Me Coming Home After Another Unsucseful Date To A House Filled With Cats And Crushes On Fictional Characters

(y/n), (y/n), (y/n), (y/n)

I'm begging of you please don't take my man

stardust

summary: raised in a village on the kingdom’s outskirts, you’ve always dreamed of seeing the annual lantern festival in the capital. when you unwittingly help a thief on the run—gojo satoru—he agrees to take you there as repayment. what starts off as a simple deal soon pulls you into a conspiracy that ties back to the crown—and to satoru’s past.

⇢ pairing: thief/flynn rider!gojo satoru x fem!reader ⇢ contains: romance, angst, smut (oral sex, unprotected sex, loss of virginity), slowburn, action, tangled au, debatable attempts at comedy, profanity, inaccurate depictions of horse-riding, mentions of poison and murder, violence that comes with daggers/swords/frying pans—please let me know if i’ve missed anything! ⇢ word count: 31k ⇢ playlist: “you broke my smolder” ⇢ art credit: _3aem | read on ao3 here.

It turns out that blackmailing a wanted criminal is much harder than it seems.

For one, he does not take you seriously. Not even a little.

“Oh no,” Satoru says, eyes wide with feigned horror. “You’re going to turn me in? Me? The helpless victim in all of this?” He clutches his chest, staggering back as if he’s been struck. “What a cruel, coldhearted thing to do to the man whose life you just heroically saved.”

“You’re only saying that because you know I have the upper hand,” you deadpan.

“Details, details,” he says, waving a hand. “But let’s be real here, sweetheart. If you were really going to call the guards—after you rescued me from the aforementioned guards—you’d have done it by now.”

You stiffen. He grins, slow and knowing. “Ah,” he says, tapping his temple. “See, that’s the problem, isn’t it? You’re bluffing.”

“I am not bluffing,” you insist, even as your grip tightens around your satchel.

Satoru’s grin only grows. He takes a step closer, like a cat toying with its prey. “Oh?”

You plant your feet firmly, refusing to back down. “Oh, indeed.”

Then—so fast you almost don’t register it—he lunges. With a startled yelp, you whirl away, narrowly dodging his grasp as he reaches for the satchel. Satoru lets out a low whistle. “Not bad,” he muses. “You’ve got quick reflexes.”

You clutch the satchel to your chest. “You’re just predictable.”

Satoru places a hand over his chest and gasps. “Predictable? Me?” He scoffs. “Sweetheart, I am many things—charming, intelligent, devastatingly handsome—but predictable is not one of them.”

“Fine.” You roll your eyes. “If you want the crown back so badly, then take it,” you say, and before he can react, you pivot on your heel and sprint. 

“Whoa, hey—”

You dart through the trees, leaping over gnarly roots and weaving through the underbrush, legs burning as you push forward. The satchel bounces against your side. The village is close—if you can just make it past the ridge, maybe you can—

A hand catches your wrist. You’re being spun; the world tilts, and your back slams into something solid. Your breath is knocked out of your lungs with a sharp gasp.

Gojo Satoru—the most wanted man in the entire kingdom—looms over you. His palm is pressed flat against the trunk of the tree behind your head, trapping you in place. He’s not even out of breath. His hair is a mess of white strands, a few falling over his forehead, and his eyes—those ridiculous, celestial blue eyes—are twinkling with delight.

“Well,” he drawls, “that was fun.”

You glare up at him. “Let go.”

“Mm.” Satoru taps his chin, considering. “Nah.”

“Gojo.”

“Say please.”

You shove at his chest, but he doesn’t budge. At all. He’s all lean muscle beneath his clothes, far sturdier than his lanky frame would suggest. You grit your teeth. “You are the worst.”

“And you,” he says, patting the tip of your nose, “are terrible at making threats.”

You open your mouth to retort, only to clamp it shut immediately after. Hoofbeats. Both of you freeze. They’re distant at first, then grow louder, thundering against the dirt path. Your stomach twists. The guards are back.

Satoru doesn’t hesitate. One second he’s in front of you; the next, he’s sweeping you into his arms like you weigh nothing and hauling you away from the side of the path, diving into the thick of the trees.

“What—? Put me—”

“Shhh.” He claps a hand over your mouth, pressing you against the trunk of an enormous oak, both of you half-hidden behind the tree. Your heart pounds. You can see the riders now, their armour glinting under the early morning sun. Their voices carry over the rustling of the leaves, and you hold your breath.

Satoru does too, though you doubt it’s out of fear. No, he looks entirely at ease, a smirk tugging on his lips as he watches the guards ride past, none the wiser. Just as quickly as they arrived, they’re gone. The silence stretches.

Finally, Satoru leans in, his breath warm against your ear. “You’re welcome.”

You bite his hand.

“Yowza!” He jerks back, cradling his hand like you’ve just inflicted a mortal wound upon the limb. “Did you just—”

“Yes,” you say primly, straightening out your tunic. “And I’ll do it again if I must.”

Satoru gapes at you, then lets out a laugh, wild and unrestrained. “Oh,” he breathes, shaking his head. “Oh, I like you.”

“Great,” you say. “So you’ll take me to the capital?”

His laughter dies. You smile sweetly at him. 

Satoru groans, dragging a hand through his hair. “Unbelievable,” he mutters, mostly to himself. His head tips back against the tree, and for a moment, he just stands there with his eyes closed, as though he’s bargaining with the gods to give him the virtue of patience which he so clearly lacks. “I just saved your life.”

“I saved yours first.”

He pinches the bridge of his nose. “You are so lucky you’re cute.”

“I—” Your cheeks burn despite yourself.

“Not that lucky, though,” he interrupts, dropping his hand and fixing you with an almost pitying look. “Because if you think I’m actually going to drag you with me all the way to the capital just because you swiped a little trinket from me, you’re out of your mind.”

Your momentary victory screeches to a halt. “What?”

“You heard me.” He straightens, stretching his arms above his head. “I’m not taking you anywhere.”

“But you just said—”

“I just humoured you. Big difference.”

Your mouth opens, then shuts, then opens again. You ball your hands into fists at your sides. “You promised.”

“I lied.”

“Gojo!”

He grins, wholly unrepentant, and takes a step back. “C’mon, sweetheart. You didn’t actually think that was going to work, did you?” He tuts, shaking his head. “Cute and naïve. What a dangerous combination.”

Frustration coils in your chest. You take a deep breath. “Alright,” you say, almost calm. “Then I’ll just go to the guards right now, and—”

“No, you won’t,” Satoru says, raising a single finger.

Your nostrils flare. “And why won’t I?”

“Because I just saved your life,” he says, enunciating each word as though you’re a particularly slow barn animal. “Which means, at the very least, I deserve some gratitude.”

Your jaw drops. “Gratitude?”

“That’s right.”

“We’re even!” you sputter. “I saved you first!”

“Semantics. Point is, I was heroic, you were impressed, and now you can return my crown to me and we can go our separate ways.” He winks. “Sounds good?” 

“That—” You stare at him, incredulous. “That is the exact opposite of good.”

“Hm. Sounds like a you problem.”

Your grip on the satchel tightens. “Fine,” you say through gritted teeth. “Then I’ll—”

Before you can finish, he’s already moving. Fast—too fast. You barely register the blur of motion before his hand is dipping into the satchel, fingers brushing against the cool metal of the crown. Panic flares. You react without thinking.

Your hands snap out, grabbing his wrist before he can pull away. He pauses, blinking down at you, startled—because somehow, despite his speed, despite the way he should’ve been able to snatch the crown before you noticed and vanish into the trees—he hadn’t accounted for you actually stopping him. 

Both of you freeze. Then, in an utterly ridiculous, ungraceful tangle of limbs you both go crashing to the ground. The satchel slips from your grasp, tumbling into the dirt. The crown spills out, gleaming in the morning light. It’s a glittering band of gold inlaid with the sort of precious stones and gems you’ve only ever heard about. A string of words, written in a curling handwriting, are etched into the inside of the crown’s band. You blink against the glare. Satoru lands half on top of you, his weight pressing you into the earth.

Satoru is heavy. Not overwhelmingly so, but enough that you’re acutely aware of every point of contact; the solid warmth of his torso against yours, the way his arm is braced beside your head, keeping his weight from crushing you fully.

And, unfortunately, he seems just as aware. A slow, amused smile curls at the edges of his lips as he props himself up on his elbows, peering down at you with those ocean-bright eyes. “My, oh, my,” he muses, low and amused. “How terribly forward of you.”

Your face heats up. “Get. Off.”

He doesn’t. Instead, his gaze flickers to the crown lying in the dirt beside you, just out of reach. His smile widens. You see the moment he decides to go for it. Unfortunately for him, you’ve already decided first.

With a grunt, you knee him in the stomach. Satoru wheezes. You wriggle out from beneath him just as he recoils, scrambling for the crown. Your fingers barely skim against the metal—but before you can grab it, the thief lunges forward and tackles you again. There is no grace to it this time. You wrestle in the dirt like two absolute idiots, rolling, kicking, twisting in a desperate scramble for control. He’s stronger, but you’re determined, and maybe just a little feral at this point. 

“Would you quit it?” Satoru grunts, narrowly dodging an elbow to the ribs. 

“Not until you help me!”

“I told you—”

You shove your palm against his face. Satoru lets out an indignant noise, muffled by your hand. You take advantage of his momentary distraction and reach out—only for Satoru to grab your wrist and twist, sending you both tumbling again, until—

Somehow—somehow—he ends up pinned beneath you, and this time, you have the crown.

Your fingers tighten around it as you scramble off him and glare down at Satoru. He’s sprawled in the dirt, a mess of leaves clinging to his wind-ruffled hair, and a streak of dirt is smeared across his chin. You’re certain you’re in no better shape; you pull a stray twig out of your hair, and rub away the mud on your cheeks with the back of your hand. He props himself up on his elbows, surveying you.

“Tragic,” he sighs. “I almost had it.”

You twirl the crown between your fingers, letting the jewels catch the light, and let your lips turn upwards in a saccharine smile. “It’s called a hustle, sweetheart.”

The marketplace is settling into a quieter rhythm at this time of the day, the golden light of mid-afternoon casting long shadows upon the cobbled streets. Satoru trudges beside you, his usual confidence replaced with something closer to reluctant resignation. 

He looks utterly put upon, hands stuffed deep in his pockets, lips set in a pout. Every few steps, he kicks at loose pebbles on the road, sending them skittering ahead of him. You’d almost feel bad for him—almost. But then, you remember that this is a man who stole a crown, got caught, and is now bitter because someone played him at his own game. 

The smell of freshly baked bread drifts through the air, warm and inviting, mingling with the sharp scent of spices from a nearby stall. You stop in front of a small bakery, the wooden sign above it swaying slightly in the breeze. Through the open windows, trays of steaming loaves sit behind the counter, their crusts golden brown and crisp.

Satoru watches as you peer through the display, an unimpressed look on his face. “Wonderful,” he says. “I get blackmailed into helping you, and now we have to go grocery shopping. Truly, this is my lucky day.”

“We need supplies if we’re going to travel.” You glance at him, and roll your eyes. “Or do you plan on surviving on pure arrogance alone?”

He sighs dramatically, tossing his head back. “I’ve survived on worse. Once, I survived an entire week on nothing but stolen fruit and the will to be a menace to the commander of the Royal Guard.”

“That explains so much.” Ignoring his indignant huff, you step forward and exchange a few coins for a loaf of bread, still warm from the oven. The baker, a kindly old woman, gives you a small smile as she wraps it in cloth. You thank her and tuck the bundle into your bag. 

Satoru watches this process with the dismay of a man being forced to endure unimaginable hardship. Then, as if suddenly remembering something important, he straightens. “Speaking of which,” he says, tilting his head towards you, “where exactly is my crown?”

“Safe.”

“Where?”

“Hidden,” you say, and flash him a too-sweet smile.

Satoru groans, dragging a hand down his face. “You’re crazy. First, you rob me. Then, you blackmail me. And now, you’ve hidden my prized possession like some kind of—” He gestures vaguely at you, searching for the right words. “Some kind of tiny, feral leprechaun.”

You scoff, crossing your arms. “Think of it as collateral.”

“Oh, sure,” he mutters dryly. “Because trusting the person who stole from me is such a fantastic idea.”

“You stole it first.”

“So you’ve said. The point is, I need that crown.”

“Why?” you ask, raising a brow.

He hesitates, just for a fraction of a second, before flashing you his usual grin—teasing and entirely insincere. “Because it’s mine?”

You snort. “Try again.”

Satoru leans in slightly, lowering his voice as if sharing some grand secret. “What if I told you it holds great sentimental value?”

“I’d tell you to stop lying to my face.”

“Wow,” he says, and then says your name, dragging out the last syllable. “So distrustful.”

You shake your head, adjusting the strap of your satchel. “If you do what you promised, I’ll give it back.”

He studies you, gaze flickering briefly to your satchel, as if he’s considering whether he could swipe it and make a run for it. (Not that it would be of any use, anyway, since you’ve hidden it underneath your mattress in your tiny little cottage.) Instead, he sighs, slouching forward like the weight of the world rests upon his shoulders, and mutters, “This is cruel and unusual punishment.”

“Not my fault you lost,” you sing-song.

“I almost had it,” he whines, but his lips twitch.

“But you didn’t.”

“What do you want to go to the capital for so badly, anyway?” He squints at you. “You’re dragging me halfway across the kingdom, blackmailing me with my own stolen goods, and for what? What could possibly be so important that you’d go through all this trouble?”

You hesitate. It’s not that you’re unwilling to tell him—it’s more that you know exactly how he’ll react. Still, you suppose there’s no avoiding it now. You clear your throat, keeping your gaze ahead as you walk. “I want to see the lantern festival.”

A beat, and then, Satoru stops dead in his tracks. “I’m sorry. What?”

“You heard me,” you grit out, already regretting having said anything.

The thief blinks at you, disbelieving, then throws his head back and laughs. It’s far too loud and obnoxious for your liking.

You whirl on him, scowling. “Stop that!”

“Oh, this is rich.” He wipes at his eye theatrically. “You mean to tell me that all this—” he gestures between the two of you— “was because you want to see some floating lights.”

“They’re not just floating lights,” you snap, folding your arms. “They’re magical.”

Satoru snickers. “Sure they are.”

“They do it in honour of the late queen. And not just anywhere—only in the capital. People travel from all over to see them.”

“Yes, and most people would travel from all over to avoid me, but here you are. Seriously, sweetheart, I thought you were on some grand, noble quest. Some life-or-death mission. But no. You just want to watch some fancy fireworks.”

“Forget it,” you huff, pushing past him. “I don’t need to justify myself to you.”

Satoru falls easily into step with you, still chortling to himself. “No, no, I think this is fantastic. Here I was, thinking you had some deep, tragic backstory—maybe an old lover waiting for you, a family secret, a kingdom to reclaim—but no. You just want to see a festival.”

“I happen to like beautiful things,” you tell him.

He hums. “So you do.”

There’s something in the way he says it that makes your steps falter, but when you glance back at him, his expression is unreadable. You quickly recover, jabbing a finger into his chest. “And don’t act like this is entirely my fault. You’re the one who stole the crown. If you weren’t a criminal, you wouldn’t be in this mess.”

“That’s a very unfair accusation. I am an entrepreneur.”

“You’re a thief.”

“A businessman.”

“An annoyance.”

He grins. “A charming gentleman.”

You groan, picking up your pace. “I can’t believe I’m stuck with you.”

“Oh, please.” He slings an arm around your shoulders, ignoring the way you stiffen. “We’re partners now, aren’t we? Off to see the lanterns, hand in hand, like something out of a fairy tale—”

You shrug him off and march forward, squaring your shoulders. Gojo Satoru is unbearable, but if he’s your only ticket out of this boring, provincial life, then you have no choice but to grit your teeth and stick it out. The cost will be worth the reward. 

The road stretches long and unbroken before you, a dirt path winding between fields and sparse woodland. You’ve seen this road before—when traders arrived at the village, when hunters returned from the mountains—but you’ve never set foot beyond it. 

Now, after years of watching others leave, you are the one walking away. You should feel relieved. Excited, even. 

Instead, you feel like an imposter. Like you’re wearing someone else’s skin.

Even your clothes don’t feel like your own. You’re used to sturdy village garments—worn tunics and skirts, softened by years of washing, familiar and comfortable. But now, you’re dressed for travel, and it feels unfamiliar. A dark green cloak, belted at the waist, drapes over your shoulders, its hem brushing against your ankles. Beneath it, you’ve chosen a linen shirt and brown trousers instead of a skirt—more practical, but strange. The boots on your feet are a size too big, borrowed from the village blacksmith, and though well-worn, they still rub uncomfortably against your heels.

Beside you, Satoru moves as if he owns the world, his long strides lazy. His clothes, though practical, have the distinct look of someone who wants to be looked at—worn leather boots, dark pants, a white tunic half-buttoned beneath a navy vest cinched at the waist. The coat hanging off his shoulders is long, lined with faded embroidery at the edges, the kind of detail that once belonged to something expensive before time and travel wore it down.

Unlike you, he looks completely at ease. As if he’s done this a thousand times before—which, of course, he has.

“I was expecting a little more enthusiasm,” Satoru comments. “Most people would kill for a trip to the capital with someone like me.”

You adjust the strap of your bag. “Most people would just kill you.”

“Ouch. That one actually hurt.”

“If only,” you mutter.

He chuckles, undeterred, and kicks a stray pebble along the path. You’ve been walking for over an hour, and he hasn’t stopped talking the entire time. It’s mostly been nonsense—complaints about the lack of decent taverns in your village, dramatic sighs about the state of his boots, and a running commentary on the tragedy of being forced to travel with someone so determinedly unfriendly.

“What exactly is your plan once we get there?” he asks. “Because I hate to break it to you, sweetheart, but the capital isn’t as great as they make it sound.”

“I don’t need a plan,” you mumble. Truthfully, you have no idea, but you’re certain the answer will come to you. Somehow.

“Right, because winging it always works out well,” he says, looking at you like he’s waiting for you to react. He gets no such satisfaction—your eyes are fixed firmly on the road—and so, he ploughs on, “You know, it’s adorable how much faith you have in your ability to not get robbed, lost, or, I don’t know, arrested for trespassing.”

You let out a slow breath. “If I do get arrested, I’ll make sure to tell them where to find you.”

“Ah, but that would require you to know where I am. And I am a famously difficult person to pin down.”

You make a noise of irritation in the back of your throat, adjusting the strap of your bag. At this rate, you’re starting to think that letting him get caught might have been the better option.

By the time the sun has dipped below the horizon, the two of you reach the edge of the woods. The thick canopy overhead swallows the last of the daylight, leaving only streaks of violet and deepening blue through the gaps in the leaves. The path ahead is narrow and winding, the scent of damp earth and pine filling the air. Somewhere in the distance, a bird calls.

“This is it,” Satoru announces, dropping his bag on the ground. “Our humble abode for the night.”

“We could walk a little further,” you say, frowning.

“And risk running into something with fangs?” He plops onto the ground, resting back on his elbows. “No thanks.”

You sigh but don’t argue further, shrugging off your pack and kneeling down to clear a space for the fire. If you wait for Gojo Satoru to be useful, you’ll be waiting until your bones turn to dust. To your surprise, he doesn’t interfere. He simply sprawls out on the grass, watching as you gather dry leaves and kindling. 

“Watching you work feels kind of nice,” Satoru says, tapping a finger against his knee. “It’s like having a personal servant.”

You shoot him a glare. “Do you want to get stabbed?”

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” he says, and guffaws to himself.

Rolling your eyes, you focus on the fire, striking flint against steel until sparks catch in the dry grass. Slowly, the flames flicker to life, casting an amber glow over the clearing. Shadows stretch long and uneven, the trees shifting in the fire’s light. 

The thief sits up, brushing stray grass from his vest. “Alright. Time to find some food.”

“We have food,” you point out, nodding at your pack.

He makes a face. “We have bread. I, for one, refuse to live like a peasant.”

“You are a peasant,” you say, raising your eyebrows.

“Wrong,” he corrects. “I am a distinguished criminal.”

“Go starve in the woods, then.”

“Fine,” he huffs, standing up and dusting himself off, “but if I don’t come back, you have to live with the guilt.”

“I think I’ll manage.”

He mumbles something under his breath, but disappears into the trees anyway. You take the opportunity to sit back against your pack, stretching your sore legs and letting the warmth of the fire seep into your bones. Five minutes later, Satoru returns—only, he’s not alone. He sprints back into the clearing like a man being personally hunted by death itself, arms flailing as a blur of fur and claws barrels after him.

“What the—” You barely have time to sit up before Satoru dives behind you, using you as a human shield.

“Get it away from me,” he hisses, gripping your shoulders like his life depends on it.

Your eyes whip back to the so-called menace: A small, scruffy-looking cat with patchy grey fur, green eyes, and one torn ear. It stands by the edge of the firelight with its tail puffed up like a bottlebrush.

You blink. “Did… Did you just get chased by a cat?”

Satoru glares at you, panting. “That thing is deranged.”

The cat lets out a shrill mrrow and lunges. Satoru yelps, scrambling further behind you, but the little creature stops just short of pouncing and instead sits daintily by the fire, licking its paw like nothing happened. You stare at it. Then back at Satoru. Then back at the cat.

“Wow,” you say slowly, turning around to face the grown man cowering behind you. “You, the great Gojo Satoru, feared thief and most wanted man in the entire kingdom, are afraid of a stray cat?”

He scoffs, straightening up as though he hadn’t just used you to hide from a cat. “Afraid? As if. I just didn’t expect it to be so… fast.”

“Uh-huh.”

“It ambushed me.”

You glance at the cat, which is now lying on its side and stretching out luxuriously. It is, unarguably, the most harmless thing you’ve ever seen. You smirk. “I think I’ll keep him.”

Satoru gapes at you. “What? No! That thing has a personal vendetta against me.”

The cat looks up, makes direct eye contact with him, and flicks its tail in a deliberate motion. “Yeah,” you say, grinning, “I like him.”

Your companion groans, rubbing his face. “What are you going to name him?”

You tilt your head, considering. The cat gives an unimpressed meow and swipes a paw at your ankle, before it pads over to you, climbs onto your lap and turns around in a circle. It kneads your thigh before settling down. 

“Megumi,” you decide.

“Oh, come on.” Satoru lets out a strangled noise. “That thing is definitely not a blessing.”

Ignoring him, you scratch behind Megumi’s ears absentmindedly, reaching behind with your free hand and grabbing your pack. You undo the drawstring and pull out the loaf of bread; tearing out a chunk, you pop it into your mouth. The cat purrs in satisfaction, settling deeper into your lap.

Satoru watches this betrayal unfold with a deeply wounded expression. “I can’t believe this,” he mutters. “Two minutes ago, it was out for blood. Now it’s purring like it pays rent.”

You snort, tossing him a piece of bread. He catches it with ease but doesn’t eat it right away, instead tearing at the crust in distracted motions. The fire crackles between you, throwing warm golden light over his features, softening the sharp angles of his face.

You hesitate for only a moment before speaking. “Tell me a story.”

Satoru quirks a brow. “What, like a bedtime story?”

“No, idiot.” You roll your eyes. “Tell me about the capital. I’ve never been past my village.”

“...The capital, hm?” He shifts slightly, leaning back on his hands, and tilts his head skywards. For a moment, he’s quiet. The fire pops, and its glow dances over his cheekbones. Somewhere in the trees above you, an owl hoots. Then, he starts speaking.

“The capital is loud,” he says, “but not in a bad way. It’s the kind of noise that reminds you that you’re alive. The streets smell like roasted chestnuts, chocolate, and something sweet that I’ve never been able to place. No matter where you go, you’ll always be able to hear something—someone haggling in the market, children playing hopscotch, lovers whispering sweet nothings under balconies.”

His voice lowers, almost like he’s letting you in on a secret. “There’s this place, just past the main square. A bookshop, tucked between an apothecary and a tailor. You wouldn’t even notice if you weren’t looking. It’s small—cramped, really—but it smells like ink and old paper, and the owner never minds if you stay too long. When I was younger, I used to sit there for hours, reading about places I’d never been. I’d tell myself I’d see them all someday.”

“And then there’s the bridge,” he continues. “It stretches over the whole river, wide enough for carriages to pass, but if you go at the right time, just before dawn, it’s empty. You can stand in the middle and watch the whole city wake up—lamps flickering out, shutters creaking open, the sky turning from grey to pink to gold. It makes you feel like you’re the only person in the world, just for a little while.”

Satoru exhales, and there’s something wistful about the sound. When he looks at you again, there’s a lopsided smile playing on his lips. “Not bad for a bedtime story, huh?”

You blink, caught between the warmth of the fire and the warmth in his voice. “...Tell me more.”

He laughs, bright and careless. “You’re greedy.”

“Maybe.” You shrug, suppressing a smile.

“You’ll have to wait until tomorrow,” he says, leaning back fully and folding his hands behind his head. “If I tell you too much, you might decide you don’t need to see the capital for yourself, and I’d never get my crown back.”

You glance down at Megumi, still nestled comfortably in your lap, tail flicking lazily. Perhaps it’s the way the thief spoke about it, or maybe it’s the way you’ve always yearned for this, but the thought comes quietly, unbidden: I already want to see it more than ever.

Morning creeps up on you slowly, quietly, peacefully. The fire has burned down to embers, the air is crisp, and the forest hums with the comings-and-goings of woodland creatures. You are warm, bundled in your cloak, Megumi purring against your chest, and for once, Gojo Satoru is quiet.

It’s perfect. Until something snorts directly at your face.

Your eyes snap open just in time to see a giant, pinkish nose inches from your own. Then— Snort. A blast of hot air right into your face. You yelp, scrambling back, only to trip over Satoru’s arm and land hard on your side. The movement startles Megumi, who lets out an indignant yowl and bolts straight onto Satoru’s face, claws out.

“What the Hell—” The man jerks upright with a strangled sound, flailing as Megumi uses him as a launchpad and disappears into the trees. His vest is askew, his hair is sticking up at odd angles, and he looks utterly lost. “What—where—why does my face hurt— Who is attacking me?”

“That!” You point wildly at the culprit.

Standing at the edge of your makeshift campsite, staring you both down like a disappointed parent, is a massive white horse. At first, you’re confused—horses don’t live in the woods, you’re pretty sure. Then you see the crest of the royal family hanging off of its neck, and you grimace. His reins are hanging off the sides of his saddle; he seems like a runaway royal horse. He paws at the dirt, ears pinned back, looking every bit a soldier preparing to arrest a pair of criminals. 

Satoru blinks at him. Then at you. Then back at the horse. “Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.”

The horse huffs like he can’t believe he has to deal with this nonsense. Then, before either of you can react, he lunges straight for the thief.

“SUKUNA, NO!”

You barely manage to scramble out of the way as Satoru lets out an undignified squawk and rolls out of the way, narrowly avoiding being stomped. He barely has time to get to his feet before Sukuna lunges again, snapping at his cloak.

“What is your problem?!” Satoru screeches, holding his arms up defensively. “I didn’t even do anything—oh, my God—Stop—”

Sukuna does not stop. Instead, he clamps his teeth onto Satoru’s sleeve and drags him sideways.

“He’s arresting me!” Satoru howls, flailing as his feet skid in the dirt. “I’m being detained! Help!”

You double over in laughter. “I—think—he recognises you—”

“Oh, what gave it away? The way he’s dragging me to my demise?”

Sukuna whinnies like he’s insulted by the accusation. As if to prove a point, he yanks even harder—ripping Satoru clean off his feet. He lands on his back with a thud, groaning. Sukuna looms over him, nostrils flaring, clearly debating his next move. 

“Okay, okay. I surrender,” Satoru wheezes. “I hereby admit to all my crimes—past, present, and future. Just let me live.”

Sukuna snorts. Satisfied, he steps on Satoru’s stomach for good measure before backing off. You wipe tears from your eyes, your own stomach hurting from laughing too hard. “I think he hates you.”

Satoru groans, draping an arm over his face. “I think I have internal bleeding.”

Megumi, now safely perched atop a tree branch, lets out an approving meow. Sukuna steps back, looking incredibly pleased with himself. His ears flick forward, and he turns to you, huffing expectantly.

You tilt your head. “Oh. I think he likes me.”

“Oh, great,” Satoru says, lifting his head weakly from the ground. “Betrayed by my own travel companion.”

You ignore him, cautiously stepping forward and holding out a hand. Sukuna eyes you warily but doesn’t move away. “You just don’t like him, do you?” you murmur, glancing down at Satoru, who’s still groaning in the dirt.

Sukuna snorts. Satoru lifts a finger from where he’s lying. “That was unnecessary.”

“I think it was perfectly necessary,” you reply sweetly before turning back to Sukuna. He’s still watching you closely, but he doesn’t seem hostile. If anything, his tail flicks once, like he’s waiting for something. Slowly, carefully, you raise a hand to his nose. “You’re not so bad, are you?”

Sukuna leans in, taking a few experimental sniffs before—much to your delight—nudging your palm with his nose. Satoru lifts his head again, gaping at the scene unfolding in front of him. “What the Hell,” he says flatly. “I used to feed you when I was in the palace, you ungrateful beast.”

The horse flicks an ear, unimpressed. Then, as if to drive the point home, he lifts a hoof and kicks dirt in his direction. 

You barely stifle a laugh. “I don’t think he remembers you very fondly.”

Satoru groans. “This is what I get for trying to be a good person.”

“You’re a thief.”

“Details.”

You scratch gently at Sukuna’s muzzle, feeling the warm puff of his breath against your fingers. He allows the touch, nuzzling further into your palm. The royal crest on his bridle—the golden emblem of a sun against a dark blue background, the visage of light always conquering darkness—glints in the morning sun. It feels like a reminder of where exactly he’s from.

A warhorse. Loyal to the palace. Loyal to—

You glance at Satoru. He’s watching Sukuna with an expression you can’t quite place. Something distant. Something nostalgic.

“You’re from the palace, then?” you ask softly.

His usual bravado doesn’t come immediately. He props himself up on his elbows, staring at Sukuna like the horse is a relic from a past life—one he hadn’t expected to come face to face with again. “Yeah, ‘course,” he says. “Wouldn’t lie about that.”

Sukuna snorts, stepping closer to you. He’s massive, all muscle and barely-contained energy, and yet he stands still beneath your touch. 

“Did you ride him?”

“He wouldn’t let me.” Satoru scowls. “Little bastard always tried to bite me when I got near him.”

The horse huffs, as if to confirm this. You stroke his mane absently, and say, “He seems different now.”

“Yes, well—” Satoru finally gets to his feet, dusting himself off with a wince. “Guess we both are.”

There’s something about the way he says it that makes you think he’s not telling you the whole truth. You decide not to push him further, curious though you may be. You let the silence settle between you both, the rustling of leaves filling the space where conversation might have been.

Finally, Satoru sighs. “Since he’s so smitten with you, does this mean we get a free ride to civilisation?”

“Maybe.” You glance at Sukuna.

“Wonderful!” Satoru says, clapping his hands. “Because I refuse to walk another ten miles while my organs are busy rearranging themselves from being trampled.”

“Let’s see if he’ll let us.” You pat Sukuna’s side reassuringly before turning towards the remnants of your campsite. 

The fire has long since dwindled into ash and embers, and your packs are haphazardly strewn about—likely due to your frantic wake-up earlier. Your bag is slumped against the base of a tree, close to where you’d left it. Satoru’s bag is nearby, though considerably messier. One of the straps is half-ripped, and the flap is barely secured. You pick it up, brushing off dirt and leaves.

“You live like this?” you ask, tossing it to him.

“Beggars can’t be choosers,” Satoru says. He fumbles but manages to catch it, just barely.

“You were cribbing about bread last night,” you remind him, slinging your own pack over your shoulder.

“I wasn’t begging. I was demanding my basic human right to a proper meal.”

Megumi, who had disappeared into the trees during Sukuna’s rampage, reappears, gracefully leaping down from a low-hanging branch. He lands neatly on the ground, flicks his tail, and gives you both what can only be described as the feline equivalent of the stink eye.

Satoru looks at him warily. “Are you sure he isn’t plotting revenge on us?”

“He likes me,” you say, crouching to scratch behind Megumi’s ears. The cat lets out a quiet purr, rubbing his head against your hand in approval.

“Of course, he does.”

“Don’t be jealous.”

Satoru mutters something under his breath that you couldn’t be bothered to listen to properly. You gently pick up Megumi and settle him into the crook of your arm. He doesn’t resist, curling up as if he’d rather not exert the effort to protest. Sukuna, who has been watching this entire exchange with the unimpressed air of a soldier waiting for incompetent recruits to finish fumbling, lets out a sharp huff and stomps his hoof.

You turn to him. “Okay, okay. I’m ready.”

“You know how to ride a horse, right?” Satoru asks, raising an eyebrow.

You pause. “...How hard can it be?”

“That’s not an answer—”

Satoru’s warning goes unheeded; you’re already marching towards Sukuna with the kind of confidence only possessed by someone who has no idea what they’re doing. You place a careful hand on the saddle and hoist yourself up. Or, well, you try to. Your foot barely catches on the stirrup before you wobble, losing balance. The next thing you know, you’re slipping straight off the other side. 

Satoru catches you before you can hit the ground, his hands firm around your waist. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

You scowl, pushing yourself upright, but he doesn’t let go right away. You’re close enough to see the way the morning light catches in his eyes, the sharp blue softened by gold. His hands are warm where they steady you. You swallow thickly, suddenly aware of the heat creeping up the back of your neck.

Megumi, disgruntled from the movement, lets out a miffed meow. The spell breaks.

“Alright,” Satoru says. “Let’s try something else before you end up with a concussion.”

You glare at him, dusting off your sleeves as he turns to grab your packs. He ties them securely to the saddle, double-checking the knots before giving Sukuna an approving pat on the neck. The horse swishes his tail but remains otherwise still. Satisfied, Satoru turns back to you, hands on his hips. “Okay, up you go.”

Begrudgingly, you step closer, adjusting your hold on Megumi before reaching for the saddle. Satoru moves before you can think to protest, hands steady around your waist once more as he lifts you effortlessly onto the seat. You let out a startled breath, barely managing to swing your leg over the saddle before scrambling to adjust yourself. Your fingers grip the front of the saddle so tightly, the hard leather digs into your palms. Megumi, situated against your chest and in between your arms, flicks his tail against your face.

Sukuna shifts beneath you, muscles rippling underneath his sleek coat. You inhale deeply, trying to steady your nerves. You’ve never ridden a horse before.

The thought doesn’t sink in until you’re actually up here, perched atop a beast far larger and stronger than you, with only a few flimsy leather straps keeping you from falling to the ground. For all the bravado you’ve shown so far, you have to admit that you’re terrified.

“See?” Satoru drawls, stepping back. “Much better. Was that so scary?”

“No,” you lie.

The thief studies you for a moment, and then comments, “You’re a terrible liar.”

You give him a withering look, but he’s already moving—grabbing the front of the saddle and swinging himself up behind you in one smooth motion. 

“Satoru—!”

Your protest is cut short when he settles in, his chest pressing flush against your back. He’s warm—too warm (or is that you?)—and suddenly, all your attention is split between the solid, sturdy weight of him behind you, and the hands that reach around you, easily taking the reins. 

“Relax,” he says, voice lower than usual. “I’ll steer.”

Your heart is hammering in your chest, and you don’t think it has anything to do with the horse anymore. “I wasn’t scared,” you mutter, but there is no conviction in your voice, even to your own ears. 

Satoru leans in just slightly, breath ghosting against the side of your face. He chuckles, the sound reverberating against your back, and says, “I’m sure you weren’t.”

You don’t trust yourself to speak, so you stay quiet, focusing on the rhythmic rise and fall of Sukuna’s steps once he starts moving—and despite your determination to remain oblivious to Gojo Satoru and his presence, you can’t ignore the way his arms remain loosely draped around you, or the way he shifts ever so slightly when the horse moves, keeping you steady without saying a word. It’s natural, the way he adjusts to you, like he’s done it a thousand times before. Like he doesn’t even need to think about it.

The woods stretch ahead, quiet and endless, but all you can focus on is the sound of your own heartbeat, loud in your ears.

“Tell me more about the palace.”

The rhythmic sway of Sukuna beneath you is oddly soothing, each hoofbeat settling into a steady, lulling cadence. You tilt your head back slightly, feeling the warmth of Satoru’s chest where he sits behind you. His arms are still lightly caged around you, as he guides the reins like it’s second nature to him. Megumi, no longer content with being curled up against your chest, perches himself on the base of the horse’s neck, swiping lazily at Sukuna’s mane every now and then. The horse flicks his ears in annoyance but does not stop him.

Satoru hums, considering your request. “What do you want to know?”

“I don’t know,” you admit, eyes drifting upwards, towards the slivers of blue sky beneath the trees. “What was it like?”

“Well, it’s exactly what you’d expect,” he says. “Tall, grand, and filled with old men who love to hear themselves talk.”

You huff out a silent laugh. “Sounds charming.”

“Oh, it’s a real dream. The walls are lined with marble, the kind that catches the light just right in the mornings, almost as if the whole place is glowing. The halls stretch wider than some villages, with paintings hanging on the walls that tell stories older than anyone can remember. And the ceilings—” He shakes his head, his chin brushing against the back of yours. “So high it feels like you could reach the sky if you just climbed a little higher.”

There’s something distant in his voice, something wistful and melancholic and fond. “You make it sound very beautiful,” you say quietly.

“Because it is. It’s meant to be. A symbol of power—of control. A kingdom that shines so brightly, no one knows about the shadows it casts.”

You glance at him over your shoulder, but his expression is stony. That easy drawl of his is still there, but beneath it, something festers—and it makes you hesitate before you press further.

“And you?” you ask. “Where did you belong in all of that?”

Satoru exhales through his nose, a slow, measured sound. “Wherever they needed me.”

It’s not an answer, but it tells you enough. You let the silence stretch, waiting to see if he will offer more. He does.

“The training grounds were always my favourite.” His voice drops slightly, thoughtful. “They were tucked away behind the east wing, away from all the silk and the gold. You could hear the clash of swords from sunrise to sundown.” He pauses, then adds, almost to himself, “You never forget the sound.”

A soldier, you think. Or something close to it. It makes sense—the way he carries himself; the way he moves, like he’s always aware of every possible escape route; the way he knows so much about the kingdom and the capital.

You don’t say it out loud, though. Instead, you ask, “Did you like it?”

“I liked knowing what was expected of me.” A beat of silence, and then, “But I was never very good at following orders.”

A soft breeze cuts through the trees, rustling the leaves and cooling the warmth of the sun against your skin. “Is that why you left?” you ask carefully.

Satoru chuckles, but there’s no real humour to the sound. “Oh, I didn’t leave.” His fingers tighten around the reins, just a little. “I was sent away.”

The words are heavy. You don’t push. Sukuna continues forward, steady and unbothered, the sound of his hooves filling the silence that follows. You focus on the road ahead, on the sunlight filtering through the trees, on Satoru’s warmth behind you.

When he finally speaks again, voice lighter, teasing, you let him steer the conversation away. Somehow, you get the sense that when he’s ready, he’ll tell you the rest.

The afternoon sun begins to dip, casting long shadows through the trees. The road ahead winds towards the hills, where a small village is nestled between the slopes. You’ll have to pass through it to get to the capital, according to Satoru. Smoke rises lazily from the chimneys, the scent of burning wood and roasting meat carrying faintly on the breeze.

Satoru shifts slightly. “Looks like we’ve made it before sundown.”

Megumi meows, flicking his tail before settling back down; you reach forward and scratch in between his ears, absent-mindedly. The thought of a warm meal and a real bed makes your shoulders sag with relief. The past few nights have been spent beneath open skies, wrapped up in your cloak that barely keeps the chill away.

“You think we’ll find an inn?” you ask, glancing behind.

“Unless it’s run by a hermit who hates money, yeah,” Satoru says. “Though I wouldn’t count on a royal welcome.”

That much is obvious. Travellers are rare in villages like these—strangers even more so. Your presence will not go unnoticed.

As you pass the first row of wooden houses, heads begin to turn. A blacksmith, hammer paused mid-swing, watches you warily from his forge. A woman gathering water casts a cautious glance before whispering something to the child at her side. Even the baker, hands dusted in flour, spares you a lingering look.

Satoru doesn’t seem fazed. “Friendly place.”

“Maybe they’d be friendlier if you weren’t grinning like you had a bounty on your head,” you mutter.

“I think we both know they wouldn’t be wrong about that.”

That sends a sharp prickle down your spine. You don’t respond.

The village square is small, paved with uneven stone and lined with merchant stalls. Most are already closed for the day, wooden shutters drawn and lanterns lit. Near the far edge, tucked between a tailor’s shop and a grain store, stands an inn. The wooden beams are weathered with age, but the sign above the entrance is freshly painted—The Fuzzy Duckling, it reads, complete with a crude drawing of a yellow duck underneath. The scent of stew and ale wafts through the open doorway.

Satoru nudges Sukuna to the stable. “We’ll rest here.”

You dismount first, stretching your legs as Satoru swings down beside you. Megumi jumps off the horse’s back and lands gracefully on the thief’s shoulder. 

The inn is dimly lit, the glow of lanterns casting flickering silhouettes. The scent of firewood, damp earth, and something vaguely sweet lingers in the air. It’s fairly empty, though you suspect that’s just because of the early hour. Wooden tables and stools lay barren, with empty tin jugs placed on each table. Behind the counter, a man leans lazily against the wall, watching you both with sharp, hooded eyes. His dark hair is slicked back, and there’s a faint scar on his jawline. He doesn’t say anything as he steps forward.

“Hey, hey, look who it is!” Satoru grins, though, by now, you’ve spent enough time with him to know it’s fake. “If it isn’t my favourite innkeeper, Shiu. Did’ya finally get rid of all the mould growing in your wine cellar? I don’t know if it was the mould or the age, but it sure tasted weird the last time I was here.”

Shiu smirks. “Been wonderin’ when you’d show up again, Gojo.”

You look between them, sensing familiarity, though not necessarily the friendly kind. “We need a room,” Satoru says, leaning an elbow on the counter. “Think you can manage that, old man?”

“Call me that again,” Shiu says, “and I’ll leave you to sleep outside with the horse. The lady will get a room for free, of course.”

You tense at his words, not enjoying the way the man’s gaze rakes over your body before settling back to Satoru. You get the feeling the thief notices too, because he moves closer to you, shoulder brushing against yours. “Ah, well,” he says. “I’m afraid that’s not negotiable.”

“Relax,” the innkeeper says. “I’m not a skirt-chaser. You can keep your woman with you. Room’s at the end of the hall. Payment upfront.”

Satoru flicks a coin onto the counter. Shiu catches it easily, giving it a quick once-over before pocketing it. As Satoru turns towards the stairs, something catches your eye near the entrance—sheets of parchment tacked to a wooden board. Your eyes snag on one in particular. 

A wanted poster.

The ink is bold despite the crumpled paper. The sketch is rough but unmistakable—wild white hair, sharp features, a grin that barely conceals its arrogance.

WANTED—DEAD OR ALIVEREWARD: 100 GOLD COINS

Your stomach twists. Satoru follows your gaze and sighs. “Damn. They just can’t get my nose right.”

“This isn’t funny,” you whisper.

“It’s a little funny.” Satoru’s grin widens, but you don’t miss the tautness in his shoulders. He nudges you gently towards the stairs. “Come on, let’s get some rest.”

Shiu watches you both go, smiling, but his gaze follows too long for comfort. Your chest constricts. The room at the end of the hall is small but serviceable—one bed, a rickety wooden chair, and a window with a view of the village square outside. The floor creaks under your boots as you step inside. Megumi jumps onto the bed immediately, curling up near the pillows, flicking his tail once before settling.

Satoru stretches with a groan, rolling his shoulders. “Cozy.”

You sigh, pressing your forehead against the cool windowpane. The village outside is quiet, bathed in early moonlight, but the unease gnawing at your stomach refuses to fade. “I don’t like this,” you murmur. “The way Shiu looked at you—”

“He always looks at me like that,” the thief says, sounding far too chipper than he probably should.

“Satoru.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know.” He exhales, rubbing the back of his neck. “We won’t stay long. You can take the bed. I’ll use the chair.”

The exhaustion from days on the road pulls at your limbs. You don’t bother arguing; sleep finds you much faster than expected.

You wake to the sound of boots in the hallway. Your breath catches. This isn’t the usual creak of old wood settling—this is deliberate. Heavy. Purposeful.

Your eyes dart to Satoru. He’s already awake, sitting rigid on the chair, blue eyes alert even in the darkness. His hand moves instinctively to his belt, where he’d shown you his dagger rests a day back, hidden.

A knock echoes against the door.

“Room service,” Shiu’s oily voice drawls from the other side.

Your blood runs cold. Satoru doesn’t answer. He tilts his head, listening. You strain your ears too, heart hammering—there’s a faint shift of fabric. The sound of leather gloves flexing. Someone adjusting their grip on a sheathed blade.

Satoru curses under his breath. “Son of a—”

The crash comes a second later.

The door splinters inward, sending shards of wood flying. You barely manage to roll off the bed before a knife thuds into the headboard where you had just been lying. A figure stands in the ruined doorway: Tall, broad, dressed in black. A jagged scar cuts across the side of his mouth.

You don’t recognise him, but Satoru does. His entire posture shifts—his usual cocky, easygoing stance sharpens, muscles tensing. A slow, tight exhale leaves him as he pushes himself to his feet.

The man in the doorway tilts his head, a smirk curling at the edges of his lips. You can just make out a jagged scar cutting across his mouth. “Been a while, Gojo,” he says.

Satoru’s lips press together in a thin line. “Not long enough.”

You glance between them, a creeping unease settling in your bones. Whoever this man is, Satoru knows him—and he doesn’t like him. The stranger takes a lazy step forward, boots crunching over the splintered wood. His eyes, dark and unreadable, flick to you for a moment before settling back on Satoru. “Didn’t think you’d be dumb enough to walk back in here, with a beautiful lady by your side and a bounty on your head, too. Guess you really wanted to see me again.”

“Trust me, Fushiguro—” Satoru’s jaw ticks— “I’d rather be anywhere but here.”

Fushiguro. The name means nothing to you, but the way Satoru spits it out like a curse sends a prickle of warning down your spine. The man clicks his tongue, his smirk widening. He twirls another dagger in his fingers, casual, lazy. “Did I wake you? Sorry to have disturbed your evening, but—”

Satoru moves faster than breath, grabbing your wrist and yanking you back towards the window just as another blade whizzes past his ear, missing him by an inch. Megumi hisses, darting into your arms and scrabbling onto your shoulder. You don’t even feel the pain where his claws dig into your skin.

Fushiguro lets out a low, amused chuckle. “Running already? C’mon now, Gojo. You’re making this too easy.”

Satoru kicks the window open. “Hold onto me.”

“What—”

And then he jumps.

The wind rushes past as the two of you and the cat drop down, the world blurring around you. You barely register the impact—Satoru lands with a practiced roll, keeping you close, his arms tight around you as he shifts the force of the landing onto himself. Your pulse is roaring in your ears.

Above, Fushiguro leans lazily out of the open window, tilting his head condescendingly. “You’re just making this more fun.”

Satoru doesn’t wait. He grabs your wrist and runs. The streets are quiet, the village mostly asleep, but your footfalls pound against the dirt. Behind you, you hear the faint creak of wood—Fushiguro dropping down from the second story without a sound, graceful as a damn cat.

The thief yanks you towards the stables. “Get Sukuna. Now.”

You don’t argue. The stable doors slam open as you shove inside. Sukuna snorts, stomping his hooves in agitation. You fumble for the reins. “What about—”

Satoru turns just as Fushiguro appears in the doorway. Everything slows.

The light from the lanterns flickers against his dark silhouette. He’s alone, not a single other mercenary in sight. But somehow, that makes it worse. In the darkness, it feels like he’s pressing down on the space, filling every corner, every shadow.

“You didn’t bring backup?” Satoru taunts. “I’m insulted.”

“Didn’t need any,” the bounty hunter grunts.

He moves—a flash of steel—and Satoru shoves you back. The blade slices through the air where his throat had been a second before. He ducks low, twisting away, and kicks. His foot slams against Fushiguro’s side, sending him skidding back a step—but Fushiguro barely reacts, barely blinks, like he had been expecting it.

He strikes again. You barely see the knife coming before Satoru dodges, his movements sharp and fluid. The stable door splinters as the blade embeds itself in the wood.

Satoru grits his teeth. “Go!”

But you—curse your damn cowardice—hesitate. Fushiguro notices. His foot pivots—he lunges for you. A flash of fear tightens in your chest—

But Satoru is there. He grabs Fushiguro’s wrist mid-strike, twisting it brutally. Fushiguro growls as Satoru hurls him backwards, sending him crashing into a pile of hay bales.

“Get on the damn horse,” Satoru orders, breathless. He swings himself onto Sukuna’s back, pulling you up after him, Megumi leaping onto the horse in time with you. 

You barely have time to wrap your arms around his waist before he kicks off. Sukuna surges forward, hooves pounding against the dirt road as you tear through the village, leaving the inn—and the very pissed-off bounty hunter—behind.

Behind you, there’s a sound—something sharp, fast—whistling through the air. Satoru jerks the reins, pulling sharply to the side. A blade embeds itself into the wooden post just ahead of you, still quivering from the force of impact.

“Shit,” the thief breathes. “He’s not giving up.”

You don’t look back. You don’t dare to. The village gate is just ahead. If you can get past it, you might have a chance of losing him. Megumi wails, digging his claws into your cloak, ears flat against his head.

Satoru leans forward. “Come on, come on—”

Sukuna bursts out of the gates. Fushiguro curses loudly behind you, but it sounds far away, swallowed down by the horse’s thunderous galloping. You tighten your grasp around Satoru and squeeze your eyes shut. (You might be imagining it, but you swear you feel one of his hands cover your own, a gentle brush of his palm against the back of yours.)

The fire crackles weakly, providing warmth against the cold night air. Sukuna, exhausted from his earlier run, tucks his legs underneath himself and settles down near it. Megumi curls up next to him and begins washing himself. The stream nearby gurgles and bubbles merrily.

The fight is over, the adrenaline long faded, but still, the stress of it all loiters like a phantom pressing against your ribs. Your shoulder throbs now, where the cat had dug his claws into the skin, but thankfully, it isn’t bleeding. Your hands are shaking. You dig your fingers into the earth, trying to steady yourself. 

Satoru stands a few feet away, pacing, his boots crushing twigs and dried leaves. His breath comes fast and hard, back rigid with frustration. His coat is torn at the shoulder, and there’s a thin line of blood trailing down his forearm.

You should say something. Thank him, maybe. Apologise. But the words stay stuck in your throat.

“What the fuck what that?”

You flinch, but his voice keeps coming, sharp and cutting.

“You froze—I told you to move, and you just stood there.” His hands come up, then drop to his sides. “You could’ve died.”

You bite your lip, shame curling hot beneath your skin, but his anger makes something inside you snap. “I was caught off-guard—”

“No shit!” he bites out. “You don’t get to be caught off-guard, not in the middle of a fight!”

“I didn’t ask to be in a fight!” you snap. “I’m not—” You exhale sharply, hands curling into fists. “I’m not like you, Gojo. I’m not a fucking thief who’s used to running for my life every other night.”

His jaw tightens. “So it’s my fault now?”

“Isn’t it?” You throw your arms out. “If you weren’t on the face of every damn wanted poster from here to the mountains, we wouldn’t be in this mess!”

Satoru lets out a bitter, humourless laugh. “Right. Because I’m the one who dragged us into this.”

“You are—”

“No,” he cuts in, eyes flashing. “If it wasn’t for your stupid, fucking dream, we wouldn’t be here in the first place.”

The words slam into you like a fist to the gut. A cold wind rustles through the leaves, stirring the dying fire. Sukuna neighs lowly from where he’s sat near the flames, but you barely hear him over the ringing in your ears.  

Your stupid, fucking dream. The dream you’d held onto for years, the one that had kept you going, had pushed you forward through every hardship. Your throat tightens. “That’s not fair.”

“Oh, it’s not fair? You had no idea what you were asking for when you dragged me along on this little adventure of yours. Now, we’re running for our lives in the middle of nowhere, because you had to see some damn lanterns.”

The way he says it—like your dream is nothing more than a childish whim—makes something ugly twist inside you. “You know what, Gojo?” Your voice shakes, but not from fear. “At least I have a dream.”

His expression darkens.

“At least I want something, something that isn’t just running and stealing and barely surviving,” you press on, chest heaving. “But you? What do you want, Satoru? Huh?” You step closer, jabbing a finger at his chest. “Do you even have an answer, or are you just going to keep laughing everything off like you always do?”

His lips part, but no words come out. For the first time since you’ve met him, Gojo Satoru is speechless. But it only lasts a second. His gaze flickers, something unreadable flashing through his eyes before his mask slams back into place. He lets out a sharp breath, his expression twisting into something cruel.

“You think you’re better than me?” He steps forward now, and you don’t back away. “You think just because you’ve got some dream, you’re any different?” His voice lowers, turning razor-sharp. “Let me tell you something, sweetheart—dreams don’t mean shit when you’re dead.”

Your breath hitches.

“Out here, it’s about surviving. That’s it.” He gestures between you. “And the only reason you’re still breathing is because I’ve been watching your back.”

You hate that he’s right. You hate that you froze. You hate that, for all your fighting words, you hadn’t been able to do anything when it mattered most. Perhaps worst of all, you hate that he saw.

Satoru exhales, shaking his head. “Forget it,” he says. “I’m going to get food.”

He turns and stalks off into the woods. You don’t call after him, because you don’t trust your voice not to break. The moment Satoru disappears into the trees, the night feels oppressive, like the darkness is closing in on you. 

You stand there for a long time, fists clenched at your sides, staring at the spot where he walked off. Sukuna shifts in his sleep. Megumi’s breathing is slow and even. You should rest. You should scrounge through whatever leftover supplies you have from your village and find something to eat.

But your chest feels tight, like there’s a rope around your ribs, pulling, pulling— With a shuddering inhale, you turn and walk towards the stream.

The water is cold when you dip your fingers in, crouching beside it. The icy surface reflects the moon’s pale light. You stare at your own reflection, at the way your lips tremble, at the redness creeping into your eyes. You squeeze them shut. It’s fine. You’re fine.

You press the heels of your palms against your eyes, willing the burning away. But the second you take a shaky breath, it hits you all at once—the fear, the frustration, the exhaustion weighing on your bones. A choked sound leaves your throat before you can stop it.

You shouldn’t be crying. You don’t want to cry, but the argument replays in your mind over and over—Satoru’s voice laced with anger, the way he threw your dream back in your face like it was nothing. 

He doesn’t understand, you think. But is he right?

What were you thinking? That you could drag a thief to the capital and expect everything to go smoothly? That the world would just let you chase your dream, no consequences, no danger? Maybe your dream really is foolish. Maybe you are naïve for believing that you could just waltz into the capital and see the lantern festival without any repercussions. Maybe—just maybe—Gojo Satoru regrets ever having met you.

The thought makes something inside you crack, the pressure behind your eyes spilling over. A broken sob escapes, and then another, your shoulders shaking as you press a hand against your mouth, desperate to smother the sounds.

A hand lands on your shoulder. You suck in a sharp breath, jerking away, heart racing—

“It’s just me.” The voice is quiet but unmistakable.

Your breath stutters. Satoru crouches beside you. His presence is warm despite the chill in the air, and you realise now how cold you’ve gotten, how your legs have gone numb from sitting in the same position for too long.

You quickly wipe at your eyes, turning away. “Go away, Satoru.”

He doesn’t. Instead, he sighs heavily and shifts so he’s sitting right next to you, close enough that his knee bumps against yours. “I’m sorry,” he says, finally. “I was a dick.”

You blink.

“I mean, I’m usually a dick,” he continues, gazing at the water, resting his elbows on his knees. “But that was… excessive. I didn’t mean—” He stops. Tries again. “Your dream isn’t stupid.”

Your voice is small when you ask, “Then why did you say that?”

“I just… When you froze back there—” His voice is quieter now, almost hoarse. “I thought you were gonna die.”

You swallow hard. He murmurs, “I’ve seen people freeze like that before. And they didn’t walk away from it.”

“I did walk away,” you whisper, not sure if it’s the right thing to say.

“Yeah.” He turns his head, meeting your eyes properly for the first time since the fight. “You did.”

There’s something about the way he’s looking at you—like he’s seeing you for the first time. Or, maybe, like he’s seeing too much. You don’t know who moves first, but his hand is covering yours, warm and solid. His grip is hesitant at first, but when you don’t pull away, his fingers tighten around yours. You squeeze his hand back. Neither of you speak.

The fire crackles behind you. The water rushes softly. The moon watches from above.

Gojo Satoru, you think, is an enigma wrapped in glib promises and endless grins. You wonder if it’s his coping mechanism. He’s intelligent, quick-witted and silver-tongued. He’s good at fighting. You want to ask him why they sent him away from the palace, but you don’t think you have the right to. He always seems torn about it, when he’s spoken to you about it before—like it’s a bittersweet part of his life that he’s not very keen on revisiting.

He must have been something before turning to thievery. You stare at him like he’s a particularly intriguing puzzle, walking next to him. He guides Sukuna loosely by the reins; only Megumi is perched on his back, you and Satoru having favoured your own two feet instead of the back aches and leaden legs that come with extended periods of horseback riding.

“If you wanted to stare at my face so badly, I could’ve nicked the wanted poster back at Shiu’s inn,” Satoru says, not bothering to look at you.

Your cheeks prickle with heat. “I wasn’t staring,” you mumble.

The night air is cool against your skin; the wind carries the scent of damp earth and distant firewood, the kind of smell that reminds you of home—though, truthfully, you’re not sure what home even is to you anymore. Maybe it’s the road beneath your feet, the anticipation and uncertainty that comes with weeks of travel. Maybe it’s this: Walking beside a thief who used to be something more, who still is something more, no matter how hard he tries to convince himself otherwise.

Satoru doesn’t say anything for a long time, but his arm brushes against the side of yours, familiar in a way that’s almost comforting. The dirt path winds through the trees. The occasional torch flickers in the distance, marking the outskirts of the city. Sukuna snorts softly, and Megumi’s ears twitch as he scans the darkness ahead.

Eventually, Satoru speaks again. “It’s rude to stare and not share your thoughts.”

“I was just thinking,” you huff.

“Dangerous pastime.”

You kick a loose pebble from the path. “I was thinking about you.”

He makes a low, amused sound in his throat. “How nice of you. I knew you liked me, but I didn’t think I occupied your thoughts so thoroughly.”

You don’t rise to the bait this time. “I was thinking,” you say, “about what you were before this. You told me once you were from the palace, but you never really told me why they sent you away.”

Satoru is quiet for a moment. The leaves rustle around you, and you tug your cloak tighter around your shoulders.

“They trained me to be a soldier,” he says, finally, softly. “Me and—” He stops, swallowing the words like they taste bitter.

“And…?” You prompt. Your steps slow.

His grip tightens around the reins. “And someone else,” he finishes. “My best friend.”

The way he says it makes your chest ache. Satoru clears his throat and continues, “They trained us young. Said we had a gift for it. A gift for war, for strategy and battle.” He laughs, but there’s no humour in it. “But a soldier only has value if he follows orders. And I wasn’t very good at that.”

You don’t push him to say more, though questions press against the tip of your tongue. The capital looms closer, the distant glow of lanterns casting an orange hue against the horizon. The trees begin to thin, giving way to rolling hills and farmland. In the distance, you can just make out the towering walls that guard the city, their stone surfaces illuminated by torches.

As you near the outer gates, the sleepiness of the countryside fades into the vibrant pulse of the capital. Even at this late hour, the city is alive, breathing, stretching its limbs in the form of flickering lights and distant laughter. You can hear the clatter of hooves against cobblestone, the occasional shout of a merchant still trying to haggle his wares, raucous debates from the inside of taverns. The air is thick with the scent of roasted meat and spiced wine, of damp stone and burning oil. It’s overwhelming in a way that makes your head spin and your chest tighten with something too big to name.

The capital. Your dream.

Satoru slows Sukuna to a halt just before the stone walls of the capital, guiding him off the main road and into the cover of a surrounding thicket. You follow, ducking beneath low-hanging branches. The trail here is narrow and overgrown, winding through the roots of old trees. Sukuna moves easily, his hooves barely making a sound against the packed dirt. When the city walls finally loom ahead, Satoru pulls on the reins, bringing the stallion to a stop beneath the shadows of an ancient oak.

“This is where we part ways,” the thief says, patting lightly on Sukuna’s saddle.

Megumi’s dark ears twitch, catching every sound, his green eyes narrowing at the imposing walls. The cat hops off the horse’s back. He’s been tense since you approached the capital; he doesn’t like unfamiliar places, and the sprawling city is anything but. 

Satoru tugs the reins over Sukuna’s head and leads him to a sturdy tree, securing him with deft hands. He runs a palm along the stallion’s neck in reassurance before crouching to do the same with Megumi. The cat lets out a mrow but doesn’t resist when Satoru scratches him behind his torn ear.

“You stay here and watch Sukuna, yeah? Be good,” he says, tapping him once on the head before straightening and unhooking your weather-beaten packs tied to Sukuna’s saddle and tossing them over his shoulder.

“You’re leaving them here?” you ask, glancing between the horse and the cat. It feels strange to abandon them at the outskirts, but you suppose it would be impossible to smuggle a massive stallion and a stray cat through the streets of the capital.

“Not leaving,” Satoru explains. “Just letting them sit this one out. Sukuna’s too big, and Megumi doesn’t care for crowds.”

You hesitate. Satoru doesn’t give you time to dwell on it, already striding ahead. You follow him through a break in the trees, slipping past the walls through a hidden opening you never would’ve noticed on your own. The dirt beneath your feet slowly gives way to stone and lamp-light. 

By the time you emerge into the streets, the towering stone walls are behind you, replaced by the overwhelming grandeur of the inner city.

You barely notice the way your breath catches in your throat, too preoccupied with taking it all in. The streets are narrower here, winding and twisting, labyrinth-like. The buildings loom taller than any you’ve ever seen, their façades adorned with intricate carvings and delicate ivy creeping up the sides. Ornate balconies overlook the streets, their silk curtains swaying with the breeze, and the warm glow of candlelight flickers in every window.

A vendor still lingers at his stall, selling roasted chestnuts wrapped in parchment, the rich scent making your stomach grumble faintly. A group of masked performers twirls in the city square, their laughter bright and musical. A nobleman in embroidered silks strides past with a pretty woman on his arm, their voices hushed as they slip into a gilded carriage.

It’s stupendous.

You don’t realise how close you’ve pressed to Satoru, your shoulder pressing into his arm. He notices, of course—he notices everything—but he doesn’t comment. He simply keeps moving, weaving through the crowd with the sort of confidence that only comes with someone who has walked these streets their entire life.

“Stick close,” Satoru tells you. “It’s easy to get lost if you don’t know your way around.”

The deeper into the city you go, the grander the architecture becomes. The modest stone buildings give way to towering structures of marble, their columns wrapped in flowering vines, their streets lined with lush greenery and carved statues. The roads widen, no longer cramped and twisting, but sprawling and lined with golden lanterns. Then—

Your breath stutters as you step into an open courtyard, and there, standing tall and regal under the silver glow of the moon, is the palace.

It’s massive, far grander than you ever could have imagined. White stone gleams under the warm lights, intricate carvings adorning every arch and column. The banners of the royal family ripple in the cool night breeze, deep blue with the yellow royal sigil against the ivory walls. The golden spires reach towards the heavens, their tips catching the light of the stars, as if they themselves are part of the sky.

Awe roots you to the spot. For years, you’ve dreamed of this place; of seeing it with your own eyes. Now that you’re here, it doesn’t feel real.

Satoru stops beside you, watching you quietly, blue eyes twinkling. With a smile curling at his lips, the thief tilts his head towards you and murmurs, “Well, sweetheart. Welcome to the capital.”

Satoru says he knows a place where both of you can spend the next three days until the lantern festival commences. You don’t believe him, especially after what happened the last time with Shiu and the bounty hunter. He had glared at you, deeply affronted, said, “Your lack of faith in me is appalling,” and then proceeded to lead you back towards the inner city.

“Remember that bookshop I was telling you about?” he asks, rounding a corner. 

“I remember,” you say.

“The former owner’s son runs it now,” Satoru says. “He’ll let us stay there.”

You don’t deign to reply, still drinking in everything—the towering buildings, the banners hanging from balconies, the cobblestone streets that shine under the flickering lights. Shopfronts boast their trinkets and fine silks, while street vendors call out to passersby, offering skewers of sizzling meat and honey-dipped pastries. 

It’s strange. The world you have known until now has always been smaller. Quieter. Even in the busiest towns, even in the places where merchants and travelers gathered, there was never anything like this. The capital, you think, is a city that never sleeps; a city that belongs to people like Satoru—people who thrive in movement, in laughter, in places where the streets are never empty and there’s always something new waiting around the corner.

You tune out the thief talking beside you. He’s rambling about something, making some quip about your starry-eyed expression. The city is so alive, so rich with colour and movement, that it fills every space in your mind.

A sharp tug at your wrist yanks you back just as a carriage rushes past, wheels rattling violently against the stones where you’d been standing a second ago. The force of it stirs your cloak, wind whistling against your cheek. The shock of it doesn’t register right away. You stumble, your body pulled by something—someone—solid and hard.

Satoru’s arm is firm around your waist, his fingers wrapped tightly around your wrist where he pulled you. The warmth of him is undeniable, even through layers of fabric. He holds you against him, close enough that you can feel the steady rise and fall of his chest. Your breath is stuck somewhere in your throat, heart pounding against your ribs. You hadn’t even noticed you’d stepped into the carriage’s path, hadn’t realised how dangerously close you’d come to being trampled beneath its wheels.

Satoru exhales slowly above you, his grip tightening for a brief second before relaxing. “Gawking at the scenery is nice and all, but I’d rather not have to scrape you off the road.”

“I wasn’t gawking,” you mumble, more out of reflex than actual protest. Your stomach flips, though whether it’s from embarrassment or something else entirely, you’re not sure.

“You were,” he murmurs, but the teasing lilt in his voice is absent. His fingers, still wrapped around your wrist, loosen just slightly—but he doesn’t let go.

Instead, his grip shifts. His fingers slide down, intertwining with yours, palm pressing firmly against your own. He’s holding your hand. A warmth unfurls inside your chest, one that you don’t quite know how to name.

The two of you weave through the crowd like that, his fingers still tangled with yours, warmth bleeding into your skin with every step.

Satoru doesn’t let go until you round the next corner. The streets narrow, becoming quieter. The clamour of the main road fades behind you, replaced by the occasional murmur of voices from dimly-lit taverns and the sound of the wind rustling through laundry lines strung between buildings. The air smells of damp stone, faintly sweet and petrichor-like.

You clear your throat, trying to ignore the persisting warmth of Satoru’s touch even after he lets go. If he notices, he doesn’t say anything. Instead, he continues ahead. You wonder how often he’s taken this path—how many times he’s disappeared into the quiet corners of the city, both as a thief and as a soldier-in-training.

Eventually, he stops in front of a small, weathered shop tucked between a tailor’s boutique and an apothecary. The wooden sign above the door sways slightly in the breeze, the faint, worn lettering just barely readable. Nanami’s Books.

It doesn’t look like much from the outside. The wooden shutters are drawn, the paint on the door slightly chipped, but there’s something sturdy about it—something dependable, like it’s been here for years, and will remain standing for years to come. A single candle flickers behind the window, casting a warm glow through the glass.

Satoru raps his knuckles against the door. “Nanami,” he calls, sing-song.

The door creaks open, revealing a tall, broad-shouldered man with blond hair, wearing a crisp, white tunic, and an expression so unimpressed, one would think Satoru had just asked to rob the place. “No.”

“Nanami,” Satoru coos, grinning.

“No,” Nanami repeats, firmer this time, as if sheer repetition will make him disappear.

“You don’t even know what I was going to ask.”

Nanami sighs wearily, bringing up a hand and rubbing tiredly at his forehead. “You’re going to ask if you can stay here.”

Satoru places a hand over his chest, wounded. “What, no warm welcome? No, ‘Satoru, my dear friend, I’ve missed you’?”

“I’ve never said that to you in my life.”

“The lack of hospitality here is astounding.”

Nanami does not dignify that with a response. Instead, his gaze shifts to you. His scrutiny is wary but not unkind, expression flickering with mild curiosity. You shift slightly under his gaze, unsure of what he’s looking for.

“You’re new,” he says.

You nod. “First time in the capital.”

“And what trouble has Gojo dragged you into?”

The corners of your mouth lift up in a smile; Nanami seems like someone you can get along with—a kindred spirit in the art of pushing Gojo Satoru’s buttons. The thief, of course, doesn’t share the same sentiment. He gasps, offended, and says, “Why do you assume it’s trouble?”

“Are you really asking me that?” the bookshop owner asks dryly. He sighs, visibly considering whether allowing Satoru into his home is worth the inevitable headache. His fingers pinch the bridge of his nose, a gesture that suggests this is not the first time he’s found himself in this exact situation. “How long do you plan on staying here?”

“Two nights,” Satoru answers. “Just until the festival.”

“Fine.” Nanami’s shoulders slump as he reluctantly steps aside. “But if you so much as breathe near my ledger—”

“You’re the best.” Satoru claps a hand on his shoulder before he can finish, flashing a triumphant grin. Nanami, on the other hand, looks like he instantly regrets his decision.

Inside, the bookshop is lit by candlelight, the scent of parchment and ink thick in the air. Shelves stretch from floor to ceiling, packed with books that look well-loved and well-worn. The floorboards creak softly underfoot, and a single lamp flickers on the counter beside an open ledger, its pages filled with neath, meticulous handwriting.

“The loft is upstairs,” Nanami says, rubbing his temples. “Try not to destroy anything.”

“No promises,” Satoru says cheerfully.

You follow him up the narrow staircase, stepping into the small loft above the shop. The space is simple—two mattresses perpendicular to each other, pushed against the wall, a low table, and a window overlooking the street below. Dust lingers in the corners, the scent of old parchment soaked into the very walls. There’s no extravagance here, nothing grand or gilded, but it’s warm and lived-in.

Satoru throws himself onto a mattress with no ceremony, arms spread as he sighs dramatically. “See?” he says, peering up at you. “Told you I knew a place.”

You roll your eyes, but despite yourself, a small smile tugs at your lips.

You wake up to the sounds of an argument in the shop below. The mattress is lumpy and a little hard, but it beats sleeping on the forest floor with nothing but your cloak separating you from the cold earth. Satoru’s mattress looks the same as it did last night—the covers placed meticulously and tucked into the sides, the pillow not creased, as though he hadn’t slept at all. A quick glance around the loft leads you to find a wooden basin filled with water. You pad over to it and splash your face once, twice. The water is cool against your skin. You rub the gunk out of your eyes.

It seems the argument isn’t going to abate anytime soon. Nanami’s voice rises, and, cautiously, you make your way out of the door and pad over to the top of the staircase so you can hear better. 

“You’re a fool,” the bookshop owner says. “I told you that months ago, and yet here you are. Again.”

Satoru sounds almost amused when he replies, “Well, hello. What happened to good morning?”

“You’re going to get yourself killed.”

A beat. You shift onto the first step, careful to keep your steps light.

“I appreciate the concern, Nanami,” Satoru says. “Really. But you should know by now that I’m impossible to kill.”

“That isn’t the point.” There’s the sound of something hitting the counter—a book, maybe, or Nanami’s palm pressing against the wood as he fights for patience. “You’re still chasing this—this ridiculous theory? After everything?”

Your fingers tighten around the bannister. “It isn’t ridiculous,” the thief says, quieter this time.

Nanami scoffs, dry and unimpressed. “You’re gambling with your life for a theory you can’t even prove.”

“That’s the point, Nanami,” Satoru counters, sharp. “I have to prove it.”

“You don’t have to do anything,” Nanami says, and there’s something frayed at the edges of his voice, something that sounds a lot like concern buried under layers of irritation. “You could leave this alone. Walk away before—”

“Before what?”

“You know what.”

For a moment, neither of them speak. The words sit heavy in the air, thick enough that you almost feel them pressing against your skin. Nanami exhales. “And even if you’re determined to be a reckless idiot,” he says, voice cooler now, “what gives you the right to drag someone else into this?”

You stiffen at the mention of yourself. Satoru clicks his tongue. “Oh, come on. I didn’t drag her into anything.”

“She’s here, isn’t she?”

“She dragged me here. She made that choice herself.”

“She doesn’t know what she’s choosing,” Nanami snaps. “Tell me, Gojo, did you bother explaining anything, or did you simply try to charm her skirts off and decide that was enough?”

“I can be persuasive if I want, you know.”

“Insane. You’re insane, and I want nothing more than to—”

You’re not sure what compels you to move, but you step down the stairs, making your way towards them before the argument can escalate any further. Maybe it’s curiosity, maybe it’s annoyance, maybe it’s the simple fact that you’re irked at being talked about like you aren’t standing just a few feet away. At the sound of your footsteps, both men turn.

Nanami regards you with a sharp, assessing gaze. Satoru runs a hand through his hair, but grins at you. “Good morning, sleeping beauty,” he greets. “Enjoy your beauty rest?”

You give him a withering look before turning to Nanami. “What’s going on?”

“That,” he says, lips pressed into a thin line, “is exactly what I’d like to know.”

“It’s too early in the morning for us to be concerned with all this serious talk,” Satoru cuts in, clapping his hands. He glances at you. “Nanami, does Utahime’s shop open this early?”

“Yes,” he replies. “But I don’t think she’ll be very receptive to you barging in and ruining her morning.”

“Nonsense! Utahime loves me.”

Nanami sighs. “I’ll warn her first.”

“There’s no need for that.” Satoru waves a hand in the air dismissively, placing his other one on the small of your back and gently steering you out of Nanami’s bookshop. You bite your tongue, curious to know what they were arguing about, but unsure if it’s in your place to pry. 

“Where are we going?” you ask instead.

The thief grins, letting the door to the bookshop swing shut behind him. “To get you some new clothes.”

“What’s wrong with—” You don’t bother finishing the question, as Satoru leads you through the winding streets of the capital. The city is slowly waking—merchants setting up their stalls, children darting between their parents, the scent of roses and bread wafting from nearby bakeries and flower shops. You can hear the clang of a blacksmith hammering metal in the distance, the occasional neigh of a horse, and people haggling over the fresh produce that’s just arrived from the surrounding countryside.

You clutch your cloak around you a little tighter, feeling a little out of place. It’s different, now, in the daylight, when the darkness doesn’t obscure your vision and those of others. You glance down at yourself, taking in the well-worn fabric of your cloak, the practical cut of your tunic and trousers. It’s not like you’re dressed in rags, but compared to the finery you’ve seen nobles wearing in the streets, you suppose you do stick out rather like a sore thumb. (So does Satoru, your mind offers helpfully, but unlike you, he moves as if he owns the very streets he walks on, as if the world itself bends to his whims.)

“Is this really necessary?” you ask hesitantly.

“Absolutely.”

You narrow your eyes. “I feel like you’re just looking for an excuse to spend money that isn’t yours.”

“I would never—” he begins, but you give him a flat look, and his lips curl up into an utterly unrepentant grin. “Alright, maybe I would. But in this case, it’s a matter of principle. Don’t you want to look all nice and pretty at the lantern festival?”

You roll your eyes but let him drag you long, weaving your way through the bustling market district. Eventually, he stops in front of a charming little boutique, its windows lined with displays of elegant dresses, rich fabrics draped across headless mannequins. A little brass bell jingles as Satoru pushes open the door. The interior of the shop is warm, bathed in the golden light filtering through the windows. Shelves upon shelves of neatly arranged fabrics line the walls, bolts of silk and brocade in every shade imaginable. The air smells of lavender and fresh linen, with the faintest hint of parchment from the stack of ledgers resting on the counter.

Behind that counter, a woman with dark hair pulled into a loose bun looks up from where she’s inspecting a sheet of shimmering fabric. Her sharp eyes land on Satoru, and whatever semblance of peace she had this morning is immediately shattered. “Oh,” she says, “not you.”

“Utahime!” Satoru places a hand over his heart. “You wound me.”

“You deserve it.”

“Is that any way to greet an old friend?” he simpers.

Utahime arches a brow. “You are not my friend.”

Satoru wags a finger at her. “Business associate, then?”

“Barely.”

You shift uncomfortably, not entirely sure how to insert yourself into this conversation. The two of them clearly have some sort of shared history, similar to Nanami and Satoru. Curiosity prickles in your stomach; you want to know more about them, about Satoru’s life before he became a wanted man.

Utahime exhales through her nose, then finally turns her attention to you. Her expression softens slightly, the corners of her lips quirking upwards. “And you are?”

You hesitate, suddenly feeling very out of place surrounded by all this luxury. “Um—”

“She’s my new travelling companion,” Satoru interrupts, slinging a hand around your shoulders as if that explains everything. “Which is why I’ve so graciously brought her here—to make sure she looks the part.”

Utahime stares at him, then at you. Slowly, her grin turns amused. “You mean, to make sure you don’t look like a pauper standing next to her.”

You choke back a laugh. Satoru splutters, “I—how dare you—”

“You look like you’ve been sleeping in ditches, Gojo,” the tailor says.

“That is not true.”

“You have leaves in your hair.”

Satoru blinks, reaches up, and, sure enough, pulls a small, dried leaf from his messy white locks. He flicks it away with a muttered curse.

“I can’t stand someone as pretty as her walking around with a man who looks like he lost a fight with a laundry line. Come,” Utahime says, addressing you and already pulling a gown off a nearby rack. “Let’s get you sorted before I throw him out.”

You follow her shyly deeper into the boutique, leaving Satoru to sulk near the counter. The further in you go, the more extravagant the fabrics become—rich velvets, shining silks, intricate embroidery, lacy tulle. You hesitate, again, feeling out of place among such luxury, but Utahime does not seem to care for your reservations. She studies you with a critical eye, holding up various fabrics against your skin.

You shift awkwardly under her scrutiny. “I don’t need anything too fancy,” you say quickly.

Utahime gives you an unimpressed jerk of her chin. “You think he is going to let you walk around in something plain?”

You glance over your shoulder at Satoru, who is currently inspecting a mannequin in the corner, tilting his head. He doesn’t even pretend to be paying attention. You sigh. “Probably not.”

“Exactly.” Utahime flicks through a row of dresses before pulling one out. “Try this.”

The fabric is smooth beneath your fingertips, a deep blue that shimmers like water under the sunlight. The embroidery along the neckline is delicate, intricate swirls of silver thread that catch the light. It’s beautiful—far more beautiful than anything you’ve ever worn before.

“I—I don’t know if I should,” you admit.

“Why not?”

“I mean, I—” You falter. The words sound silly even in your own head. I’m not used to things like this. Things this nice.

But Utahime merely shakes her head and shoves the dress into your arms, though not unkindly. “You should, because you can.” She gestures to a dressing screen next to you. “Go. Try it on.”

You nod, uncertain, before stepping behind the screen, fingers tracing over the soft fabric. It takes a moment to undo the laces of your old clothes and slip into the new dress. The material drapes over you fluidly, the fit surprisingly perfect. The bodice is snug but comfortable, cinching at your waist before flowing down in gentle folds. The sleeves are light, sheer fabric brushing against your skin like a caress.

When you step out, Utahime nods in approval. “Better.”

You look down at yourself, smoothing your hands over the fabric. It’s strange, wearing something so fine, something that makes you feel seen. You’re so used to blending into the background, to preferring practicality over beauty. But now—

A low whistle interrupts your thoughts.

You glance up to see Satoru leaning against the counter, arms crossed, a grin tugging at his lips. “Damn,” he muses. “I always knew you were cute, but this is something else.”

Your face heats. “Shut up.”

“I’m serious!” He pushes off the counter, walking over to circle you, inspecting you from every angle. “You’re going to have every noble in the capital turning their heads.”

“Which means you can’t go around looking like that,” Utahime interjects, shooting Satoru a pointed glare.

He blinks. “Like what?”

“Like a half-drowned stray,” she says, and before he can protest, she shoves a bundle of clothes into his arms. “Go change. I refuse to let someone as beautiful as her be seen with an absolute pauper like you.”

You laugh, and Satoru pouts at you. “You’re enjoying this.”

“Extremely,” you agree.

Grumbling under his breath, he disappears behind another dressing screen, leaving you and Utahime in silence. After a beat, she turns to you. “You’re travelling with him willingly?”

“It’s…” You chew on your lip. “Complicated.”

She hums, as if she’d expected nothing else. “Be careful.”

You don’t know how to respond to that, so you simply nod. A moment later, Satoru emerges, now dressed in something far more refined than his usual attire. The loose, tattered shirt underneath his vest has been replaced with a fitted tunic of dark navy, the high collar emphasising the sharp angles of his jaw. The long coat draped over his shoulders is a deep charcoal, lined with silver embroidery. Even his boots look newer, shinier.

He runs a hand through his hair. “Well?”

Utahime clicks her tongue. “It’s an improvement. Barely.”

Satoru ignores her and turns to you. “What do you think?”

“You look… less like a thief,” you say.

“I’ll take that as a win.”

Utahime rolls her eyes, thrusting a pair of slippers that match the colour of your dress at you, along with an ivory comb to pin your hair back in place. “Take these and get out of my shop.”

So you do.

The capital, you’ve come to realise, is a place of contradictions—grand stone buildings adorned with ivy, shadowed alleyways where whispers slip through the cracks, noblewomen in embroidered shawls brushing shoulders with street performers balancing on stilts. 

Satoru weaves between crowds easily, pausing only when something catches his interest: A vendor selling sugared fruits, a fortune teller shuffling tarot cards at a makeshift stall, a pair of children chasing each other with wooden swords, their giggles ringing bright in the late morning hour. He lingers just long enough to soak in the moment before moving on, as if the city itself is nothing more than an elaborate game designed for his amusement. You try not to stare, but the way he carries himself is captivating—like he’s seen it all before and yet, still finds a way to be charmed by it.

“See?” He nudges your arm lightly with his elbow. “Told you you’d fit right in.”

You press your lips together and say nothing. The fabric of your new dress sways as you walk, softer and finer than anything you’ve ever owned. It feels unfamiliar against your skin, but not unpleasant. It makes you feel different, somehow, like you’ve stepped into a role that doesn’t quite belong to you. People glance at you differently now; not with suspicion or wariness, but with curiosity.

“So, what now?” you ask instead.

Satoru grins, wild, his blue eyes shining with mirth and excitement. “Now? Now, we explore.”

And explore you do.

He leads you through the winding streets, pointing out interesting stalls and dodging carts and carriages. He stops at a street performer juggling knives and dramatically gasps at every toss, leaning in as if he’s witnessing a royal duel. You shake your head, but his antics coax a quiet smile out of you. When he catches it, his smile softens just a little.

A hidden alleyway tucked between two bustling shops reveals an old woman sitting behind a small table, delicate glass trinkets laid out in neat rows. The figures catch the light, shimmering like captured stardust. Satoru crouches, fingers hovering over a tiny glass cat, its tail curled in mid-motion. His white hair falls into his eyes as he studies it, the briefest flicker of something thoughtful passing over his features.

“D’you think Megumi and Sukuna are getting lonely?” he murmurs, turning the figurine over in his hands before placing it back, offering the woman a charming wink as he tosses her a coin for her time.

“You didn’t buy it,” you observe. The two of you step back onto the main street.

“Didn’t need to,” he replies, slipping his hands into his pockets. “Just wanted to look.”

You make your way towards the bustling heart of the market, where stalls overflow with bright fabrics, glinting trinkets, and fresh produce. The scent of roasted chestnuts curls around you, warm and nutty. Satoru pauses, his gaze flicking to a vendor skillfully tossing chestnuts in a wire pan over an open flame. The chestnuts pop and crackle in the heat. Without a word, he steps forward, tossing a few coins onto the counter. The vendor barely has time to acknowledge him before Satoru is already handing you a small paper pouch, its warmth seeping into your fingers.

“Try one,” he says, grinning.

You peel open the shell of a chestnut, the scent much richer up close. When you take a bite, it’s soft and sweet, the kind of warmth that settles deep in your chest.

Satoru watches you expectantly. “Well?”

“They’re good,” you admit.

“Of course they are,” he boasts. “I have impeccable taste.”

You huff a small laugh, shaking your head, but you don’t pull away when he reaches out, brushing a stray hair from your face that escaped the confines of Utahime’s comb. His fingertips barely ghost over your skin fleetingly, but you feel it like an ember catching flame. It stretches between you like a thread being pulled taut—and then he clears his throat and looks away.

“Come on,” he says, tilting his head in the direction of another street. “There’s one more place I want to show you.”

By the time you arrive at the jewelry stall, the sun hangs high overhead, casting long shadows across the cobblestone streets. Unlike the market district, this section of the city is quieter, the chatter of merchants distant, softened by the hum of rustling leaves. The stall itself is small but carefully arranged—dainty chains displayed on dark velvet, rings nestled in silk-lined boxes, gemstones catching the light in a kaleidoscope of colours. Here, the world feels slower, as if it exists in its own pocket of time.

Satoru steps forward, fingers skimming lightly over the jewelry. His expression is uncharacteristically thoughtful. You watch him curiously. Until now, he’s been aimlessly amused by everything, flitting from stall to stall and shop to shop like a butterfly with no real direction, but this—this is different. There’s an intention behind the seriousness in his eyes.

“What are you looking for?” you ask.

He doesn’t answer immediately, instead picking up a simple silver necklace with a small blue gemstone embedded in its center. He turns it between his fingers, the pad of his thumb brushing over the stone as he studies it for a long moment. Then, as if coming to a decision, he looks at you.

“This suits you,” he says.

You blink, taken aback. “What?”

He steps closer, the space between you shrinking. “Here,” he says softly. “Let me.”

Your breath catches when his hands lift, brushing against the back of your neck. The metal of the chain is cool against your skin, but his fingers—his fingers are warm, careful, the touch light enough to send a shiver down your spine. He lingers for just a fraction too long before fastening the clasp, fingertips grazing the nape of your neck in a way that makes heat bloom beneath your skin. When he pulls away, the pendant rests just above your collarbone. You touch it lightly.

“I—I can’t take this,” you say, voice quieter than before.

Satoru only smirks, but it’s not his usual brand of tiresome arrogance. It’s softer. “Too late. No returns.”

Your fingers tighten around the pendant. The stone is smooth beneath your touch, reflecting the sunlight in shifting shades of blue. It reminds you of something—of fleeting moments, of oceans you’ve never seen, of something vast and untouchable yet undeniably present. The question slips out before you can stop it: “Why?”

For a moment, he doesn’t answer. His gaze roams over you, something unreadable flickering in those too-bright eyes. Then, he shrugs. “Consider it a souvenir,” he says. “Something to remember today by.”

You want to press him for more, but something about the way he says it is fragile, delicate in a way that makes you hesitant to touch it too harshly. It is a thread pulled just slightly tighter, a balance shifted just slightly off-kilter. He reaches for your wrist, tugging you gently back towards the street. 

“Let’s go,” he says, ever the one to move before a moment settles. “We’ve still got time before sunset.”

By the time the sun begins its descent, the capital is alive in a different way than before. Where the market had been filled with the shouts of merchants and the clatter of wooden carts, the town square now hums with a different kind of energy—joyful and infectious.

Colourful paper lanterns have been strung between buildings, flickering to life as the sky fades from gold to dusky violet. Musicians gather in the center of the square, their lively tune spilling into the air, coaxing laughter and movement from the people around them. The scent of honeyed pastries from a nearby stall blends with the perfume of crushed petals from garlands strung over doorways.

“Well, sweetheart,” Satoru says, “it’s your lucky day. Looks like we’ve arrived just in time for a celebration.”

You look up at him, slightly wary. “A celebration for what?”

“The night before the lantern festival, ‘course.” He grabs your wrist and pulls you forward.

“Satoru—”

“Hush, we’ve done nothing but walk around all day,” he says, meandering through the crowd. “Let’s have a little fun.”

Your protests die on your tongue when you step into the heart of the square. The music swells, a melody of flutes, fiddles and tambourines; it is so rich and lively that it seems to settle beneath your skin, curling around your ribs like something alive. All around you, people spin and sway to the rhythm, moving as if the music is stitched into their bones. Women twirl in dresses of deep reds and blues, their skirts fanning out like blooming flowers, while men clap their hands to the beat, laughing as they switch partners. Children dart between the dancers, giggles escaping their lips, while couples sway together, lost in their own world.

You’re so caught up in taking it all in that you don’t notice Satoru moving until his hand finds yours again. The moment you realise what he’s doing, your eyes widen. “Oh, no—”

“Oh, yes,” he counters, grinning as he spins you suddenly, catching you before you can stumble. “You can’t expect me to dance alone, can you?”

“I can if I don’t know how,” you retort, heart racing at the unexpected movement.

He clicks his tongue. “Tsk. And here I thought you were quick on your feet.”

You narrow your eyes at him. “Only when I need to be.”

The thief only laughs, that bright, boyish sound that makes something warm settle in your chest. “Just follow my lead,” he says, drawing you in.

Against all reason, you do. At first, you’re hesitant, stiff under his hands while he guides you into the rhythm of the dance. But Satoru is nothing if not persistent. He keeps you moving, spinning you into the flow of the music, making the world blur in bursts of colour and light.

It’s dizzying, the way he moves—not just with grace, but with a kind of unshaken confidence, like he’s never once doubted that the world will bend to him if he asks it to. His hands are steady on yours, his steps sure, and when he grins, it’s the kind of grin that makes you feel like you’re part of some grand adventure, something wild and untamed.

You’ve never met a man like him before.

Somewhere along the way, your hesitation fades. Your body moves with his naturally now, drawn into the lilt of the music. Your laughter bubbles up before you can stop it, spilling into the air between you as he twirls you beneath the glow of the lanterns. Satoru watches you closely, his smile softening, just a little around the edges.

“Told you it’s fun,” he murmurs.

You shake your head, breathless. “Warn me next time.”

“You do want a next time, then,” he says, and you don’t have an answer to that.

Because—maybe—you do. Something in you, you think, has begun to unravel. Maybe, against all logic, you’re slipping. Maybe, you don’t mind. You meet his gaze, heart rabbiting about in your chest. His eyes are impossibly blue, bright even in the dim glow of the lanterns. Your heartbeat is too loud in your ears, your thoughts a mess of tangled emotions, but you can’t bring yourself to step away. Not when his grip is this steady, not when his eyes are watching you like that.

The music melts into something softer, the once-rapid twirls melting into something slower, more intimate. Satoru’s hand shifts, resting lightly against your waist, his other still holding yours between calloused fingers. The world feels smaller now, quieter, narrowed down to just the two of you.

When the song finally ends, both of you out of breath and a little bit sweaty, Satoru steps back and bows with an exaggerated flourish. The fondness in your chest betrays you, and you curtsey back. He holds your hand again, and doesn’t let go. Even as the music fades and the crowd disperses, laughter trailing off into the warm night, his grip remains firm. You should pull away. Should remind yourself that he’s still a thief, still unpredictable, still frustrating beyond belief. 

Instead, you let him guide you through the winding streets of the capital once more, past shops closing up for the night, past candlelight flickering through bedroom windows, past lovers whispering in darkened corners. The warmth of the evening settles over you both, the smell of jasmines and roses and summer heat pressing in close.

“You’ll like this,” Satoru says, turning back over his shoulder.

“You say that about everything.”

“And I mean it every single time,” he replies. 

He takes you through a narrow alley, walking with the surety of someone who has spent their childhood finding all the hidden parts of the city. A wooden ladder rests against the side of a weathered stone building; Satoru lets go of your hand and immediately starts climbing.

You pause. “Seriously?”

“Unless you want to climb up four flights of stairs,” he calls down, teasing. “But I don’t think you’re in the mood for a hike.”

With an exasperated shake of your head, you gather the folds of your dress into your arms, bunching up the fabric. The ladder, thankfully, is sturdy despite having stood in that spot for who knew how long. The climb is easier than you expect, and when you reach the top, Satoru is already waiting, standing near the edge of the rooftop with his hands in his pockets, watching the city unfold beneath him.

Your breath hitches. The view is stunning. From here, the capital is a sea of golden lights, stretching wide until the river that snakes around the perimeter near the far end. The castle looms in the distance, its towers reaching towards the heavens, the marble reflecting all the lights. Beyond it, the countryside stretches endlessly, shadowed hills rolling underneath a sky dusted with constellations. The stars seem impossibly close, as if you could reach out and trace them with your fingers.

Satoru watches your reaction, the corners of his lips curling into something softer than a smirk, something quieter. “Told you.”

You don’t reply immediately, too busy taking in the sheer vastness of it all. The castle, the city, the stars—things that once felt distant and untouchable now seem just within reach. Stepping closer to him, you ask, “How did you find this place?”

“I used to come up here as a kid. Sometimes, when things got—complicated, I guess you could say—I’d sneak away, climb up here, and just watch. The world looks different from above.”

You nod, turning back to the view, letting the quiet settle between you. Satoru plops down onto the shingles of the rooftop, inches away from the part where it begins to slope, and motions for you to do the same. You comply, dress rustling as you sit down next to him. After a moment, Satoru shifts, leaning back on his palms, his long legs stretched out in front of him. The cool night air ruffles his hair, the moonlight catching on the silver strands.

“Can I ask you something?”

“...That depends,” you say.

His smile is easy, lazy—but his eyes are sharp and searching, like he’s trying to peel back all your layers. “Back in the market,” he starts, slow, “you let me pull you into that dance. You could’ve left. You could’ve made an excuse, walked away, ignored me entirely. But you didn’t. Why?”

You suck in a breath, eyes drifting to the city below. The streets are quieter now, the celebrations beginning to wind down. For so long, your world has been small. Not just physically, but in the way that mattered—the way that made it feel like you were meant to stay in one place, bound by duty, by love, by responsibility.

“My grandmother,” you begin, softly. “She was the only family I had left.”

Satoru doesn’t move; he just watches you, waiting. “She got sick,” you continue, wringing your fingers together on your lap. “And I had to take care of her. I couldn’t leave, even if I wanted to. Even if—” You pause, exhaling through your nose. “Even if I dreamed about it sometimes.”

The memories come back in pieces—watching the world pass by beyond the edges of your village, wondering what lay beyond the fields and forests you had never crossed. The way you used to sit by your grandmother’s bedside, listening to the stories she told of places she had never been either.

“She passed away,” you say, quieter this time.

Satoru doesn’t speak, but the way he looks at you makes your chest tighten. You turn your head, looking out over the city again. The castle towers rise high against the star-streaked sky, the view stretching beyond anything you ever could have imagined from your tiny corner of the world.

“I spent so long staying in one place,” you admit, “being careful and doing what was expected of me. But now…” You trail off, searching for the shape of the feeling that’s been unravelling inside you since the moment you first stepped beyond the life you thought you were meant to live. “Now, I think I just want to see what’s out there.”

A slow smile tugs at Satoru’s lips. It’s not the cocky smirk you’re used to, nor the grin that comes with a teasing remark. It’s softer, something almost—fond. “And now that you’re here, is it everything you’ve dreamed of and more?”

“Yes,” you breathe out. “It’s incredible.”

“I’m glad,” he says, then, after a beat: “Alright, my turn.”

“Your turn?”

“To answer a question.” His eyes flicker to you, playful. “You want to ask me something, don’t you?”

You pause. Then, before you can overthink it, you ask, “Are you still only with me because you want the crown back?”

The teasing edge in his expression falters, just for a second. He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he shifts, fingers tapping idly against the rooftop, his eyes fixed on the distant castle. When he speaks, his voice is quieter, more thoughtful. 

“At first, yeah,” he admits. “That was the plan.”

You wait, sensing there’s more. Satoru lets out a breath, a faint chuckle escaping him, though there’s a strangeness to the sound—like he’s amused at his own thoughts, still figuring them out. He says, “But you’re not exactly what I expected.”

You frown. “What is that supposed to mean?”

He shifts, turning to face you fully now, the golden lights casting shadows across the side of his face. “It means,” he says, “that I figured you’d be like everyone else. Predictable. Easy to manipulate. Someone who’d either slow me down or get in my way.”

Satoru smiles, tilting his head, but this time, it’s different—less teasing, more like he’s studying you, trying to commit you to memory. “But you’re not.”

Your heart stutters. You don’t know if it’s the words themselves, or the way he’s looking at you—intent, unrushed, like you are something worth deciphering—but something shifts, something fragile and terrifying in its certainty. You should say something; you ought to shake your head, roll your eyes, scoff at him like you always do. But the night air is wrought with something you don’t have a name for, and the weight of his gaze pins you in place.

“You’re stubborn,” he continues, voice dipping just slightly, low enough that you feel it more than hear it. “Smart. Quicker than I expected. You surprise me.”

The breath you’ve been holding releases in a slow exhale, but it doesn’t make the feeling in your chest settle. “I don’t know if I believe you,” you murmur.

Satoru leans in, not touching—not yet—but close enough that the heat of him brushes against your skin. “You really should.”

You barely have time to process what he means before he moves, slow and deliberate, as if giving you time to stop him. Some part of you registers this—but you ignore it, because somewhere along the way, you stopped wanting to.

His hand lifts first, fingertips ghosting along your jaw, barely there, a touch so cursory, it could be mistaken for hesitation. He doesn’t rush, doesn’t pull you in like a man desperate—he waits, breath mingling with yours, gaze flickering down to your lips, then back up again, watching. It’s agonisingly slow, and maybe that’s what makes your pulse hammer in your throat, makes your fingers tighten at your sides as if fighting the instinct to reach for him. 

And then—the faintest brush. Featherlight; testing. A breath of a kiss, a question rather than an answer. You could pull away now, but the moment his lips meet yours, something inside you caves.

It’s soft at first, uncertain, but the second you respond—just the smallest tilt forward, the slightest press of your lips against his—he becomes more insistent. His hand cups your jaw more firmly, his other coming to rest against the small of your back, drawing you in as though the space between you is something offensive and unbearable.

You gasp against his mouth, but it isn't surprise. It’s relief; like something that had been threatening to snap inside you has finally, finally broken loose. His lips move slowly against your, unhurried but devastating, a contradiction of softness and something deeper, something unjumbling beneath your skin. You don’t even realise when your fingers twist into the fabric of his shirt, holding on like he might slip away if you don’t.

You don’t think. You don’t breathe. You just fall.

It’s easy enough to fall into Gojo Satoru like this. Too easy, really. It should be harder. It should be something that gives you pause, something that makes you second-guess yourself. But you don’t, because right now, on this rooftop with the whole city stretching out below you and the stars scattered across the sky like crushed diamonds, it doesn’t feel like a mistake. It doesn’t feel like something you’ll regret. It just feels like him.

Satoru pulls away and watches you carefully, the way he always does when he’s waiting for you to make a move first. His hands rest loosely on either side of him, deceptively relaxed, but his gaze tells a different story. There’s something in his eyes tonight—softer, expectant, something that makes your stomach twist in ways you don’t entirely understand. Maybe you’ll never understand him fully. But you think, maybe you don’t have to.

You reach for him first this time. A brush of your fingers against his wrist. He doesn’t move, doesn’t speak—just watches, as if memorising the moment. You shuffle closer, until your knees touch where he’s sitting, until his breath stirs the air between you. When you finally lean in, when your lips graze his in something that isn’t quite a kiss yet, you hear the sharp inhale of breath he takes. Then, finally, he moves.

Satoru kisses like he does everything else—sure of himself, but not impatient. He takes his time, lets you press in closer as his hands find their way to your waist, his touch steady and warm. The rooftop is quiet except for the distant sounds of the city and the faint hum of the night air, but all you can hear is him—the way his breath blows on your cheek, the way he exhales softly when your fingers slip into his hair.

You let him kiss you deeper, let him tilt his head and pull you closer and melt into him as easily as breathing. When he pulls you into his lap, hands firm on your hips and his lips trail lower, brushing along your jaw, your throat, your collarbone, you decide you don’t want to stop at all.

The inn is a modest place, tucked between streets. Its wooden beams creak, and the scent of old bookshelves and candle wax wafts through the air, mixing with something sweet—honey, maybe, or the remnants of a forgotten perfume. Satoru had brought you here so quickly and paid for a room that, despite the knowing look the innkeeper gave you both, you didn’t have the time to feel embarrassed before he was whisking you away.

It’s quiet here, away from prying eyes. The bed beneath you is softer than you’d expected, sheets worn but clean, warmed by the heat of your bodies. A single melting candle in the corner lights up the room, its glow casting shadows along the rough-hewn walls, pooling in the hollow of Satoru’s throat as he hovers over you.

There’s a moment—just a moment—where uncertainty creeps in. You’ve never done this before. Somehow, Satoru seems to know that without you even saying anything. His hands, steady and warm, never wander too far, never push for more than what you’re willing to give. Even as his lips move against yours—slow, coaxing, patient—there’s an unspoken question between every kiss; an invitation rather than a demand. It makes it easier. Easier to melt into him and to follow the way his fingers map careful paths down your spine.

You barely register when he tugs at the hem of your clothes, when fabric slips from your shoulders, pooling somewhere unseen. His gentle fingers unclasp the comb in your hair, letting it fall down loose. He leaves the necklace on, though, the blue pendant just above your collarbone, reflecting his own blue eyes. They darken when he sees you like this. His hands are on your bare skin, and it’s different—more real, somehow. More intimate than anything else before this.

Satoru leans back, exhaling as he takes you in, eyes dragging over every newly exposed inch of you. His gaze is heavy, reverent in a way that makes you shiver. “You’re beautiful.”

Your breath catches. Heat pools low in your stomach, spreading through you in slow, curling tendrils. Then he’s pressing his lips to your throat, his hands gliding down your sides, settling on your hips. His touch is firm but never rough. Still, the anticipation builds.

Your skin feels too hot, too sensitive, aware of the way his mouth drags lower—over your collarbone, down the center of your chest, leaving a trail of warmth in its wake. Then, lower still. You shudder. “Satoru—”

He hums against your skin, one hand sliding beneath your knee, urging you to part for him. “Let me take care of you, sweetheart.”

You hesitate for only a moment before nodding. That’s all the permission he needs. His hands settle on your thighs, parting them gently. His lips ghost over the sensitive skin, teasing and testing, before he presses a kiss where you’re already aching for him.

The first touch of his tongue is tentative—just a slow, languid drag against you, as if savouring the taste. Like he’s learning exactly what makes you tremble. You do tremble. A quiet, broken sound slips from your lips before you can stop it, your fingers tightening instinctively in his hair. Satoru groans, low and pleased, and the vibration of it makes your stomach tighten.

He doesn’t rush. Doesn’t overwhelm you. He simply moves with purpose, unravelling you piece by piece, lick by lick, until the pleasure builds into something unbearable. You don’t know when your eyes flutter shut and your body melts into the sheets. His grip tightens just slightly to hold you in place. When he drags his tongue over that one spot, when he sucks, slow and deliberate, pleasure licks up your spine like wildfire. You gasp.

“That’s it,” Satoru says, a tad proud. “Just let go.”

Your fingers tangle in his hair, your thighs tightening around him as he coaxes pleasure out of you with maddening patience. The tension builds, winding tighter, higher, and when he rubs your bundle of nerves with his thumb, you moan. Warmth spills through your limbs; your breath catches and everything around you blurs, reduced to nothing but the feeling of his mouth, his hands, his name falling from your lips in a whisper. Satoru stays there for a moment longer, pressing one last kiss to the inside of your thigh before moving back up. He kisses you again, slow and deep, and the taste of yourself on his lips makes your head spin.

“How was that?” he asks.

“You talk too much,” you say, and slant your lips against his again.

Satoru pulls away, though reluctantly. Kneeling between your legs, his hands move to his belt. You watch, still dazed, as he undoes it and kicks his trousers off, then pulls his tunic over his head in one smooth motion. You swear you forget how to breathe.

Your fingers tremble slightly as you reach for him, pressing your hands against his chest, feeling the warmth of his skin beneath your touch. He shudders at the contact, and something about that—about the way you affect him—sends a thrill through you. Wordlessly, he leans back, watching you carefully.

You meet his gaze, and, slowly, slide your hands up, over the defined lines of his collarbones, over the faint scars that mark his skin. You take your time, tracing the firm places of his stomach, the ridges of muscle beneath your fingertips. He has a scar cutting through his torso, a jagged line that should look unseemly, but on Satoru it does not. You don’t think anything ever could. 

“How did you get this?” you whisper, running your fingers along the line.

“Failed assassination attempt on me,” he whispers back. You’re not even surprised anymore.

Satoru is beautiful. It’s a thought that strikes you suddenly, like a realisation that had been waiting for the right moment to surface. He’s all long limbs and lean strength, a body built for running and fighting and surviving. The sight of him, bare before you, makes something warm bloom in your chest.

“You’re staring,” he teases, but his voice is quieter this time, almost breathless.

You hum, letting your nails drag lightly down his torso, watching the way his stomach tenses in response. “Maybe.”

His breath comes out uneven. Then, as if he can’t help himself, he leans down, pressing his weight against you, caging you beneath him. The heat of his body is overwhelming, the feel of bare skin on bare skin sending a shiver through you. Even then, when he presses his lips to yours, he asks, “Are you sure?”

You don’t hesitate. “Yes.”

He exhales sharply, his forehead dropping against yours. “You’re going to kill me.”

You laugh, breathless, tilting your head just enough to kiss him again. “Then die quietly.”

His answering grin is crooked. He nudges your nose with his, and his hand finds yours against the sheets as he laces your fingers together. Slowly, he moves.

The first press is slow, careful, an unfamiliar stretch as he eases himself inside you inch by inch. Your breath hitches in your throat, fingers tightening around his while your body adjusts to him. There’s a sting, a deep pull of discomfort that makes you tense, but he stills immediately, exhaling a shaky breath against your temple.

Satoru’s lips ghost over your skin, pressing soft kisses to your cheek, your jaw, murmuring quiet praises in between. “You’re doing so well,” he breathes, voice barely above a whisper. “So fucking perfect.”

The ache fades gradually, melting into something warmer. You take a slow breath, then shift your hips slightly—just enough for him to move. His sigh is shaky, his grip on your hand tightening. 

He starts moving, and the world narrows to nothing but him. It’s slow at first, every movement measured, as if he’s trying to memorise every little reaction and gasp that spills from your lips. He watches you the entire time, his expression softer than you’ve ever seen it, like he’s seeing you for the first time. The pleasure builds gradually, a slow burn spreading through your veins. Each roll of his hips, each press of his body against yours sends another wave of heat through you, until the discomfort is nothing but a memory. Your legs tighten around him instinctively, pulling him closer, deeper. Satoru groans, his head dropping into the crook of your neck as he curses under his breath.

“Fuck,” he murmurs, voice strained. “You feel—” He shakes his head, unable to finish the thought. His teeth graze lightly over your shoulder. His pace quickens slightly, pulling breathy moans from you with every movement. The pleasure coils tighter and tighter in your stomach, winding like a thread about to snap. 

And then he angles his hips just right, hitting something inside you that makes your vision blur. A broken sound escapes your lips. Your grip on his hand tightens, nails digging into his skin. “There?” he asks, voice thick with something you can’t quite place.

You nod, unable to form words, and he groans, pressing deeper, chasing every little reaction you give him. It’s overwhelming—the warmth of him above you, the weight of his body pressing you into the mattress, the way he whispers your name like it’s something sacred.

When you finally reach that peak, when the pleasure crests and crashes over you in dizzying waves, your entire body shudders beneath him. The thread snaps, leaving you weightless and drowning in sensation as he follows soon after, his movements growing erratic. Satoru pulls out just in time, a sharp gasp escaping his lips as he spills onto your stomach, one hand gripping your waist as his body trembles above you. His breath is ragged, chest rising and falling rapidly; he takes in the sight of you beneath him—flushed, panting, utterly wrecked.

For a long moment, neither of you move. His breath fans over your collarbone, fingers fiddling with the silver chain around your neck. He presses a lazy kiss to your shoulder, and his grip on your hand loosens just slightly, but he doesn’t let go. Eventually, Satoru shifts, rolling onto his back and searching for something to clean you up. He finds a wash basin with a cloth placed nearby; wetting it gently, he pads back to you. The thief—your lover, now, you suppose—is gentle, wiping you down with slow, careful movements before tossing the cloth aside. Then, without hesitation, he pulls you against him, wrapping an arm around your waist and pressing his lips against your temple.

His fingers trace absentminded patterns along your spine, his touch featherlight. You feel his lips press against your hair, and the gesture makes your chest ache. You curl into him. He rests his chin on the top of your head. “Sleep,” he says.

You don’t say anything—just let your eyes slip shut, and let yourself sink into the warmth of him and the steady rise and fall of his breathing.

Satoru coaxes you out of bed with the promise of buying you a honey-dipped pastry from one of the vendors you’d been eyeing the day before. You grumble about his methods, saying he has an unfair advantage knowing your weaknesses so well, but truthfully, you don’t really mind. You dress quickly, smoothing your hands over the creases in your gown and pulling your hair back with the ivory comb, while Satoru lounges against the doorframe, watching you with that easy, lopsided grin of his. The sunlight catches in his hair, and when he tilts his head at you, something warm curls inside your stomach. You shove it down. 

The two of you leave the small inn just as the sun begins to rise, the golden light spilling over the rooftops. The streets are still mostly empty, save for a few vendors who’ve begun setting up their stalls. You walk beside Satoru, your hands brushing against each other now and then, though neither of you makes a move to pull away. He fills the quiet with his usual chatter, talking nonsense, teasing you about how you hogged the blankets, about how you snored (you did not). You roll your eyes and shove at his shoulder, but he only laughs, catching your wrist and spinning you in a quick, playful circle.

When you finally reach Nanami’s bookshop, it looks the same as it did the day before—quiet and unassuming, its worn wooden sign creaking slightly in the breeze. You push the door open.

Nanami is at the counter, as usual, a book open in front of him. But you can very quickly tell something is off. He doesn’t look up right away. His hands are still, fingers pressed against the page, unmoving. When his gaze finally lifts, it lingers on Satoru first, then flickers to you. He exhales and gives you just the faintest shake of his head. A warning. Leave.

You blink at him, confused. Satoru, oblivious as ever, only grins. “Morning, Nanami,” he sing-songs, stretching as he strolls further inside.

Nanami doesn’t answer. You hear footsteps, slow and heavy—the sound of hard boots against wooden flooring. Not from the entrance. From the back of the shop.

A man steps into view. Tall, with broad shoulders, his dark hair pulled into a high knot, leaving a few loose strands to frame his face. His clothing is different from the soldiers you’ve seen before—black and deep blue, his vest embroidered with the sigil of the royal family. But what strikes you most is his expression: Blank and unreadable; the kind of stillness that feels dangerous without needing to try. His eyes, dark and steady, scan the room methodically before resting on Satoru. He’s flanked by two soldiers on either side of him, standing in metal-plated armour with their faces hidden by the visors on their helmets.

“Ah,” the thief says. “So that’s why Nanami was looking at me like I was already dead.”

The room is still. Satoru doesn’t move. Neither does the man at the back of the shop. Nanami, ever composed, keeps his fingers pressed against the pages of his book, though you can see the tension in his shoulders. He knows exactly who this man is. You don’t.

“You’ve gotten sloppy,” he remarks, as if he was simply commenting on the weather. “I had multiple reports of you wandering throughout the city yesterday. You weren’t even subtle about it.” A small pause, and then: “Frolicking, they said. With a girl.”

His eyes slide towards you. Your stomach tightens. You don’t recognise him, but something about his presence makes your skin prickle. It’s the way he carries himself—the way his posture is lazy, the way his voice is even and smooth, but not emotionless. He reminds you of Satoru, but less flamboyant and raucous.

“I should introduce myself,” he continues, “to our friend here who appears visibly confused. Geto Suguru, captain of the Royal Guard, at your service, madam.”

Satoru merely shakes his head. “You really ought to pay your soldiers more,” he drawls. “Imagine sending them on a wild goose chase to find me. Surely there are more pressing matters to attend to—but I am flattered about the attention you’re very generously bestowing upon me.”

The man hums, unimpressed. “They do their jobs well enough. Unlike you.”

His gaze flicks to a low table pushed to the side. To the crown—the crown that was supposed to be tucked underneath your mattress back in your cottage. Your pulse quickens. Satoru follows his gaze. “Hm,” he says, like it’s all very unfortunate, “I suppose that’s how you found us.”

“You’re different,” the man says. “You never used to be this careless.”

Familiarity bleeds into his tone when he says it. They have a history, the thief beside you and the soldier opposite him, that much is clear. Your fingers curl into your palm.

“Is this the part where you tell me I’ve gone soft?” Satoru grins but it doesn’t reach his eyes.

Captain Geto lifts a brow. “If the boot fits.”

Satoru snorts. You stay quiet, your mouth drying up. You don’t know how deep their history runs. You’re not sure if you want to, anymore, even though, earlier, your curiosity about Gojo Satoru knew no bounds.

“You found me, Suguru,” Satoru says simply, grin vanishing.

The captain inclines his head. “You always make things difficult,” he says, lifting a hand.

The soldiers step forward. Satoru doesn’t fight when they grab him. He stays motionless, doesn’t even flinch as they wrench his arms and wrists, twisting them behind his back. He doesn’t move, but you do. “Satoru—”

He turns his head towards you, and you swear you see something shutter in his expression. But as quickly as it comes, it goes, replaced by a grin that looks more like a sneer.

“I assume you won’t struggle,” the captain says.

“Wouldn’t dream of it, Captain Geto,” Satoru says.

You open your mouth, but before you can say anything—before your brain wraps around what’s happening—Suguru turns to you. His dark eyes sweep over you, assessive. “You’re from the villages, aren’t you?”

You freeze. His voice is calm—not unkind or threatening. Just certain. There is nothing that suggests immediate condemnation about the way he says it, but it sends a prickle of something cold down your spine. You force yourself to square your shoulders and look him in the eye when you confirm his question.

Suguru nods at your reply, something thoughtful about the way he regards you. “Then you have a choice,” he says.

“A… choice?” Your pulse thunders against your skin.

He tilts his head once more, slightly, and for a moment, you could almost call him composed—gracious, even. His words are anything but. “Either you come with us, as his accomplice. Or you return to your village and pretend this never happened.”

The words drop between you like stones. Your throat tightens. You know what he’s offering. A way out. A chance to walk away and go back to the life you left behind. You can let these past few weeks become nothing more than a bitter memory, something you can tuck away and bury deep. But if you leave—

You find yourself looking at Satoru. He grins at you, looking for all the world like he doesn’t have a care. Like he isn’t standing there, bound, with soldiers at his back and chains ready to be locked around his wrists. But you also see the way his shoulders have gone taut, the way his fingers twitch, just slightly, like he wants to reach for you. Before you can think to answer, Satoru cuts in.

“I lied to her.”

Your heart hammers in your chest at his sudden declaration. Captain Geto raises a brow, waiting.

Satoru’s grin widens, careless and easy. “She didn’t know who I was. She didn’t know about the crown or any of this. I played her the fool, and charmed my way into her good graces. Can you blame her?”

You feel like the ground beneath you has vanished. He’s lying. You know it, Suguru knows it, Nanami knows it—but he says it anyway, as if willing it into truth, daring Suguru to challenge him. 

“You never change,” the captain murmurs.

“Nope,” the thief agrees, popping the ‘p’ sound.

There’s a silence; a slow, quiet sigh. Suguru shakes his head. “Take him.”

The soldiers move. You react on instinct, lurching forward, reaching for him—but rough hands seize your shoulders, pulling you back. Nanami, you realise. His sturdy arms—too muscular for a simple bookseller—hold you in place no matter how much you squirm in his grip.

Satoru, on the other hand, merely presses his lips together when they fasten the iron cuffs around his wrists. You feel the sharp sting of panic rise up your throat. “No—” Your voice cracks, but no one is listening. Your limbs feel useless, weak, as the soldiers push past you. “Wait—”

Captain Geto steps forward, blocking your path, his presence an immovable wall of black and blue. His dark eyes settle on yours, calm and resolute. “We found the crown at a cottage.”

His words feel like ice water down your spine. You swallow hard. Suguru doesn’t look triumphant, doesn’t even look like he’s enjoying this. He states it as an inevitable fact. “The entire village was searched,” he continues, measured and unhurried, like he’s laying out the pieces of a story so that you understand. “We found the stolen heirloom hidden there. And if it was there, then that means whoever lives in that cottage—” 

He pauses. You don’t dare to breathe.

“—was harbouring the kingdom’s most wanted criminal.”

A leaden weight settles in your chest. No. No, that’s not true. I didn’t know. But the words don’t come. Because you did know, right from the start, when you stole the crown from him.  It was already too late, then, and it is too late now, because now—now, you know the shape of his smile, the sound of his laugh, the calluses on his fingers. Satoru was protecting your secret, and the realisation burns. Your nails bite into your palm. You want to say something, to fight back and demand an explanation from Geto Suguru. Satoru turns his head towards you.

The soldiers pull him to the door, and you watch, your throat tight and your breath shallow. Your feet won’t move, your body feels frozen, like some part of you believes this is the last time you’ll see him. Like some part of you is already mourning. Satoru’s grin doesn’t slip. His white hair falls over his eyes, and for a brief second, you swear you see something there—something reassuring. He’s telling you it’s going to be okay. He’s telling you not to follow.

“Gojo Satoru,” the captain announces, “as the Captain of the Royal Guard, as per the First Commander’s decree, I hereby arrest you for the cases of looting, thievery, causing bodily harm and injury, failure to repay your debts to the capital, stealing the royal family’s most precious heirloom, and betrayal to the Royal Crown. Do you object to any of these claims?”

“No, Captain,” Satoru says.

“Very well. Your punishment for the following acts of treason is death. The execution will be tomorrow, at sundown. Do you have anything you wish to say?”

His blue eyes find yours. “No, Captain,” he repeats, quieter this time.

Your vision blurs. Gojo Satoru, the menace, the thief you’ve journeyed with, the man who knows you more intimately than anyone else, smiles at you, eyes crinkling at the corners, as the guards lead him away.

“There’s a history, isn’t there?” You cross your arms over your chest. Nanami and Utahime—who had arrived almost as soon as Nanami had sent word—look at each other. “Between the captain and Satoru, and—and you two and Satoru. Tell me.”

It’s been two hours since Satoru was arrested. Two hours of restless pacing, your mind running in frantic circles and your hands clenching and unclenching as you tried to come up with a plan—any plan—that didn’t result in you standing at the end of a sword. 

Nanami had stopped you before you could even try to follow the captain and his soldiers. “That’s suicide,” he had told you, his voice low but firm. “You wouldn’t make it past the castle gates.” He had barely convinced you to stay. But the truth was, you wouldn’t have made it far. Not when Geto had given you just one day to gather your things, buy what you needed from the capital, and leave. Leave. The word itches under your skin. You had nodded shakily when Captain Geto had told you as much. But even as you agreed, you knew. You’re not leaving—not while Satoru is to be executed.

Nanami sighs. “It’s not something you need to involve yourself in.”

“That’s not your call to make,” you snap.

Utahime shifts beside him, arms crossed. “You don’t understand what you’re asking.”

“I don’t care,” you argue. “Satoru is in a cell somewhere, waiting to be executed, and you’re acting like it’s already over.” You take a step closer. “But it’s not, is it? Because if it were, you wouldn’t be here.”

“Fine,” the tailor says. Nanami opens his mouth to protest, but she gives him a look and he stays silent. She leans against the table, fingers drumming on the wood, and takes a deep breath before she starts:

“We were all soldiers once. Me, Nanami, our friends Shoko and Haibara, Geto, and Gojo. We trained together. We fought together. We thought we’d die together. And some of us did. Haibara—he was the youngest of us. Too kind, too trusting—” her jaw tightens— “and he shouldn’t have been sent on that mission. Gojo and Geto were the best of us. The strongest. That strength made them invaluable, but it also put them close to the former captain of the Royal Guard.”

“The First Commander?” you ask.

Nanami nods, his expression darkening. “After Haibara’s death, Geto and Gojo… They changed. Geto became more distant, more dissociated from all the blood and the killing. Gojo became more reckless. At first, we thought it was just grief. Losing Haibara—it did something to all of us. But Geto and Gojo… they were different. They knew something we didn’t.”

Utahime shifts uncomfortably. “They spent more and more time with the First Commander. We didn’t think much of it. He was a brilliant strategist, and they were his best soldiers—it made sense that he’d favour them. Then, one day, while we were busy sparring at the training grounds near the east wing, Geto and the First Commander came up to us. They said—they said that they’ve entrusted us with a new mission: To find and kill Gojo Satoru.”

Your blood runs cold. “...What?”

“We didn’t know why,” Nanami says, grimly. “We still don’t. But we didn’t have a choice, so we played along. We followed his trail, but we never got too close—we made sure of it. Geto was the only one who really cared; the rest of us couldn’t stomach killing our friend.” He lets loose a breath, shoulders slumping. “Eventually, we got sent away for being too incompetent. I took over my father’s shop. Utahime became a tailor. Shoko moved to another kingdom to practice medicine.”

“And Satoru became the kingdom’s most wanted criminal,” you finish for him.

“Yes.” The man sounds tired, resigned when he says it. “The former captain of the Royal Guard became the First Commander—he is the current king’s elder brother, after all—and Geto rose in the ranks to become the new captain. The late queen passed away, and the king’s health deteriorated rapidly, until the First Commander was forced to rule in his name.”

Your head spins with all this information. There must be more to this story—there has to be. Satoru couldn’t have become a notorious thief for no reason. Geto Suguru couldn’t possibly have still been hunting for him if there wasn’t something Satoru knew. Something invaluable. How does the crown tie into this? Satoru must have stolen it for a reason. What could he gain from stealing the royal family’s most priceless heirloom, other than a grand amount of money? You know Satoru wouldn’t have stolen the crown just for the fun of it. 

You’re missing something. Something crucial. You just need to figure out what. But first, you need to save the thief who showed you the world beyond the borders of your village.

Nanami exhales, rubbing a hand down his face. His expression remains blank, but there’s something tense about the way his fingers curl into a fist before he forces them to relax. Utahime has her arms crossed, her fingers gripping the fabric of her sleeves. They had hesitated before, unwilling to speak of the past, but you are nothing if not determined and stubborn.

“Do you guys know your way in and out of the palace?” You shift on your feet. The words leave your lips with urgency, and you don’t dare let yourself hope.

Utahime answers without hesitation. “Of course. I couldn’t forget it even if I tried.”

The certainty in her voice makes your chest loosen just the slightest bit. You chew on your lip, mind racing. The execution is set for tomorrow at sundown. The timing isn’t a coincidence—if your hunch is right, Captain Geto has chosen to use the lantern festival as a veil for the event. A celebration of light and joy to mask the bloodshed. 

Your fingers twitch at your sides, the beginning threads of an idea weaving together in your mind. It’s reckless and dangerous, but what other choice do you have? “I have,” you say slowly, “a horse and a cat waiting for me outside the capital.”

Nanami’s brows furrow. “What does that have to do with anything?”

You allow yourself a small, wry smile. The plan forming in your head is far from perfect—it’s borderline absurd, really—but the best distractions are often the ones no one expects.

“What better way to cause a disruption at a crowded event,” you say, leaning forward slightly, “than by letting a massive warhorse go rogue?”

The lanterns haven’t been lit yet—there are still hours to go for that—but the festivities begin with pomp and affair, much like the evening before, when Satoru and you had danced in the town square. Laughter rings out in waves, warm and unrestrained, carried through the crisp summer air laced with the sweet scent of spiced cider and roasted chestnuts. Music swells from the centre of the town square, a lively melody played by nimble hands on well-worn strings, and for a moment, the festival feels untouchable—like something out of a dream.

Until a scream splits through the dusk. The first crack in the revelry appears as festival-goers stumble back, their joy crumbling into confusion, then alarm. The cobblestone streets tremble beneath the furious pounding of hooves, and the festival—once so bright and golden—erupts into chaos. 

Like a demon birthed from light and flame, the beast arrives. A massive white warhorse, his snowy coat gleaming beneath the lamps’ glow, surges into the square, his reins flopping about his sides with no one there to ride him and his mane whipping about with the force of his gallops. His powerful frame barrels through the market stalls, hooves kicking up a storm of dirt and debris. A merchant barely dives out of the way as a cart of oranges topples over, spilling fruit across the street in a surge of gold and tangerine. The scent of crushed citrus only seems to amplify the panic.

Sukuna. Warhorse, menace, and a walking natural disaster. He rears up, hooves cutting through the air, and lets loose a shrill, defiant neigh that sends festival-goers scrambling. Children clutch at their mothers’ cloaks. Guards—once lazily stationed at their posts—snap to attention, hands flying to their weapons. Merchants abandon their wares, shouting frantically instead.

From the alleyway, you watch, heart hammering against your rib cage. The plan was simple. Let Sukuna loose. Create a distraction. Slip into the palace unnoticed. You were not, however, expecting this. Your eyes drift to where Nanami and Utahime stand, safely behind a water fountain, observing to make sure no real harm is caused and no one is actually injured. Utahime looks mildly shocked, while Nanami looks a little green.

Sukuna swings his massive head to an unfortunate vegetable vendor, plucks a perfectly round cabbage from the wreckage, chews it once, twice—and then hurls it full force at the nearest guard’s nether region. The cabbage makes impact with a resounding thud. The man crumples instantly. You slap a hand over your mouth to keep yourself from laughing, holding Megumi tightly against your chest with your other one. You’ve replaced Utahime’s gown with your tunic and trousers from before and a pair of sturdy boots; it’s easier to move and hide the cat against your chest by covering him with your cloak. Your pack rests against your shoulders, filled to the brim with all your supplies. 

The horse pivots, tail lashing as he sends a stack of pastries flying with a single, well-placed kick. Cream-filled tarts arc through the air, and one particularly unlucky festival-goer takes a hit directly to the face, stumbling backwards in stunned silence. The panic spreads like fire through dry brush. Flower stands topple as people shove their way through the square, knocking over barrels and baskets in their desperate attempts to flee. Musicians abandon their instruments, their once-lively tunes now replaced by the erratic clang of an overturned drum.

You press further into the shadows, gripping Megumi a little tighter. “Alright,” you whisper, gaze darting to the now-abandoned palace gates. “This is our chance.”

The cat flicks his tail against your arm, but doesn’t resist when you set him down. He slinks forward, paws silent against the stone. You take one last glance towards the town square—where Nanami and Utahime are watching Sukuna with the expressions of a duo questioning every single life decision they’ve ever made—before slipping out of the alley.

The plan had been reckless from the start. Nanami had called it suicidal. Utahime had looked moments away from smacking you when you first suggested sneaking into the palace alone. But when it became clear you wouldn’t be swayed, she’d relented, pressing a map into your hands and tracing a single, hidden path with her fingertip. 

“The old passageway beneath the garden wall,” she had told you. “Hardly anyone remembers it exists—except for Geto, maybe, but he won’t be looking for you. It leads you straight through the kitchens and towards the prison underground.”

From this distance, the palace looms like a beast sleeping beneath the stars, its many towers and arching spires silhouetted against the deep blue of the sky. The golden sconces hanging from its walls cast a warm glow, creating long shadows that dance across the stone. Behind you, beyond the square, the festival rages on despite the commotion Sukuna caused. With a population this big, a simple horse won’t stop the people from celebrating—no, Sukuna had done his job well. You don’t hesitate in front of the palace. Hesitation means death.

The main gates are impossible—too well-guarded and exposed. But Utahime had spoken of another way, a smaller side entrance used for deliveries that leads you straight to the garden. It’s tucked away in the farthest corner of the palace grounds. The guards stationed there have been pulled towards the chaos in the square, just as planned. Still, you move carefully.

The shadows are your only ally as you press yourself to the outer walls, each step as silent as you can be. Megumi slinks beside you, nothing more than a wisp in the darkness with a half-torn ear, his sharp green eyes scanning for movement. You follow the curve of the stone wall, past ivy-covered archways and gushing marble fountains, until—

There. A wooden gate, half-hidden behind overgrown vines. You reach for the iron handle, fingers curling around the cool metal. You push against it with your shoulder, and it gives. The gate swings open just enough for you and Megumi to slip through, and then you’re inside the palace.

The palace gardens stretch before you in a maze of hedges and stone pathways. White roses bloom in the moonlight, petals pale as ghosts, their sweet scent thick and cloying. Marble statues of forgotten kings stand in silence, their hollow eyes seeming to follow you as you move. Somewhere beyond, you hear the distant murmur of voices—guards perhaps, manning the main halls. But here, amidst the leaves and the flowers, you are alone. 

You weave through the bushes, careful not to let your cloak catch on thorns. The path Utahime described had been clear in your mind before, but now, with the pressure to get Satoru out as quickly as possible increasing with every beat of your heart, the details feel hazy. A fountain, an old tree, and then the passage.

The fountain comes first, its water glimmering like molten silver under the moonlight. You crouch low, pressing yourself against its cool stone base, scanning the area. There’s no one around. A few paces ahead, a twisted oak rises from the ground, its gnarled roots stretching across the earth like reaching fingers. Its bark is scarred, and its branches are half-bare despite the season—just as Utahime had said.

Your pulse quickens. At the base of the tree, partially covered by weeds and wildflowers, a patch of stone juts out at an odd angle. Unlike the rest of the carefully arranged stone tiles in the garden, this one looks out of place—covered by dirt and worn by time. You drop to your knees and press your fingers against the surface. There is a slight shift, a breadth of space where there should be none.

This is it. With a careful push, the stone gives way, revealing a dark opening beneath the roots. The air that rushes out is humid and damp, as though it has not been stirred in years. You glance at Megumi. “Well,” you whisper to no one in particular. “There’s no turning back now.”

You drop legs-first into the hidden passageway. The moment your boots hit the ground, the world above seems to shrink away, muffled by layers of soil and stone. The darkness here is absolute. It presses in from all sides, thick and mawkish, the kind that swallows light and sound alike. For a moment, you do nothing but breathe, your fingers braced against the rough tunnel walls. The air is damp and stale, carrying the scent of moss, old stone, and something faintly metallic—like rain-soaked iron.

In front of you, Megumi lands soundlessly, his lithe form slipping into the darkness easily. You hear the soft thump of paws against dirt, then nothing. If not for the glint of his sharp eyes, or the way he presses his body against your leg, he might as well have disappeared.

Your fingers find the small lantern strapped to your belt. You turn the wick as low as it will go before striking the flint. A tiny ember flares, then blooms into a soft, flickering glow, just enough to illuminate the path ahead. The tunnel stretches forward, curving out of sight, its ceiling low enough that you have to crouch slightly to keep moving.

The walls here are old—older than the palace above, maybe even older than the kingdom itself. Stones worn smooth by time line the passage, their edges softened by centuries of damp air and creeping roots. In some places, cracks have formed, letting in faint sounds from the world above—the distant echoes of music and cheering from the lantern festival. Each sound feels impossibly far away, as if the tunnel exists in a world entirely separate from the one above.

You move forward carefully, your steps light on the uneven ground. Megumi pads ahead, his tail lifted in the air. The path narrows, forcing you to squeeze between the crumbling walls, and then widens again.

The passage spits you out into a vast, cavernous room, its ceiling arched and lined with thick wooden beams. Dust floats in the lantern’s dim glow, stirred by your arrival. Wooden barrels sit stacked in rows along the far wall, their formerly pristine surfaces marred by age and neglect. Bottles of aged wine and forgotten casks of ale sit upon the rotting shelves, relics of a time when this place had been used for more than secrecy. You drag your fingers across one of the barrels as you pass, feeling the rough texture of splintered wood beneath your touch.

Somewhere above, a faint creak echoes through the ceiling—a floorboard shifting beneath weight. Your breath stills. Someone is walking the halls above. You and Megumi freeze in place, listening. Silence.

Whoever it was is gone now. But the reminder is clear: You’re inside the palace now. You are running out of time. Exhaling slowly, you move to the far end of the cellar, where Utahime had said the servants’ door would be. The wood is warped with age, but when you press your shoulder against it, it gives way with a quiet groan. Beyond it, a narrow stairway spirals upwards. At the top lies the palace kitchens—and beyond that, the key you need to free Satoru.

You unsling your pack, shifting it in your arms, and step cautiously into the palace kitchens. The air is thick with the scent of past meals—roasted meats, cinnamon, and something rich and spiced. The massive hearth smoulders with dying embers, glowing orange. 

The kitchen is deserted, just as Utahime had said it would be. Most of the palace staff must have gone to watch the festival, or—more conveniently for you—to see whatever disaster Sukuna had caused in the square.

Still, you don’t take any chances. You straighten your back, undo the strings of your pack, and heft it in your arms like a sack. Striding forward, you lift your chin as though you belong here. Megumi flits past your feet, disappearing underneath one of the heavy wooden tables.

The ruse almost works—until just as you near the door leading out of the kitchen, footsteps sound from the far hallway. You freeze for only a moment before forcing your limbs to loosen. With a quick breath, you throw a mild look of annoyance onto your face, shift the pack higher onto your hip, and march forward. The door swings open and you nearly collide with a harried-looking cook. He’s a broad-shouldered man with a walrus moustache, apron stained with what looks like a day’s worth of work, and he stops short when he sees you.

“You—who are you?” His moustache quivers. His eyes flick to the open bag in your arms, filled with a hastily gathered of carrots, leeks, and a single sad-looking turnip. 

You let out an exasperated huff. “Finally,” you say, injecting the right amount of irritation into your voice. “Do you have any idea how hard it was to get these here?”

“What?”

“The town square’s a disaster! Some lunatic set a warhorse loose! I had to take the long way around the outer walls just to get here, and by the time I arrived at the usual gate, no one was there to let me in.” You shake your pack for emphasis. “Thought I was going to have to eat these myself. You’re lucky I even bothered.”

The cook eyes you suspiciously, but your complaint sounds mundane enough to be true. He rubs a hand over his face, sighing heavily. “The gods are testing me tonight. Fine, fine, put them on the table. But be quick about it.”

“Yes sir,” you mutter under your breath, making a show of stomping towards the long wooden table in the center of the kitchen. You set your pack down with a decisive thud, dusting your hands afterwards for good measure. The cook is already distracted, grumbling to himself as he turns towards the fire. You take the opportunity to scan the room, eyes landing on a rack of pots and pans hanging next to the hearth.

A weapon. Your fingers itch. It’s not that you’re planning to hit someone, but it’s always good to be prepared. And you wouldn’t exactly be the first person to use a frying pan as a last-minute means of self-defense; you’ve heard of tales of the princess of a neighbouring kingdom escaping her tower where she was kept imprisoned with nothing but a chameleon for company and a frying pan for safety.

Without hesitating, you grab one from the rack, testing its weight in your hand. It’s sturdy. Heavy enough to knock a man out cold if necessary. You slide it under your arm, keeping it close as you edge your way towards the door. 

“Oi.”

You stop. The cook is watching you again. You lift the pan slightly. “Borrowing this.”

His moustache quivers again. “For what?”

“To use,” you say vaguely. “Surely I deserve it after having brought you your vegetables despite all the trials and tribulations I faced along the way.”

“You know what? I don’t want to know. Just get the Hell out of my kitchen.”

You don’t need to be told twice. With a slight nod, you make your way towards the hall, Megumi slipping out from his hiding place to follow at your heels. The moment you’re out of sight, you tighten your grip on the pan and let out a slow, relieved breath.

You’ve done it. You’ve infiltrated the palace.

The halls stretch before you, long and gilded, lined with tapestries and portraits. The marble beneath your feet gleams even in the dim torchlight, and the walls are carved with intricate patterns of swirling gold, catching the flicker of flames like veins of molten fire.

It really is beautiful. A shame you don’t have the time to appreciate it.

Satoru had spoken of this palace with an almost begrudging sort of fondness, describing the soaring ceiling and the endless hallways. He’d said that it was too grand and gaudy, but his voice had betrayed him. Maybe, if things were different, you’d have let yourself stop for a moment; might have run your fingers over the carved archways or peeked behind the heavy velvet curtains just to see if what he had said is true.

But right now, Satoru is locked in a cage beneath all this finery, and if you didn’t move fast enough, he’d stay there. 

So you force your gaze away from all this grandeur and press forward, Megumi keeping pace beside you. The entrance to the underground prison is right where Nanami had explained it would be—tucked away at the end of a long corridor, next to the life-size portrait of the late queen. A single guard stands watch, leaning lazily against the wall, arms crossed over his chest.

It’s almost insulting. You’d expected some kind of resistance, but clearly, the festival is a grander affair than you thought it’d be, given the fact that the entire palace is mercifully empty. (Take that, Gojo, you think. It’s not just some stupid, fucking dream.)

The guard is young, barely older than you, and his helmet is tilted back on his head like he doesn’t expect to actually need it. A ring of keys hangs from a nail on the wall beside him, just out of his immediate reach. You exhale slowly. It has to be fast.

You step forward, letting your footfalls become just loud enough to catch his attention. The guard startles, straightening as his hand drifts to the sword at his hip. “You’re not supposed to be—”

You don’t give him a chance to finish. Before he can react, you swing the frying pan. There’s a thunk as the cast iron connects with his temple, and his expression shifts from alarm to blank surprise before his knees buckle beneath him. He falls to the floor, out cold before he even hits the ground. For a moment, you just stand there, blinking down at his unconscious form.

“Okay,” you mutter. “That actually worked.” Megumi lets out an unimpressed meow. 

You shake off the momentary shock and step over the fallen guard, reaching for the keys. They’re cold in your hand as you lift them from the nail, heavier than you expected.. You kneel, looping a thin cord you’d kept in your pocket through the keyring before carefully tying it around Megumi’s neck. The metal dangles against his dark fur, catching the light as it sways with the feline’s movement. Megumi flicks his ears.

“Don’t look at me like that,” you whisper, scratching behind his ears in silent apology. “You’re the only one small enough to slip through the bars. Go save Gojo, yeah? I’ll let you use him as a mattress for the rest of your life if you do.”

You glance toward the heavy wooden door leading to the prison. You can already feel the cold draft seeping through the hinges. Satoru is waiting—and you’re almost there.

The moment Megumi slips through the prison door, you press yourself against the cold stone wall, every muscle in your body coiled tight. Now comes the hardest part: Waiting.

The silent stretches, suffocating. The distant echoes of the lantern festival feel like they belong to another world entirely—one where people are laughing, dancing, reveling underneath lantern-lit skies. But here, away from all the joyousness, in the belly of the beast, the air is still. You tighten your grip on the frying pan, the only weapon you have, though you’re not sure how much use it’ll be if someone really finds you. The minutes drag, each one more agonising than the last, and you fight the urge to start pacing.

What’s taking so long? Did Megumi make it inside? Did Satoru get the keys? Did something— A sudden, ear-splitting clang echoes from the prison depths—and then, footsteps. Heavy, fast, running. Before you can brace yourself, the door bursts open.

Gojo Satoru is a blur of white and shackles and laughter, stumbling forward as if he can’t believe the oxygen he’s breathing is real. Megumi bounds after him. The thief’s hair is a mess, his clothes rumpled from captivity, and the iron cuffs that once bound his wrists now dangle uselessly from one hand with the lock wrenched open.

He stops, just for a moment, breathing heavily, and then— “Oh.”

He reaches for you. Strong arms reach around you, lifting you clean off your feet before you can protest. He spins you once, laughter bubbling from his chest, the sound bright and alive and so him that your heart lurches.

“You’re brilliant, did you know?” he says, breathless, grinning into your hair. “My beautiful, clever girl.”

Heat rushes to your face, but before you can come up with anything resembling a response, he pulls back just enough to look at you. His hands settle firm at your waist, fingers pressing into you as if he needs to ground himself, needs to believe that you’re real. 

“You actually did it,” he murmurs, voice softer now, as if the realisation is still settling in. His eyes—so much brighter now that he’s not sentenced to imminent death—roam your face, searching. “You came for me.”

“Of course I did,” you say, and there’s a conviction to your voice that you didn’t know you were capable of. “What, did you think I was going to leave you in there?”

Satoru lets out a breath that could almost be a laugh. His fingers tighten just slightly, the corner of his mouth quirking upwards. “Nah,” he says. “You love me too much for that.”

You would have smacked him for that, but Megumi hisses in warning, and—

A slow, deliberate clap shatters the moment. The sound echoes through the empty corridor. Satoru stiffens. You twist in his arms, and there, standing at the entrance to the corridor, framed by torchlight, is Geto Suguru.

He is calm. He is composed. His uniform is pristine, untouched by the madness of the outside world. Something about the way he stands—the way his eyes glint—tells you that he had been expecting this.

“Oh, my,” Geto says, dark amusement curling at the edges of his voice. “What a touching reunion.”

He doesn’t lunge, doesn’t rush—simply tilts his head, fingers shifting ever-so slightly around the hilt of the sword sheathed at his waist. But that is enough. Satoru reacts immediately.

“Time to go,” he says, and before you can even register it, his hand grips yours and pulls.

You break out into a run, Megumi bounding alongside you both. Your feet barely touch the polished marble floors as you tear through the hallway. Satoru’s grip is firm, unyielding, tugging you forward even as your heartbeat roars in your ears.

The palace corridors blur past in streaks of gold and shadow. The vast, open walls, formerly filled with the hum of courtly affairs and the soft shuffle of silk-clad nobles, now echo with the rhythm of your own footsteps. The grandeur, the impossible opulence—none of it matters now. The only thing that does is putting as much distance between you and the man behind you.

Geto does not rush, but you feel him there, just beyond the edges of your vision. He moves like inevitability, his steps unhurried, the soft tap of his boots against stone barely audible over the breathless pace Satoru sets.

Left. Satoru veers sharply, nearly yanking you off balance as he takes a turn down a narrower passageway. The walls here loom closer, lined with paintings depicting long-forgotten wars and rulers whose names history has nearly erased. Megumi races ahead, his black fur a blur against the dim light, navigating the twisting hallways with a hunter’s instinct.

“Where—” you barely manage, lungs burning— “are we going?”

Satoru doesn’t answer immediately. His grip tightens around your wrist, fingers warm despite the chill in the air. Then, finally: “The throne room.”

You nearly stumble. “The what?”

“Best place to corner him.” He doesn’t sound the least bit winded, despite the speed at which you’re moving. “No exits. Just him and me.”

“That’s a terrible plan!”

“Oh? Got a better one, beautiful?”

You don’t. Not one that doesn’t involve getting caught. Another turn. Another impossibly long hallway. The walls here are different—sleek, dark stone rather than marble, lined with towering pillars that stretch high into the vaulted ceiling. This is the heart of the castle, you realise. The oldest part. The place where power has been passed from one ruler to the next, where history has been carved into the very foundations. The entrance to the throne room looms ahead. Twin doors. Impossibly tall, made of dark oak reinforced with gold filigree. The sigils of the royal bloodline are carved into them, worn smooth from centuries of rule.

Megumi reaches it first. He doesn’t slow—just slips through the narrow gap left ajar. Satoru doesn’t stop running, either. He shoves against the heavy doors, and they groan open, the vast chamber beyond yawning wide to swallow you whole.

The throne room is silent. No guards. No nobles. Just tall stone columns, high windows that cast fractured moonlight against the polished floors, a row of swords hanging on the far end of the wall, and the lone, empty throne that sits at the far end of the chamber. Your stomach drops when you see what’s placed on the throne’s seat.

The crown. Geto Suguru has expected this to happen—had planned for it, even. All for what?

Satoru releases your wrist just as the doors slam shut behind you. The sound of approaching footsteps makes you whip around so quickly, you nearly lose grip of the handle of the frying pan. Satoru turns, unhurried, a smile curling at the edges of his lips even before Geto steps into the dim light.

“How predictable,” the captain drawls. His fingers roll the hilt of his sword idly, his gaze sweeping from the empty throne to Satoru, to you. “Well played, Satoru. But I’m afraid this game is already over.”

He doesn’t move in a rush—not in the reckless, desperate way of a man eager to end a fight—but with slow steps. The grip on his sword remains loose, casual, as if he’s hardly concerned. As if this is nothing more than a simple conversation. Satoru backs up, just as measured, retreating step by step towards the far wall where the swords hang in an orderly row. You stay still, carefully stepping away, Megumi hiding behind your legs. This is not your fight to partake in; you know this because the captain barely glances your way.

“You’ve always been stubborn,” Geto says, tilting his head as his boots click against the floor. “All those years, running in circles, chasing shadows. Looking for something that was right in front of you the entire time.”

“I don’t know,” says Satoru, almost lazily. “I think I was more preoccupied with avoiding your assassination attempts.”

Geto chuckles. “Come now, old friend. I gave you plenty of warning.”

“Oh, sure. That time you nearly poisoned my drink?” Satoru grins manically. “Tell me, was that your idea, or were you merely using the First Commander as inspiration?”

Your breath hitches. The First Commander? 

The laughter in Geto’s expression doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “I was doing what I had to do. Look at me now, Gojo. I’m the Captain of the Royal Guard, while you’re just a fugitive with no place to call home. This could’ve been your position, had you not decided to be so fucking righteous.”

“Right. It’s my fault for finding out that the First Commander murdered the late queen.”

Everything clicks into place. Nanami had mentioned that the First Commander was the current king’s older brother—the current king, who has been severely ill for the past decade, who hasn’t been seen in the public eye ever since, because he was supposedly on permanent bedrest. Your heartbeat quickens. Just how much rot is this kingdom hiding behind the rubies?

“Ah,” Satoru continues. “I’m forbidden from speaking of it, aren’t I?”

The captain’s jaw ticks, but his smirk remains. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

The thief scoffs. “Of course. Because it wasn’t you who told me to shut up about it instead of confronting the old man. To turn a blind eye, to let it happen ‘cause it was—what did you say?—bigger than us.” He laughs, sharp and humourless. “How’s that working out for you, Suguru?”

“Still so naïve.”

“And you’re still so blind,” Satoru throws back. He reaches behind him, grabbing the nearest sword from the wall, and swings it down. “What was it, again? The commander deserved the throne because he was older? Because the king was too soft? Because it was for the good of the kingdom?” His voice drips with mockery. “Come on, Suguru. Give me that speech again. I loved that speech.”

Geto’s fingers shift on the hilt of his sword. “You never understood.”

“Oh, I understood perfectly,” Satoru snaps. “The commander couldn’t sit on his hands and wait for fate to hand him what he thought was his. So he took matters into his own poison-stained hands. And you let him.”

Silence stretches between them, thick as fog, pressing against the walls. You swallow hard, watching the way Geto’s jaw sets. 

“We’ve had this conversation before, right before you decided to rat me out,” he continues. “We both knew. We knew he was killing them.”

Geto’s eyes flash. “And what was I supposed to do, Satoru? Fight back? Get myself executed like you nearly did? The commander had already won the moment the queen died.”

“The queen,” Satoru seethes, “who had a son, Suguru. The trueborn heir to the throne. The very thing the commander feared most.”

Geto’s lips part—then press into a thin line. There. There it is. The missing piece, the lock to the key.

Satoru takes a step forward, lifting the sword in his hand. “That’s what broke you, isn’t it?” His voice is softer now, but not kind. “You could stomach the poison. You could stomach the lies. But when he tried to kill the baby, that was when you hesitated.”

“I thought you were dead,” Geto says, almost conversationally. “When you ran. The first few months when they declared you a fugitive, I thought you wouldn’t make it. And yet, here you are.”

“I am very hard to kill.”

“That, you are.”

They move at the same time. Steel clashes in a burst of sparks, the force of the impact ringing through the cavernous throne room. Satoru twists, parrying the next strike with ease, but Geto presses forward, forcing him back towards the dais. They circle each other, two hunters hunting each other. You tighten your grip on the frying pan—though it might be rendered useless given the situation.

“You were so convinced you could save him,” Geto murmurs, keeping his blade pointed at Satoru’s chest. “That you could find the heir, put him on the throne, and somehow make this kingdom right again.”

“And you were so convinced that I wouldn’t,” Satoru says. “It took a while, but I managed to steal the crown, didn’t I? The late queen—may she rest in peace—was clever. It was tough trying to figure it out—that the clue rested upon what belonged to the true heir.”

“Clever, indeed. But not clever enough. You see, I’ve already figured it all out.” Geto lunges again, blade flashing. Satour meets him mid-strike. They push against each other, each testing the other’s strength, neither giving way.

“You think you’ve won just because you found the crown?” Geto taunts. “Because you figured out the queen’s little riddle? It changes nothing.”

“No, Suguru. It changes everything.” Satoru grins, eyes alight with someone reckless. He shifts his weight, twisting free of Geto’s grip, and swings his sword in a sharp arc. Geto blocks it, but just barely—his foot skids slightly against the polished marble, his balance momentarily off. Satoru seizes the opening, pressing forward with quick, calculated strikes.

The clang of their swords echoes, the only sound save for your own shallow breaths. You inch closer to Megumi, keeping him shielded behind you, even as you cannot tear your eyes away from the fight.

“You were there that night,” Satoru bites out in between strikes, “when the commander told us of his plan for the queen’s son to be killed.” His blade swings, forcing Geto another step back. “You heard the order.” A sharp clash. “You almost let it happen.” Another blow. “And you knew I wouldn’t.”

Geto parries the next attack with more force, forcing Satoru back. “I told you to let it go. I told you it was too late.”

“And I told you to go fuck yourself!” Satoru fires back. He dodges another strike easily, as though his years of training as a soldier have not left his body despite the disuse of sword-fighting.

“You should’ve joined me,” he says. “We could’ve risen the ranks together. Fixed things together.”

“Fixed things? You wanted to erase the truth. I wanted to bring it back.” Satoru’s eyes narrow. “That’s why you never killed me, isn’t it? Because some part of you—some part of you—wanted me to prove you wrong.”

A flicker of something crosses Geto’s face. A hesitation. A second too long. Satoru moves. His blade sweeps low, and Geto barely has the time to block before he’s forced back again, this time nearly stumbling. His boot scrapes against the first step of the dais, right in front of the empty throne—mere paces away from where you’re standing, clutching your frying pan like it’s a lifeline. Satoru stops, standing just a few feet away, his own sword lowered slightly, his breathing steady.

Geto exhales slowly, eyes shadowed, and then—finally—he laughs. Low; amused; dark. “You always were the best, Satoru,” he says. “I’ll give you that. But I’ve figured it out too. The queen’s secret. The heir’s true identity.”

Satoru’s expression doesn’t waver. “Oh?”

A slow smile spreads across Geto’s face. “Okkotsu Yuta is his name,” he says. 

You take a step forward. Geto continues, “The last remaining royal—”

Another step. “—was raised as—”

Another step; this time, you raise your arms over your head. “—a low-life peasant on the border between our kingdom and the next.”

CLANG!

Geto Suguru’s mouth slackens. His eyes go cross-eyed before he crumples to the floor, unconscious. Satoru blinks. His eyes dart up to meet yours.

You stand over the captain of the Royal Guard’s stupefied body, the frying pan gripped so tightly in your hands, the handle digs into your palms. “...Oops?”

Satoru exhales—a sound caught between disbelief and sheer delight—before throwing his head back with a bark of laughter. “You,” he says, stepping over Geto’s unconscious form, “are fucking amazing. And here I was, thinking I’d have to duel him for longer.”

You lower the frying pan, shoulders sagging slightly as the adrenaline ebbs. “Yeah, well, you were taking too long.”

He drops the sword; it falls to the floor with a resounding thud. You grimace. Satoru wraps his arms around you, melting into you as though drained of all his energy. You lean against him, as well. It’s not over yet—the First Commander is still alive, the king’s health is still failing, the heir is still unaware of his royal lineage, and the kingdom’s fate is uncertain.

“Hey,” he murmurs after a while, after Megumi weaves about in between your legs. “We might be able to catch a glimpse of the last bit of the lantern festival if we’re lucky.”

You pull back slightly, brows knit together in a frown. “Aren’t you tired? You should be resting!”

“Nah.” He grins. “What sort of man would I be if I brought you all the way to the capital and didn’t let you see your dream?”

“But—”

“Tomorrow. We’ll figure it all out tomorrow.”

“Okay.” You give in. How could you not?

The river glows with the reflections of a thousand golden lanterns, each one a drifting star against the darkened water. Somewhere beyond the riverbanks, the kingdom rejoices, but here—adrift in a tiny wooden boat, far removed from the noise and the world—it is quiet. It is just you and Satoru, bathed in the warm glow of floating light. You trace your fingers along the delicate paper lantern in your lap, the thin parchment almost translucent beneath your touch. Satoru watches you, a smile playing at the corners of his lips. “Make a wish,” he tells you.

You let your lips turn upwards, closing your eyes. The lantern lifts into the air. It floats upwards, joining the sea of golden light that drifts towards the heavens. Beside you, Satoru releases his own, head tilted back to watch it rise, the glow reflected in the blue of his eyes. For a long while, you don’t speak. The world has never felt so hushed, so suspended in time. 

Then, he turns to you, the shimmer of the lanterns casting his face in soft gold. “I think,” he says, “I have a dream too.”

“Really? Tell me.”

He leans in instead, and his lips press against yours—warm, certain, like the promise of something endless. Overhead, the lanterns continue their slow, drifting ascent, rising higher, higher, until they are nothing but distant constellations in the dark.

It feels like stardust.

⇢ a/n: @mahowaga & @admiringlove, you both know who you are. thank you, as well, to kae, @ylangelegy, for beta reading this fic, giving me invaluable feedback, and letting me ramble about this fic to them; i appreciate you endlessly. and, of course, thank you, dear reader, for reading this behemoth of a fic :) i hope you have a wonderful day! sidenote: due to tumblr’s paragraph limit, several paragraphs that were written as separate word blocks had to be combined into one in order to make it fit in one post. to read it with the original formatting, as it was written in my google docs, ao3 would definitely offer you a better experience!

View of Paradise (Satoru Gojo x Reader) PART SIXTEEN

[𝘾𝙃𝘼𝙍𝙇𝙄𝙀 𝘼𝙉𝘿 𝙏𝙃𝙀 𝘾𝙃𝙊𝘾𝙊𝙇𝘼𝙏𝙀 𝙁𝘼𝘾𝙏𝙊𝙍𝙔 𝘼𝙐]

𝗔/𝗡: 𝗼𝗸 𝘀𝗼 𝗶 𝘄𝗮𝗻𝘁𝗲𝗱 𝘁𝗼 𝗴𝗲𝘁 𝘁𝗵𝗶𝘀 𝗼𝘂𝘁 𝘁𝘄𝗼 𝘄𝗲𝗲𝗸𝘀 𝗮𝗴𝗼 𝗯𝘂𝘁 𝟭) 𝗺𝘆 𝗰𝗼𝘂𝗻𝘁𝗿𝘆 𝗵𝗮𝗱 𝗶𝘁𝘀 𝗯𝗶𝗴 𝗲𝗹𝗲𝗰𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻 [𝘆𝗲𝗲𝘀𝗵] 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗶 𝗵𝗮𝗱 𝘀𝘁𝗮𝗿𝘁 𝗺𝗮𝗸𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗺𝘆 𝗰𝗼𝗻𝘁𝗶𝗻𝗴𝗲𝗻𝗰𝘆 𝗽𝗹𝗮𝗻𝘀 [𝘆𝗲𝗲𝘀𝗵𝗲𝗿𝘀] 𝟮) 𝗶𝗺 𝗶𝗻 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗺𝗶𝗱𝘀𝘁 𝗼𝗳 𝗮𝗽𝗽𝗹𝘆𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗳𝗼𝗿 𝗴𝗿𝗮𝗱 𝘀𝗰𝗵𝗼𝗼𝗹 [𝗱𝗼𝗻'𝘁 𝗹𝗲𝘁 𝗺𝗲 𝗳𝗼𝗿𝗴𝗲𝘁 𝗶 𝗴𝗼𝘁 𝘁𝘄𝗼 𝗮𝗽𝗽𝗹𝗶𝗰𝗮𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻 𝗱𝘂𝗲 𝘁𝗼𝗱𝗮𝘆 𝗯𝘁𝘄 𝘁𝗲𝗲𝗵𝗲𝗲] 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗶𝘁'𝘀 𝗹𝗼𝘄-𝗸𝗲𝘆 𝗸𝗶𝗹𝗹𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗺𝘆 𝘃𝗶𝗯𝗲 𝟯) 𝗶 𝗴𝗼𝘁 𝘀𝗶𝗰𝗸 𝗮𝘀 𝗳𝘂𝗰𝗸 𝘁𝘄𝗼 𝗱𝗮𝘆𝘀 𝗯𝗲𝗳𝗼𝗿𝗲 𝘀𝗺𝗵. 𝗯𝘂𝘁 𝗶𝗺 𝗹𝗮𝘁𝗲𝗿 𝘁𝗵𝗮𝗻 𝗶 𝘄𝗮𝗻𝘁𝗲𝗱 𝘁𝗼 𝗯𝗲, 𝗲𝘃𝗲𝗿𝘆𝗼𝗻𝗲 𝗴𝗲𝘁𝘀 𝗮𝗻 𝗲𝘅𝘁𝗿𝗮 𝗹𝗼𝗻𝗴 𝗰𝗵𝗮𝗽𝘁𝗲𝗿 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗮 𝘀𝗰𝗲𝗻𝗲 𝘁𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝘄𝗼𝘂𝗹𝗱 𝗵𝗮𝘃𝗲 𝗯𝗲𝗲𝗻 𝘁𝘄𝗼 𝗼𝗿 𝘁𝗵𝗿𝗲𝗲 𝗰𝗵𝗮𝗽𝘁𝗲𝗿𝘀 𝗰𝗼𝗻𝗱𝗲𝗻𝘀𝗲𝗱 𝗶𝗻𝘁𝗼 𝗼𝗻𝗲!! 𝘆𝗮𝘆𝗮𝘆!!!!!

𝗣𝗮𝗿𝘁: 𝗼𝗻𝗲 || 𝘁𝘄𝗼 || 𝘁𝗵𝗿𝗲𝗲 || 𝗳𝗼𝘂𝗿 || 𝗳𝗶𝘃𝗲 || 𝘀𝗶𝘅 || 𝘀𝗲𝘃𝗲𝗻 || 𝗲𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁 || 𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗲 || 𝘁𝗲𝗻 || 𝗲𝗹𝗲𝘃𝗲𝗻 || 𝘁𝘄𝗲𝗹𝘃𝗲 || 𝘁𝗵𝗶𝗿𝘁𝗲𝗲𝗻 || 𝗳𝗼𝘂𝗿𝘁𝗲𝗲𝗻 || 𝗳𝗶𝗳𝘁𝗲𝗲𝗻 || 𝘀𝗶𝘅𝘁𝗲𝗲𝗻 || 𝗺𝗼𝗿𝗲 𝘁𝗼 𝗰𝗼𝗺𝗲…

𝙒𝙖𝙣𝙩 𝙩𝙤 𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙙 𝙢𝙤𝙧𝙚? ⇒ 𝙈𝙖𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙧𝙡𝙞𝙨𝙩

𝙟𝙤𝙞𝙣 𝙢𝙮 𝙙𝙞𝙨𝙘𝙤𝙧𝙙 𝙨𝙚𝙧𝙫𝙚𝙧?

𝙗𝙪𝙮 𝙢𝙚 𝙖 𝙘𝙤𝙛𝙛𝙚𝙚?

As you walked through the factory’s entrance hall with the other winners, the children, and Mr. Gojo, you found the inside surprisingly toasty for such a dreary-looking factory.

The fact almost escaped you as you watched the two little girls struggle amongst themselves once more to get through the factory entrance doors first in a mad dash, once again displaying a highly competitive nature. And the tense, sharp words shared between the two men chaperoning them were also a bit distracting in their own right. But Mr. Gojo swiftly put an end to all of that as he ushered the entire group inside with an impatient tap, tap, tap of his cane against the ground and a reminder of just how “late” everyone was.

Now, everyone is following behind a silent Mr. Gojo as he walks through the halls- head held high and gaze forward. At the same time, you fell in line with your younger brother, who decided to take refuge towards the back with you as everyone else surged forward. While the factory entrance hall was grand in size, it was mostly bleak and empty. Tall, gray walls with small windows dotted randomly across the space and the single red carpet runner that stretched out very, very far. You’ve never been in a factory before, so it’s obvious you can’t say much about what is or isn’t supposed to be there. But as a guest, you can’t help but be surprised about just how…meager it looks. The outside wasn’t flattering at all for a candy factory, sure. And you didn’t think it fit the personality that you had picked up from Mr. Gojo in your short time together. But the inside was empty and lonely and cold. Well, it only seemed cold. Because in actuality the factory really was surprisingly toasty for such a bleak and unforgiving area.

And you weren’t the only one to notice that. 

“Any chance you could cool things down in here, Gojo?” The pig-tailed girl’s father, Mr. Atsuya Kusakabe speaks up gruffly within the uneasy silence that surrounded the group. Beside him, his daughter Momo shakes her head in agreement, looking less than impressed. “Some of us are from areas where the weather is normal.”

Naturally, you’re inclined to agree with their words. You’re not one to complain too much, especially when you know something is objectively better than what you face at home, but it is getting to be a bit stuffy in here. So much so that everyone (except for Mr. Gojo, oddly enough) who had brought coats decided to shed them almost immediately after stepping inside. And you were starting to regret your choice of attire for this event. Your mother’s sweater dress was the nicest thing you could grab from her closet without going overboard and you had an easier time taking care of your tights compared to your pantyhose. But right now, those two things only served to get make you a bit hotter under the collar than you can handle. 

And of course, the way Mr. Gojo would look at you whenever he glanced back in the direction of you and your brother didn’t exactly help, either.

“I would, but…” Mr. Gojo starts to respond, a smile teasing on his face. He stops momentarily, to look through the crowd. Though once again, you can’t help but notice how his gaze stops on you once more. His smile grows wider. You swallow nervously, trying to fight off the feeling of butterflies that stupidly started to invade your stomach. You can’t tell if he’s genuinely flirting with you or if you’ve just been out of the game for far too long at this point. Whatever it is, you just hope you’ll figure it out before the day is over. Because no way in hell can this end up good for you. But luckily, you didn’t have to dwell on that thought anymore as Mr. Gojo had just turned his gaze away and began to speak once more. “It’s good for the workers.”

His words didn’t leave a lot of room for explanation. Something that all the adults in the room found a bit more odd than the children did, considering all the rumors spread about this place.

“Workers?” Ms. Nagi Yoshino pipes up, a questioning lilt in her voice. She looks around the room, and the rest of the adults follow suit- noticing the very apparent lack of signs of life. “I didn’t know there were workers here.”

“There aren’t supposed to be.” Ms. Mei is next to cut in. Her voice is level, but there’s an accusing nature to her words as she stops moving with the group momentarily. Despite being a total stranger to you all, her commanding presence is enough to get the rest of the group to stop moving at the same time. That said, you did almost run into her back as she stopped moving so very suddenly. A sight Mr. Gojo unfortunately caught a quick glimpse of, judging by the amused upward quirk of his lips despite the pressure he was about to get. “No one has been seen coming in and out of this factory for years. Care to explain?”

Ms. Mei Mei crosses her arms over her chest, looking like the very image of calm and collected as she questions the man who just allowed her and a few others to take part in the chance of a lifetime. Her charge, Ui Ui, on the other hand, starts to get a little antsy now that things have stopped. He begins to tug on her arm, a whine in his voice as he pleads with his guardian to drop it because he could ‘smell the candy from here’. Although you didn’t have quite the nose that that little boy had on him, you were inclined to agree with his words.

At this point, you all haven’t made it very far into the factory. While you’ve made it far enough for the large factory doors you’ve all stepped through to close neatly behind you, the hallway you’re in only seems to lead to one door at the very, very, very end. This means that unless these walls suddenly start to open up into something quite literally made of all things sweet and magic, you have a feeling you may not be seeing anything interesting for a long time. Unfortunately for all of you, Mr. Gojo seemed to have taken the bait and had eaten it right from Ms. Mei Mei’s hands. 

“Really now? You don’t say…” You could hear him hum lightly, meeting Ms. Mei Mei’s challenging gaze head-on. His usual smile was replaced by a pensive, thought look as he began to search his mind for an answer. However as seconds passed by, you found yourself growing more and more curious of the answer. Considering the fact that he still had the large pair of dark sunglasses covering his eyes from view, not much of his expression was readable- even with him facing towards the group. Though it struck you as odd as he had yet to take them off despite being indoors. But then again, almost everything about this man struck you as odd. “Perhaps you need better eyes. I see my workers all the time. Let’s go.”

With that, Mr. Gojo’s thoughtful expression turned into a smile once more. It was a somewhat unfriendly smile. Full of annoyance and his utter distaste for being questioned like that as he bore his teeth a bit in her direction- almost as if he was expecting to be challenged once more. When Ms. Mei Mei didn’t say anything more, the unfriendliness of his smile eased up a bit as he turned on his heel and walked forward, completely shutting down any future conversations about this with a simple move. Only this time, he has a noticeably faster stride. With his long legs and impressive height, it doesn’t seem to be much of an issue for him- even considering the limp he “had” just a few minutes earlier when he was first spotted coming out of the factory. But it did have you throwing up an unseen eyebrow at the sudden change, once again not sure about what to make of the situation.

But that had to be saved for later. You and all the other less tall people hadn’t realized just how fast he was moving until he was more than a couple of strides away with no desire to slow down in the slightest. So now, it was time for an awkward game of catch-up as everyone in the group rushed to follow close behind Mr. Gojo, in fear that they’d test his patience again and be left behind (although Ms. Mei Mei had no problem with taking her time following after the group).

But the sudden change had ignited a fervor among the children, who had fallen somewhat silent in the short stand-off that had just occurred. Far in front of you, the girls, Yuki and Momo rushed forward once more before they were just able to fall into step right behind Mr. Gojo. Though they were too far away for you to understand what they were saying, you spotted the two of them looking at each other and speaking momentarily, before nodding their heads in unison once and locking arms together. Perhaps a new friendship was formed. Though based on the wary reactions of both girls’ fathers as they went to catch up with them, perhaps it was more something akin to a pact.

Right behind them though was Ui Ui, determined to try to make it to the front. While he didn’t seem to possess the competitive nature you saw sparking up in both girls, it was obvious how eager the boy was about what he could possibly experience on this tour. It was a far contrast from the other young boy, Junpei, who had resigned to being dragged by his mother as she tried to convince him how fun this would be if he would just be willing to work with her for one day. It was at this point where your brother decided to leave your side, and started making his way up to where Junpei was- leaving just you and Ms. Mei Mei to bring up the rear. 

Although Yuuta's words didn’t seem to have as much of an effect on Junpei as your brother tried to talk to the other boy in an attempt to make friends, the eye roll you could see Junpei give him as he began to walk alongside everyone normally was a bit less hostile than the looks he was giving his mother earlier. At least that was a start.

The group trudged on with low voices of light conversation mixing throughout the group. The only thing anyone could do at this point was follow a dead-silent Mr. Gojo, who walked forward as if he had not a single care in the world. Though it was really starting to hit you just how comically long this hallway was. Your eyes darted around the place over and over again, lips curling up in a grimace when you started to realize that the door on the opposite side of the room didn’t even seem to be getting closer. In fact, you couldn’t help but notice that it seemed to only get smaller. 

How could that be? You wished you knew. But you knew better than to ask Mr. Gojo any questions at the moment, even if he did seem to show some favor towards you. The guy could be very intimidating when he wanted to be. So instead, you just rolled your eyes and took a quick glance at your watch while fighting the urge to throw up your hands and huff.

The watch face read only a little after a quarter past ten o’clock. Surprising, considering how these boring, bleak walls make you feel like you’ve been here forever. You don’t know what to make of things. What a weird couple of days.

As the lot of you continued down the hallway, it gave you some time to think and reflect on the other winners and their families. You recall seeing glimpses of everyone in the group on TV at least a few times before. And you recall not thinking much of any of them at first. You didn’t love how spoiled or apathetic some of the children seemed to be. But as part of you wanted to believe that those children were entitled to a bit of…well, entitlement. After all, they scored a Gojo ticket. They were able to do something only five other people were able to do. And that naturally, anybody would get a little too big for their birches and forget their manners sometimes right?

Well, as you watched the kids for longer than that, you realized that some may not have forgotten manners. Some may never have had any, to begin with. You felt as though you might have been too harsh in judging them at first. But since getting inside the building, Momo had already stamped her foot twice and demanded that her father make time faster and build her a factory as big as this one. To your utter surprise (and horror), her father placated her only with the reminder that they couldn’t give her a bigger factory because they had already picked up the biggest pieces of land in the area for their own estate. 

Momo had only stamped her foot again, and her father responded by sighing and telling her that he’d see what he could do.

The other little girl, Yuki, was a bit more adjusted in your opinion. Though it had only occurred to you a few minutes ago that she had been chewing gum this entire time (just like she did in her TV interview that you remember catching a few days ago), she was still a bit more tolerable than Yuki. Though her matter-of-fact way of speaking was a little jarring to you, someone who has to earn their living by making sure everything said out of their mouth is extra sweet and with a smile on top. And the way she and her father whispered to each other about just how obvious it was that they were going to win this now that they’d checked out the competition was also a bit much. But you have had far worse kids come to your dinner. 

The same could be said for the two boys beside your brother too. Ui Ui didn’t seem all too bad. While he appeared to be a bit bratty and impatient (and really liked candy), your opinion of him was more so that he lacked maturity- rather than housetraining, especially considering how the two girls act. As for Junpei, you couldn’t help but frown when you thought of him. That little boy had a pretty nasty attitude on him, even when he was interacting with his own mother. He looked like he had to be dragged here by his arm, despite this being such a great opportunity in your mind. And so, you couldn’t help but feel bad for his mother. She seemed to be trying her hardest to reel him in and get him to at least smile. But it seemed like all he wanted to do was sneer in her direction. That was until Yuuta came along and offered Junpei a temporary distraction from terrorizing his mother.

Speaking of mothers, you couldn’t help but think about the other adults in the room as well. Before stepping inside, all five of you introduced yourselves to each other and stated what kid you were coming with. And needless to say, you were intimidated. While Ms. Nagi (as she insisted on everyone calling her) seemed like any normal woman you would meet on the street, the intimidating, large physical stature of Mr. Kusakabe and Mr. Todo was nothing to sneeze at. Although Ms. Mei Mei was a bit closer to the average if you looked at her closely enough, it didn’t help that she carried herself extremely confidently and always seemed to look at everyone and everything in the room while she knew a secret that nobody else knew- and that she wasn’t going to share. Either way, it made you just more careful about showing respect to all the other adults in the room. While you may technically relate to all of them more than you do to the children, you did sort of feel out of place. 

Especially when the others were stating that their jobs were bank teller, businessman, martial arts gym owner, and just contractor- whatever that meant. Either way, it made you, a girl who has been living at home and waitressing for many, many years made you feel very, very small for some reason. Perhaps it had something to do with the shiny, expensive cuff links that you spotted on Mr. Kusakabe’s suit jacket when you went to shake the man’s hand…

“Look! The door!” 

All of a sudden, the voice of little Yuki breaks you out of your stupor. You had been walking mindlessly this entire time, lost in your own thoughts that you hadn’t even realized just how far you all made it down the hallway. But when you looked up and around for the door, you noticed two things:

One, it was still very, very small from where you were standing.

Two, it was somehow very, very close to where you were standing.

From the vantage point, you realized that you were finally close to the entrance of the hallway- with nothing more than a couple of feet and Mr. Gojo separating you and the group from the doorway. But the door was quite small. And the hallway’s ceiling had begun to slope downward at a nearly unnoticeable angle until you were able to get into the thick of it. For the moment, you didn’t have to bow your head and bend your knees to stay upright. But the same couldn’t be said about Ms. Kusabakabe, Mr. Todo, and Mr. Gojo. 

Although you managed to stifle most of them you couldn’t help but release a small giggle as you watched the normally tall and proud-looking men have to bow down to avoid hitting the ceiling. And unsurprisingly at this point, it captures the attention of a certain someone.

“Ah, so you’ve noticed.” Mr. Gojo speaks up suddenly, an amused smile on his face as he peeks over his sunglasses at your spot towards the back of the crowd. Your face heats up in embarrassment, though you do fight the urge to turn away and give in to his stupid teasing. Seriously, what is with that guy? After a second, he’s slow to move his eyes away from you be that same amused smile is clear on his face as he addresses everyone. He looks proud of himself- proud of the size of the door for whatever reason. But then again, you probably would have been proud too if you owned such a big factory and managed to pull off a dumb optical illusion for this long. “Keeps all the goodness inside.”

At this, you hear the voice of one of the kids scoff. To no one’s surprise, it’s Junpei.

“Why can’t you just have a normal-sized-” He begins to snark at Mr. Gojo, voice flat and tone unimpressed, before being cut off by the man himself.

“Oh, would you look at that! I nearly forgot!” Mr. Gojo exclaims quite loudly as he raises one shaking finger in the air, almost as if he’s wagging it at himself. You’re starting to realize that this man really isn’t a fan of criticism or being challenged. That, or he doesn’t seem to like anyone here with your group. Though with the way things are going right now, you wouldn’t be too surprised to find out if the answers end up being both. “The waivers~!”

As the word rolls off of his tongue, you spot him unbuttoning the top few buttons of his overcoat with swift and ample fingers before reaching inside. A second later, a rolled-up piece of paper is produced from within his jacket. His smile seems to be alight with laughter as he reveals it to the group. It’s lightly tanned- almost like parchment- and rolled up tight. Just a thin scroll with a pretty little blue ribbon bow wrapped around its center to keep it round up tight. 

You couldn’t imagine it being anything special, though you do suppose something like this would be necessary given the circumstances. You’ve heard of things like nondisclosure agreements from TV shows and once even had to bring home a permission slip from school for a trip to the city park. So naturally, anyone who decided to invite kids to the best candy factory in the world for a tour of the facilities and the products there would have to find some way to protect themselves from lawsuits, accidents, injuries, and even the potential selling of trade secrets.

At that thought, your mind wanders back to the face of Suguru Geto as you recall what your brother had told you about that man. As much as you want to be naive, recent events and the long walk through this hallway allowed you to clear your head enough to get a good idea of what that man might have been asking your brother to do. But the very reminder of your brother being put in that position again makes your stomach churn and frown tug at your lips. What an awful thing to do to a little boy. What an awful thing to do to Yuuta of all people. 

Oh, well. You shouldn’t dwell on it now. You have a whole day ahead of you, so it’s better if you live in the moment now and deal with…that when it becomes a problem. If it even becomes a problem.

Though as you snap back into focus, it looks like your timing couldn’t have been more perfect as you let your gaze fall on Mr. Gojo once more. Because not a movement later, you find yourself watching as he finishes tugging the ribbon loose and free and letting the contract unravel. 

And to say it was long was an understatement. You heard gasp all around you as the paper began to extend. A couple of feet away, you could hear Mr. Todo let out a low whistle as the parchment slowly unrolled itself all the way to the ground- its ends just barely brushed against the floors. To make matters worse, the print was small. Tiny, even. You felt that you even had to squint to read a few particular words here and there and practically everything towards the bottom. It was the same except deal as the ticket Yuuta. Only this was a bit more concerning considering this was supposed to be a legally binding document instead of your proof of allowed entry.

Unable to help yourself, you let your face fall flat as an unimpressed look crosses your features. Though when you met Mr. Gojo’s gaze for the umpteenth time today, he just barely spared you a shoulder shrug as his smile grew even wider. He then hooks his cane on his other arm holds out his hand and shows off a pair of pens that are wrapped within his grip. They’re the fancy kind. Ornate with metal finishing and have a sophisticated look about them. Just like the ones you’ve only seen in your boss’ office at work. The ones you know are a bit too expensive for just some commoner to use.

They’re presented to your group- a clear invitation of what must be done. However, as a few of the more impatient children and braver guardians step forward and reach for a pen, a voice cuts out through the silence, making everyone pause in their actions.

“Quite the contract, Gojo,” Mr. Kusakabe spoke up again, his regular seriousness lining his voice as he noticeably made no move to grab one of the pens. You could tell that it was an attempt at a joke. But at the same time, it wasn’t a very good one- both the attempt and the joke. But judging by the look on the man’s face, you had a feeling he didn’t really care for how it landed with the audience. “You know… I don’t really sign anything without a lawyer present.”

For a moment, Mr. Gojo looks almost taken aback. His lips twist up in a surprised sort of expression, almost as if he wasn’t expecting another person to challenge him so soon. In a way, you sort of understood both sides. On one hand, the rumors and the golden ticket promised a day beyond your wildest imagination- a day that any child and any adult willing to give into their inner child for a few hours would be excited to experience. On the other…nobody wants to be caught holding the bag once it's emptied. And it’s only natural that a businessman wealthy enough to own his own factory would be the one to challenge a blind signing of a contract- even if you were all promised the chance of a lifetime.

And it’s only natural that everyone would follow the actions of said businessman. Clearly, he would know a thing or two about what to do in these types of situations. At least, you’d hope.

“Ah, I see…” Mr. Gojo muses after a while with a small click of his tongue. “Yes, I suppose I should have expected that…”

He then settles into his own pensive silence as he seems lost in thought of how to proceed. In your mind, asking for a lawyer should be fair enough. You’ve seen it happen all the time on all those law shows the diner plays when nothing interesting is going on. Your eyes trail over to Ms. Nagi and Ms. Mei Mei, both of which are hesitating on signing the contract and are doing their best to read the ridiculous font. At the same time, you spot Mr. Todo with his arms crossed over his chest (and his daughter quite cutely mimicking his position). While you don’t think it’s necessarily his goal to intimidate Mr. Gojo with that position, you won’t lie that you’re a bit intimidated by the man’s stature and serious expression. And by the looks of it, both your brother and Junpei seemed to be do judging by the way the two of them subtly stepped closer to you at the back of the group- away from the big man who teaches people how to fight for a living.

But Mr. Gojo isn’t you or your brother or Junpei. Mr. Gojo isn’t like the three of you at all.

“No signature, no entry!” The man suddenly declares a bright cheesy grin back on his face. He jerks his hand forward, as to emphasize the pens still in his hand, and tilts his head towards the contract. He’s not intimidated by Mr. Todo and he doesn’t feel the need to accommodate Mr. Kusakabe either. You suppose the ability to not back down even in the face of power can be a rather admirable trait. But then again, Mr. Gojo’s character is shaping up to be weirder and more off-putting than you really feel comfortable with. Especially considering your baby brother is involved… “Try not to let the door hit you on the way out.”

But with Mr. Gojo’s final words on the topic, his cheesy grin looks a bit colder. Proof that he’s not backing down from this challenge. Proof that never appreciated it in the first place. And proof that he’s taking it seriously. Almost instantly, it seems like everyone gets the message because all around you- people are signing.

Naturally, Yuki and Momo are first- running up to grab a pen from Mr. Gojo and dropping to the ground to sign their names. When Yuki finishes, she goes and immediately hands the pen to her dad, while Momo stands up with an almost too-sweet grin to hand the pen to Ms. Nagi who is starting to step closer to the document. The fact that Ui Ui was trying to get the pen from her may have something to do with why her faux-polite smile got even bigger as she handed the pen off to someone else. 

At the same time, a tense Mr. Kusakabe stares with his jaw clenched at Mr. Gojo, ready to exchange what seems to be a few not-so-nice words with the man. But his daughter is quick to notice how her father looks not eager enough to sign the document for her taste. With a stamp of her foot and haughty accusation of him not loving her, Momo makes a very…compelling case for why her father can only prove his worth to her at this moment if he signs too since she’s not allowed to be left unattended. It seems to be the push he needed because a second later, he’s reaching into his own jacket and producing a pen of his own instead of waiting for one of Mr. Gojo’s to suddenly become free again. A small, last act of defiance.

An act that Mr. Gojo doesn’t seem to care one bit about. 

The man is looking more and more like the cat that caught the canary as he watches Mr. Kusakabe bend down slowly to sign his name on the large dotted line. His signature is pristine as he lines it up close to his daughter’s (which did look pretty remarkable for her age). Meanwhile, the pens had passed through the hands of Junpei, Ms. Mei Mei, Ui Ui, and now, your brother too. Although he seemed a little apprehensive about signing when he sensed the tension in the room, he seemed just as eager as the other kids while he was bent down to sign the waiver.

That's why, you couldn’t dare so say no when he turned around and looked at you while holding his pen out with a smile.

You took a deep breath and returned the smile to your brother before dropping to your knees and replacing him. The others had stepped back by now, starting to chatter away with the children they were accompanying. You heard Momo complain to her father about him taking too long to sign- saying something about him seeming like he wanted her to lose or something. Yuki on the other hand was high-fiving her dad while recalling how it was clear that she finished signing her name first, as winners normally do. Ui Ui and Mei Mei were stepping off to the side, and you could hear the woman start to give the boy a thinly laced warning about developing some self-control once they stepped inside the factory for real. And 

Honestly, focusing on their conversation made things easier. It made you less tempted to try to read the fine print that was staring you right in the face. It made you less tempted to look up and try to meet Mr. Gojo’s eyes as he watched the last of his guests sign his waiver. The very same eyes you could feel burning holes into your figure as you try to hopefully not sign away your soul in peace. 

But, your attempt to focus on the conversations happening behind you also made you less prepared for what you were about from said man as well.

“Such pretty handwriting…”

You look up at him, eyes wide in surprise but meeting his gaze only seems to fuel to smirk on his lips to grow just a tad bit wider. He doesn’t seem to be one bit ashamed of being caught complimenting you- a trend you’ve more than noticed by now. In fact, he only seems to grow prouder at the obvious fact that he had you very, very flustered at the moment with nowhere to run.

But there’s no time for you to address it. Because a second later, the paper the document is on rattles beneath you. You just have enough time to lean back and drop your pen before it starts to roll itself up at lightning-fast speed- the pen disappearing with it. It’s both comical and almost magical as Mr. Gojo is able to recall the document without so much of a twitch of a finger. And when it snaps shut- it does so loudly. A signal that the deed has been done and the contract has been signed by all parties who needed to. 

For better or for worse.

“Thank you, thank you.” Mr. Gojo calls loudly, getting the attention of everyone in the room while tucking the contract away in his coat pocket. He brushed off the encounter between the two of you quite easily- something you don’t exactly have the luxury of doing. Still, you find yourself rising to your feet a bit unsteadily, but ready to listen in as Yuuta stands by your side and the others crowd in behind you. “It seems that now we’re all ready to head inside, wouldn’t you agree?”

He poses the question to the children more than anything, which rightfully earns him cheers from Yuuta, Ui Ui, Yuki, and Momo. Though you suppose the offer is so tempting that even Junpei couldn’t help but throw up an eyebrow in anticipation. Around you, you spot the other adults looking onward with their own personal mix of apprehension, curiosity, and excitement. You wonder if their stomachs are as twisted up as yours is. Well, you wonder if Ms. Nagi’s stomach is twisted up as much as yours is. Ms. Mei Mei, Mr. Todo, and Mr. Kusakabe all seem to be a bit intense themselves so you can’t imagine them being too phased by the anticipation. And Ms. Nagi. Well, she just seems normal. And right now, clinging to normal feels like the right thing to do. 

Especially if Mr. Gojo keeps glancing at you over his glances with that heavy gaze of yours.

If you could still have your beating heart right now, you would. But for some reason, this very strange, very handsome, and very powerful man has seemed to enjoy doing nothing but tease you while your anxiety is already through the roof. But you’ll run yourself in circles thinking about boys- well, men- at a time like this. You’ll run yourself in circles thinking if he’s serious about all his compliments and his subtle flirts. And you’ll make it even worse if you start letting those thoughts of what all this will mean when it comes time to inevitably leave the factory. 

And you don’t want that. You just want to enjoy this day- this chance of a lifetime- with your little brother. And you’re determined to do so. Properly.

So you tell yourself again that you’re getting far too distracted. And you tell yourself this just in the nick of time too. Because at that second, Mr. Gojo decides to take a few steps back- back towards the door that just keeps getting smaller and smaller with each step. He keeps his gaze on the group as he turns his fist back and knocks on the door- twice. Silence follows- both from the group and on the other side of the door. But Mr. Gojo tilts his head towards the door with a focused expression and listens in for a cue anyway. 

And although it’s faint- you hear it come a few seconds later. The sound of someone knocking on the other side of the door. A sound that makes Mr. Gojo smile really big and wide again. A sound that lets you all know that the time is really now.

“Well then…” The man with brilliant blue eyes and striking white hair purrs to the group, taking in all the faces of the children and adults in front of him. The expression he has on his face is cat-like. It’s confident, it’s proud, and it’s all-knowing. It’s exactly the type of look you should expect from a man who has already proved himself to be rather odd, yet grand. But despite everything, the look on his face does manage to light something more inside you. A deeper sense of eagerness you didn’t expect to feel. A deeper sense of excitement you didn’t know you were capable of. A deeper sense of awe that you know will just be blown out of the water the second he opens the door. At least, that’s what the golden ticket promised you. That’s what the golden ticket promised all of you. Though, by now you’ve learned to trust the funny feeling you get when you look at Mr. Gojo. “It is with great pleasure that I invite you ten lucky little somebodies into the greatest place on earth.”

The funny feeling that tells you to expect the unexpected.

“Welcome to where the magic is made~”

The funny feeling that tells you that there will always- always- be more than what you thought in store.

BOYFRIEND! JAE

hi, may I request a Leon with fem reader where he’s spending his free time with her going on coffee dates and going on bookstores possibly with re4 Leon? 🤗 thank you.

꒰ 𝘩𝘦𝘦𝘺𝘺!! 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘬 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘳𝘦𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘴𝘵, 𝘴𝘰𝘳𝘳𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘪𝘵 𝘵𝘰𝘰𝘬 𝘴𝘰 𝘮𝘶𝘤𝘩 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘪 𝘩𝘰𝘱𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶'𝘭𝘭 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘩𝘰𝘸 𝘪 𝘸𝘳𝘪𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘳𝘦𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘴𝘵 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘪𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘮𝘺 𝘱𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘶𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘸𝘳𝘪𝘵𝘦 𝘴𝘶𝘤𝘩 𝘢𝘯 𝘤𝘶𝘵𝘦 𝘪𝘥𝘦𝘢!🤍 ˑ༄ ꒱

❝𝘵𝘪𝘵𝘭𝘦❞ 𝘴𝘸𝘦𝘦𝘵 𝘴𝘶𝘳𝘱𝘳𝘪𝘴𝘦𝘴. ❝ 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘯𝘵 ❞ 𝘳𝘦4 𝘭𝘦𝘰𝘯 𝘬𝘦𝘯𝘯𝘦𝘥𝘺 𝘹 𝘧𝘦𝘮 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳. ❝ 𝘵𝘢𝘨𝘴 ❞ 𝘱𝘶𝘳𝘦 𝘧𝘭𝘶𝘧𝘧, 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘵 𝘯𝘰 𝘩𝘶𝘳𝘵, 𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘪𝘴𝘩𝘦𝘥 𝘳𝘦𝘭𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘴𝘩𝘪𝘱, 𝘯𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘣𝘦𝘴𝘪𝘥𝘦 𝘬𝘪𝘴𝘴𝘦𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘤𝘶𝘵𝘦 𝘥𝘢𝘵𝘦 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘭𝘦𝘰𝘯.

 ✎ 𝘮𝘢𝘪𝘯 𝘮𝘢𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘭𝘪𝘴𝘵. 𝘳𝘦𝘲𝘶𝘦𝘴𝘵𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘢𝘴𝘬𝘴. 𝘢𝘰3. ˑ༄

Leon Kennedy had always been a man of action, but today was different.

Today he was busy planning and surprises, he had been thinking about this day for weeks and it filled him with excitement that he couldn't hide.

You talked about a cozy little cafe down the street that you always wanted to visit, and about some books that you really wanted to buy, Leon remembered these conversations well, and today was the day when he would make your desires come true.

The day was gray and drizzly, raindrops running down the window panes in a rhythmic melody.

He never thought he would be so passionate about planning surprises for someone, but for you, his precious girl, he was more than willing to go the extra mile.

As you walked hand in hand through the wet, noisy streets of a quaint european city, the smell of rain soaked cobblestones filling the air, Leon felt his heart fill with love for you.

With a mischievous glint in his eyes, Leon turned sharply from the main street and led you to a cozy cafe that you had talked about once.

You blinked in surprise as he opened the door for you, letting you in, a soft chime announcing your arrival and you were enveloped in the aroma of freshly brewed coffee and sweet pastries.

You turned to him, your eyes wide with curiosity — «Leon, on what occasion?» you asked.

He smiled warmly and gently kissed the tip of your nose — «No occasion» he answered softly — «Just wanted to make you happy»

Your heart swelled at his words as he led you to a table by the window, you settled into comfortable chairs and soon the kind waiter brought out a menu filled with delectable desserts and drinks.

As you both enjoyed the chocolate cakes and drinks, you couldn't resist trying to feed Leon a piece of your cake, but he playfully pulled away, making a grimace that made you giggle.

— «Come on, Leon, it's delicious» you teased, holding a spoon of cake in front of him.

He grinned, his blue eyes sparkling mischievously — «I don't know about that» he said, feigning doubt, like a child who has just tried something unfamiliar.

You rolled your eyes in mock irritation — «Fine, more for me then»

He chuckled and softened, sharing your indulgence, it was moments like this where you both could be yourself that made your relationship so special.

After you both had enjoyed every bite, Leon motioned for the receipt and paid for the meal.

Walking back out into the rain soaked streets, you couldn't help but feel a warm feeling in your heart, knowing how much effort he put into this surprise.

But the surprises are not over yet.

Leon led you to a charming bookstore nearby, your eyes lighting up as you saw the familiar shelves of books lining the walls.

You turned to him, your gratitude shining in your eyes — «Leon, how do you remember about this place? I mentioned it once in passing»

He smiled and kissed your cheek — «I remember the things that are important to you» he simply said.

You felt your heart fill with love for him as you began browsing the shelves.

Your fingers slid along the spines of the books that you really wanted to read, and suddenly you came across a children's book about the gray wolf and Little Red Riding Hood.

You couldn't help but laugh at the similarities between the characters and your own relationships — «Hey, look at this» you said, holding the book — «That wolf reminds me of you, and i think that makes me Little Red Riding Hood»

Leon laughed, his deep, rich laugh filling the air — «So, I'm a wolf, right? I don't know if i like this comparison»

You grinned slyly — «Well, you're a bit of a wolf when it comes to protecting me» you teased.

Leon laughed heartily, shaking his head — «Well, in that case, i'd better be careful not to devour you»

Your heart skipped a beat at his playful remark and you placed the book back on the shelf with a sly grin.

But as you continued to browse the shelves, you finally found the book you were looking for, a novel that had been on your wish list for a long time, you happily picked it up and hugged it to your chest.

Leon noticed your excitement and approached you, his eyes full of love — «Did you find what you were looking for?»

You nodded enthusiastically, your heart filled with gratitude — «Yes, Leon, thank you for remembering»

He carefully took the book from your hands and put it under his arm — «Now go and choose something else that interests you, i'll be at the checkout» he said, giving you a soft, reassuring smile.

As you walked through the bookstore, you couldn't help but feel overwhelmed with gratitude and love for Leon.

He was the perfect guy, always attentive to your needs and desires, always willing to do whatever it took to make you happy.

Finally, you picked out a few more books that caught your eye and with your arms full of literature, you headed to the checkout counter while Leon waited for you there, holding the book you wanted so badly.

When you approached him, he handed you the treasured novel, and you couldn’t help but wrap your arms around his neck, hugging him tightly — «Leon, you're the best» you whispered in his ear.

He pulled you close, his arms wrapped securely around you — «Just because i have the best girlfriend» he replied, his voice full of warmth and affection.

You melted into his arms, feeling completely happy in his arms, there was no one in the world you would rather be with than Leon.

The moment the rain continued to pour outside, you knew that you both were exactly where you were meant to be — enveloped in each other's love, with hearts full of joy and a future filled with endless possibilities.

taglist: @roseglazedlens, @scar-crossedlvrs, @daydreamrot, @valsthea, @kennedyswhore dm me if you want to be tagged in my works or open my taglist.

the spider’s sense! a spidercaleb series.

♥︎ spider-man!caleb 𝑥 fem!reader

synopsis. ┆ caleb’s life was perfect—until it wasn’t. a radioactive spider bite turned him into linkon’s friendly neighborhood spider-man, the daily bugle started hunting for the man behind the mask, and to top it all off, he was forced to partner up with you—his smart, competitive, and infuriatingly perfect classmate who threatened his spot as number one in the class rankings.

tags/warnings. ┆ college/modern au, academic rivals to lovers, fluff, angst, eventual smut, gran isn’t evil in this LOL, the canon event, college parties, alcohol consumption, cliches, depictions of serious crime, references to the spider-man comics and movies, mdni

a/n. ┆ fanart art is by 长白山小葱头 on weibo. this is my first series on this app to celebrate hitting 1K! if you want to join the taglist, comment on this post or send me an ask.

main masterlist. ┆ talk to me!

chapter one ── pest control.

caleb's worst fear comes true when the two of you are assigned as lab partners, especially after your first experiment together goes horribly wrong in more ways than one. (4.6k)

chapter two ── too easy, this game.

after you’re forced to check up on caleb, you realize that your methods of revenge can be much more interesting than you had originally anticipated. (3.8k)

chapter three ── pepper spray. (soon!)

caleb tries to adapt to his newfound role as the web-slinging hero of linkon city, and you receive the opportunity of a lifetime.

Could I request a fic about George x Muggle!reader? Like she stays and works in the little village near the Burrow. Could either be snippets of them throughout the years having little flirty talks and slowly turns into a George feeling protective/scared for her safety kinda thing. Fluff/smut/angst/maybe happyending? That I'll leave up to you if this isn't too much of a ask!

Absolutely love your work!

flour and flowers | george weasley x reader

a/n: writing a bunch today to distract myself from the day's events. thank you for the request and your kindness! hope you like it :)

warnings: a cross between implied smut and actual smut, mentions of grief, not proofread

The first time George Weasley saw you, you were balancing a tray of teacups in one hand and flicking a disobedient curl out of your eyes with the other. Your fingers moved with the practiced grace of someone who knew how to carry comfort in porcelain. The sunlight caught the edges of your hair and made your smile look warmer than the tea you were serving. You stood outside the village café—chipped pastel paint, a hand-drawn chalkboard sign still smudged with yesterday’s specials, and the smell of something sweet curling through the air like it was trying to lure people inside.

He’d just popped down from the Burrow to run an errand for Molly, not expecting anything more exciting than a loaf of bread and a scolding for forgetting the milk last time. But then he saw you—sunlight on your shoulders, shoes scuffed from too much walking, your laugh spilling out like it belonged in the air.

You didn’t notice him at first. Just another stranger with freckled hands and storm-worn eyes. But when your gazes met—something in your chest fluttered. Like the world paused to see what you’d say first.

He slowed down, just slightly. Told himself it was curiosity.

Told himself a lot of things that day.

You noticed him, of course. Tall, red-haired, freckled all over with that vaguely chaotic glint in his eyes—the kind of man who didn’t exactly blend in. You offered him a smile out of politeness. He blinked like he hadn’t expected it.

“Tea?” you asked, voice light. “Or are you more of a coffee and chaos type?”

He huffed a laugh. “What gave me away?”

You shrugged. “The hair. The grin. The air of impending mischief.”

He took a step closer, nodding toward the tray. “Those for customers or is one of them a peace offering?”

“Depends,” you said. “You planning to stay a while or just here for the bread and doom?”

George smiled. Fully. The kind that showed teeth and softened him around the edges.

“Maybe both,” he said. “But if I’m going to be doomed, might as well be with a cup of something sweet.”

From that moment on, George only ever stopped at one place to pick up bread.

Didn’t matter if the other shop was closer. Or cheaper. Or didn’t make him feel like his chest might cave in every time you smiled at him from behind the counter. He came back anyway.

Sometimes he bought things he didn’t need—an extra croissant, a jar of local jam, a scone you said turned out too flat but still tasted fine. But mostly, he came for the way your voice smoothed out the sharp edges in his head. The way your laughter cut through the fog he still lived in, even years later. Sometimes he didn’t buy anything at all. Just sat out front with a cup of tea and let you talk to him about things that had nothing to do with magic or war or anything that had broken him before. He listened closely. Memorized the shape of your sentences, the way you tapped your fingers when you were excited, the soft hum you made when you stirred your drink. And with every word, every passing moment, something unnamed began to stitch itself back together inside him.

You didn’t know who he was. Not really. And he liked it that way.

Still, there were things you noticed.

He always stood with one shoulder tilted just slightly forward, like he was shielding something—or had once been forced to. There was a soft scar tucked behind the mess of curls on the right side of his head, where one ear should’ve been. You never asked about it.

The air around him always felt... different. Like it held a memory you couldn’t name. Like the warmth of his smile came from somewhere far away, carried on something heavier than it looked.

He laughed with you. Teased you. Rolled his eyes dramatically when you forgot his favorite muffin. But behind every grin, there was a flicker of something else. Grief, maybe. Or guilt. Or the echo of a name he hadn’t spoken out loud in a long time.

He came in more often as the weeks went by. Never said why. Just appeared like the wind—one minute the café was quiet, the next, the bell above the door chimed and there he was with a smirk and a sarcastic comment about your apron.

Sometimes you’d catch him staring out the window with a far-off look, like the village wasn’t quite real to him yet. Like he was still waiting for something—or someone—to tug him back into the storm.

Once, when it rained and no one else came in, you let him linger long after closing. You talked about stupid things: the worst thing you’d ever baked, his distaste for mint in desserts, a goat from the next village over who kept escaping. He laughed, really laughed, and then went quiet, like it surprised him.

Another time, he brought you a flower he swore he didn’t pick on purpose. It was crushed, a little muddy, and stuffed inside a napkin.

“Don’t get used to it,” he said.

But you kept it anyway. Pressed it between the pages of your recipe book. Every time you caught a glimpse of the browned, brittle petals, you smiled. Your fingers would sometimes linger on the page longer than necessary, tracing the soft edges as if they still held the warmth of his hand. It made your stomach twist, in that way beginnings always do—nervous and hopeful and quietly sweet.

The more he came around, the more he softened. Not all at once. Not loudly. But in small, steady ways.

He started fixing things—your sticky back door hinge, the café’s squeaky chalkboard sign, the wobbly stool by the window he always claimed as his. He never asked. Just noticed. Just did. And when you caught him at it, sleeves rolled to the elbows, wand tucked out of sight but clearly used, he’d shrug like it didn’t matter—like it hadn’t taken him an hour and a half to charm the latch back into place just right. Once, you found a small stack of napkins folded to level the back table leg. On one, he’d doodled a tiny magpie.

He started asking things, too. Quietly, like it cost him something. If you’d always lived here. If you ever wanted to leave. If you were scared to be alone at night. What your favorite song was. What your worst day looked like.

You caught him humming once. Under his breath, half-conscious of it. A melody that didn’t belong to the radio or the street—just something he was keeping close. You didn’t say anything. Didn’t want to scare it away. But something about the sound of it—gentle, aimless, half-happy—stayed with you. It echoed in your chest long after he left that evening, like the warmth of it had threaded into your ribs and settled there. You wondered what memory it belonged to. Or if maybe… it had something to do with you.

And slowly, you became part of the way he healed. Not by doing anything big, not by demanding he be different—but just by being there. Being warm. Being constant.

He stopped bracing when you touched his arm. He started remembering how you took your tea. He stayed longer. Looked lighter.

You weren’t magic. Not like him. But you felt like a kind of spell anyway.

---

He realized it on a Tuesday.

He’d been walking down the main lane into town, already half-smiling at the thought of seeing you, maybe teasing you for your questionable muffin-of-the-day choice—when he saw it.

The café was dark.

The lights were off. The chairs inside still up on tables. The chalkboard sign outside had been knocked over, lying face-down in the dirt.

Something in his chest snapped to attention.

He picked up his pace without thinking, scanning the windows, checking for movement. Nothing. No soft music, no scent of baking, no warm hum in the air that usually buzzed with your presence.

Then he heard it—from a passerby at the grocer’s doorstep.

“Shame about the café. Robbed last night, I heard. Poor girl must’ve been scared out of her mind.”

He didn’t hear the rest. Not really.

His hands were already shaking.

Because he didn’t know where you were.

Didn’t know if you’d been hurt. If you’d cried. If you were alone when it happened. If you were still alone now.

And that helpless, breathless ache clawed its way back through him.

Because the last time he’d loved someone enough to fear losing them, he had.

He didn’t think. Didn’t stop. Just moved.

Through the square. Past the post. His boots hit the pavement too hard, his breath shallow, heart thudding loud enough it might as well have been shouting your name.

The baker saw him and called something out—he didn’t hear it.

He rounded the corner toward your flat above the café, his hand already on the railing of the steps before his brain caught up. One breath. Two. Then he knocked.

And when you opened the door, eyes puffy, sweater too big, hair undone from what must’ve been a long and sleepless night—he couldn’t speak.

You blinked at him, then tried to smile. “Hi.”

He swallowed hard. “You’re okay.”

You nodded. “I’m okay.”

And then he was pulling you in, arms wrapped tight around your shoulders, his face buried in your neck like the world had stopped spinning and he needed to feel gravity again.

He didn’t say a word. Didn’t need to.

Not yet.

Inside, the flat is dim—curtains drawn, a half-finished cup of tea gone cold on the table. You close the door behind him, the latch clicking into place like a sigh. Neither of you speaks at first.

He doesn’t let go.

Not until your hands come up to rest on his back, and even then, only enough to pull away and look at you—really look.

“Did they hurt you?” he asks, low. Rough.

You shake your head. “No. Just broke a window. Took the till. Some stock. I wasn’t here.”

Relief floods him so fast it feels like weakness. He sinks onto the edge of your couch, elbows on his knees, head in his hands.

You watch him for a moment. Then sit beside him. “George?”

He looks up. His eyes are too bright.

“I—I didn’t know where you were,” he says, and it’s like the words rip something open.

“I thought—God, I thought I was going to lose you, and I didn’t even—”

He stops himself. But his hands find yours. Threaded. Tight.

“I don’t think I can do that again,” he admits. “Lose someone I—”

You squeeze his fingers.

“I'm here,” you whisper.

And this time, when he leans in, it’s not with panic. It’s with promise.

His lips brush yours like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he moves too fast. Gentle. Testing. But once you respond, his restraint slips, just a little—your mouths part, meet again, deeper this time. His fingers knot themselves in your hair, and your hands find the edge of his shirt, anchoring him to you.

The kiss turns hungry in a heartbeat, built from everything unspoken and aching. Your bodies shift closer, knees bumping, breath warm and shared, and when he moans softly into your mouth, it sends a bolt of heat down your spine. You gasp against him, fingers curling at the hem of his shirt, dragging it up, needing more—needing him.

His thumb grazes the underside of your jaw as he pulls back for only a second, eyes searching yours, glazed with want. “Is this going to be okay?” he murmurs.

You’ve wanted him for so long it feels like it’s woven into your blood. Like every soft glance and crooked grin and half-step closer was a stitch, and now you’re coming apart to make room for him. Your body aches for him, not just with need—but with something fuller. Something that feels dangerously close to love.

You don’t hesitate. “Yes.”

And you kiss him like it’s the answer to every question he never dared to ask.

You’re not sure who exhales first, but the sigh between you is shared, warm, heavy with everything you haven’t said aloud.

When he pulls back, it’s barely an inch. His forehead rests against yours. His thumb still moves in slow circles at your side.

“Tell me this isn’t nothing,” he murmurs.

You shake your head, barely breathing. “It’s everything.”

He kisses you again.

Not tentative this time—there’s a hunger to it now, an ache that’s been building under every laugh, every shared cup of tea, every moment you made him feel like someone whole. His fingers slide under the hem of your sweater, slow and reverent, like he’s asking permission. Like he’s afraid if he rushes, it’ll all disappear.

You nod before he even says a word.

That night is soft. You take your time, like the two of you are learning a new language written in breath and bare skin. He kisses the slope of your shoulder, the bend of your knee, murmurs something indecipherable against your stomach that sounds like worship. You drag your fingers through his hair, pull him back to your mouth, feel his weight press into you like he’s trying to be rewritten by your body alone. The rhythm you find together is slow, reverent—like memory, like healing. He touches you like he doesn’t believe he’s allowed.

You let him.

You tell him he is.

And in the morning, the sun paints gold across your floorboards, catching on the curls at the base of his neck where he sleeps, half-tangled in your sheets.

You wake before him. Watch his chest rise and fall, slow and steady, one hand curled loosely beneath his chin. He looks younger in the light—unguarded, almost boyish, like the weight he carries has finally been set down for a while.

Something in your chest swells. You press a kiss to his shoulder, light as air, and whisper his name just to be sure it’s real.

He stirs. Wakes slowly. Stretches. Blinks at you like he’s still dreaming.

“I want to try something,” he says.

You raise an eyebrow. “Try what?”

He doesn’t answer. Just slips out of bed, bare feet padding over wood, and reaches for his wand from where it rests on the windowsill. You sit up, blanket clutched to your chest, watching as he steps into the patch of sunlight by your window.

He closes his eyes. Breathes.

He thinks about the way you looked at him last night. About your hands in his hair. The sound you made when he whispered that you mattered. The way it felt to finally, finally be held without fear.

When he opens his eyes, he lifts the wand and speaks—clear, quiet, certain.

“Expecto Patronum.”

And for the first time since Fred, something silver and stunning bursts from the tip—light and wild and alive.

It takes the shape of a magpie.

He turns to you, eyes glassy, smile trembling.

You don’t say anything. Just reach for him.

And he comes home to you all over again.

-----

tagging: @hanneh69 @jamespotteraliveversion @glennussy

Confession Blog

ihatethecolorblue: Hi! I have no idea why I made this decision at 3 a.m. I think I needed to create a blog to vent everything inside me. I’m about to lose my mind because of the person I hate most in this world, someone I wish would disappear. This person, whose eyes inspired the name of this account, acts incredibly kind to everyone else but is a complete asshole when it comes to me. He doesn’t approve of anything I do. Worse yet, when I try to explain myself, he doesn’t even bother to listen.

Like I said, I don’t know why I started this blog. I guess it’s true that, all decisions made after 2 a.m. are inherently bad. Just like the ridiculous erotic fantasies I have about the person I hate. I know anyone reading this is probably asking, “What the hell are you talking about?” But in this life, the more you hate someone, the more you end up wanting them.

This is a confession blog where I share what I’ve written about my university professor—the one I hate but also wish would fuck me in every possible position.

If by some chance this blog is seen by him or anyone who knows me, yes, I am aware that I need to bathe in holy water and cleanse myself.

모 pairing: professor!gojo x college student fem! reader

모 topics: professor gojo au, enemies to lovers, age gap, forbidden love, one sided attraction, blog user reader, academic girl reader, teacher-student relationship, she fell first he fell harder, jazz bar dates, gojo's love language is physical touch, secrets

모 warnings: +18 Minors Do Not Interact +18 (explicit sexual content, mature language, angst and more angst, future anxiety, mentioning of old bad habits)

모 chapters:

⤷ chapter 1 - coming soon !

all rights belong to the @moonlitwitchdaisy do not copy, reproduce, or translate my work.

blue hearts divider by @thecutestgrotto

web side theme dividers by @isisjupiter 

heartbreak is one thing, my ego's another

↻ ◁ II ▷ ↺ now playing: sabrina carpenter - "please please please"

summary: a school assignment leads you to team bofurin. a chance meeting in the cafe leads you to umemiya. where else will furin high lead you over the course of 5 days?

wc: 7.5k (lord have mercy)

cw/tags: umemiya hajime x gn journalist!reader, strangers to lovers, swearing/explicit language, brief canon-typical violence, blood, and peril, angst/fluff and injury hurt/comfort, ume's a gentleman but that gets tested lol

note: friends this is the longest thing i have ever posted here and i was really debating not posting it because i didn't like how it was turning out, but then i just pushed through the rest of it...and it became 7 thousand words.....ANYWAY really hope you enjoy !

likes, reblogs, and replies are always appreciated <33

— Day 1 of 5: “Please, please, please // Don’t prove I’m right” 

A glass bottle shatters on the sidewalk below you, shadowy figures scattering into dark alleyways like rats. You grimace at their sadistic laughter and silently thank your host for not living on the ground-level. The sound of a shaking spray paint can echoes in the empty street and you watch a messy hot pink insignia appear as it's drawn on a shop window. Damn. This was going to be a long five days. 

“Wait, you want me to do what?” 

“You’ll be staying with a high school friend of mine who owns a store in the area,” your journalism teacher continues, quickly scanning over a student’s document and grading it without blinking. She swipes to the next document, mechanically repeating the same process of grading it and moving on. She doesn’t stop to see the shock on your face.

“Ma’am, I don’t know–”

“You’ll be fine, just stick to the populated areas and don’t go out at night. If you want to, you could even befriend some of those Furin kids,” she says as she absentmindedly clicks away at her keyboard. “It’ll be good for you to report on something other than the mathletes team, for once.” At least the mathletes are safe, you think to yourself. A little awkward, but nowhere near the delinquents at Furin.

“Hold on, may I ask why I’m the one doing this?” You wring your hands nervously, glancing at the afternoon sun sinking outside the classroom window. “I don’t understand why you’re asking me–” 

“You want the full-ride scholarship, don’t you?” Her eyes are beady through the thin rims of her glasses. You fight the urge to shrink away from her piercing gaze, one that you never become accustomed to no matter how many times you’re subject to it. “Trust me when I tell you that the judges will not care how many times the mathletes lost, no matter how eloquently you write about it.” You let your skepticism show on your face. 

“But they’ll care about a bunch of boys that get into fights every day?” If she cares about your deadpanned comment, she doesn’t acknowledge it. 

“My friend told me once or twice that there’s more to those Furin boys than meets the eye,” she says before turning back to her screen. Your confusion is still obvious, but the only help your teacher gives you is an indifferent shrug. “It’s up to you. But if you want a competitive edge, you need to take more risks.” You exhale, weighing your options and ultimately deciding that your career was more important. 

“When do I start?” 

You begin your morning early on your first day in Makochi. After leaving your host’s apartment and staring at the graffiti-covered high school that was drowning in plant overgrowth, you abruptly turned on your heel and decided to observe the people on the busiest street. You had no interest in exploring Furin High School itself, only the effects of crime and constant fighting on the uninvolved citizens. You catch a group of boys wearing black jackets heading in the same direction as you and duck into the nearest cafe, hoping to wait them out and watch how they interact with the town. Across the street, the owners of the shop that was vandalized with the pink insignia scrub the paint from the glass. 

“Good morning.” A girl with short brown hair greets you behind the counter, gesturing for you to take a seat on one of the stools. You thank her and set your notebook down next to you, flipping through the menu when you feel her staring at you. “Are you new here?” 

“I’m in town for a few days,” you reply. Her demeanor is friendlier than you would expect from an area that sees so much violence. “I’m from one of the neighboring high schools.” The girl nods, placing a cup of water in front of you, along with a set of chopsticks. 

“Are you visiting family? We don’t get many visitors here, so I’m just wondering what a new face is doing in town,” she says, nodding when you point at the menu item you want for breakfast. 

“No family here; I’m actually studying the town for an assignment. My teacher thinks that if I write about this town, it’ll help me get a scholarship.” Her mouth opens in an ah of understanding and she ducks into the refrigerator to retrieve some eggs. An idea pops into your brain and you open your notebook. “While I’m here, do you mind if I ask you a few questions about Furin High?”

“Sure. Bofurin members eat here all the time.” Your eyebrows draw together and, unlike your journalism teacher, she understands and addresses your lack of knowledge. “Bofurin is the team that protects this town. It’s made up entirely of students at Furin High School. Actually, it’s a little funny that you stopped into here today, of all places, since–” 

“Kotoha!” The door flies open and the same group of boys that were behind you on the sidewalk corral into the cafe, the space suddenly too small for the number of people present. The source of the voice, a tall guy with bright white hair and coattails attached to his jacket, approaches the girl behind the counter with a blinding smile. “Did you miss me?” 

“No,” Kotoha deadpans, sending you a sympathetic look as more boys file into the cafe. “I was gonna say that you chose the one day Umemiya treats all his underclassmen to breakfast. Umemiya’s the leader, the tall idiot I was just talking to.” You grimace and begin to jot down what little information you’d learned about Furin, covering the side of your face with your hand and hoping none of the students question why you were there. It’s wishful thinking, unfortunately. 

“Oi.” You’re snapped from your brainstorming daze by a boy whose hair and eyes were two different colors. He was watching you write like you were plotting how to demolish the high school and you curse your luck for the millionth time that you picked the one cafe the Bofurin team frequented. “Who are you and why are you here?”

“Sakura, you can’t just say that to strangers. Tell them you’re sorry,” Kotoha, the girl behind the counter, chides. The boy’s cheeks turn pink and he turns away, muttering what sounds like a half-assed apology to you. “Don’t mind him,” she says to you with a warm smile. “He’s terrible around new people.” Sakura’s face twists into indignation. 

“No, I’m not!”

“Yes, you are. You got into a fight on your first day here, and school hadn’t even started yet,” points out another student with blonde hair sitting next to a boy wearing dangling earrings and an eyepatch. You’re quick to write down anything and everything you were hearing, picking up pieces of conversation from the tables around you. “Hey, what are you writing?” The question doesn’t come off as accusatory, but you shut your notebook anyways and guard it like a treasure chest. 

“It’s nothing. Just homework,” you force out. 

“Homework,” the boy with the eyepatch echoes. “So, you live around here?”

“They go to a neighboring highschool,” Kotoha explains before you have the chance to speak. “They’re actually here to study Bofurin.” All three boys turn to you expectantly, as if you were going to interview them on the spot. 

“I’m just here to observe,” you say quickly, rubbing the back of your neck. “I’m not here to interfere or get in your way or anything.” 

“Who said you would be getting in the way? I’m sure Umemiya wouldn’t mind–” 

“I wouldn’t mind what?” You jump, the same guy that called Kotoha’s name upon entering the cafe appearing like a ghost between you and the boys you were conversing with. “Have you three ordered yet? You need to eat! We have a big day today,” the person you assume is Umemiya instructs the boys. To your surprise, they’re quick to nod their assent and place their orders. “Good. Now, what was it I wasn’t going to mind?” 

“There’s someone here to study us,” the half-and-half haired kid mutters, pointing in your direction. Like before, the two other students scold him for his brashness. 

“Don’t say it like that, Sakura.” 

“It makes it sound like we’re animals in a documentary.” 

“Study us?” Umemiya ignores them and turns to you with a curious look. “Why?” Your face heats and you hastily close your notebook again, hoping that Kotoha would be done with your food soon so you could vacate the cafe and avoid it for the rest of your stay. 

“It’s for an assignment for school,” you reply hesitantly. 

“You don’t need to be so humble,” Kotoha calls over her shoulder from the stove. “You can tell them it’s for a scholarship.” The three boys next to Umemiya gape at you in awe, but you can’t help feeling the slightest bit embarrassed that you drew so much attention to yourself on your first day in town. You didn’t know much about the Furin boys except for their reputation as fighters, and you expected Umemiya to turn you away and kick you out on the spot. 

“I’ll be out of town in a few days, so you don’t need to–”

“You can shadow us.” What the hell did he just say? You blink at him, unsure if you hallucinated his words or if he actually said them. Umemiya’s face suddenly turns a shade redder and he turns to his three underclassmen, whispering uneasily, “That is the term for it, right?”

“I think so,” the blonde one whispers back. “Suo, you’re better with words. What does it–”

“You want them to follow you around and see how you guys work,” Kotoha says as she brings you your meal in a to-go container. “That’s what ‘shadowing’ means.” Umemiya thanks her with a thumbs-up before turning back to you. 

“What she said. Come with us as we go through our daily routines so you really understand what we do.” You start to stutter out a list of fake reasons why you couldn’t, something along the lines of getting in their way and needing to take a fish to the veterinarian. Umemiya doesn’t budge and sees through your nerves like glass. “You won’t be inconveniencing us at all, I promise. If anything, it’ll be good for more people to have an understanding of Bofurin.” 

“Yeah. If you just watch us from the outside, your writing’s not gonna be any good,” Sakura says bluntly. The two boys next to him flinch and cover their faces. 

“You should stop saying things like that, Sakura,” the boy with the eye-patch warns. 

“Like I said,” Kotoha mumbles in passing. “Don’t pay him any mind. He’s just like that.”

“So, what do you say?” Umemiya grins at you in a way that unwillingly makes your heart rate increase and, before your mind knows it, you’re nodding in agreement and he settles on the stool next to you. “Great! Before we start, do you mind if I ask you about yourself?”

—  Day 2 of 5: “I know I have good judgment // I know I have good taste”

It’s 7:00 am when Umemiya appears outside your door. 

“Good morning! Did you sleep well? I know yesterday was a lot, so hopefully we didn’t scare you too badly.” You rub your eyes and manage to give him a sleepy ‘good morning,’ trying to shake off the exhaustion after running around the previous day with Bofurin. The moon was hanging high by the time Umemiya dropped you off at your host’s apartment and you thought you were hearing things when he said he’d be back in the morning to pick you up. “We’re not gonna have time to stop by the cafe, so I picked up something for you to eat.” You open the small paper bag he hands you to find a pastry wrapped in a napkin, slightly squashed from the walk. “Do you have everything?” 

“Yes, I do. This is really nice of you Umemiya,” you say as you fall into step next to him. He shrugs and waves you off, but you catch the self-confident upturn at the corner of his mouth. Why you were staring at his mouth in the first place could not be waterboarded out of you. 

“Don’t mention it. What’d you think of yesterday? Oh, wait. Let me take this from you so you can eat.” Before you can stop him, he reaches over and carefully slides the strap of your bag from your shoulder and hoists it onto his. Surprised, you thank him again, something that you found yourself doing a lot since you met him. It wasn’t like you were trying to overstate your gratitude, Umemiya just kept doing things for you; on your first day, he did everything from crouching down to tie your shoe to herding you toward the side of the sidewalk, away from the busy street. So far, Bofurin was nothing like you’d previously imagined. 

“There’s a lot more structure in place than I thought there would be,” you answer, taking a few bites of the pastry. After Umemiya gave you a proper introduction to first-year class captain (and your self-proclaimed #1 skeptic) Sakura, he also introduced you to Suo and Nirei, the two boys that were with him. The rest of your first day was a flurry of meetings and broadcast announcements from the top of the school, mixed with an unexpected amount of pot transplanting on the roof. “I didn’t realize there would be such a clear hierarchy of power…or a community garden.”

“You thought we were just a bunch of kids who got into fights every day?”

“Yes–wait, no!” Your face burns while you backtrack and try to explain yourself. Umemiya doesn’t hear it and simply chuckles at your slip. “Okay, fine. Yes, I did think you were a bunch of kids that got into fights every day. But,” you pause, taking a look at the pastry in your hand. “There’s obviously more I need to learn.” 

“That’s alright,” Umemiya beams. The sun starts to peek over the roofs of the little stores and houses, painting Furin High golden as you approach. “That's why I’m here. Oh, and before I forget, give me your phone.” You watch as he dials his contact information in, even taking a picture of himself for the contact photo. “What do you think?” 

“Wow, you look great. Thanks for doing that for me.”

“Of course. Now you have a direct line to me in case you ever need anything!” He has a cute smile, speaks an unprompted voice in your head that you’re quick to silence. You’re about to tease him about being so friendly with strangers when you catch sight of a smear of hot pink running across the bricks beside you. Umemiya’s smile fades as you walk past the metal garage door of a food vendor, it too becoming the victim of the same pink marking you saw on your first night. 

“That’s the second one I’ve seen now.” His eyes are narrowed when you turn to him. He’s not focusing on what you’re saying; you can tell by the way the muscle in his jaw clenches that he’s running analyses like a supercomputer. “Do you have any idea who’s doing this?”

“There hasn’t been word of a pink team in ages, let alone one that has the audacity to come on Bofurin territory and claim it,” he says quietly.  

“They’re trying to take it from you?”

“Keyword ‘trying.’ Doesn’t mean they’ll be successful.” The darkness of his expression disappears in a blink and you’re met with a self-assured grin. “Ah, well don’t worry about it. We handle this kind of stuff all the time,” he reassures you, readjusting your bag over his shoulder and starting again down the sidewalk.  

“How often do you deal with stuff like this?” 

“Weekly, probably,” he shrugs and you make a mental reminder to write it in your notebook. 

“Are people just looking for a fight because you’re the strongest team, or is it something else?” Your mind momentarily brings you back to sitting across from the mathletes team in the school library, giving them food for thought and jotting down their responses. It was a little different, asking questions of Umemiya, but the familiar feeling of seeking answers is comforting muscle memory. 

“I don’t have a concrete answer for you, honestly,” he admits. “But, my theory is that people don’t like what we do here. We protect the town and discourage people from doing unethical things. People simply don’t like being told what they can’t do.” You nod, trying your best to remember everything he’s saying. It made sense why smaller teams would want to take down the most powerful team in the area, but the morality side and restricting the actions of others because they harm the townspeople was something you didn’t expect to also play into the situation. “Are you going to interview any other teams here?” You shake your head.

“I wasn’t planning on it. The answers that you’re giving me now are more than I could have hoped for,” you answer and you catch his satisfied smirk out of the corner of your eye. “Do you think I should study other teams?” 

“You don’t need to. You fit in better with us, anyway.” 

— Day 3 of 5: “Whatever devil’s inside you // Don’t let him out tonight”

Reports of the hot pink marking become more frequent the longer you stay with Bofurin, both for sightings on shop windows and shadows sneaking around alleyways just out of patroller’s lines of sight. The more teams Umemiya sent out to paint over the vandalism, the more sightings increased. To you, it was an indicator of growing tensions between Bofurin and surrounding, envious teams. 

To Umemiya, it was Wednesday. 

“We have a collaborative meeting with another team, Shishitoren, today,” he informs you on the walk from your host’s apartment to the school, your bag swinging weightlessly on his shoulder. “I’d like for you to join us, but it’s ultimately up to you.” 

“Do you have a history with them?” The team leader’s eyes space out and he blinks once, then twice, before coming back to the present. 

“Yeah…you could say that,” he chuckles. “Just don’t ask Sakura about his first one-on-one with them. He gets defensive.” You stifle a grin.

“Oh, did he lose?”

“He won, actually,” Umemiya corrects, equally as amused as you, “Which is the part he gets mad about, so you should probably steer clear of the subject all together.” You nod, interviewing Sakura being nowhere in your plans. “Suo and Nirei will be able to give you all the info you need, though,” he says quickly, mistaking your silence for discontent. “And of course, you could always ask me too.” He smiles at you and something in your brain short-circuits. 

Ever the professional, you try not to think about how nice Umemiya’s been to you when you arrive at the Ori, headquarters of Shishitoren. Steering away from the run-down screening room, you and Umemiya’s team climb up to the roof, where a group of guys wearing orange baseball jackets are waiting. 

“What took you so long? Breakfast is getting cold!” The team’s leader, Tomiyama, leaps from his seat on the ledge and bounds over to Umemiya. “Oh?” He pauses, looking you up and down before smiling brightly at you. “You brought your new friend, Ume!” You wave politely and introduce yourself, a little more relaxed with Umemiya at your side. 

“Smart,” comments whom you assume to be the second-in-command, Togame. He moves at a leisurely pace, barely even blinking as he lifts Tomiyama by the collar of his jacket and sets him at the other end of the meeting’s circle. “Our guys have caught at least three of their guys running surveillance on your side. Who knows what would’ve happened if you left your guest at the school alone.”

“Surveillance?” You frown, but Umemiya doesn’t look surprised. “And what do you mean, something could have happened?” 

“Rival members follow others around, learning their ins and outs,” Togame tells you. “Essentially what you’ve been doing, but uninvited. They’ve been getting pretty pissy about Bofurin lately, so they might’ve tried to use you as some kind of collateral if they knew Umemiya would be out.” The thought makes you gag, and the same discontent expressions can be found on all the occupants of the roof. 

“They’re not very nice, those guys,” Tomiyama pouts. “The ones we’ve questioned wanna take over your side, Ume.” So other teams want to take over Bofurin’s territory more often than Umemiya lets on, you think to yourself. Maybe not even on a weekly basis, but daily. 

“Did you let the guys you’ve questioned off the hook? Or you still have ‘em here?” Hiragi asks. 

“We don’t have any of them here, no,” Togame replies. “But we have a general idea of how they make their rounds and can probably catch a team or two when they start following Bofurin guys.” 

“Great,” Umemiya concludes with a single decisive clap. “Let’s go get ‘em.” 

“Alright, field trip time!” Tomiyama’s energy sends him practically bouncing off the walls. You pack up what little things you brought with you to the meeting and are ready to fall into step behind the guys, but Umemiya stops you with a gentle hand on your shoulder. 

“Yo, Kaji.” The lollipop-mouthed second-year pulls down his headphones to listen. “Take them back to the school. Don’t want them there in case things get ugly.” You open your mouth to protest, ready to fire off why it’s important that you see the good, bad, and ugly of Bofurin, but Umemiya silences you with a shake of his head. “Please go. I’m not changing my mind.” 

“Why don’t you want me to be there?”

“Like I said, things could get ugly–” 

“And,” you cut in, “I’m capable enough to run if I need to. You can trust me to get out of there on my own.” The tone of his reply is soft and patient, like it was for your own good that you didn’t go. 

“Maybe next time, okay?” You frown, disappointment twisting in your gut. “I don’t doubt that you can handle your own if things get bad. I just…don’t want you to see it if things get bad.” He runs a hand through his hair and the flex of his large bicep suddenly clicks the pieces of understanding into place. There was a reason why he was the head of Bofurin and respected by all these rowdy team members, whether they were on his team or not. Though you hadn’t seen him fight yet, there was a more dangerous side to Umemiya that existed with the kindness he’d shown you. He didn’t want you there in case things got ugly because of him. 

“I–I see.” He nods with a sigh of relief and turns to leave; you pull your arms close to your body at the sudden chill as he walks away. “Umemiya?” He pauses at the doorway, his hand hovering over the handle as he looks over his shoulder at you expectantly. Several things occurred to you to say to them, all of them borderline condescending if he took it the wrong way. Don’t do anything brash. Make sure you come back. You shouldn’t need to use your fists for this. 

“Be safe, please,” is what you settle for. 

— Day 4 of 5: “Everyone makes mistakes // But just don’t”

You’re past the halfway point of studying Furin High and team Bofurin when Hiragi storms into the broadcast room, grumbling about being out of supplies. Umemiya isn’t worried and reassures his friend that they would have what they were missing by the end of the day. Four days of immersing yourself in Bofurin was having a significant effect on you, since you volunteer to do the run before anyone else does. 

To be fair, you did need to run back to your host’s apartment–who had so graciously started letting Umemiya in while he waited for you to get ready in the morning–because you’d forgotten to drop your notebook in your bag before rushing out the door. The list wasn’t huge, either, and you figured you could do the whole trip in about an hour: painkillers (Nirei misjudged his spacing and accidentally got kicked in the crotch), small bandages (Sakura, self-explanatory), wet wipes (Suo noted how dirty the desks became because of everyone’s shoes), and a few packages of plant food (Umemiya insisted on buying some potted flowers from the vendor on your street).

“Are you sure? One of the patrol teams can pick the stuff up,” Umemiya offers, eyeing you oddly. Four days of immersing yourself in Bofurin meant you also caught the team’s head staring when he thought you weren’t looking, and then quickly turning away when you looked back. “Or, if you go, let me send one of the class captains with you, just in case. Sakura should be on patrol in the area.” You shake your head and stand up to leave. 

“I’ll be fine, Ume, I promise.” The nickname slips out before you can stop it, but he doesn’t seem to notice, eyebrows drawn in concern as he watches the floor. You lightly rest your hand on his shoulder and he snaps out of it, exhaling through his nose before nodding, reluctantly. 

“Call if anything happens,” Hiragi grunts before turning to Umemiya. “Hey, weren’t you talking about giving them a–”

“Hiragi, you’re a genius,” Umemiya cuts in and moves to dig through a box at the corner of the room. “Hey, wait,” he says, gently catching your wrist before you’re out the door and pressing a jacket into your hand. Four days of immersing yourself in Bofurin, and you would know the jacket’s green collar and the insignia anywhere. “No one should bother you if you’re wearing it.” 

Ironically, absolutely nothing happens until you’re on your way back from the convenience store. Your host was waiting for you in the living area to give you your notebook, and the store was barely a block away from her apartment. You find the needed items easily, placing a bag of mixed hard candies and a box of new chalk into your basket because you noticed they were running out. It’s a perfect day as you walk back to Furin, all cloudless skies and cool breezes and smooth sidewalks. The Furin jacket fits snugly on your torso, sturdy enough to protect you from the chill in the shade but light enough that you don’t overheat from the sun. It’s nice, something you could get used to. 

You don’t realize they’re behind you until it’s too late. 

“So, you’re Bofurin’s bitch, huh? Nice to see you in the light.” You stop in your tracks and look behind you to see a dozen guys in hot pink team uniforms you don’t recognize. There shouldn’t be that many of a rival team on Bofurin grounds, right? What the hell were they doing here? 

“You gonna say something, or are you stupid as you are ugly?” 

“Aww, look at them. They’re shaking and they don’t even know why,” one of the guys in the front sneers. “Don’t worry, sweetie. We’ll give you something to be scared of.” The group starts to approach you and your vision slows like everything was moving through syrup. You catch the symbol on their uniforms, the same one that’s been spray painted on the town’s buildings for the past few days. The encroaching team was trying to take you to get leverage over Bofurin. Not good. Definitely not good. 

“Umemiya’s gonna think twice about messing with us after they see how we mess up his little pet!” Umemiya. You need to get to Umemiya. Your senses come back to you like a freight train and you have half the mind to dig your shoes into the street and run. 

The rival team shouts after you and the sound of pursuing footsteps thunder down the road. With one hand gripping the plastic bag of supplies, you yank your phone from the jacket pocket and frantically swipe to his contact. Your assailants draw closer and you force more energy into your legs, barely outrunning them by a few seconds. You cut through an alleyway and round a corner, but a dip in the road simultaneously makes you trip, pain shooting through your ankle. Shit! Your finger misses the ‘call’ button on your phone and you tap the ‘send location’ button instead. It’s not what you were going for, but your only options were to stop to properly call for help and get caught or keep running on your tweaked ankle. With the group of guys racing around the corner to catch you, you have no choice but to keep running. 

“Get the hell away from me!” You skid to a halt and turn to face the team head-on, your voice unsteady and breathless. You were finally starting to recognize the buildings around you; at the same time, your lungs were aching unbearably. Your pursuers slow to a halt and you’re stuck in a standoff in the middle of the street, the townspeople shutting themselves away in their stores to minimize damage to their own livelihoods. You stumble backward when the team leader steps forward, a cruel grin covering his entire face. 

“C’mon now, we just wanna have a little chat with you, you being Bofurin’s newest addition and all.” The men behind him leer at you, swinging their bats and crowbars up onto their shoulders. 

“Take one step closer and all of Bofurin comes running,” you snarl, shoving your phone forward, your finger hovering over the ‘send location’ button.

“That’s a whole lotta bullshit spewing out of your mouth, sweetie.”

“Why don’t you shut yours, asshole?” You spit. Sure the phone was a bluff, a last-ditch effort to stall for time.

It didn’t matter.

You knew how quickly Bofurin organized. 

As the hot pink leader lunges the remaining distance between you two, he’s knocked to the side by a blur of black, green, and white. Sakura stands up straight, rolls his shoulders, and scowls at you. 

“Why didn’t you call us sooner, dumbass?” 

“What, you think I wanted to get chased down today?” You meet his attitude with your own irritation and exhaustion. “Why didn’t you get here sooner?”

“Just go somewhere safe, idiot,” he yells, slamming his fist into an attacker’s face. “Your boyfriend’ll be here soon, but we were closer when he messaged everyone!” You don’t have time to think about the idea of Umemiya texting all of Bofurin to descend upon your location.Your glare fades quickly into relief and you step backward as Suo and Kiryu launch themselves into the fight.  Kaji and Hiragi rush in within a minute, and you’re spun to face Umemiya before you register that he’s there. 

“Are you okay? Are you hurt? Did they hurt you?” He searches your face, his anxiety evident. “What did they do to you?”

“I’m okay, I’m okay. They didn’t get me.” Your voice wavers when you try to put weight on your injured ankle, and it panics Umemiya even more. Other Bofurin members enthusiastically join the brawl, but all Umemiya can do is take your hands and scan your body, letting you use him to balance on your good foot. 

“They were chasing you? I knew I should have–” You give him a tired smile and pull his face up to meet your eyes. 

“I didn’t let them catch me. I’m safe, I promise.” He inhales like he’s about to say something, but his attention snaps behind you, his expression hardening in an instant. He slips in front of you like a shield and brings his forearm up to block the hand that was meant to grab you while you were distracted. He throws the attacker to the ground and it lies still, completely unconscious. 

“Hey!” The sound of Umemiya’s voice echoes in the street. The chaos stills, fists suspended in mid air. His eyes that looked so kindly on you darken into shadows, shutting out the sunlight and sending chills down the backs of everyone present. “Not enough to kill…” he orders, securing an arm around your waist and turning you away from the fighting, leaving his underclassmen to finish the job. “But enough.”

You’re a sweating mess and barely able to put weight on your ankle by the time you make it through the doors of Bofurin headquarters. You fall away from his supportive body and your shoulder hits the wall, stars scattering in your vision. Any attempt to drag yourself further, with or without Umemiya’s help, earns you nothing but a hiss and a white-hot flash of pain. Umemiya looks distraught, reaching forward and pulling back with indecisive uncertainty. 

“What do you need me to do? Tell me what to do and I’ll do it,” he pleads with you. “Please, tell me what you need.” 

“Water,” you croak, your voice hoarse and tired. “I just–I can’t–I can’t walk well–” Your feet leave the ground before you can comprehend that you’re in the air, Umemiya’s arms effortlessly lifting you and beginning the ascent up the school’s stairs. His body is steady and he barely breaks a sweat, stone-cold determination his only expression. Your decreasing heart rate pounds in your forehead and you squint against the light once he climbs to the roof. He sets you gently on a chair in the shade before retrieving a bottle of water, watching as you take a few sips before kneeling in front of you. 

“May I?” You blink, regaining your senses, and realize he’s asking if he can inspect your ankle. You hum, settling into the chair while he carefully rolls up the cuff of your pants. His fingers brushing your bare skin momentarily makes you forget any pain, a shock of lightning shooting up your spine as he swipes his thumb over the front of your ankle. He turns your leg over gently in his hands before deeming it okay. “It’s not swelling, thankfully, so it’s probably just a bad sprain at most.” He exhales, deeply relieved, but continues to run his fingers carefully over the tender area. 

“You couldn’t have predicted they would be there,” you say, his thoughts painted all over his face. 

“I didn’t say anything,” he mumbles, more irritated than you expected. He’s just mad at himself, not at you, you need to remind yourself.  

“You didn’t need to.” Your hand reaches itself out on its own accord, turning his face so you could meet his eyes. “I didn’t get hurt because of you.” 

“But you did get hurt,” he mutters, eyebrows drawn the same way as when he was analyzing the pink symbol a few days prior. The cogs in his brain were turning, you could see, but this time there was a lingering sense of shame. “I’m sorry I couldn’t keep you safe.”

“I’m here with you, aren’t I?” He shrugs, but you catch the muscle in his jaw relax as his eyes soften. “If that’s not safe, then I don’t know what is.” 

“You’re not angry that I wasn’t there sooner?”

“I’m safest when I’m with you,” you state simply, “and you found me at just the right moment. So no, of course I’m not angry with you.” Words slip out of Umemiya’s mouth before he’s able to register that they’re leaving, but he has half the mind to change the middle part of the sentence before he comes off as too overbearing. 

“I…care about you, deeply.” You smile, letting him take your hand into his own and press his lips to the inside of your palm. 

— Day 5 of 5: “We could live so happily // If no one knows that you’re with me”

It’s 7:00 am and Umemiya isn’t outside your door. 

You curl up on your bed and stare out the window, the street below milling with its usual morning business. After he dropped you off the previous night with a curt ‘sleep well’ and a reminder to ice your ankle, you were left in an eerily quiet bedroom while you tossed and turned thinking about the day’s events. A ring of the doorbell sends you hobbling down the stairs and throwing open the front door, only to be met with a very pink Sakura, flanked by Suo and Nirei. 

“Don’t go outside today,” Sakura says bluntly. Nirei flinches and Suo’s smile becomes slightly strained, both of them eyeing their class captain warily. 

“What he means,” Suo says before Sakura can say anything else, “is that you don’t need to come study Bofurin today.” Your heart sinks. This must have been because of the day prior. He was really mad that you got yourself hurt, huh? 

“Don’t look so sad about it,” Sakura mutters, his cheeks turning a slightly darker shade of red. “It’s annoying.” You stutter an unexpected apology and suddenly have the urge to hide back in your room until your train the next day. 

“I get it,” you say quietly. “He’s angry with me. Please give him my thanks for the hospitality he’s shown me this week. I’ll be gone by 8:00 tomorrow.” You move to close the door when all three boys practically throw themselves in the way. 

“Wait, that’s not what we meant!” Nirei’s eyes are the size of basketballs. 

“Please don’t listen to anything Sakura is saying; he has a hard time empathizing with others.” Nirei nods enthusiastically in agreement with Suo, slapping a hand over Sakura’s mouth to prevent the boy from speaking. “Really, that’s not what we mean by saying you don’t need to study us anymore.” 

“Umemiya wants you to take the day to rest,” Nirei explains quickly. “He doesn’t think you should be walking to and from the school on your injured ankle.” Your sadness is replaced with indignancy and you cross your arms over your chest. 

“He couldn’t have told me this himself?” 

“He would, but…” Nirei’s voice trails off and you catch Suo biting the inside of his cheek. Sakura’s the first to break the silence, peeling Nirei’s hand from his face. 

“Umemiya and the upperclassmen have been beating the shit out of those hot pink assholes since last night.” 

“It must’ve been pretty serious, since he didn’t even allow Suo or Sakura to go with them,” Nirei adds, “And they’re some of the best fighters in our class.” 

“How long has he been out?” 

“Hiragi said he called them late last night and a small team raided the hot pink team’s base.” That would mean Bofurin raided the base immediately after dropping you off. Why would he hide that from you? “Technically, he said not to tell you because he knew you’d panic,” Sakura continues. “So he sent us to tell you to take it easy. Don’t stab the messengers.”

“It’s ‘don’t shoot the messengers,’ Sakura,” Suo corrects and Sakura shrugs, indifferent. 

“And we’re already as good as dead anyway,” Nirei says, his expression dropping. “We weren’t supposed to tell you that he’s been fighting those guys that hurt you.” 

“It’s Sakura’s fault for yapping–”

“You wanna fight?”

“What’s done is done, little brothers.” You stiffen, blinking against the morning sun as Umemiya trudges into your vision. His handsome face has seen better days, small cuts and bruises littered all over his skin. He tossed his jacket over his shoulder, revealing the dirtied white shirt that wasn’t stained the previous evening. He rolls a broad shoulder and stretches his neck from side to side, his underclassmen scurrying away as he steps onto the welcome mat. “G’morning,” he greets in a tired voice. “Sorry I’m late.”

“Better late than never,” you deadpan, taking his hand and guiding him inside. “Thanks boys,” you call over your shoulder at the sheepish underclassmen. “I’ll take it from here,” you finish before shutting the door. 

“Gotta say, this place looks better when my vision isn’t blurry,” Umemiya jokes with a wince, collapsing into a chair at the dining table. You ignore his attempt at humor, retrieving the first aid kit from the closet along with a rag that you soak with warm water. His eyes are on you as you move about; you feel his gaze burn into the back of your neck. 

“If you weren’t already beaten to a pulp, I’d slap you,” you mumble, sitting across from him and gently patting the dried blood from his face. 

“And I’d let you,” he manages to smile, never taking his attention away from you. You can’t tell if your face is hot from his intense stare or from the anger bubbling in your stomach. Scooting closer, you start work on the cut above his lip, just missing his nose. “You smell nice.” 

“You need to stop talking.” His smile fades only slightly, his eyes ever watchful while you take care of his wounds. You hope he can’t tell how badly your hands are shaking as you tap antibiotic ointment onto his skin and cover it with a bandage. 

“You’re upset with me,” he says carefully, observing the way you’re conveniently avoiding eye contact. 

“You just figured that out?”

“You gonna tell me why, or are you just gonna keep scowling?”

“This is not how you usually do things,” you say through gritted teeth, gesturing to the evidence of fights all over his body. “You’re diplomatic. You’re understanding. You’re empathetic. You don’t…You don’t solve problems like this!” You don’t realize how loud your voice has become until you register the echo from the empty walls, nor do you realize that you were standing until his eyes were looking up at you. 

“How do you know that I don’t do this?”

“Because I watched you this week and I know how you work.” You swallow thickly. “I don’t know why you’d break all of that just because of some hot pink bastards running around your–”

“I did it because of you,” he says. “I did it because they hurt you.”

“You didn’t need to do that, Hajime.” It’s the first time you’d used his first name and something flutters in Umemiya’s stomach. He can’t do anything but stare at you in awe, watching as your emotions start to escape down your face in wet streaks. His body moves on its own, reaching out to wipe your tears to the side and standing so that your chests are nearly touching. His voice is barely a murmur, reserved only for you to hear. 

“You didn’t want me to do it?” Both your hearts are racing, slamming against your rib cages. 

“If it meant you getting hurt like this, then no.”

“I’d put myself through much worse if it meant you were safe,” he whispers. In this proximity, your anger flies out the window, along with your good judgment. He was so close, you could just–

“What else would you do for me?” His eyelashes flutter against yours. 

“Anything.” Umemiya thinks he has a broken rib from how little he can breathe. 

“Show me.” It’s like a rubber band snaps between your bodies as he finally leans down to kiss you, molding himself so that you could perfectly melt against him. His grip on your waist is rock-solid, holding you close enough that you feel him shudder when you scratch against his undercut. The sound you make when he swipes his tongue against your bottom lip makes his head go completely empty, the same feeling happening for you when his fingers graze the spot where your neck meets your chin. He kisses you feverishly, refusing to let you breathe until you’re forced to pull away lest you completely lose consciousness. 

“Do you always kiss the people you write about?” He winks at you and you roll your eyes, draping your arms over his shoulders. 

“Only the ones I fall for,” you whisper back. “I’m still mad at you for ditching me this morning, though.” 

“I sent your three favorite underclassmen instead,” he argues but you shake your head, a smile teasing your mouth. “Fine. How can I make it up to you?” You hum thoughtfully, blinking at him in a way that sent Umemiya’s mind into a frenzy. 

“Kiss me again and we’ll call it even.” 

“Whatever you say.” 

— Day [???] of [???]: 

He’s waiting for you when you step off the train, a dazzling smile on his face that grows when he sees the certificate awarded to you with your scholarship funds. A dozen captains dot the platform, diligently watching the back of their leader as he brings down every guard he has and catches you in his arms. After enduring Umemiya talking their ears off, the silence that falls over the area as you bask in each other’s presence is enough of a reason to switch formations, allowing you time alone with the one man who would put himself through hell if it meant you were still his. 

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A Christmas Gift | G.W.

“That's what happens when you love someone,” George replied, smiling. “You want to protect them from anything that might hurt them, even if you know you can't.”

feat. George Weasley x fem!reader

SUMMARY: You go to Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes to pick out a Christmas gift for your ailing little brother, who adored the shop (and the twins) before he became too ill to go. You find a gift and so much more than you ever dreamed of.

CW: this is really emotional, i’m sorry, but i pinky promise that it has a happyish ending. fred is dead, grief, hurt/comfort, hospital visits, sick sibling/children, some swearing, but also some fun and lightheartedness, plenty of christmasy fluff, first kisses

AN: last Christmas fic of the season!

The early morning snow buffeted at your back as you stepped into Weasely Wizard Wheezes. The store had just opened, you saw someone turn the sign as you finished your breakfast at the Three Broomsticks, but you wanted to beat the holiday rush so you could really take your time.

The smell of cinnamon and woodsmoke, plastic toys and what could only be described as joy, welcomed you inside. An enormous Christmas tree hung upside down from the ceiling, decorated in orange, purple, and gold, with handmade ornaments over every branch and popcorn strings strewn around it. Every shelf was stocked and festively decorated, and soft Christmas music played from the speakers.

You stopped in the doorway, tears welling in your eyes. Your brother would love this. You had hoped that he’d be having a good day today, that maybe, by some miracle, he’d be well enough to come with you. But he’d spiked a fever late last night, and was going in for some imaging today to ensure he hadn’t caught pneumonia…again.

“Morning,” a voice called to you, and you looked up, hastily wiping tears on your sleeve. George Weasley, a man you’d never met but would recognize anywhere, was halfway down the spiral staircase, a cup of coffee in hand. He was dressed in the iconic pinstripe suit, his copper hair a little longer than the last time you’d seen him two years prior, not that he’d remember.

The only reason you remembered was because of your brothers obsession with the Weasley twins. He’d asked to have his hair cut and dyed orange that same afternoon.

More tears welled up, and you cursed yourself, turning away to hide your face. “I’m sorry,” you sniffled, trying to take a deep breath. “I promise I’m not insane.”

You heard him move the rest of the way down the stairs, then approach you, his tall frame taking him across the store in a few strides. He had a bright purple handkerchief in his hand, the triple W embroidered on the corner.

“That’s okay, we like a little insanity around here. What’s your name?” he asked, his voice soft.

“Y/n.” You accepted the handkerchief with a watery smile and dabbed your eyes.

“George. Are you alright, y/n?” he asked.

You sighed, twisting the fabric in your hands. “The holiday’s are just hard.”

He nodded, his jaw flexing, eyes averting from your face to the floor. “Yeah,” he said, his voice rougher than it had been a moment before. You noticed then the dark circles under his eyes, the air of heaviness around his shoulders. “Can I help you find something?” he asked, pivoting quickly.

“Yes, actually. I’m, uh, looking for a gift for my little brother. But he—it has to be something he can play with in bed. Nothing too loud or messy.” Your heart ached as you said it, knowing he would actually love something loud, messy, destructive, as little boys do, but such things weren’t allowed at St. Mungo’s.

George raised an eyebrow. “Strict parents?”

You shook your head, swallowing around the lump in your throat. “He’s in hospital,” you murmured, hating saying the words aloud.

George’s face fell. “Oh—Merlin, I’m really sorry.”

A flicker of understanding passed between you, your broken hearts beating at the same rhythm for a moment. You knew about the death of his twin, Fred, everyone did, and now he knew your pain as well. That knowledge weaved an invisible string of connection between you, forged in empathy.

“We can absolutely find something for him,” George said, his voice painfully sincere. He offered you his arm and you accepted, needing a bit of steadiness. “What kind of things does he like?”

You started to walk through the store, looking around the towering shelves, at a bit of a loss. “Well, he loves Whizz-bangs, and your Pyrotechtrix.”

George smiled, chuckling to himself. “Fun, but not exactly suitable for a hospital.”

“Exactly. But honestly, anything you recommended, he’d absolutely adore, so long as I told him you recommended it.”

“Oh yeah?” George raised an eyebrow, glancing down at you.

Saints, he’s handsome.

“Yeah, he’s a big fan. He used to beg us to stop in every time we came to Diagon Alley so he could watch your demonstrations.”

George’s smile widened, a flush creeping up his neck. “Well, ah, that’s really—” he scratched the back of his head, clearly flustered by the revelation. “That’s very kind,” he managed with a breathy chuckle.

The door jingled as another customer came in and you tensed, George’s eye flicking towards the new customer, then back down to you.

You moved to slip your arm from his. “I can look around, you go ahead—”

“Oi, Ron!” George shouted, a hand cupped around his mouth, his arm tightening around yours so you stayed put.

“What? I’m sorting inventory!” Ron Weasley shouted back, appearing from the back of the store with arms full of boxes. His eyes quickly scanned over you, your joined arms, then back to George, who was nodding his head towards the door. “Welcome to Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes!” Ron turned greeted the customer, dropping the boxes where he stood.

You chuckled, leaning a bit closer to George, grateful that he didn’t abandon you.

“You’re my first priority today,” he murmured to you, close enough that you could smell his amber cologne, and you felt your anxiety unspool for the first time in weeks. For this one thing, this small, Christmas gift hunt, you weren’t alone.

You spent the rest of the morning with George, wandering through aisle after aisle as he talked you through every product you showed an interest in. At first, he seemed reluctant to talk about products with stories tied to Fred, like prodding a sore wound, but eventually he was telling story after story, grinning and laughing at the memories of their countless antics.

He encouraged you to share about your brother as well, and by the end, you were both in stitches from laughing, cheeks sore and eyes watery with tears. It warmed your heart to see him light up at the his brother’s memory, to see the love between them still very much burning, and soothed a bit of your fear.

No matter what happened, the love and the memories would remain.

You finally settled on an Aviatomobile and a few muggle magic tricks, nothing explosive, sticky, or illness-causing. George carried the items to the counter, setting them gently on surface, but hesitated when he reached for the register.

He turned, grabbing a gift box from beneath the counter. Carefully, he wrapped each item in branded tissue paper and nestled them into the box, then rearranged them once, then twice, before finally placing the lid and tying an orange bow around it. Then, he grabbed one of the paper ornaments from the counter, where kids could write little messages or drawings to hang on the gravity-defying Christmas tree, and scribbled something on it before securing it to the bow.

“There we go,” he said, pushing it towards you with a sheepish smile.

You reached for you wallet. “How much do I—”

He shook his head, waving you off. “It’s on me. Least I can do for an avid supporter.”

Tears burned behind your eyes again, caught off guard by his generosity. “George, I can’t—”

“Please, just—let me do this for your brother.” George’s eyes held yours, soft around the corners. “It’s what Fred would do.”

You nodded, unable to speak through the lump in your throat.

“Would you want to, uh, maybe get a drink later? Or coffee?” He asked, rubbing the back of his neck, freckled cheeks flushing pink.

You smiled, your heart flipping in your chest. “I’d love to. We could get ice cream at Fortescue's?” You offered.

He smiled back. “Perfect. 7 o’clock?”

“Perfect,” you repeated, fighting a nervous giggle. “I’ll see you later, then.” You hefted the box in your arms and waved goodbye, hurrying out before you said anything embarrassing, or melted into a puddle of goo on the floor.

Halfway down the street, you finally glanced at the paper ornament George attached to the gift.

Sorry, mate. No explosive’s. Sister’s orders. But I’ve got a stash in the back waiting for you when you’re ready. Merry Christmas. - GW

You were fizzing with excitement as you approached the ice cream shop, a soft flurry of snowflakes dancing int the twinkle lights strew across Diagon Alley. Vendors were at every corner, selling steaming beverages, candied nuts, and fried dough. Shoppers wandered from glowing door to glowing door, bundled in thick coats and arms laden with bags. A choir sang Christmas carols on the steps of Gringotts, toads wearing Santa hats cradled in their arms, and you paused to listen while they sang “Carol of the Bells”, trying to collect your scattered mind.

You hadn’t stopped thinking about George for a moment, so wound up that you started getting ready three hours early for a simple ice cream date. You couldn’t remember the last time you felt so giddy, so hopeful.

“I like this song,” a familiar voice murmured in your ear and you looked up, finding George standing beside you watching the carolers, the lights reflecting in his brown eyes. He was dressed in a brown wool coat with a Gryffindor scarf around his neck, a white, cable knit sweater and jeans underneath, patches on the knees.

“Me too,” you replied, biting your lips to stop the grin threatening to rise. “How was your day?”

“Chaos. I left Ron to deal with the stragglers. We were supposed to close around six…” he trailed off, his eyes catching on a group of wizards. You followed his eye, and were appalled to find them muttering and pointing at him. And when you looked around, you noticed several groups were doing the same.

Instinctively, you moved closer to him, as if you could shield him somehow.

His fingers twined with yours, warm and calloused. “It’s alright,” he said, turning you to face him. “M’used to it.”

“It’s not alright,” you said, raising your voice and directing a pointed glare at the noisy folks. “It’s rude!”

He chuckled, tugging you away from the carolers. “Easy, love. It doesn’t bother me much anymore. Don’t give them any of your attention.”

You sighed, falling into step beside him, hands still clasped together. “I’m sorry they treat you like that,” you said, glaring daggers at anyone that even glanced in his direction while you walked towards Fortescue's.

“It was worse when we first reopened the shop.” His thumb swiped back and forth across yours, soothing the irritation itching under your skin. “They would come in just to get a look at me. Like my grief was some kind of spectator sport.”

“I can’t imagine having that kind of loss broadcast to the entire world,” you said, glancing at a newspaper stand plastered in the Daily Prophet.

“It’s inhumane,” he replied, stopping in front of the ice cream shop. “But, I’m grateful for it too.”

You raised an eyebrow, facing him in the warm glow of the window.

“Everyone knows how amazing he was,” he murmured, his voice thickening with emotion. He looked down at your joined hands, playing with your fingers. “He’s a hero.”

You squeezed his hand, prompting him to look up at you. “So are you, George," you said, inflecting as much sincerity as you could into your voice. "Y’know, I was there that day, when you and Fred left Hogwarts?”

His eyes widened. “You were?”

You nodded. “I was two years under you, we wouldn’t have crossed paths,” you said, trying to assuage the needless guilt that crossed his face. “But I’ll never forget that moment, watching you guys reclaim the magic that makes Hogwarts, well, Hogwarts. You inspired all of us left behind.”

He gave you a sad smile, his eyes shiny with unshed tears, and brought your knuckles to his lips, brushing a kiss across them. “Thank you for telling me that,” he whispered. “You didn’t get burned, did you?” He asked, worry suddenly creasing his brow.

You giggled. “No, no. No one was hurt besides Umbridge's ego.”

He exhaled, flashing a relieved smile. “Okay, good. Because that would have been a terrible first impression.” He opened the door to the ice cream shop, gesturing for you to step inside.

“My first impression was when you turned Ms. Norris purple during the Halloween feast,” you said, stepping past him and into line, the smell of waffle cones and caramel wafting over you.

George barked a laugh, his head falling back with the force of it, and you smiled. “Better, I suppose.”

“It’s not like I made a great first impression on you, weeping like a sap as soon as I stepped into your store,” you joked, too busy gazing up at his smiling face to notice the line move forward without you.

He shook his head, still chuckling. “No, it was a perfect first impression.”

You ordered your bowls of ice cream, Peppermint Marshmallow Mayhem for George and Gingerbread Dreams for you, and sat at a corner booth by the window, talking about nothing in particular for awhile while you ate.

“So, how’s your brother doing today? You mentioned he had some imaging this afternoon?” George asked, genuine concern creasing his brow.

“He’s doing well, actually. No pneumonia, by Godric’s grace, and his fever broke this afternoon. Still not sure what caused it, but hopefully nothing of concern,” you answered, you heart lifting at his relieved smile.

“Good, I’m really glad to hear that. Now, let me try your ice cream.” He waggled his spoon and you laughed, sliding it towards him. He took the tiniest spoonful, flipping it over to lick it off, and your cheeks warmed at the way his tongue caressed the curve of the spoon.

You knew you were caught when he smirked around the utensil, but he let it slide.

“Here, try mine.” He dug a spoonful out of his bowl, holding it out for you to take a bite with a borderline sinful look in his eye.

“George Weasley,” you teased, shaking your head. “You are such a flirt.”

“Can you blame me? I’m sitting across from my dream woman,” he replied, grinning.

Now your cheeks were really warming, and you leaned forward to take a small bite off the edge of his spoon. Sugary peppermint and creamy marshmallow coated your tongue, and you moaned.

“Good?” he asked, raising a brow.

“Delicious,” you giggled, watching as he ate the rest of the spoonful, and wondered how it would taste on his tongue.

After ice cream, you continued wandering around Diagon Alley, peeking in all the shop windows and sipping warm butter beer, until your noses were pink from the chill, your hair full of glittering snow.

You stopped outside of his shop, the sign flipped to ‘closed’ and only a few lights on inside along with the exterior holiday decor, presumably left on for George.

“I have a confession to make,” he said, stepping a little closer to you.

Your heart pounded in your chest, a thrill of excitement pulsing through you. “What?” You asked, picking invisible lint of his lapel just to have something to do with your hands.

“I’ve been wanting to kiss you since I saw you watching the carolers,” he murmured, sliding his glove off and reaching out to cradle your face, his touch gentle, giving you every opportunity to pull away.

You leaned your head into his large palm, gazing up at him, freckled, flushed, and starry-eyed. You’d never seen someone look at you with adoration before, and it made your soul sing.

Instead of saying anything, you rose onto your toes and pressed your lips to his, a quick, airy peck. But when you went to move back, his hand held you in place, lips just barely touching.

“Again,” he breathed, his other hand coming around to rest on your lower back. “Please?”

You gave the tiniest nod, feeling like your heart might burst out of your chest, and his lips connected with yours again in a slow, languid kiss, the taste of ice cream and butter beer and him making your head go a little fuzzy, your right foot popping up behind you as you leaned into his embrace.

His tongue caressed the seam of your mouth, but he didn’t push further, just a small tease before winding the kiss down until it ended the way it started, with a few barely-there pecks in reluctant departure.

You sighed against him, lowering back onto flat feet, and he smiled, drawing you into his chest for hug. You slipped you arms under his coat, feeling the softness of his sweater and the warmth of his body envelop you.

“Thank you for this,” you murmured. “I really, really needed it.”

He pressed a kiss to the top of your head, his arms tight around your body. “So did I. Can we do it again tomorrow? Breakfast? Sunrise picnic?”

You chuckled, tilting your chin up to rest on his sternum. “Breakfast sounds great.”

George beamed, dropping a warm kiss to the frozen tip of your nose. “I’ll pick you up at nine?”

“It’s a date.” You stole one last kiss before slipping away, practically skipping.

You and George saw each other every day for the next week, whether it was to wander around Diagon Alley, looking at the lights and festivities, or grabbing a quick cup of tea between busy shifts. Neither of you could stand being apart for more than a few hours at a time.

Tonight, George invited you to his flat for dinner and muggle Christmas films, and you were dressed in the ugliest Christmas sweater you could find. With a timid hand, you knocked on his door.

It opened under you fist, revealing George on the other side, wearing a maroon sweater with a giant ‘G’ on the front of it and a sauce splattered apron.

“Hey, love.” He tugged you inside, pressing an eager kiss to your lips before ushering you down the hall, his deft fingers unraveling your scarf from your neck and peeling the coat from your shoulders. You laughed at his haste, spinning and hopping as he removed your boots. He stopped only when he finally saw your sweater. “Oh, darling. You look ravishing.” His hands fell to your waist and he pulled you into his chest, a mischievous grin on his face. “Very fashion forward.”

“Thank you, baby,” you giggled, wrapping your arms around his neck. You hadn’t called him that before, but it just rolled right off your tongue, natural as breathing.

He loosed a pleased hum, leaning forward to capture your lips in another, slower kiss. “Like hearin’ you call me baby,” he mumbled against your mouth.

The oven beeped loudly, startling you both.

“Hungry?” He asked with a shy smile.

“Starved.”

He showed you to the dining room, a round table with a vase of flowers at the center, candles strewn on every surface. He pulled a chair out for you and you sat, accepting a kiss on the cheek before he dashed back into the kitchen.

You looked around, having been too caught up in his frantic greeting to take in the space. The rest of the flat was sparsely decorated, purely functional, besides a sagging bookshelf in the living room, and a few photos along the hallway. Not a Christmas decoration was in sight.

George returned with two glasses of wine, the bottle tucked under his arm. “Here we go, a little Pinot Noir for my gorgeous girl.” He set the glasses down then finally sat down in his chair.

“Thank you, baby,” you teased, and he smirked, withdrawing his wand from his apron and waving it towards the kitchen. A moment later, a giant bowl full of pasta, a basket of bread, a salad bowl, and two plates came hovering out of the kitchen, arranging themselves neatly on the table.

“Bon appetite.” He raised his wine glass, a shy little smile on his face, and you raised yours to cheers, so charmed you could cry.

Two hours later, you were curled up on George’s couch, half enjoying Home Alone, half enjoying the feel of each other’s skin under your sweaters, the rich taste of wine on each other’s tongues.

“How come you haven't decorated for Christmas?” You mumbled between languid pecks, his soft lips moving to trail over your jaw.

“Didn't much feel like celebrating this year,” he replied, kissing down your neck, his tongue tracing your pulse.

“And yet here we are, watching corny holiday films,” you chuckled and felt him smile against your neck.

“Things changed.” He lifted his head, capturing your lips in a heavy, open-mouthed kiss that made your blood warm, your heart beat a little quicker in your chest.

Suddenly, something slammed against the window, a frantic scrabbling against glass that had George springing up like something electrocuted him.

“Errol?” George moved toward the window. “No, what the fuck—”

“Oh my god, what are you doing here?!” You cried, jumping up and throwing open the window. Your family owl flew in, landing on the back of the couch. Fear pumped through you and you snatched the letter from his beak, rougher than the poor bird deserved in your panic.

“What is it?” George rested his hands on your hips as you tore it open.

The words on the card made your heart stop.

Mungo’s now, Mum

“George,” you whimpered, sagging against him as terror rocked through you.

He took the letter from your hand and skimmed it. “Go get your coat on, I’ll take you.”

“I—” You were frozen, darkness pulsing at the edges of your vision.

His hands came up to hold your face, shaking you gently. “Honey, we have to go. I’m going to be right here with you, okay? We’re going together. But we have to move now.”

You nodded, clawing through the sludge of fear and clinging to the thread of stability he offered. He helped you into your coat and shooed the owl out, not even bothering to lock up before he was ushering you into his chest.

“Hold onto me,” he ordered, and you did, and suddenly the world was sucked away, a dizzying, horrible tornado of space, and then it spit you back out on the front steps of St. Mungo’s.

“Holy shit,” you gagged, clutching onto George and he held you upright.

“Sorry, love. Never apparated before?” He asked, rubbing your back.

You shook your head.

“Y/n!”

George stiffened, his hands tightening on you, and you looked up.

“Mum!” You cried, rushing to her.

“Oh, hun. I’m sorry to frighten you, he’s okay. Just a scare. I’m so sorry, darling,” she cried, clinging to you.

“Sh, no, it’s alright. I should be here,” you soothed, squeezing your eyes shut to stop the tears from falling. “What happened?”

“He couldn’t breathe, his lungs—pneumonia again,” your mom hiccuped, wiping at her cheeks. “Who’s that?” She asked, looking over your shoulder.

George was were you had left him, hands stuffed in his pockets, his eyes bouncing from you and your mom to the strangers mingling on the sidewalk. You could tell his hackles were raised, some protective instinct roused when he’d been startled by the owl.

You waved him over. “Mum, this is George Weasley. George, this is my mum.”

“Pleasure to meet you,” George said, offering her a hand and a shy smile.

She clutched his hand hard and you both winced. “I-you-Weasley—The George Weasley?” She gasped.

“Just George is fine,” he said with a nervous chuckle.

“Oh my, I just can't believe—”

“Mum, can we go see him now?” You interrupted, anxious to see that he was well yourself. “I promise you'll have a proper introduction later.”

“Yes, of course. This way.” She released George and grabbed your hand, pulling you towards the hospital.

George hesitated, until you reached your hand out to him. He immediately threaded your fingers together, falling into step with your frantic mother.

A few moments later, you rushed into your brother's room, finding him upright and smiling, some new tubes in his little nose, but all together looking well.

“Mum, I said to leave her alone!” He argued, crossing his arms over his reindeer pj's.

“Hush you,” you scolded lightly, wrapping him up in a hug and kissing his forehead, noting his lingering fever. “How are you feeling, darling?” You asked, pulling back to hold his face.

“M'okay. They let me have some ice lollies earlier!” He chirped, sticking out his neon blue tongue.

You grinned. “I see, that's excellent.”

He opened his mouth to say something else, but then you saw his eyes widen, mouth falling open in shock. You turned to see what he was looking at and realized it was George, who was loitering in the doorway.

“Is that—” your brother started, and George looked up. “Wizard—Wizard Wheezes!”

George’s solemn expression shattered into a wide smile as he stepped into the room, his energy shifting instantly. “Hello, mate! I’m George. Heard your not feeling so good?” George reached out to shake his little hand, and he took it, his fingers dwarfed by George's palm.

“No, no. I'm fine!” Your brother replied, shock melting into excitement. “What are you doing here?”

George glanced down at you. “Your sister has been telling me all about you, and how strong you've been lately,” he said, crouching down beside the bed. “She loves you a lot, y’know?”

You stepped out of the way, tears starting to burn behind your eyes. Your mother slipped her hand into yours, watching the interaction with a hand pressed to her mouth.

“I know, but she worries too much,” your brother answered, and George burst out laughing.

“That's what happens when you love someone,” George replied, smiling. “You want to protect them from anything that might hurt them, even if you know you can't.”

“I’m big like you, I don't need protecting!” He argued.

George nodded, pressing a hand to his chest apologetically. “I can tell. But that doesn't mean they don't want to try anyways. And big guys like us have to protect them in return, yeah?”

Your brother nodded, puffing up his chest. “I'll never let anything happen to my sister. I promise!”

You blew him a kiss, and George gave him a high five.

“That's my buddy. Now, let's see if I've got anything special for heroes like you.” George fished around in his pocket, making dramatic faces while he rummaged in what you thought was an empty pocket.

But then he withdrew what appeared to be a toy airplane that would in no way, shape, or form fit in that pocket without magic. Your brothers face lit up when George threw it in the air and it started to fly, ducking and whizzing around the room.

“Hm, that wasn't what I was looking for,” George said with a dramatic frown, and you giggled. He glanced over his shoulder at you, breaking his frown to smirk at your reaction, and started fishing around in his pockets again.

He pulled out a bouncing ball, then a rubber chicken, a set of chattering teeth, a stuffed teddy bear. Item after item came out of his pockets until your brothers bed was covered in toys and gag items, and a dozen nurses were watching in amazement from the hallway. You and your mom were fighting through silent tears, your heart so big you felt it might explode out of your chest.

Most importantly, your brother was ecstatic, playing with this and that and chattering away at George about the different products and teaching him how to do magic tricks George himself had invented.

But half an hour later, your brother’s nurse came in to administer some of his medication and get him ready for bed. He tried to protest, but his new best friend, George, managed to talk him into not only compliance, but eager acceptance of his medicine.

You stole George away into the now quiet hall, Christmas lights illuminating the dark corridor, and threw your arms around his shoulders, burying your face into his neck, needing to feel him close, to ground you through the onslaught of emotions.

He wrapped his arms around you, his head turning to kiss your temple. “Need some air?” He murmured, and you shook your head no.

“Just need you,” you whispered, holding him tighter.

He let you cry into his shoulder, rubbing soothing circles onto your back and murmuring reassurances into your hair. When you'd exhausted yourself, you pulled back and he reached up to hold your face, wiping your tears with his thumbs.

“Thank you for doing that,” you sniffled, sliding your hands down his chest, his sweater soft beneath your palms.

“It was my pleasure, love,” he replied, looking you in the eye. “You—him—this, I needed this. Needed you,” he breathed, voice tightening. “I forgot why we did it all, what all the sacrifices were for, and you reminded me. He reminded me.”

You rose on your toes to press a kiss to his lips, not knowing how else to express how you were feeling that wasn't, well, insanely soon.

He kissed you back, passionate enough to steal your breath, but released you when the door to your brother's room opened.

“Darling—oh, I'm sorry. Darling, would you like to come get a cup of coffee with me?” Your mother asked, clearly fighting a grin at discovering you.

“Sure, mum,” you exhaled, reluctantly stepping away from George. “You okay for a minute?”

“Absolutely, I'll keep an eye on him.” He pressed a kiss to your knuckles before releasing you to your mother, a soft smile on his face.

When you returned twenty minutes later, you found George stretched out in the arm chair pulled up right next to your brother’s bed, Rudolph on the television.

“—Fred managed to get the deer into the kitchen with some carrots and loaf of banana bread, and kept him distracted while I tied bells and ornaments—mom’s favorite’s, of course—to it’s antlers.”

Your brother was giggling, curled up with the stuffed bear George conjured earlier, his eyes heavy as he fought to stay awake to hear the story.

“But then we ran out of banana bread and Fred tried to give it some cookies, but by then the deer had discovered the Christmas tree in the corner, with the popcorn strings and cranberries and salt dough ornaments, y’know? So the deer started eating the bloody Christmas tree and we cannot get it out of the house now. It’s found the best sodding snack on earth. So by the time my mom get’s home, half the tree is gone, there’s shi—dirt all over the house, dishes are broken, holes in the walls—”

“What did she do?” Your mom asked, laughing. “I would have sent you out to live with the deer and it’s family.”

George grinned. “We ate nothing but carrots and banana bread for a week. Even for Christmas dinner. It was torture,” he chuckled, turning back to your brother, only to find him sound asleep. “That boring, huh?” He joked, rising from the chair so your mom could take it. But instead, she pulled him in for a hug, surprising him.

“Thank you for doing this, and I’m so sorry about your brother. But I know he’d be so proud of you today,” she murmured, and you saw George’s eyes well, his jaw flexing as he tried to fight it. Your mom pulled back, pressing a kiss to his cheek, then smoothing away her lipstick with her thumb. “You’re a wonderful, wonderful man, George Weasley. And I’m so glad you’re here.”

He nodded, a tear streaking down his face. “Thank you, ma’am. That’s very k-kind.”

Your mother passed him to you, his hand gripping your tightly as he fought to keep his composure. “Goodnight, mum. I’ll see you in the morning?”

Your mother nodded, waving you away while she kissed your brothers cheek.

You led George out of the room and down the hall, finding an empty room to slip into. As soon as the door closed behind you, he sank to his knees, great, heaving sobs wracking his body. You lowered yourself to the ground with him, pulling his head into your shoulder and rocking him back and forth, his tears soaking through your sweater and shaking your whole body.

“I miss him,” George gasped like he was in pain, his grip almost bruising around your body.

“I know, baby. I know you do,” you said into his hair, holding his head against your chest. Your own tears began to spill then, for him, for you, for your family, and his, and you clung to one another as the overwhelming grief took it’s pound of flesh.

Slowly, he began to settle, breathing labored, but his tears subsiding. He lifted his head, looking at you through tear-brightened eyes, his lashes dark and spiked with moisture. You leaned forward, kissing away the droplets on his cheeks and jaw, until you felt him start to smile.

“I-it’s been so long since I—” he cleared his throat, reaching up to cup your face, wiping away your tears with his thumb. “I was numb for awhile, so long I sort of forgot what anything else felt like. I meant what I said earlier, you reminded me of what I’d lost, but in the best way.” Tears welled up again, but he smiled through them. “He would have been so fucking jealous that I got you. But Merlin, he would have loved you so much.”

You huffed a laugh, lower lip trembling as your heart soared. “George,” was all you could manage, and he leaned forward to kiss you, rising onto his knees and pulling into into his chest.

Then, that wild spinning sensation enveloped you again, and in a blink you were back on his couch, exactly as you were before, the credits to the movie rolling on the screen, your glasses of wine exactly where you left them.

“Stay with me tonight,” he asked, trailing kisses down your neck as you reoriented yourself. “Tomorrow’s Christmas Eve, we could spend it together.” He lifted his head to look you in the eyes, and you nodded eagerly.

“Yeah,” you said, laughing as he rained kisses over your face. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Thank you so much for reading!

I hope you have the most wonderful holiday season and start of the new year <3