bludyl

[bludyl]

All of these writers I keep finding make me want to write soo bad but tumbler is beyond discouraging. Not to mention how this is my first trash word vomit I haven’t deleted in three years. Yippee

[bludyl]

How did you make me enjoy angst ⁉️

I love your work!!! Can you do Daredevil!Reader x any Mark of your choosing 🙏 Feel free to ignore if it's not your thing

BLIND FAITH

pairing mohawk! mark grayson x (daredevil) gender neutral reader

you saw the man behind the monster. now the monster sees you everywhere—in the curve of a stranger's smile, in the defiance of his latest conquest. none of them are you. none of them ever will be. but he'll keep searching, keep destroying, because hope is the cruelest thing left inside him.

taglist @hhoneylemon , @queermaeda , @yujensstuff , @thebatsgreatestfailure , @roryroro , @cynvia

mark wasn’t always like this—wasn’t always chaos wrapped in leather and a smirk. once, he was just a kid wearing a seance dog hoodie and a nervous laugh, the kind who tripped over his own feet and blushed when girls talked to him. but then the powers hit at twelve, and everything twisted. his mom stopped looking at him like he was hers—just stared through him, like he was already something broken. his father’s training sessions stopped feeling like lessons and started feeling like punishments, fists and words landing just as hard. "viltrumites don’t hesitate." "weakness is a choice." and mark, exhausted and aching, started to believe him.

then came the betrayal. the blood. the guardians of the globe reduced to pulp, and mark—stupid, hopeful mark—thinking he could stop his own father. he nearly died trying. and for what? his mom didn’t hug him after. didn’t even look at him unless it was over the rim of a wine glass, her eyes hollow, like he was the one who’d ruined everything. so fine. if that’s what she saw, that’s what he’d be.

the piercings came first. then the mohawk, the sneer, the way he leaned into fights like they were the only thing that made sense. as invincible, he stopped pulling punches. let the villains choke on their own teeth. let the blood splatter. it was easier than caring.

then.

you showed up.

the first time he saw you—no, not saw, because you didn’t do that, did you?—you were standing at the front of the classroom, shoulders straight like you weren’t fazed by the whispers. "new student. blind. orphan." mark slouched lower in his seat, shoes propped on the desk, watching (because he could watch, and you couldn’t, and wasn’t that a joke?) as the teacher fumbled through introductions. you didn’t turn your head toward him, didn’t react to the way his fingers drummed impatiently against the desk, the way his smirk dared anyone to comment.

mark told himself he didn’t care.

(he was lying.)

because the truth was, he cared too much—about the way his mom’s hands shook when she poured another drink, about the way his teachers sighed like he was a lost cause, about the way the whole damn world had decided he was just something broken to be thrown away. he wasn’t stupid. he knew what they saw: a violent, unhinged kid playing at being a villain, all sharp edges and sharper teeth. fine. let them think that. it was easier than admitting how much it ached to be treated like a warning sign instead of a person.

and then there was you.

you didn’t look at him—not really. your gaze was unfocused, distant, but somehow more than anyone else’s. like you didn’t need eyes to peel him apart. when you sat near him, you didn’t flinch at the way his fingers drummed restless against the desk, didn’t tense when he scoffed at the teacher’s latest lecture about his attendance. you just… listened. like you were hearing the things he never said out loud.

it pissed him off.

because if you could see him—really see him—then what did that mean? that the anger, the recklessness, the cruelty wasn’t as convincing as he needed it to be? that you knew the truth—that under all the blood and bravado, he was still just some stupid kid who wanted his mom to look at him like he mattered?

and that was the most terrifying thing of all.

"you're gonna get expelled," you say one day, voice quiet but firm like it's a fact, not a warning. it's the third time this week you've ended up next to him—not by choice, but because every other seat in every class you share stays stubbornly empty. no one wants to risk sitting near mark grayson, not when a wrong glance might earn them broken fingers or a split lip. but you? you just slide into the empty chair like it means nothing, like the danger everyone else sees in him is just background noise.

the words land differently coming from you—no pity, no judgment, just that infuriating certainty like you already know how this ends. like you've mapped out every self-destructive choice he'll make before he even makes them.

mark snorts, kicking his feet up onto the desk between you, scuffing the surface with deliberate disrespect. "like i give a shit." he waits for the flinch, the nervous swallow, the way everyone else backs off when he gets like this. it never comes. instead, he catches the faintest twitch of your lips—not quite a smile, more like you're filing away another piece of him for later.

you just tilt your head, just slightly, like you're listening to something beneath his words. to the way his pulse jumps when you don't react like you're supposed to. "you should." simple. final. like you've already seen through the performance and found it lacking. like you know the angry, bleeding thing underneath better than he does.

he doesn't know why that pisses him off so much. maybe because you say it like you actually believe he's better than this. maybe because you're the only one stupid enough to still try, even after watching him break three noses this semester alone. or maybe it's because you keep showing up, day after day, taking that empty seat like some kind of fucked-up dare, like you're the only person in this whole goddamn school who isn't afraid of him.

it's not like he wants to care about you. but you're different in all the worst ways—standing your ground when he gets in your face, not even blinking when he curls his hands into fists. you don't cower. don't run. don't give him the satisfaction of watching you break like everyone else. you just exist, stubborn and unshakable, a constant itch he can't scratch away. a thorn lodged deep in his side that hurts more when he tries to pull it out.

and the worst part? you do it all without even looking at him. like he's not worth the effort of meeting his eyes, like you already know exactly what you'd see—the anger, the hurt, the stupid, desperate hope that maybe, just maybe, you'll be the one person who doesn't walk away.

(and isn't that pathetic? how badly he wants you to look at him, to see him and see if you'd still stay, just once, even though he knows you can't. even though he'd never admit it. even though he shoves the thought away every time it surfaces, disgusted with himself for caring.)

it claws at him sometimes, late at night when he's staring at his ceiling, replaying the way you tilt your head when he speaks—like you're hearing things no one else bothers to listen for. his mother used to look at him like that, back before the powers, before his father's betrayal turned her eyes glassy and distant. now when he tries to talk to her, she just stares through him, her mouth tight with something that isn't quite disappointment but isn't not that either.

(and then, stupidly, your face flickers in his mind. the way you never look away, even when you technically can't look at all.)

he hates it. hates how you see him clearer than his own mother ever did, with all her sight intact. hates how you stay planted in that seat next to him like some kind of fucked-up guardian angel, blind as a bat and twice as stubborn. most of all, he hates that he notices—that he remembers the exact angle of your shoulders when you're listening, the way your fingers tap patterns on the desk when you're thinking. like some part of him is keeping track, like it matters.

(and it shouldn't. it doesn't. except when it does, and that's the real problem.)

he finds out you're daredevil the way mark grayson learns most things—through blood and bad decisions. he's curled against a dumpster in some piss-stained alley, ribs cracked like eggshells, vision tunneling to black. the coppery taste of defeat sits heavy on his tongue when suddenly—there you are. no dramatic entrance, no cape fluttering in the wind. just the quiet scuff of boots on concrete and then your hands, firm and unshaking, pressing into the worst of the bleeding.

"you're an idiot," you mutter, voice all gravel and exasperation. your fingers work with clinical precision despite the chaos, tying off a makeshift tourniquet from what feels like your own sleeve.

"the hell are you doing here?" he slurs, words thick with blood and disbelief. the question comes out weaker than he'd like—no snarl left in it, just raw confusion.

"saving your life," you answer, simple as stating the weather. like this isn't the first time you've patched up some reckless hero in a dark alley. like he's worth the trouble.

mark's breath hitches (from the pain, obviously) because here's the thing—you shouldn't be able to do this. shouldn't be able to find pulse points in the dark or stitch wounds without seeing them. shouldn't be kneeling in filth for someone who treats you like shit during daylight hours. yet here you are, moving with that eerie certainty that always pissed him off in class.

things change after that. not all at once, not in ways anyone else would notice. he still leaves teeth on the pavement when he brawls, still smirks when bones crack under his fists. but sometimes—when some two-bit mugger is wheezing on the ground, when his knuckles hover inches from finishing the job—he hesitates. just for a second. just long enough to hear your voice in his head asking "was that really necessary?" in that tone that's not quite judgment but not not judgment either.

(he hates it. hates how you crawl under his skin without even trying. hates how your stupid moral compass lives in his head now, next to all the viltrumite crap his father drilled into him. most of all, he hates that part of him is starting to listen.)

you train together in abandoned warehouses where the air smells like rust and old sweat. you're fast—stupidly, infuriatingly fast for someone with no powers, all coiled muscle and calculated strikes. the first time you sweep his legs out from under him, he hits the concrete so hard his teeth rattle. for a second he just stares at the water-stained ceiling, breathless, before bursting into laughter.

"not bad, angel," he grins, rolling onto his side to smirk up at you.

you freeze mid-taunt, nose scrunching in that way he's come to recognize means you're processing. "shut up. and really? angel?"

"yeah, angel," he pushes up on one elbow, gesturing vaguely at his own battered body. "saved my dumb ass, didn't you? halo and wings and all that shit." the irony sits heavy between you—this lethal, bloodstained vigilante being called something so soft.

"you're an idiot," you say, but there's no heat in it. you extend a hand to help him up, callouses rough against his palm. "devil's more accurate."

he doesn't let go of your hand right away. "nah. devil wouldn't patch up my wounds after i do something stupid."

"i'm reconsidering that policy," you deadpan, but your mouth twitches. it's the closest you get to smiling at his jokes.

(for a moment, just a moment, he forgets about the blood on his hands, the weight of his father's legacy. there's just this—the two of you in your fucked-up little bubble where he almost feels like someone worth saving.)

his father comes back like a thunderclap, like the world ending in slow motion.

one second mark's standing there, heart jackhammering against his ribs, fists clenched so tight his nails draw blood. the next - agony. white-hot and all-consuming as omni-man's fist lands on his chest. he chokes on copper, vision graying at the edges, and thinks distantly that this is such a stupid way to die.

he doesn't even see you move.

but he hears it—the sickening crack of your ribs giving way, the wet gasp as his father's fist emerges from your stomach instead of his. your blood rains down hot on his face, mixing with his own.

"no—" he tries to scream, but it comes out a broken whisper. your knees hit the concrete, but your hands—your stupid, stubborn hands—are still gripping omni-man's wrist like you can somehow stop the inevitable.

(and mark realizes, with horrifying clarity, that you knew. you knew you couldn't win. you did it anyway.)

"no—!" mark chokes out again, voice cracking like dry bone, but it's too late. your blood is already pooling hot between his fingers, sticky and wrong, so much of it—too much.

you slump forward, lips parted around a final breath, blood smearing dark across your chin. and for the first time in years, mark feels something other than rage.

(it's fear. it's grief. it's loss—so vast it swallows him whole.)

your fingers twitch against his, weak but still clinging, still fighting even now. "...dumbass," you murmur, so soft he almost misses it. and then you're gone.

mark kills his father that day.

not for revenge. not for justice.

but because you believed he could be better.

(except he doesn't.)

because what's the point now? you were the only one who ever looked at him and saw something worth saving. his mother never did—just stared at him with those hollow, liquor-glazed eyes, flinching when he got too close. and now, every time she looks at him with that same disappointed, haunted look, all he sees is you. your face flickering behind his eyelids, your voice in his head asking "was that necessary?" until it drives him mad.

so he kills her too. not quietly. not mercifully. he does it with his hands, with her favorite bottle shattered across the floor, with her throat crushed between his fingers. he wants her to hurt. wants her to finally see him, really see him, before the light leaves her eyes.

(but she never does. and it's not enough. nothing ever is.)

earth falls next. it's easy, really. too easy. without you there to tilt your head in that particular way—chin dipped just slightly, like you're listening to the guilt he never voices—there's nothing holding him back. no quiet "mark." that always hit like a punch to the ribs. no careful fingers stitching his wounds while you mutter about his recklessness. just silence. endless, suffocating silence.

so he carves his way through cities like they're made of paper. through heroes who scream about justice and second chances—words that taste like ash now. through anyone stupid enough to stand in his way, their bones snapping like dry twigs under his hands. he paints the streets red and thinks, you'd hate this. thinks it with every shattered skyscraper, every pleading sob cut short.

(he does it anyway.)

because maybe—just maybe—if he makes enough noise, if he burns bright enough, you'll come back. you'll storm out of the shadows like you always did, all sharp tongue and sharper elbows, and knock some sense into him. you'll grab him by the collar, blood on your teeth from where he made you bite your tongue, and snarl "what the hell is wrong with you?" like you used to when he crossed lines.

(he'd let you. god, he'd let you break every bone in his body if it meant hearing your voice again.)

but the streets stay quiet. the blood keeps drying. and with every city that falls, the hope curdles into something uglier, something desperate. so he burns brighter. kills louder. waits for the day his destruction is finally enough to drag you back from whatever hell he sent you to.

(it never is. he never stops.)

and when he's done, when the planet bows beneath his boots, he starts collecting.

they never last long—these replacements with their audacity to look similar to you, with their sharp tongues and hollow imitations of your stubbornness. some fight him. some pretend to care. none of them see him the way you did. he discards them like broken toys when the illusion wears thin, but he always finds another. and another. and another.

(he knows it's pathetic. knows you'd hate it. but he can't stop.)

now, he stands among a sea of other marks—some bloodied, some grinning, all just as broken as he is. dimensions stretch endlessly around them, infinite worlds where maybe, maybe, you're still alive.

his fingers curl into fists.

this time, he won't let you die.

this time, he'll drag you back with him—kicking and screaming if he has to. he'll keep you safe. keep you his.

(and if you look at him with horror instead of warmth? if you flinch away instead of standing your ground? well. he'll just try again. and again. and again.)

oh look. another angst one-shot. surprise surprise. at this point, y'all should know what you're signing up for when you request something from me—i will find a way to make it hurt, even if you ask for fluff. (seriously though, if you want tooth-rotting sweetness, you gotta SPECIFY. i'm physically incapable of not turning things tragic.) but can you blame me? mohawk mark just SCREAMS tragic backstory and messy emotions. the second i got to pick any mark variant for this, my brain went STRAIGHT to him. it's nostalgic too—pretty sure he was the first invincible variant i ever wrote when i started this blog forever ago. anyway, hope you enjoyed(?) this 2.8k word emotional gut punch.

[bludyl]

I haven’t read the Invincible comics yet, but ever since I saw that part of Mohawk Mark on his throne, it did something to my brain 😵‍💫🔥🔥👀 with that, can I request Mohawk Mark x sub!male reader, fucking on his throne?🤭

Stay Seated

Note: I enjoyed writing this way more than I should have. I genuinely started tweaking when I ran out of ideas.

Synopsis: Mohawk Mark Grayson has conquered entire timelines — and from each one, he’s stolen a version of you. But only one of you holds his full, terrifying attention. In a throne room soaked with power, sweat, and jealousy, Mark breaks you open with his cock and his obsession, proving that in every universe, you are his favorite meal.

Warnings: Smut, Variants of Reader, Cockwarming, Overstimulation, Dom!Mohawk mark, Sub!Male Reader, Dirty Talk, Degradation, Praise, Posessiveness, Cumplay, Voyeurism, Orgy Teasing, Mild Humiliation, Power Imbalance, Breathplay, Brief Violence (NOT TOWARDS YOU BOOKIE), Creative Liberities Taken, Emotionally Obsessive Behaviors (he's lowkey in love with that cookie).

Invincible!Mohawk Mark x Male!Reader

WC: 2k

There’s twenty-five of you, technically. Twenty-five variants of you, scattered across the multiverse — same face, same voice, different trauma responses. Some cry when Mark chokes them. Others beg. One of them calls him “Master” without being told to, and he hates that one the most.

But you?

You don't crawl, you grin at him from your knees. You talk back. You bite when he tells you to open. That’s why you're the only one allowed to sit on his throne when he's not using it, the only one he pulls into his lap mid-meeting, while his generals pretend not to notice the slow grind of his hips behind your back.

Right now, he’s lounging, one leg thrown over the armrest, fingers dragging lazily along the seam of his costume's bottoms, watching the lesser versions of you try to charm him like desperate strays. His Mohawk’s still dripping from battle. There’s blood dried in the crease of his jaw. He hasn’t looked at you once, but you know he’s waiting for you to snap.

And when you do, when you push the others aside and strut barefoot across the obsidian floor like you own it, Mark’s mouth curls slow and cruel. “Finally. Took you long enough.” His voice rings out, skin practically taut with excitement. The throne room smells like ozone, iron, and sweat. The others are still lingering, some pressed to the obsidian pillars like sad little ornaments, others whispering to each other, desperate to be noticed. Mark ignores them, but you don’t.

Your smirk is slow and venomous, eyes flicking their way like you know he’s only seconds from snapping. That’s part of why you lean just a bit too far into his space, arms draped over the back of his throne, your breath ghosting along the edge of his jaw. He doesn't look at you. He looks at them. "Get out."

His voice isn't loud. It doesn't need to be. It rips through the air like a blade nonetheless. "But—" one of them starts, a variant with a softer voice and stars in his eyes. "I said—out. You know how I get when I’m eating. And this one's my fucking favorite." His very delivery and gaze sends him gasping. They vanish, one by one. Out of fear. Out of jealousy. Out of shame. But you're still there, smiling.

"Someone’s cranky," you say. Mark finally turns to you — eyes widening, teeth bared. "Someone’s starving." He grabs you by the back of your neck, rough but reverent, and drags you into his lap like you weigh nothing. Suddenly… you’re flipped.

Not to ride him. No. He bends you forward over the high armrest of the throne—back arched obscenely, chest pinned to the cold metal, legs dangling in the air—and holds you there with one hand braced at the base of your spine. "Look at that," he mutters, yanking your pants down just enough. "Hole’s already twitching. Like it knows who owns it."

You moan—breathless and undignified. Mark chuckles, rutting against your ass once, twice. He teases the head of his cock against you, just enough to make you clench and whine.

“Pathetic,” he hums, but there’s pride in it. “So much better than the rest of you. They beg. You behave.”

He thrusts, without much give as it pops through the ring of muscle.

You scream, half folded over, toes barely touching the floor. The throne groans under the impact, but Mark doesn’t stop. He fucks you like he’s marking his territory, grip locked around your waist like a vice, breath ragged and hot against your back. The stretch is obscene—your hole tight and quivering as Mark pushes in, inch by inch, until your breath catches in your throat and your thighs go numb. You feel every vein on his cock like it’s carved to fuck you specifically, pressure building in your gut like a coil snapping with every cruel grind. There’s no mercy in the way he sets the rhythm —brutal and addictive— each thrust punching the air from your lungs. Slick drips down your thighs, pooling beneath you as your body goes lax, surrendering to the drag and fill, the perfect press of him inside you, again and again and again.

"You feel that?" he growls. "That stretch? That’s your god breaking you open. Gonna keep you like this, pretty and wrecked, where you belong." He adjusts — lifts one leg, props your knee over the throne arm, spreading you wider, deeper. The new angle has you sobbing, stars bursting behind your eyes. You can’t stop the sounds falling from your mouth, open-mouthed moans slurred into nonsense, gasps that turn into high, keening whines every time he hits that devastating spot. You’re flushed all the way down your chest, trembling, vision swimming. Every muscle clenches helplessly, like your body’s trying to milk him dry. Your cock bounces untouched against your stomach, leaking in thick, messy strings, each drop smearing between you as your hips grind back instinctively, chasing more, always more.

Somewhere behind you, you hear a quiet gasp.

One of the variants, a version of you, still watching. You open your mouth to warn Mark—too late. Without even pausing his thrusts, he snaps his fingers. A brutal shockwave slams the man against the far wall.

“Didn’t I say I was eating?” Mark hisses. “If you’re gonna stay, you watch in silence. Or I make you hold his ankles and see how long you last.” You moan at that—and shamelessly so.

“Oh? You like the idea?” Mark laughs. “Of course you do. Fucking whore.” He flips you again—this time upside down across his lap, head dangling over one knee, legs still spread. Gravity makes you drip.

He shoves back in. You choke on a moan, eyes rolling, teeth bared against your wrist. And Mark? He just groans, low but reverent. “Goddamn. You take me so fucking good it should be illegal.”

He doesn’t stop. Even after he spills the first time—hips jerking, buried to the base with your name rasped like a warning—Mark keeps going, fucking you through it, chasing the ruin he lives for. You’re bent half off the throne’s edge now, face wet with drool, eyes glossy, hole fluttering like it’s starved.

His cock drags through you in deep, mean strokes, one hand tangled in your hair, the other smeared across your ass, fingertips spreading slick.

"Fuck," he groans. "Listen to yourself. Sloppy little hole won't even let me go. You gonna keep me locked in all night, baby?"

You try to answer—to say yes or please or anything, but all that comes out is a whimper. You hear the exaggerated mockery of a sound made by him echoing from behind.

"Yeah, that’s what I thought." He bites your shoulder hard enough to make your legs shake. “You like this. Being opened up like a book. Every goddamn page soaked in me.”

Then he pulls out—slow, just to watch it stretch and leak.

But he doesn’t give you a break. Oh no. Mark shifts—scoots forward on the throne seat, spreading his legs wide, cock still glistening, pulls you back into his lap with your wrists pinned behind you, and starts bucking up into you with brutal precision.

You're straddling him now, fully seated, thighs shaking, his hands holding your wrists behind your back so your chest is thrust forward — vulnerable, trembling, owned.

"That's it," he hisses, mouth at your throat. "Ride it. C'mon. Show me how you make my cock disappear. Bounce on it like you need it."

You do. Desperately. The pace turns filthy, wet slaps, sharp thrusts, your breath broken into high, gasping moans as you move in sync, riding him like you were made for it. He pants praises into your neck, fisting his hand in your hair to keep your face tilted toward his.

“Look at you. So fucking perfect. My favorite hole in the multiverse. Every other version of you’s a pale, whining imitation—but you?” He sucks a mark onto your neck. “You were built to worship this cock.” You don’t even know where you end and he begins anymore—not with how deep he is, not with how your body’s locked onto his like gravity. His cum is still hot inside you, mixing with your own slick, your thighs shaking, hole spasming around the overstimulation and begging for more. Every time you try to lift your hips, he pulls you back down, impaling you with a snarl like he’s mad at you for even trying to let him go. You’re not riding him anymore—you’re being kept there, used, adored, ruined like a holy vessel meant only to be filled by him. When you come to, you’re in his lap, knuckles pale as you grip the thrones headrest. He licks sweat from your collarbone, hips stuttering against yours, and laughs into your neck when you sob. “You feel it? That stretch? That’s me rearranging your insides. Gonna pump you so full you drip for hours. Let the whole fucking empire see who this hole belongs to.”

You can feel him twitching inside you again, rhythm getting erratic—and you know he’s close, know it’s about to happen again. But you don’t notice the air shift. You don't hear the footsteps behind you, or the way the temperature dips, or the soft, unsteady breaths returning to the room. You only notice when hands begin to touch you.

One ghosting across your spine. Another dragging lazy circles along your sternum. Fingers thread through your hair from behind. Lips brush your temple, your shoulder, your mouth. Whispered moans and praises—your own voice, different, warmer, sadder, hungrier—fill your ears.

“Can’t stay away from him either, huh?” one voice says, breath hot against your cheek.

Mark stiffens, his eyes narrowing, yet he doesn’t stop you. He doesn’t stop them. He lets it happen and that’s how you know you own him too.

Even when hands are sliding down his chest, nails raking lightly across his thighs, tongues lapping at the sweat on his jaw, even when he’s being worshipped like a king by half a dozen other versions of you, his gaze never leaves yours.

"You feel that?" he whispers, voice raw, eyes locked on your face. "They want me. But I only come for you." And he does. Again.

With a groan so guttural it sounds like a mangled cry, he drags you down, burying himself to the root, and spills inside you with a loud, shaking, and claiming groan that seems to echo, almost pornographic, almost submissive itself.

You clench around him, helpless, ruined, as the other hands caress you both like a sacred offering. Fingers slide down your back—soft, trembling with need. Another pair trace your chest, teasing your nipples until you whimper, twitching in Mark’s lap. A third hand cups your throat with gentle pressure, tilting your head back so lips can press slow kisses along your jaw, your cheek, the corner of your mouth. You barely notice how many touches there are now—hands, mouths, heat and want surrounding you from every side, but none of it breaks the spell between you and Mark. He’s still inside you, buried deep, arms around your waist, gaze locked to yours like he’ll never blink again. “Let them worship,” he murmurs. “But this cock stays yours.”

~~~~ You’re boneless in his lap now, barely breathing right—head lolling against his shoulder, your thighs sticky with slick and sweat, chest rising slow and shallow. Mark’s arms are wrapped around you tight, one hand petting your hair, the other resting possessively across your stomach, thumb brushing idly across the mess he made inside you. He’s not hard anymore—but he’s still deep, cock resting soft and wet inside your twitching hole, refusing to pull out.

“You did so good,” he murmurs into your ear, tone turning sweet in that terrifying way only he can manage. “Took it like you wanted to be ruined in front of them. Like you liked showing off.”

Then, without even looking, he speaks louder, smug and deliberate. “Hope the rest of you had fun. All that moaning, all that tongue, all that desperate fucking effort—” he laughs, slow and mean, “—and guess what?” He tilts your face up, kisses your dazed mouth, and hums.

“Still not you.” He shifts slightly, and you let out a soft, spent whimper—too sensitive to move, too full to care. “This is the part you don’t get,” Mark says, his eyes flicking toward the others sprawled across the floor like discarded toys. “You can touch me. You can even make me come.”

He cups your jaw gently, all too fond of you, and whispers just for you: “But only he makes me stay.” A/N: DID WE EAT? (I was transcended to another reality over this request, thank you, anon.) I’m trying to make my male readers feel more inclusive, TRUST, every man in the universe wants you. 🪄

MasterList ོ༘₊⁺☀︎₊⁺⋆.˚

[bludyl]

Genuinely fire

NINE LIVES, ONE BULLET

pairing: outlaw! gojo saturo x male reader

synopsis: You’re a thief. He's a legend. All you wanted was the artifact — not a partner, not a bounty, and definitely not feelings. But there’s only one bed, one bullet, and maybe one shot at making it out alive. (And gods help you, you’re starting to like him.)

content warnings: 18+, outlaw/thief dynamic, bottom male reader, heavily inspired by puss in boots, Gojo is feral in a silk shirt, slow burn with explosive payoff, community bathhouse smut (fingering, p in a, reader receiving), one bed trope, fake marriage but the feelings are real, suggestive swordplay, magical artifact slowly corrupting the reader (he’s fine. probably), minor blood and injury, mutual possessiveness disguised as banter, major character death, emotional vulnerability in stolen clothes, they save the day but lose some of themselves, Gojo probably steals your boots.

word count: 10.5k 💪🏼

You were two clicks away from glory.

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

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

And then you heard it.

A crunch.

You froze.

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

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

And there he was.

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

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

You stared.

Then blinked.

Then said, flatly, “What the fuck.”

He gestured with the apple. “Hi.”

“Did you follow me?”

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

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

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

"Aww, you do know me."

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

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

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

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

You spun, knives drawn in a blur.

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

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

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

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

Your blade hovered an inch from his throat.

“You’ve got five seconds to leave.”

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

“If it shuts you up, absolutely.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Everyone does.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Not even if you begged.”

“Mmm. I am good at begging, though.”

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

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

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

“Shame. I like it cramped.”

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

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

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

“You planning to follow me out?”

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

“So rob someone else.”

“But you’re so much more fun.”

You stared. He smiled.

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

Let him chase you if he wanted.

You’d cut him off at the knees later.

---

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

If not for the man currently chasing you.

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

Gojo was still behind you.

Gods, how was he still behind you?

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

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

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

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

You hated how good he was at this.

You hated that it was kind of fun.

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

Then silence.

No footsteps. No Gojo.

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

You climbed three stories before you heard it again.

Crunch.

You looked up.

There he was.

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

You stared. “How—”

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

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

He cocked his head. “Are you flirting?”

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

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

“I should stab you,” you muttered.

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

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

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

“Obviously.”

“You cracked it clean.”

“Obviously.”

He grinned. “I’m impressed.”

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

“It does to me.”

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

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

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

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

“Nope.”

“Then why—”

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

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

“You think I’ll use it?”

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

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

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

You didn’t answer.

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

“Hope?”

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

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

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

“No,” Gojo agreed. “You’re angry.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You might change your mind.”

“I won’t.”

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

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

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

---

You smelled blood before you stepped inside.

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

But tonight, something was… off.

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

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

You slipped through the curtain.

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

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

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

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

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

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

The door behind you slammed open.

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

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

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

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

They weren’t just here for blood.

They were here for the artifact.

Shit.

You were outnumbered, boxed in, and—

The window shattered.

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

Gojo.

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

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

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

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

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

You caught it.

And froze.

Your name.

Your face—sketched, but unmistakable.

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

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

You stared. “Five thousand?”

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

“This wasn’t here yesterday.”

“Which means someone talked.”

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

You kicked over his table. He screamed and ducked.

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

“Run,” you snapped. “Fast and far.”

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

“Not if I move fast.”

“Not if you move alone.”

You stopped.

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

“I don’t trust you.”

“That’s mutual.”

You glared. “Then why help me?”

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

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

You paused.

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

You didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

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

Or you could take the risk.

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

Gojo grinned. “Whatever you say, partner.”

“I’m not your partner.”

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

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

“That’s fine. You’ll miss me.”

You didn’t answer.

But you didn’t look back, either.

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

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

---

You hated traveling with other people.

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

With him.

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

You barely grunted in response.

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

He didn’t seem to mind.

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

“You talk too much.”

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

“I’m thinking.”

“About killing me? Or kissing me?”

You didn’t answer.

Gojo laughed. “Ah, so both.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Which was annoying.

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

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

“No, I don’t.”

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

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

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

Gojo shrugged. “Takes one to know one.”

You didn’t reply.

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

You hated it.

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

Your jaw tensed. “You haven’t?”

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

“You say that like it’s an insult.”

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

“No,” he said. “It’s impressive.”

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

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

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

“Not a team.”

He didn’t argue.

Didn’t need to.

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

But first, you needed supplies.

And supplies meant towns.

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

Or so you thought.

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

You didn’t move.

But you saw it.

A new bounty poster.

Your face, again.

And Gojo’s. Right beside it.

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

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

“I thought you said your contacts were clean.”

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

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

“What now?” he asked.

You were already scanning. Thinking. Calculating.

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

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

“Then we won’t walk in as us.”

He blinked. “You’ve got disguises?”

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

Gojo raised a brow. “Oh no.”

“Oh yes.”

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

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

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

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

You gritted your teeth. “Ecstatic.”

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

You grabbed the pen before Gojo could write something stupid.

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

“Done,” you said. “Can we go now?”

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

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

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

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

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

You didn’t respond.

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

“Shut up.”

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

“I was restraining you.”

“Semantics.”

You elbowed him in the ribs. He laughed harder.

And somehow, you weren’t annoyed.

Not really.

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

Maybe.

If he didn’t die first.

---

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

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

But the silence gave it away.

Not natural. Not safe.

You stopped moving.

Gojo stopped too. “What is it?”

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

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

Then the first arrow struck the dirt near your boot.

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

These were bounty killers.

Gojo cursed behind you. “Friendly crowd.”

You gritted your teeth. “They were waiting.”

“For us?”

“For me.”

“God, you’re popular.”

You didn’t dignify that with a reply.

Instead, you moved.

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

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

Until it did.

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

Gojo turned, face shifting from amused to lethal.

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

Then silence.

Not quiet like before. Not suspicious.

Just stillness.

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

You hissed, clutching your arm. “Fuck.”

“Let me see.” Gojo stepped closer.

“I’m fine.”

“You’re bleeding.”

“No shit.”

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

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

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

“I don’t care.”

“I do.”

You froze.

Just for a second.

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

Gojo didn’t answer.

Just tied the bandage tight and stood.

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

“They knew we were coming,” you said.

“Looks like it.”

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

Gojo was quiet.

Then: “Geto.”

You looked up.

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

You swallowed.

“You think he sent them?”

Gojo nodded once. “Yeah.”

You didn’t ask how he knew.

Not yet.

But something in your chest twisted.

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

Gojo didn’t joke. Didn’t chatter.

You didn’t push.

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

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

You didn’t turn. “I’m always good.”

He huffed a laugh. “Yeah. You are.”

Another pause.

Then:

“Thanks for not dying.”

You looked at him then. Really looked.

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

And for once, he wasn’t smiling.

You didn’t know what that meant.

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

He met your gaze.

And this time, he didn’t look away.

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Two,” you said quickly.

She shook her head. “Only one left.”

Of course.

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

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

He just grinned.

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

The silence stretched.

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

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

“No you won’t. You’re still injured.”

“I’ve had worse.”

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

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

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

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

Something wasn’t right.

You turned to Gojo. “Why this village?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

You didn’t have a counter to that.

But you still didn’t like it.

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

Almost.

“You awake?” he asked.

You didn’t answer.

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

Your jaw tightened.

“But I’m not your enemy.”

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

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

“I know.”

Another pause.

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

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

You dreamed that night.

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

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

“You felt it too?” he asked.

You nodded slowly. “Something’s here.”

Gojo’s voice dropped. “Voidseed.”

You stared at him. “How do you know?”

“I’ve felt it before.”

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

You sat up. “How many times?”

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

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

“And you believed him?”

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

You stood too.

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

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

But something.

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

“One bed,” he said casually.

You grunted. “What about it?”

He smirked. “You didn’t stab me.”

You didn’t smile.

But you didn’t deny it either.

---

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

“Stop that,” you muttered.

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

“That noise.”

“I’m creating ambiance. Mood. Vibes.”

“Your vibes are making me homicidal.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then they stepped into the street.

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

But it was their faces that made your stomach sink.

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

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

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

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

You tilted your head. “Whose head?”

Both bounty hunters blinked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Gojo grinned. “I know.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

The flail-wielder screamed in frustration and charged.

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

Silence settled.

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

“Still want that bounty?” you asked.

He wheezed. “You’re… both insane.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

You exhaled hard and kept walking.

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

“You bonded?”

You blinked. “What?”

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

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

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

The woman squinted at you both.

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

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

Gojo winked. “Even better.”

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

---

You woke up to the sound of bells.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You hated him. You hated him.

You were starting to like him.

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

You did smile. A little.

Just not at him.

Not that he noticed.

Or maybe he did. Bastard probably noticed everything.

By midday, you reached the temple.

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

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

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

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

You hated it.

But you worked through it—together.

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

Neither did you.

Not immediately.

At the end of the trial, a vision struck.

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

You stumbled back, dizzy with the weight of it.

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

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

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

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

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

You kept thinking about what you’d seen.

Not just the blood. Not just the loss.

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

Same as you.

The bathhouse was empty when you entered.

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

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

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

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

But his eyes tracked every movement.

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

Neither of you spoke.

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

Gojo broke it first.

“You really trust me this little?”

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

“What is it about, then?���

You hesitated. “I don’t know.”

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

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

“So did you.”

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

You watched him.

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

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

But you moved.

Just a little.

And he moved too.

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

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

You exhaled hard. “You talk too much.”

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

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

You let him.

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

It wasn’t soft.

It wasn’t rough either.

It was real.

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

You just felt wanted.

After, you stayed in the water.

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

You let him.

You didn’t say it. Not out loud.

But you were falling.

And it was already too late to stop.

---

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

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

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

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

Geto already knew the truth.

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

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

But then the Voidseed came into play.

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

Gojo said no.

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

So he stole it.

And ran.

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

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

The building collapsed before they finished that fight.

They haven’t seen each other since.

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

---

You didn’t talk much after that night.

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

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

But it had.

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

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

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

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

That’s when you felt it.

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

You stopped walking.

“Don’t move,” you muttered.

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

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

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

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

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

You didn’t wait for them to strike.

You moved.

It wasn’t clean. Fights never were.

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

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

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

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

“You alright?” he asked.

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

“…Maybe.”

“Why?”

“I wanted you to worry about me.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“You’re in love with me.”

You didn’t answer.

Because it was starting to feel a little bit true.

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

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

You finally broke it.

“Why’d you leave him?”

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

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

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

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

“So you stole it.”

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

You sat there in silence for a long time.

Then you leaned against him, shoulder to shoulder.

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

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

You let his hand find yours in the dark.

Neither of you said anything after that.

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

---

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

The Voidseed.

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

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

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

“Please. I thrive on rejection.”

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

And yet, you were headed straight for it.

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

You exhaled. “Not yet.”

“Close enough.”

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

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

“Yeah.”

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

You rolled your eyes. “Not today.”

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

You almost smiled. Almost.

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

Gojo stood beside you, quiet for once.

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

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

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

“And you don’t?”

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

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

“I want to live. That’s different.”

You looked away.

Because suddenly the Voidseed felt heavier.

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

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

And because you might want the same thing.

---

The air changed the moment you stepped inside.

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

Behind you, Gojo didn’t say a word.

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

Didn’t have to.

You both knew what this place was.

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

It was the place the world came to die.

At the bottom, the space opened wide.

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

You felt the Voidseed in your coat begin to ache.

Gojo stepped forward slowly, gaze moving across the carvings.

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

“You think Geto knows that?”

“I think he doesn’t care.”

He turned, eyes meeting yours.

“You know he’s here, right?”

Your jaw tightened. “How long?”

“Since the last town. Maybe longer.”

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

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

You almost laughed. Almost.

But the temperature dropped again—hard.

The shadows in the corners moved.

And then he stepped out.

No disguise. No mask.

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

He looked like a man who’d already won.

“Hello, boys.”

Gojo didn’t flinch. “You’re late.”

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

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

And smiled.

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

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

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

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

And Geto raised one hand.

The air shattered.

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

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

Geto didn’t press.

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

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

“You could’ve stayed,” Gojo answered.

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

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

Because the real question wasn’t who was right.

It was who you were going to choose.

---

The air cracked.

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

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

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

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

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

Geto didn’t wait.

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

You moved then. No hesitation. No warning.

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

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

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

Geto’s eyes flicked to it.

And then he struck.

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

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

Gojo answered with silence.

And violence.

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

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

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

Gojo didn’t reply.

This wasn’t about philosophy.

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

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

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

And you? You moved toward the center.

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

It was time to decide what to do with it.

Whether to keep running.

Or finally let the whole world burn.

---

The Voidseed was screaming now.

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

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

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

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

On him.

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

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

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

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

You didn’t think.

You threw the Voidseed.

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

Not outward. Not in heat or fire or destruction.

It unfolded.

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

But you… You were still standing.

Because it had chosen you.

You don’t remember grabbing it again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“He’s his own.”

You looked at him.

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

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

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

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

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

The Voidseed flared.

And then—

You turned.

You faced Geto.

And you chose.

---

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

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

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

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

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

The world peeled open.

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

Geto braced himself. Raised his hand.

But he wasn’t fast enough.

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

You spoke his name.

Not out loud.

Not in a language with words.

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

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

Unmade. Quietly.

Not as revenge. Not even as punishment.

Just as balance.

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

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

You dropped it.

It didn’t bounce.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Eventually, he nudged your shoulder.

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

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

And grinned.

“I’ve got a hundred.”

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

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Awards winners should be decided by hand to hand combat between nominees from now on

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miserable little guy

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collecting these like marbles

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THE BATMAN (2022) dir. Matt Reeves

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Battinson and Dick's relationship would definitely be Dick prodding the waiter with a "He asked for no pickles actually" while Bruce laments his burger full of pickles and stares out the window in silent misery.

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i saw batman

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new playlist!!

the sun is shining!! go make the most of it!! ok love you, mwah 💐

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my brother wanted me to paint That Scene from the batman.

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I loved the comradery between Batman and Gordon, felt like the animated series.

I just want Robin in the movies maaaaaaaaan.

A simple sketch turned into me messing around with photoshop brushes

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