as he let out a jagged, broken moan that you never thought you’d hear from the quiet Satoru.

His eyes were blown wide, his pupils dilated until they almost entirely swallowed his irises, leaving only a thin ring of blue. He looked shattered, almost as if his logical brain couldn't compute how the dry friction of denim on denim could ignite a reaction this good.

Satoru’s breath hitched, a jagged sound in the quiet of the room. He began to heave upward against you, his movements desperate and uncoordinated. Every time his hips met yours, the rough, heavy fabric of your jeans created a searing, electric heat that made your toes curl. You needed that pressure, you needed the grounding weight of him as the world began to blur at the edges.

You were shaking in his arms, your fingers digging into the muscle of his biceps as your forehead pressed against his. The only sounds in the room were the frantic, uneven gasps for air.

Driven by a sudden need, you gripped his shoulders tight and leaned in to crush your mouth against his again. This time, there was no hesitation. The kiss was messy, desperate and loud, filled with the small whimpers and guttural groans that neither of you could hold back anymore.

"I can't—" Satoru gasped, the words breaking off into a sharp, pained hiss as you shifted your weight against him again.

He buried his face in the sensitive crook of your neck, his hot breath ghosting over your skin before his teeth grazed you. His hands, large locked onto your hips, his knuckles white as he pulled you flush against him making your back arch, forcing a faster, more frantic pace.

“S-Satoru…” you gasped, your voice breaking as a wave of heat finally crashed over you. Your body shuddered violently, your strength failing as you slumped against his chest.

Not a second later, a low, broken groan ripped from deep in his throat. His grip on your hips tightened until it was almost bruising, pinning you to him as he finally came apart. He let his forehead fall heavily against yours, both of you trapped in a haze of adrenaline, the air between you thick with the sound of your shared, burning breaths.

notes: divider credits: @sisterlucifergraphics Pic from pinterest!

the grass swayed in the gentle soft caress of the wind. it moved like a whispered prayer. his golden eyes swept across the familiar stretch of fields. the field stretched beneath the clear skies. the field was lush and green with wildflowers with an array of vibrant colours. ipê trees were a beautiful shade of yellow. softer than his eyes. but he could not help but reminisce his past. his mother… his father. he took in a deep breath. the air tasted warm somehow. there was even a faint lingering taste of coffee from such a distant. he was a monster. much different from the humans. he had never belonged anywhere amongst the humans… however in this field… this small handful of light and stillness… had once had been theirs. and for a quiet a moment, his ears twitched. hearing footsteps but his nose had picked up a familiar scent that had his heart blossom. there you were. impossibly there… beautiful like the day you saved him and rose… columbina. he remembered that day like he could retell every minuscule detail of that perfect day.

your smile so radiant that it was so bright sometimes… however, even if he were to ever go blind, he would gladly if he could seared your smile in his memory. you stood at the centre. you were not fully turned away from him. your shoulders loose and relaxed. wearing the same cotton shirt. but you were somehow barefoot. dirty frelimo the soil. the way you shifted your weight every once in a while. or how you would tilt your head as you inspect things… something he had memorised across the the time he had memorised. it felt like he had known you for decades. and he couldn’t move… he was simply paralysed. watching you so idly there. so beautiful. so warm. so colourful… so alive. then you had finally turned towards him. and his breath hitched. your face was exactly how he remembered it. it was not a blur that faded at the edges. or some static noise… down to every small little scar to the way your smile.

❝ topaz ❞ you called out to him. the name you had given to him. a name that had became a treasure in itself. and he only ached to hear you say it. ❝ i have a question ❞ you asked. he moved close. closing the distance between the both of you. wanting to feel how real you were. the solid fact that you were breathing in the same space as him. he felt something deep inside him was telling him to stop. to hold himself back. because the fragility of the light… like… like then… but he couldn’t stop himself. he just needed to feel you. to touch you. ❝ would you love me… ❞ you had tilted your head with that familiar gesture that he had memorised. ❝ if i were a worm? ❞ you asked. the question was so absurd. stupid. confusing. it was so whimsical while holding a hint of insecurity. something so human. and you asked him would he still love you if you were a worm… you who had looked and seen his monstrous form and see a home. see safety… not something terrifying. something that was worth loving and caring. and you were asking this?

you had asked him if he would love you… in the smallest yet fragile version of yourself. as if love was something that can be measured and withdrawn. ❛ foolish ❜ he thought to himself. ❛ so utterly foolish ❜ because he already knew the answer. ❝ i would love you ❞ he said. and his words felt like truth… the first truth he had spoken in so long. he took in a deep breath. his claws clutching at his chest. ❝ i would love you if you were a worm in the earth, blind and small. ❞ he stepped closer towards you. his hands yearned to hold you. ❝ i would love you if you were rain that cascades and drips on the ground and soil… here and then gone ❞ his voice seem to grow strain. his eyes seem to hold onto your silhouette with a desperation that he saw in himself. ❝ every single version of you ❞ he continued. his voice breaking down on every syllable. ❝ is worth every once of love i possess. every iteration. every shape. every form you have ever worn or will ever wear. ❞ his voice shook now. ❝ you as a worm. you as a memory. you as dust ❞ his hands shook, as he was so close.

❝ you as gone ❞ he croaked. it was when the light hit off your figure just wrong. it was so subtle but he noticed it. he could feel like it was a wound that was horribly stitched… reopening once more. the surroundings started to lose its colour. your figure that was so solid, beloved…. so real… began to soften around the edges. as though you were not made of flesh and blood. but a haze you would only see from the warm earth at dusk. ❝ no ❞ his voice cried out. his hands trying to grasp you in his arms. pulling you close. ❝ no, please. not again ❞ he cried. his face crumbled. his heart was crumbling so loudly. as his hands grasped at nothing at air. like a cloud that dispersed in his arms. he turned to look at you. as you held his gaze. your smile had gentled into something sorrowful. you tried to say something to him. bur your voice started to dissolve… becoming one with the rustle of the grass. becoming one with the distant cry of a bird.

the field slowly starts to dissolve. as he stood there. feeling the world caves and he stood there, his hands twitched and ached. the world was crumbling around him, everything felt like static. he closed his eyes. letting out a wet sob. his shoulders shook. as the world around him became dark once more. leaving him alone in the spiral of his heavy emotions that consumed him and kept him in grief’s sharp strong jaws.

then his eyes snapped open. his face was damp. his wet eyes opened to the darkness. the ceiling of the trailer. it was morning. the air was different from the fresh air of the field. it carried the sweetness of sugar but not the same one that was carried from distant trade. there was no ipê trees. no wildflowers. no high grass. no clear skies. there was no… you. the weight of it settled into him slowly. it had all been a dream. all of it. the field. the light. the question. the answer he had meant with every single fibre in his being… it was nothing more than the cruelty of the mind. however, he knew that the loss was not a dream. the loss was something that had happened. you had long gone for awhile now. years. long enough that the earth no longer remembered the shape of you. he tried his best to close his eyes again. attempt not to move. wondering if he had stayed very still if he had concentrated hard enough… that he can find his way back to that field where you stood.

back to you. where you were solid, alive and breathing. that you would turn towards him, beaming like the sun you were. where the answer would be on his lips forever. yet he waited. and sleep did not come easily. he laid on his bed. his hands reached to his head. rubbing the tears away. before finally he had pushed himself up. feeling the emptiness lingering in his chest. his back hunched. his head hung low. as he stared at his hands, his claws. another day once more. the schedule he had memorised the night prior when ticket taker had given to him. pierrot was supposed to be handing out fliers alongside harlequin today… and he… did not want to do it. not finding the motivation. but knowing he had to. he had to do something to get his mind off of things.

so he chose to weep. great. heavily. shaking. they were soundless sobs that shook his enormous frame. wondering why must his dreams be so sweet yet so cruel to him. pierrot’s hands clutched at his chest with a deep to feel something warm again.

——————————————————————————

the day continued in a rhythm that he was so familiar to. the injuries he had sustained this morning had easily patched up quickly. humans again. just like what jester had said, humans did not love. how they are not kind. how they were all monsters who crave to see others in pain, to see others humiliated. how they all took pleasure in hurting each other. though when he remembered how jester had said those words. he seem to always twirl his hair between his hair. like he was remembering something. like there was one person aside from him and ticket taker was given the chance to get as close to his hair. them. they were different. he knew jester would never mean them. never them. rubbing at his cheek. even when the pain had long faded now, it had this lingering sensation that he had grown to get used to. the silent pierrot was quiet. his mind was long elsewhere once more.

today was a strange day. his sleep. his dreams were usually always so… quiet. empty almost. like there was nothing to truly dream about. unless it was the same nightmare. the taste of blood and salt… of acidic bile lingering in the back of his throat. the sensation of crushing bone that vibrate along his jaw. he closed his eyes. covering his mouth. remembering the words. ❛ don’t . waste . them ❜ harlequin had said those words. while he shoved torn flesh into his mouth, even when he felt ill. even when all he can taste was salt and blood. it was at that moment, he remembered how sickening it felt to eat someone you cared about. someone you love that you could not enjoy the nourishment that was supposed to aid in their recovery. he remembered how soon enough, his own mind went blank. the awful fact of blood… of how wet it was. the way it dried on his palms. how bits of flesh and blood caked beneath his claws. he had experienced another grief that hollowed him out…

even now, while the whole circus was at full swing. he was in the motion. the dream had been clear cut and felt an extreme whiplash that had him still dazed. the entire day, he was in a complete daze. ❛ clumsy ❜ he remembered harlequin teased at him. and he was too mentally exhausted that he couldn’t really make a comment. while he idly floating around. even when his own performance was going to start eventually. soon after columbina’s performance. a strict schedule he had to follow. he needed silence. he always did. yet he could not truly escape the noise. the meaningless chatter of the circus goers. the laughter. the whispers. it made his mind feel like static. just as he had rounded the corner a little too quickly. his mind was elsewhere, trying to reminisce on the smell of ipê, coffee beans… the scent of soap… on the very laughter he believed he could still hear if he stood still enough. that was when he had collided against someone. making him stumble. usually he wasn’t so… fleeting to be easily pushed. he had once again collapsed backwards, questioning how many times would he be pushed today.

his eyes flickered with irritation. human. he couldn’t even speak. ❝ i am sorry… are you okay? ❞ it was the voice that hit him. not the pitch. it was not the tone. but it was the shape of it. of how it curved around the question. of the way it cared… nearly the same words. his golden gaze slowly lift from the ground. then he saw the figure. you. the world somehow tilted in its axis. not some gentle gradual slide. it was a violent one. like the rug beneath him had been yanked him sideways. leaving him in between the terrible and the impossible. all he can do to answer your question was how his breath only hitched. while he took in the sight of an unfamiliar yet familiar person. it felt like the world had stopped.

it was the furrow of the brows. the faint lines like a ghost of old worries. the tiredness beneath those eyes. bags that spoke of too many burdens carried, too many late nights… the strain across their shoulders, as if the weight of the world had settled there and never left. yet it was that meek smile that was targeted towards him. it was them. it had to be them. standing here in between the tents that whispered of true horrors that would make any ordinary human frozen in fear. you were looking at him with the same expression that mirrored that day. the taste of a bitter brigadeiro, it was a ghost, a phantom linger upon his taste buds. his breath was caught. his chest seized. and he was unable to truly respond. even when you had reiterated your question. but your voice felt so far away now. like the sound of the dum of his heart beat was all he can hear. his hands, his claws, covered in gloves hung useless at his sides. he felt like he was seeing a ghost.

he opened his mouth. ready to rasp something. but he stopped. the rule. but he gulped. he could not utter a word. not now. not yet. ❛ this is not possible… no… this is not…. ❜ the rational part of him whispered. but the rational part had grown very small and very quiet over the century…. that it was easy to ignore. because what he saw was not a strange. what he saw was them. ██████… no… they never liked it when people called them that… his treasure. every little quirk, every little thing he remembered in his fuzzy memory… this had to be them. his hands couldn’t help but tremble. he could hear that you were speaking but his mind was not registering. he could not hear the words. only watch the way you spoke. it was a familiar cadence. but the rhythm of their speech was wrong. the voice was wrong… everything should be wrong. but their concern was perfect. it was right.

their eyes was different. he can see that. but the way it carried, it was the same of his beloved. it truly didn’t matter that it was different. he tried to speak. but with the eyes in the shadows. yet he tried to form words. but nothing truly came out. only a small strangled sound finally tore from his throat. a whimper. the sound of something so broken… so wounded. ❛ it’s you ❜ was all he could think. it was not a possibility. it was a fact. a truth that bypassed logic. reason. all evidence. the stranger in front of him, you… was them. returned somehow. reborn. reassembled different. like the universe had finally taken pity of him and his family. however… deep inside… he knew it was madness. that the desperate hope. he knew. the face was not right. the height was different. their hands that they always washed was not their hands. these hands were the hands of a stranger.

but his irrationality, his desperation was trying to search. the way how your shoulders were always tensed and strained. it was the same way the stranger stood the same way, the same tension. his rationality and his need for hope were at odds with one another. fighting. struggling. because how could it be possible. that this stranger was them. and the answer, that pierrot had believed in, was that this was not chance. it had to be them. it had to be. desperation was a physical sensation. he had lived already too ling without them. a century may be short. but it felt longer than that. it felt like days had blurred into centuries than decades. he had slowly pushed himself up with ease. the way this stranger was looking at him now was enough. it was just enough. he was drinking in the image of this stranger. you. he stared. matching. reinterpreting. maybe in his dream, it was telling him something maybe their soul had chosen a different body this time. but in the end of the day, the soul was the same. his beloved could change. he had changed. his family had changed.

❝ i… i have to go… my friend is waiting for me ❞ you finally spoke. feeling uncomfortable under his gaze. wondering if he was scrutinising you. ❛ don’t go ❜ he thought. as the words were screaming. screeching for himself to stop. ❛ please don’t go. it has been so lonely. it has been so cold… i have been so cold for so long. i can’t do it after see you. please stay. please let me look at you always… let me follow you. let me finally protect you. please let me ❜ as he watched you smiled, giving him a nod. his gaze watched you walk away… walk to the direction of the red tent. ❛ yes. meu tesouro is visiting my tent ❜ the obsession seem to rooted in the foundation of the tall pierrot. but it was just a seedling. and now the sun, the rain had finally came. it had grown voraciously. he needed you. he smiled. giving you a wave. his smile was a mixture of so much. small. shattered. broken. desperate. and unbearably hopeful. even when his rational mind was uttering how it was not them. he chose not to listen.

❛ i found you ❜

you had managed to stray away from that red clad clown? he was wearing jester hat. you were confused as you had temporarily separated from your friend. after they had announced they were going to the red tent. which was quite traitorous due to you were still recovering after the pink tent. before your friend had ran to the toilet. but you kept an eye on the toilet. almost like you were watching. making sure. waiting outside the red tent that was preparing itself… physical acts again. perhaps your friend means well… get the bad stuff out of the way first before… going for more easier… performances. you could not help but sigh softly. waiting.

——————————————————————————

UHHH MISTAKE IS THAT I REALISED I HAVE NOT DRAWN AND HAVE LIL TO NO EXAMPLES. so you gotta trust on me with the little examples i have! SOME ARE SLIGHTLY OLD ART 😭

first pull examples

second pull examples

third pull examples

fourth & fifth pull examples

Satoru Gojo rose from the car like he was starring in a shampoo commercial sponsored by daddy issues. That trademark smirk—the kind that dissolved morals and common sense—was already plastered across his face.

In the backseat, Suguru Geto and Shoko Ieiri were laughing like they’d just committed arson and gotten away with it. Honestly? Probably had.

Satoru wore sunglasses indoors and outdoors and probably in the shower too. His platinum-blond hair was perfectly tousled, defying both gravity and basic humility. The way girls looked at him as he parked? Like someone had just unleashed a boy band on school grounds.

And then, because life is unfair, he stepped out and adjusted his black cap, giving Suguru and Shoko that smug little look—the one that said yes, I’m aware I’m the main character and yes, you’re welcome.

Satoru freaking Gojo (yes, that's his middle name from now on), the school's resident heartthrob and menace, strutted across the parking lot like he was auditioning for Grease 2: The Unbearable Ego. His loose white tank top hung just enough to show off his abs and that ridiculous rib tattoo that read Don’t tickle.

Suguru and Shoko? The school’s official agents of mischief.

Monday mornings were basically disaster roulette—would it be glitter bombs or superglued chalk again? Suguru was on a lifelong mission to give every teacher an early retirement, while Shoko aimed for maximum mess with minimum remorse.

Today, Suguru wore an unbuttoned black shirt over a gray tee, looking like he just stepped off the set of a brooding teen drama. Shoko was rocking a checkered shirt and a black denim skirt like she hadn’t just flooded the chemistry lab last week.

Icons, both of them.

You watched them approach, and—oh joy—Satoru's eyes locked onto yours like he had no other purpose in life than to ruin your day. His smirk stretched like he was already planning something illegal.

He stopped right in front of you and did the whole lean in, block your escape routine like this was some rom-com and not your personal nightmare.

“See something you like, Y/N?”

You didn’t even blink. “Actually, yeah.” You snatched his cap straight off his head and plopped it on yours. “Mine now. Thanks, accessory boy.”

He licked his lips like that was supposed to be seductive and not deeply concerning. “I don’t mind at all. Can I take this, then?”

His fingers hooked your bra strap, tugging like a child about to get smacked.

You flicked him in the forehead like the disappointment he was. “Try it and I’ll file a harassment report so fast your sunglasses will sue for emotional damage. Now walk, disaster.”

He laughed, teeth blinding enough to be a public hazard. “Lead the way, babe.”

“Hello? Are we just extras now?” Suguru called out from behind, sounding personally offended.

“To be fair, you are next to me,” Satoru said with a shrug, slinging his arm around your shoulders like it was part of your anatomy.

You rolled your eyes so hard you practically saw 2003. “No, you’re not extras,” you told Suguru and Shoko. “How was the party? Any near-death experiences or just the usual hormonal chaos?”

The two exchanged a look that said we know things. Then Suguru said, “Gojo got lucky. Twice. Rumor has it, there was a third involved. Simultaneously.”

You blinked. “Like… a ménage à dumbass?”

“I call bullshit,” Shoko said, coughing into her hand. “No way you rode the tricycle, Gojo.”

Satoru laughed like he was proud of the alleged war crime. “What can I say? Two birds, one extremely attractive stone.”

You punched him lightly in the chest. “You are the reason aliens won’t visit us.”

“You’re just jealous,” he said with a raised brow, grinning like a villain. “Just say the word, Y/N. I’ll give you the deluxe experience.”

“Say one more thing and I’ll revoke your flirting license. Turn down the sextalk, Captain Cringe.”

He grabbed the cap off your head and popped it back on like it hadn’t just been touched by your superior aura. “Relax, I’m just teasing. What’s our first class again?”

“Biology,” you said, trudging toward the school building while girls all around you sent Satoru wistful stares like he was some rare breed of puppy they couldn’t afford.

“Sweet,” Satoru said. “I could use some hands-on learning.”

You didn’t dignify that with a response.

“Oh, and I heard from Mei Mei,” you added. “Her dad’s throwing a quiz at us today. Probably because she got caught making out with Atsuya Kusakabe yesterday.”

Satoru snorted. “Glad to hear Mei Mei's spreading more than just her legs. Her dad’s probably traumatized.”

You laughed, covering your mouth. “Tragic. Prayers to his eyes.”

“You wanna know what’s even more tragic?” Satoru smirked as you stepped into Biology class. “I smashed that three weeks ago.”

You stopped in your tracks, looked him dead in the eye, and said, “...Congratulations. You’ve successfully lowered my standards even further.”