ari.

23. they/them. multi fandom.

[pmamtraveller]

Luca Ponsato - Does Anyone See My Suffering

[kirimachi]

Memories of that summer that may have existed

[megapteraurelia]

ON THE MEASURE OF DEVOTION. — part 1.

SUMMARY; — magic has always flown through this world in a cycle; a give and take with one in the middle of it all: the white stag. as the vessel for nature's magic, sakusa kiyoomi's only responsibility is to be sacrificed when the time is right. that time has come and yet, he lives still. as a priestess, it's your responsibility to ensure that the cycle continues, and so it's no surprise to be summoned to court to investigate, but all the surprise to… marry the white stag?

WARNINGS; — f!reader; fantasy realm; loose monster!sakusa; deitified!sakusa; political intrigue; dealings with concept of death; yearning; pre-marital finger touching !!!!; duties before romance

WORD COUNT; — 26,950.

AUTHOR'S NOTE; — to @sodaneko for the secret santa fic exchange that is also hosted by hers truly. for my dearest layli: for not only being one of my biggest muses for my stories but for being such a light in my life, for your patience and your love, your understanding and your humour, your thirst and your comraderie. i am beyond happy to have pulled you for the secret santa fic exchange, because we have a one track mind and despite this fic breaking my brain, it was sooo incredibly fun to brainstorm and write this. thank you for your patience, habibti, i was trying to get it done in time but it didn't work, so forgive my tardiness T_T

also thank you immensely to @tyga-lily and @prettyiwa for allowing me to talk and brainstorm and complain about it, and again also for ix, for suffering through the last days together with me in hopes to finish this heheh.

also, thank you to @hiraethwa for checking on me every now and then!! i appreciate it so :3

now on to the story. enjoy, ya habibti layli. <3

you. — high priestess-in-training.

Silence pressed its weight onto the world.

The forest lay buried beneath a thick blanket of snow, branches bowing underneath its weight as each one shimmered with a thousand crystals in the moonlight. There was no wind to stir them from their throne, and no creature breathed into the air; waiting.

You walked alone amongst those ancient trees.

You didn't know how you had come here, but in dreams, one never did. One appeared and existed, no beginning and no end; the only evidence of it being the absence of frost biting at your feet and cold seeping through your skin. Instead, it seemed like the snowflakes parted to allow a path to open up before you, much like it was able to remember you, like it had read your desires and now willingly lead you towards them.

The deeper you went into this strange forest, the thicker the air became until your breaths were but a puff of crystallised warmth, full of exertion. From behind one of those soft clouds, the image of a white stag flickered between the distant tree line.

Majestic, it stood, and perfectly still. Its coat was luminous, as pale as it was, glowing faintly against the night of the woods. Its antlers—branched out vastly, reminding of a tree's crown—burned with a soft, silver radiance.

From what you could see, there was no layer of snow settling on its back despite the stillness; the flakes melting as soon as they came in contact with its body.

The stag's breath fogged the air slowly, steadily, and then it lifted its head and looked at you.

A weight settled across your shoulders, and there was a strange feeling within your chest; a sense of being called, alluring and summoning, a pull that was unyielding and difficult to ignore. It stepped forward, and forward, and forward, whilst you stood and watched the hooves sink into the snow without so much a crunch of ice.

And when it stopped before you, the stag—the white in its coat bringing the snow to shame—lowered its great head and slowly, deliberately, reverently, it knelt.

you. — high priestess-in-training.

In the early hours when dawn light filtered through the lattice of icy and ancient olive trees and snow lay in soft drifts along the winding paths, you knelt at the altar, palms pressed to the frozen ground.

As you murmured the morning rites to awaken the Veil node, the branches seemed to lean in to watch your fingers trace the intricate sigils into the dirt, drawing life from the land itself, little as there was to be gathered these days.

The Veil was a fickle thing. The elders in your Order had reiterated again and again, warning that it could flourish or falter depending on the heart and mind who wielded it. It wasn't a force to be commanded, but then again—as a living thing, entwined with the land, responding to intent and focus and respect—you didn't expect it to.

And if some of the elders had barely any knowledge despite their many years in service, why then, you too would blame the magic for your failings. But when tended carefully, the node extended its many strands and could coax the lost Veil from the air back to where it belonged.

Or at least, it used to.

Nowadays, it seemed moreso that every invocation tended to become a negotiation, as though the Veil was retreating and protecting the little that it owned. And true to that fear, scarcely any Sisters of the Order were able to successfully build a connection to prove the opposite. In the past few years alone, there had not been many apprentices that passed the initiation ritual, and though it was not entirely their fault, what else was there to do but turn them away when they could find neither rhythm nor purpose within the magic?

You rose from the altar, not bothering to brush the snow from your knees, your body heated by the many layers you were required to wear, and made your way towards the training courtyard where the others were already gathering.

The sanctuary was a small world unto itself: low stone halls crowned by many trees, lanterns glowing orange as they lead the way, the scent of pine and residue smoke of incense lingering in the air. Bells chimed softly from within the main shrine, a signal that the morning meal was ending.

You barely had time to step out of your own drawn ritual circle before a woman your age appeared beside you, cheeks pink from the cold and mouth full of honeyed bread.

"You didn't come to breakfast," Yukie said around the last bite, brushing crumbs off her sleeves, though she failed to remove the ones decorating her cheek still, "again. One day, I swear you're going to wither away into," she paused, "some old scroll."

A snort escaped you, much too unceremonious for what you were just doing. "Some insult you came up with. But not to worry; I think you'll turn into honey-bread first, and what type of friend would I be if I weren't to join you in becoming inanimate objects together?"

"Honey-bread is still better than turning into a living tome," she murmured, mimicking the stiff posture of Elder Chiharu, her nose pointed upwards to the sky. You stifled a laugh, teeth biting into your tongue as a couple of older apprentices walked by, bowing hastily before scurrying off.

These small, stolen pockets of normalcy were what kept you grounded amidst the relentless discipline of the Order. You still remembered the strict punishment that was doled out to you both when you were caught fooling around after supper in your formative years, but Yukie had long since mastered the art of appearing dutiful whilst exerting the least possible effort—a talent you often envied.

Together, you guided lower-ranked apprentices through the weaving of winter charms, teaching them how to bind loose strands of the Veil into a threat without tearing at the magic. You corrected postures and murmured soft encouragements, whilst Yukie perched on a fallen log, offering advice only when someone seemed prone to fatal mistakes—her words.

"If anyone loses a finger," she announced, and you didn't correct her that that was unlikely to happen, "I would like it on record that I advised gloves."

There was a ripple of laughter, quick and relieved, but one of the newer girls, who had shown some talent, fumbled with her charm in panic and Yukie hopped down with a satisfied nod, brushing bark dust and snowflakes from her robes as though she had done the new girl a service.

You watched her with a raised eyebrow, but the comment helped lessen any tension, a moment of warmth that bled into the strict regime expected.

It wasn't long when the bells chimed again, softer this time, signalling the end of the instruction. Apprentices gathered their things and dispersed soon after; your fingers working quickly to gather the used charms so you could draw out the remaining Veil and feed them back to the node. Making your way toward the inner halls, you were already cataloguing the weight of the tasks that still needed to be completed before dusk settled.

There was always more for you to do than the others: more rites to oversee, more scrolls to cross-reference and investigate on their validity, more corrections to be made after an apprentice's unsteady hand after drawing sigils.

It had been this way for years now, ever since the Order had put into words what you had felt since childhood—the fact that the Veil answered you more readily, that it flowed through you without resistance, without the strain and the bitterness others felt.

"I've got to transcribe Elder Gimorea's notes," Yukie said, already backing away, "Try not to overwork yourself! Or do, but then don't be surprised if you advance even faster to become Elder."

You hoped the dryness in your voice was enough to convey your feelings. "I'll try not to."

It was true. You were moving rather fast through the ranks; had not taking you long to reach the status of Priestess. Even now, more ambitious than the rest—though would one call it ambition, when it was but a path chosen for you?—you were stepping into the path of High Priestess.

It might have seemed like more work for others, but to you, it felt like it required the same discipline you bore everything else. Though, at times, it was less like an elevation of your status and more like being caged into a box that would only appear when it was time to either fault someone for a problem or call someone to provide a solution to the problem.

More often than not, it was the latter—when the Veil faltered, too weak, when a node threatened to disappear or when a ritual failed and you were summoned to observe and understand.

Your steps slowed as the corridor narrowed, the walls thickening and the air cooling as it could only do when it was surrounded by stone. Briefly, your thoughts wandered to the records awaiting you, especially the old rites that had been called unusable, when you knew for fact that they still worked—you had tried it out yourself, after all.

Lately, you began to feel like something was amiss.

With an exhale, you squared your shoulders, when suddenly you heard hushed voices ahead, low and unhurried, in a way that had you slow down without thinking as though to match the atmosphere presented.

Two elders stood just beyond the archway leading towards the sealed records wing, their figures half-lost in shadow. Their robes were wrapped tightly against the cold, sleeves overlapping as they leaned towards the other, heads inclined.

You adjusted your pace again, neither stopping nor retreating, letting the soft rhythm of your footsteps remain unchanged, as as you drew nearer—

"—growing restless—mismanaging its resources—"

"—ungrateful—condensed magic, and still they want—"

"—without the houses' support—"

"—but is she suitab—"

"—binds the Veil more tightly—"

The words dissolved before you could grasp their meaning, swallowed by your echoing steps and the careful way the elders lowered their voices even further. One of them glanced up briefly, eyes sharp and assessing, and you lowered your gaze instinctively, adopting the posture of an obedient Sister of the Order. Your pulse quickened despite knowing you had done nothing wrong.

The door to the sealed records chamber loomed beside them, etched with protective sigils and bindings that were old enough for it to even receive veneration from the elders. Few were permitted beyond its threshold, and even fewer had reason to linger there unannounced.

Houses, they had mentioned. Again.

The elders had been speaking of the courts more frequently as of late, never openly as to be sure of it, but enough fragments were heard that you were sure. It had unsettled you before when you encountered such… secretive reconvening, though it was easy to brush it aside then, keeping your nose in the books. Now, though, as you heard the rustle of their robes, that feeling intensified, and you found yourself hurrying despite your former care not to break stride.

Behind you, the voices dropped entirely.

For a moment, you considered turning back lest you had to cross their way under watchful gazes, feigning some forgotten errand, but before you could act, a voice rang out from the far end of the corridor, right where the elders were standing.

"Apprentice High Priestess, we have something urgent to discuss."

sakusa kiyoomi. — stag incarnate.

Choice was a curious thing.

People often spoke of it in Sakusa Kiyoomi's presence, and he had long since stopped wondering whether the options that were offered to him counted as being free to choose. He had learned that the offering of choices did not need to be genuine to be effective—it only needed to feel like refusal would be ungracious and unthinkable to force his hand.

He exhaled slowly through his nose and kept his expression neutral. It was a skill he honed early: a stillness of face, the rationing of reactions, folding his thoughts inwardly and locking them away whilst others spoke around him. Most of the court mistook it for some sort of serenity, and so they say that the White Stag was contemplative by nature, that the silence suited something so sacred.

Kiyoomi did not care to correct them.

He paused at the tall windows overlooking the inner gardens, gaze unfocused as he took in the symmetry of the hedges and the stone. The land beyond the walls was not so orderly, he knew that much, even if the details were kept from him.

However, word liked to get around—harvests were thinner, pilgrimages more desperate and the offerings from the common folk heavier, as though its increased weight might persuade the Veil to right itself again.

None of that, he had been told, was his concern.

It was a phrase he had heard in dozen variations, always delivered kindly, always with the same underlying assurance: that others would think for him, decide for him, carry the burden of understanding the world around him so that he might carry the mighty antlers atop his head.

"You shouldn't linger in the cold so long."

His father's voice carried the mild reproach of concern, but Kiyoomi did not turn. "I am not cold."

Footsteps approached, careful on the marble. His father came to stand beside him and their reflections aligned in the window, the same face and yet his looked older than the one who raised him. His father's gaze followed Kiyoomi's towards the gardens below.

For a moment, they watched in silence as servants crossed the pathways, head bowed as though they could feel the weight of his stare and needed to protect themselves.

"You've always said that," his father bowed his head lightly, "Even as a child."

His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly as he felt a familiar tightening at the base of his neck.

"You wanted to speak with me?" he asked, finally turning his head just enough to acknowledge the man beside him.

His father smiled, and Kiyoomi wondered if that was what he would have turned out to look like if he had been given the chance to grow up, "Yes. Though I had hoped we might speak as family, rather than… in an official measure."

Of course you did, he thought. Choice, after all, was a curious thing.

"I thought I had given you my answer already. She has done nothing to earn this burden nor have I consented to it."

"No one doubts your reluctance," his father was quick to cut in, a thin smile on his face, "And of course, nothing will be forced. Yet, you are not just a man, you are the White Stag—the most sacred blessing our house has ever been given."

"And still, you would have me wed a stranger—whatever for? To bind myself further to this earth, to leave another when I die?"

"I would have you consider," his father replied, and his voice cooled the way it always did when something did not go his way, "what stability for the realm requires."

Sakusa Kiyoomi considered, then.

He considered the dull ache that had taken residence behind his eyes in recent months. He considered the shallow sleep during night, interrupted by long stretches of wakefulness. He considered the way even his discipline, that was once so reliable, sometimes felt like he was drowning alive.

He considered the Veil itself, and the way it manifested for him: a strong current that was humming beneath his skin. Some nights it crowded him harder, restless and brimming with panic, like he was meant to do something beside his duty. Other nights, it thinned so suddenly, it left him uneasy. When he brought it up to his father before, he was being appeased that these were mere fluctuations, that it was normal.

The court, he considered too. That he had been an emblem longer than he had been a person; he could barely remember a time when his presence had not been used to reassure a future.

He considered what refusal had earned him in the past—he was never punished, not in the traditional sense at least, though some would call the increasing gentle pressure a kind of punishment too. When everybody around him would tighten the noose around his neck, and tighten and tighten until giving in would lead to relief.

"I will consider it," he said, at last.

With an inclination of his head, Kiyoomi's father smiled once more, satisfied as though the decision had been made already, "You honour us, Stag of Ours."

Kiyoomi closed his eyes for a brief moment; honour, of course. There was a familiar tightening in his chest, the old, well-worn feeling of inevitability. And so he stood there, dark-clad beneath the winter light, frost clinging to the window pane, and understood what was being asked of him without needing to say it plainly.

Briefly, abruptly, he wondered whether the priestess would recognise this arrangement for what it was, or whether you, too, would be expected to put on the gloves of obedience.

shirofuku yukie. — priestess-in-training.

Yukie did not expect to be woken in the dead of night, but then, she rarely expected anything these days anymore.

The faint scrape of boots on the stone floor made her sit up, blankets twisting around her legs; it was warm and cold at the same time: her body damp with sweat, her feet freezing—perfect for discomfort to settle in.

"What is it? I don't think you've ever woken me up this…late? early? before," she whispered, though it was more the grave atmosphere that lead to her speaking quieter.

She rubbed the sleep from her eyes. Not that she really expected an answer, you weren't the most talkative, especially when your eyes seemed so forlorn and far away. Well, you did sometimes, but only after the situation prompted you and asked for it.

For a moment, Yukie just watched her bleary-eyed friend. There was tension in the line of your shoulders, the way your hands lingered near the satchel at your side, the tiny twitch of your fingers as though you were testing the air for some unseen current—but Yukie, not as affine to the Veil as you, didn't see any strands strong enough to invite that look. She had seen it before when one of the elders would talk about how the world was bigger than the lectures and bigger than the rituals, like there was something more grave to be done for the common good.

"You look like you're off to war."

Your lips twitched faintly. "I might as well be, but no, nothing as grand as that."

Silence settled for a heartbeat, and Yukie leaned back against the pillows, eyes half-closed, waiting until you came to say what you wanted to say. She wasn't impatient, not really, moreso curious, cautious a little. Something about your posture being more taut than usual hinted at matters being more convoluted than what was usually known for priestesses in the Order, and Yukie worried, of course she did.

"I have been summoned."

Yukie's eyebrows rose. "Summoned? By… the elders or…?"

Something about that word didn't sound right—so very formal, so… official.

"Not exactly."

Yukie swung her legs over the edge of the bed, feet brushing the cool floor. Not exactly? What was that supposed to mean? Her thoughts darted around like restless birds. If it wasn't the elders, then who could it be? The council? Any of the kings? Some arcane, secret protocol that everyone else had been following for centuries that she didn't know about? The Gods?

"And you didn't tell anyone?" she asked, more to herself than to you and regarded your shake of head with a slow whistle, half-amused, half-exasperated, "Ugh, sounds serious, and very boring. And here I thought your life couldn't get any more complicated."

Usually you would quip right back, but this time no dry remark came, not even a twitch, and Yukie realised that maybe her art of trying to lighten the mood was lost on you.

"Yukie, I am—" a deep breath, "—to marry."

Of all the things Yukie had expected to hear next, that was not one of them. She blinked once, then again. The words didn't quite land, they hovered in the air between you both, awaiting a reaction, any kind of reaction.

"… you're what."

You didn't answer and didn't look away, no verbal refusal or explanation necessary, because Yukie finally understood. She scrubbed a hand down her face, dragging sleep, sense, and any hope of understanding with it and away. Marriage. The word carried weight in the Order, because it meant abandoning duties and responsibilities—usually, attachments were meant to be distant. Priestesses were not supposed to be wed, at the very least not in such a fashion that required secrecy, which begat the question—

"Is this one of those… symbolic things?" she asked cautiously. "You know the ones. Because I've heard stories about symbolic unions, and most of them involve standing very far apart and never actually—"

"No," you said quietly.

Right. Then.

Yukie let out a breath that bordered on a laugh and failed halfway through, "That's—straightforward. Of them. Of you. Who came up with this? Who decided this was a reasonable idea?"

She waited for you to correct her, to say that you chose this, to say it was your decision.

"…is it somebody important?" she asked instead, tone deliberately lighter, as though you were discussing an inconvenient chore, "Please tell me it's not an old man. I don't think I could forgive that, though if you liked that, I wouldn't judge, either, if you know what I mean."

A corner of your mouth twitched, faintly, "He is important."

Yukie leaned back on her hands, staring at the ceiling for a moment as her thoughts caught up with her. She was exhausted just thinking about the mechanics of all this. Court marriages were never about affection—well, sometimes they would be, if one were to be lucky, but usually? They were about land, or titles, or appeasement. And more importantly: usually only concerning the common folk.

"Do you want to?" — because to Yukie, that question was simple, and it was also the only one that mattered.

You hesitated.

Right. Of course. It had never been about want with you; you were dutiful down to your every cell, and so this was something you would go for if it was asked of you.

So, Yukie asked another question, one with the reassurance she hoped you would give, a quiet dare, "You'll be back, right?"

sakusa gayoku. — lord father.

Sakusa Gayoku had learned a long time ago that power did not come easy, unless he took it for himself.

He sat at his desk with a straight back, his shoulders squared. The great chamber was warm despite the winter—too warm, perhaps, the hearth banked higher than necessary. Light spilled in through tall glass panes and caught on the pale reflection of the fire crackling. The parchment before him lay pristine, and as he dipped his quill into the ink, a knock momentarily broke his concentration.

A servant entered quietly upon his call, head bowed, "The girl will be sent, my lord."

With an incline of his head, he dismissed her, and returned to the matter at hand. He had never doubted that the Order would comply, not truly. As far as he knew, Faith was a currency like any other, especially when it was properly funded, and the Veilkeepers liked to believe themselves above such considerations—but even sanctuaries required upkeep and when things got dire, then even those were desperate enough to turn to people like him.

People who could help.

The quill scratched along the paper, and the fire shifted, a low popping of embers settling on wood. His hand was as steady as ever; he did not hesitate over titles nor over formal courtesies that opened such correspondence. Those came easily, shaped by years of practice and an instinctive understanding of what soothed anxious lords and ladies.

When the letter was finished, he read through it once, then again, searching for any kind of weakness, found one and brought out a new parchment to write on.

His thoughts must have been elsewhere: on ledgers that were locked away, on the dwindling reserves, on the subtle change in Kiyoomi's complexion these past months, so pale yet still so magnificent, still enough.

Still his, and therefore he had to protect what remained.

He pressed the quill more firmly to the page, as though the pressure of the tip might anchor his thoughts. He adjusted a phrase, softened another, left just enough unsaid to hope to invite patience within the lords rather than demand it.

The nobles needed certainty that the future would continue looking steady and rich, much more than what actually greeted their eyes nowadays; needed to believe that what had always flowed to them would continue to do so.

Soon, he had promised—well, without writing the word.

At the very least, soon was a very flexible concept. It could mean days from now, or weeks; it could be months or it could be years, so long it was… framed correctly.

When at last he finished, he once again studied the letter with a critical eye. It would suffice—nay, more than suffice: it would buy time. Time for arrangements to settle into place and for the girl to arrive and take up her appointed role. He folded the parchment carefully, sealing it with wax, his signet—the White Stag—pressed into the material.

you. — high priestess-in-training.

The carriage smelled faintly of wood that recently had oil applied to it, and the metal tang of iron; your nose burning from the cold. You had settled into the narrow seat opposite the courier, drawing your cloak closer as the wheels jolted into motion. Frost creaked beneath you as you left the sanctuary grounds, the sound very sharp and final, like a door closing behind you.

The morning had passed too quickly and not quickly enough all at once.

Yukie had insisted on being useful in the only way she knew how—hovering whilst pretending not to hover, offering opinions on what cloak you should wear, and packing far more food than you could reasonably carry, despite the fact that you would be very well cared for.

"You don't know what they eat over there," Yukie had said when you sent a pointed look at the wrapped honeyed bread that she had wanted to squeeze into your satchel, "Probably incredibly tiny portions that nobody ever feels full on. Food for decoration, you know how they all are. Very upsetting."

"I won't starve, Yukie," you replied but let her stuff another wrapped bundle inside.

You had walked the long way through the sanctuary together, past the shrines you had visited and woke up the Veil in, whilst your friend, whom you were going to miss dearly, chattered about how one of the elders, Gimorea, had finally cracked one of the younger apprentices into tears when that girl reported of a fox she swore had been watching her for three days straight.

But she fell quiet when you arrived at the gates together, the courier's carriage already waiting; and Yukie was not somebody who touched you a lot, but now, as you were expected to leave for the castle, she hugged you then, quick and fierce, as though there was nothing more to it, no other reason than to just feel you against her once.

You almost smiled, and she added, softer, as a reminder, "Come back."

As the sanctuary vanished behind you in a blur of grey and white, you wondered how long it would be before you could—if you were permitted to think of it as returning at all.

The elders had been very careful in their phrasing. They wanted to make sure you knew you were not being sent away so much as being entrusted to the court. A delicate imbalance had been detected, they said: and abnormality in the Veil's behaviour surrounding the White Stag, which threatened to disrupt the cycle.

Apparently, such disturbances required a certain sense of subtlety as well as a hand that was trained to listen, and they were not wrong. It would be to everybody's benefit to keep it under wraps so as not to alarm any of the folk that thrived off the Veil's blessing to the land—nobility and peasantry alike.

However, that did not explain the afterthought the elders added—marriage.

You had not missed the way their gazes lingered when they said it, a glint in their eyes, nor did you miss the way the air seemed to lighten in relief almost immediately when you inclined your head in acceptance. You hadn't argued, though you hadn't really wanted to in the first place. Refusal, in the face of your responsibility, seemed incredibly meaningless, for the decision had been made long before you entered the chamber. From former experience, having grown up amongst them, you knew how persuasive they could be.

Had it been marriage to somebody other than the White Stag, you most likely would have refused. But this—to care for him—yes, that was something you understood, a duty you had been trained for, honest work, necessary work.

… This union, though.

Your fingers tightened briefly in your lap, pressing your palms to your knees, wishing the carriage would move faster, or perhaps even slower so that you could sort your thoughts.

Accepting it did not mean that you liked this, that you wanted this, not in the way Yukie had asked you the night before. The notion of your mission clawed at your chest like an unexpected force; the Order had been your entire world: its stone halls, its rituals and understanding the magic within, the Veil moving through you so openly and freely, like air through your lungs.

You had never questioned that devotion, for it was difficult to question something that had been chosen for you so early that it had long since stopped feeling like a choice at all.

Marriage, though, was different.

It wasn't like the service you had known, one that remained at a distance and did not require more than a passing glance at people. That had always been a world that you had only glimpsed in stories, and even then, it had seemed abstract, a contract of devotion you were not trained for.

Why you? Why now?

There was no warmth in the suggestion, no invitation of love, barely any affection; that much was obvious. The elders always spoke with half of the truth out in the open and the other half hidden behind their words, but even now, staring it into your face, you could feel the absence where their reasoning should have been found.

Was it only an alliance? The family of the White Stag, no matter the generation and the house, and the Order had always been allied, and none of the former Stag Incarnates had married. Was it control? Protection? You could only guess at the politics, at the machinations of the court and the elders, but there was no certainty.

"Careful there," a voice drawled, "If ya frown any harder, ya might jus' scare the snow off the trees."

You blinked, startled, eyes flicking to the source.

The courier across from you lounged with his boots already kicked up onto the opposite bench, posture and cloak loose to the point of impropriety. He couldn't have been much older than you with blonde hair tied back carelessly, gloves half-off, half-on, as though he was still deciding whether he wanted to protect his fingers from the cold. He was rolling something small between his fingers, a coin.

"You can put your feet down," you said.

The courier cracked one eye open, the other staying half-lidded, and a sharp grin arrived a second later, crooked and pleasant, as he nodded, "I could."

He did not move them, not until the carriage lurched over a rut and one of his boots slipped and thumped back to the floor. He winced, more offended than hurt, "Ah, well, see? I s'ppose the road is jus' as much a stickler for rules as yerself."

You didn't respond to that comment, instead shifted slightly on the narrow bench to manoeuvre around his dirty boots, your hands clutching the edges of your cloak whilst the road stretched ahead, white and uneven beneath the carriage wheels. "Where are we headed?"

The courier didn't look up from rolling the coin between his fingers. After a long, deliberate pause, he shrugged lazily, "Seein' how it was Lord Sakusa askin' for ya, I'd assume we're goin' to his estate."

"Yes, I gathered that much," you said, brows furrowing, "But beyond that? Where am I to… announce myself?"

"Can't rightly say, I fear. Paid to get ya to the gates an' after that, yer business is yer own's. Can't say that that's my problem. Sorry, love. Besides, would be borin' if I did, wouldn't it? Rules and directions n' all."

You regarded him quietly, noticing how unconcerned he seemed about the cold seeping through the carriage walls, the wheels rattling like it was about to break apart any second, the looming journey ahead.

Since you got nothing out of him, you looked out the window instead, snow drifting past like ash from some distant fire, wondering how long it would be before you reached a place you could not recognise.

Your worry about where you were going was unfounded, it seemed, because somebody awaited you at the gates as soon as the carriage came to a halt, and your blonde companion—Atsumu, you had learned in the meantime—left to receive his payment.

Your cloak fluttered around your shoulders, and you took a tentative step onto the frost-covered stones. The gates themselves were taller than you had imagined, wrought iron curling into elegant shapes and their spires reaching like frozen fingers towards the fair morning sky.

Only one person waited beyond the gates; a single attendant, modestly dressed in the court's muted colours, stood with hands folded and head bowed just enough to acknowledge you without drawing eyes from the road behind or the walls beyond.

Atsumu lingered long enough to toss a brief, cheeky glance over his shoulder—half amusement, half challenge—before stepping away.

The attendant's head lifted just enough to meet your gaze. His eyes were steady and unflinching, aware of every step you took towards him, and a small bow followed, very practised.

"High Priestess," he said, voice low and even, "Welcome to the Silver Court."

You inclined your head, trying to keep your expression neutral, and you wondered whether you should correct him. You weren't a High Priestess yet, there stood a many trials between where you were now and where you wanted to end up—where you were going to end up.

There was nothing in his words that hinted at a threat or even to any danger, yet the cold trailing his tenor made your pulse quicken just a little. Even small gestures in this place carried meanings apparently, you were only beginning to learn.

"Am I expected to enter directly?" you asked, testing the waters, for you were not sure how to exactly conduct yourself in this situation with somebody who seemed so passive yet commanded enough presence that asked obedience from you.

The attendant's lips curved faintly, almost imperceptibly. "There is someone waiting. Inside, if you please."

You had expected many things when the door opened—an emissary of the court, perhaps, or one of the veilbound scribes whose task it was to observe and record without truly engaging. You had even braced yourself, faintly, for the possibility of meeting the White Stag himself, though the thought had sat undefined in your mind, so you had not prepared yourself for the man who waited within.

Lord Sakusa rose from the chair he was seated in, his presence filling the room with a subtle air of belonging. There was nothing overtly remarkable about him at first glace: no crown, no ostentation beyond of what a lord usually would, no retinue announcing his rank. And yet, the space around him felt claimed by him regardless, arranged in a way to proudly display the White Stag's sigil marked on banners and carved into wood.

For the first time since leaving the sanctuary, you understood that whatever had drawn you here had not begun with the Veil alone, and that the man before you had never intended for you to meet anyone else first.

His movements were smooth and respectful. His hair pitch dark, threaded with silver at the temples, and his expression calm and attentive, almost kind; a charming beauty mark underneath his mouth.

The lines at the corners of his eyes deepened as he smiled, "High Priestess, thank you for accepting our invitation."

"My lord."

"Please, sit. I imagine the journey was quite exhausting."

"It was uneventful," you replied, politely.

"Good, good." He resumed his place, folding his hands atop his knee, "I find that uneventful journeys are often the most productive. They leave room for thought. Ah, but I trust that your superiors explained the nature of your visit?"

A visit, he said, superiors. "They did. At least, what they deemed necessary."

He laughed at that; knowing in his voice, "Yes, indeed, they are very good at that. They are trying to be as efficient as possible, and I've found that that is a talent the Order and my court share. One learns not to be surprised by it."

Silence stretched between you both, and in a strange way, it was not quite uncomfortable.

The fire crackled softly; it was quite warm in the chamber, warm enough that you almost felt the urge to release your hold on your cloak. Propriety wise, you had nothing to fear: you wore your robes beneath, layers upon layers, but the idea of giving in, of removing this layer of protection, regardless of how little it actually protected you, felt like a bad omen.

"My son," he said at last, fingers intertwining together, "is… a singular responsibility."

You had to keep your eyebrows from wandering up, forcefully swallowing down the disdain that bubbled within you at these words. Instead, you chose your own carefully, "So I have been taught."

"Then you understand why we have brought you with such discretion—" you thought of Atsumu and wondered whether he truly cared for it as much as he said, "—and why appearances must be preserved. Why certain… arrangements have been made."

"I can only imagine how heavy the Stag Incarnate's well-being must weigh on you, Lord Sakusa. I will try my best to uncover the cause of the Veil's instability and nurture him back to health. "

"And you will," he replied, no hesitation apparent in his tone, "Of that, I have no doubt. I wish not to worry you, we would never ask more of you than you are prepared to give."

you. — high priestess-in-training.

Weeks had passed since your arrival—it had been long enough that you were able to establish a routine and get to work, though not enough to even remotely feel familiar.

When you woke up in the morning, the castle was not sleeping in the same way the sanctuary did; its silences were not true, its rhythm dictated by a bustling of people who tried to make due with what they had. You couldn't blame them; their lives were tethered to outcomes they had no hand in shaping.

Here, waiting was not an option. Fields still had to be planted even when the blessings ran very thin; all the negotiations for trading had to be carried out, festivals still staged with optimism to honour their White Stag in hopes that the sacrifice would be soon and that their family could profit off it. And so they prayed harder, they revered more intently, for at least a crumb, if only a crumb.

By association, they treated you well, almost excessively so. Rooms were prepared when you only hinted at wanting to do something, your meals altered without comment when you left a plate untouched—though not because you did not like it, but because you were used to the rations the Order commanded, any answer of yours taken at face value. You were treated with respect, certainly, you were sure that Lord Sakusa saw to it, but it never felt as though they met you at eye level.

You were, after all, only there to treat the White Stag as best as you could; and in the face of that coldness and the expectations of being looked to in time of need, you thought it impossible not to measure everything against him.

You remembered meeting him with an unsettling clarity; he stood near the tall windows of the east wing of his great chamber, moonlight spilling across him as though he was meant to exist with the caress of the moon.

He had been turned half away, his profile sharp, cheekbones cut like a gem. Beauty marks, twins, rested above his eyebrow. An absurdly human detail, you had thought, for something so magnificent. His antlers rose from his dark hair, pale and immaculate, living bone traced with faint silver lines as they caught the light.

Elegant was the only word you could think of, seeing his face.

And like a siren call, you felt it immediately—the Veil around him did not rest. It thrashed around in uneven pulses, a breath drawn too shallow, then held too long. Beneath the composed stillness of his posture, exhaustion clung to him; faint hollows beneath his eyes, the careful way he distributed his weight.

Something had stirred inside your chest, something sharp and protective, instinctive and unwelcome at the same time, angry. The valets attended to him, they loved doing so, but it was tinged with possessiveness, bordering on jealousy. Their hands hovered, eyes tracked your movements when you stood too near, when you spoke too long, when your gaze lingered on the earrings he wore: thin arcs of metal, glowing spherical gems at their centre—a deep vibrant green, alive.

He was theirs, in a way.

And so it was only during night, that the court loosened its grip, when the corridors emptied and when the servants' vigilance dulled that you could do what you were brought to do—amongst other things.

You lingered just inside the threshold, and his voice reached you, low and even, as though every word passing his mouth had been weighed according to his approval.

"You may as well come in properly," he said, not turning around just yet.

You paused, despite yourself; no invitation, though you could not blame him, for you had not announced yourself either beyond a knock to the door.

"I didn't mean to intrude," you replied, voice soft to not disturb the tranquility with which you found him.

"You already have."

The door shut behind you with a muted click; still, he had not faced you yet, and you absentmindedly remarked the straight back and the hands folded loosely behind him, so composed and so defensive if the Veil surrounding him like a shield was anything to go off of.

"I'm here on orders of your Lord Father."

That earned you a shift; a subtle one, but movement nonetheless. His shoulders lowered a fraction, but his head lifted. There was an even note to his voice that made you think he held far more at bay than he let on, especially with the mention of his father, "That's odd hours for duty."

"If you'd rather I return in the morning, Stag of Ours—"

He turned around, and his eyes found yours. The focus inside them struck you harder than you had expected; not exactly hostile, but they met you at a distance, cool and dark. His eyelashes almost looked like they had silver streaked through the black. You felt the weight of it settle on your chest, and even the faintest pull of the Veil around him shifted subtly.

"No." he said after a moment, measured and clipped, "You're already here."

He almost looked… expectant, with a small crease between his brows, and you realised, almost with a start, that he had never experienced this before. It was unfamiliar territory for him, and it showed in the subtle tension, in the way his hands flexed ever so slightly.

"Well," carefully, not to offend the White Stag, "It would have to be directly."

"Directly." he echoed.

"Yes."

"Meaning closer than the doorway."

"Yes."

"They never used to need that."

"Never? but—" you stopped yourself, breath catching just enough to betray the impulse. Shaking your head slightly: "Truly never?"

"No."

Your chest tightened, and a faint heat spread beneath your skin, the incredulity burning strong.

They had never needed that? Never had someone attend to him this closely?

Your nails almost cut into your palms with how strong you were clenching your fists. How could it be—when everything the Order had taught you, everything the world whispered about the White Stag, revolved around vigilance and care? If they claimed to be his servants—devoted to his well-being—how could they allow him to go untended in such a fundamental way?

A flicker of anger, tight and bitter, though not at him who bore the weight of everyone's adoration and expectation, but the others and the way they paraded his name, extolled his importance, yet failed to notice the small details?

It was almost appalling, the complacency.

You exhaled slowly, forcing the shock back into something resembling control, though not entirely sure whether you were successful or not. That small, almost imperceptible uncertainty of his about your duty had you wonder what else he might not understand about the world.

He sounded tired. "You look like you want to argue."

"I'm deciding how much I'm allowed to say," you said carefully—a part of you wanted to explain, that you thought his needs were being treated as secondary, that they would rather throw their praise at him whilst keeping him out of the loop.

His jaw tightened, the line rigid, teeth pressing together almost audibly. "And?"

The inflection wasn't sharp, but there was an edge there. Of course. You didn't believe he would like to have important information be rationed around him, but at the same time you could not know what reason this had, and the White Stag, as holy as he was, was not omniscient. He was dependent on his servants and the Order to raise him the same way they had brought up the ones before him, cultivated an environment to ensure that the cycle could progress the way it should.

You were angry on his behalf—angry that someone like him needed to carry the weight of what he embodied without the pillars they had promised you would stand beside. But you couldn't just cut into it without discussing anything with his father, so you bit your tongue and assumed your place.

"I need to be closer than you're accustomed to, Stag of Ours. Not for long, but enough that you might not be comfortable with it."

His eyes narrowed a fraction. "Define closer."

"If you're worried about the touching—I won't."

He exhaled, a low sound that might have been annoyance—you were sure that it was—and walked towards his chair, equally as elegant as him, fitting for the atmosphere. When he leaned back and waited on you to do your task, it almost felt like he was testing out the distance and space between you.

The moment stretched, taut and brittle, before he said, exhaustion apparent in his voice, "Get on with it then."

sakusa kiyoomi. — stag incarnate.

He did not like being watched.

Especially not by someone who moved so unhurried, without much hesitance, with the certainty of someone who knew exactly how much space they were allowed to claim. It almost seemed like the air was carrying you, the way you moved, like you belonged carried by the currents. And what his eyes didn't see, his senses felt: the Veil responding like a held breath finally released as it connected to you in ways Sakusa Kiyoomi had never experienced before.

He kept his posture unchanged, every muscle locked in its position on the chair, because if he moved first, if he adjusted in any way, that would invite doubt over the way he was meant to exist. And the last thing Kiyoomi needed this moment was doubt.

The room felt smaller with you standing there, but not because you crowded him, nay, you stopped well short of him—an arm's length away, perhaps a fraction more—but that was closer than anyone was permitted to stand without reason, anyway. Close enough that he could see the fine tension in your shoulders and the way your attention sharpened, as though the rest of the room had thinned out as well.

Your gaze did not linger on his face for long—instead, your focus slid past his shoulder, along the line of his antlers, to the space around him. Not him, he realised, but what clung to him, what existed in the fibres within his cells, and the realisation had his awareness prickle.

It was an uncomfortable thing, being looked at so intently; he had lived with that his entire life, though they usually kept their head down, and only ever tried to gather some glances behind the curtain of their hair or eyelashes, but this—this felt invasive; he felt catalogued, he felt measured, he felt more person than ever.

"You can tell me to stop, Stag of Ours," you said suddenly, your eye still gliding down his body. The words were very mild, and you spoke as though you were asking for permission rather than exercising your authority as a Priestess. And he understood, then, why he felt so exposed despite the distance you kept.

His jaw tightened, "I won't."

You paused for a second, before raising a hand towards the space beside his chest, fingers spread slightly, like trying to test the warmth of a fire without approaching the open flame, and the Veil reacted at once; it tugged in uneven threads, brushing against your presence with a sensation he could only describe a pressure without any weight behind it.

And Sakusa Kiyoomi, the White Stag Incarnate, could not stop his breath from stuttering. Nor could he stop the way he felt a tightening deep beneath the skin, like a muscle drawing taut without his permission. It coiled along his spine, hot and electrifying, settling low in his chest and lingering there, intimate in a way he had never experienced before.

It was subtle, and he doubted that you would have noticed—except you did. Your fingers stilled, just for a heartbeat, and your head lifted. Your gaze did not rush to his face at once; it traced, instead, the space just beside him, following the slight distortion the Veil made when it hugged his body—and when you finally looked at him, for a moment, there was no deference like he was used to.

"Does it hurt," you asked, quietly, softly, like you were scared of jarring whatever fragile equilibrium you were finding within him, "when it does that?"

For a split second, the absurdity of it nearly dragged a laugh out of him. Hurt, as though pain were the worst of it, when right here, like this, his body burned with a feeling that set his thighs on fire; when the Veil had never been something that just visited him and left at will, something he could turn off when he liked.

"No." he swallowed it down, dry, "That would imply it stops, which it doesn't."

Something like irritation flickered across your face, quick and bright; your browns knitting, your mouth tightening in a semblance of faint frustration. For a second, he wondered whether it was directed at him, and in the next, he realised with a strange clarity that it wasn't.

It was despite himself that he tracked your movements with his eyes when you walked around him, closing the circle slowly but not fully, the soft sounds of your steps registering faintly in the quiet chamber.

Something about the air changed as you moved—he was certain of it, though he could not have said how. It felt denser, charged in a way that had nothing to do with heat or cold, but was reminiscent of the moment before a storm broke. His breath grew shallow, controlled by habit more than comfort, and he resented the way his body adjusted without permission. He almost leaned towards your attention as though it was necessary, and that thought irritated him more than the sensation itself.

Of course, it could be the Veil responding, and nothing more. An involuntary reaction to proximity, to the focus and scrutiny that you gave him, and yet—this felt different.

He disliked it keenly. To him, that felt like a distraction, and distraction was dangerous; dependence even more so. The idea that his body could begin to expect this, to anticipate you growing closer, even if it was only to investigate, set his teeth on edge.

His fingers almost flexed on his knees.

"Has it been worse lately?"

The question landed too close, and Kiyoomi felt annoyance rise immediately. His tongue lay heavy, and his reply was short, an edge appearing as if his tone alone might be enough to reassert distance.

"I manage."

Your steps slowed, and again, he felt it before he fully registered it, this subtle shift in the air as you stopped in front of him again, closer than before. Still not close enough to touch, the way you had promised, but close enough this time for your presence to register as warmth, faint but unmistakable, threading itself into the Veil's restless pull.

"That wasn't the question, Stag of Ours."

Silence stretched, and he felt it gather in the space between them, heavy with all the answers that he had been trained to answer with. Sakusa Kiyoomi considered lying; it would have been easy—expected, even; a polite deflection, a half-truth dressed up with anything that could lend him even a little bit of composure.

But something about the way you stood there made the habit suddenly feel tedious.

"It's been worse."

"Thank you."

He frowned. "For what?"

"For your honesty."

The irritation returned, sharper now, and he almost bristled at that. Almost asked who, exactly, you thought usually earned his honesty. The priests? His father? The people who bowed and praised him? When all they had ever wanted was his compliance, for him to function as a symbol?

Any honesty he had given them had always been re-framed, and now you were thanking him for something that had no value.

He said nothing. What else could he do? Punish you for it? Hold you responsible for his environment?

When you finally stepped back, the Veil protested like nothing he had felt before—a sharp and unpleasant tug that yanked at something behind his eyes, the world blurring for half a second as if pulled slightly out of alignment. He inhaled slowly until it settled again, forcing the sensation back down into something manageable; something he could contain.

You noticed that, too.

"I won't keep you longer tonight," you said, a strange tone in your voice he couldn't quite place, "This was merely an introduction."

He watched you go, and everything in him seemed to exhale with your absence, the pressure of the Veil smoothing itself into something flatter, duller, as though it had no reason to perk up anymore, weak as it was. It was the state he was accustomed to—manageable in a way, impersonal, only there for its duty; except now there was a tiny part of it with a faint sense of loss.

There was an uncomfortable feeling in his chest, exposed and unguarded, as though something essential had been acknowledged without his consent, and once noticed, could not be entirely returned to obscurity.

chiharu. — elder priestess.

The chamber they had given for counsel lay deep within the sanctuary's older wing, where the chill of the stone still spoke of days where the Veil existed uncontained and wild.

Lamps burned low along the walls, their light dulled by bowls of smoked glass—an affectation meant to encourage contemplation and serenity, but in practice left a lot to be desired. The hour was late enough that the corridors beyond had emptied; even the apprentices assigned to the night watch kept their distance from this door.

Before she spoke, Elder Chiharu had been standing at the narrow window, palms braced against the sill. Outside, snow crept steadily over the sanctuary garden, softening the sharpness of the hedges. She had stood there for a long time, long enough for the cold to seep into her bones, long enough to steady her breathing after the meeting that had preceded this one.

When she turned back towards the table, her expression was set, but the tension had nowhere to go except her hands, folded now with near-painful force.

Elder Gimorea, by contrast, had not moved from her seat since arriving. The ledger before her was thick, its pages reinforced with thread and wax, and ink stained the side of her fingers.

"You can call it whatever you want, but your words do not absolve you of your intent. That is not the stewardship we have been proud of displaying," Chiharu said, her voice tight, yet hands trembling anyway.

Across the table, Gimorea did not look up from the ledger she was annotating. The book was immense, its pages filled by different hands over the generations. Her quill moved with steady patience, scratching soft and precise lines the way they all had been taught in the Order. She sat comfortably, spine supported by the chair's curved back, a woman entirely at ease in this room and in what it represented.

"Is the outcome not what's important in the end, Chiharu?" She turned the page, the sound loud in the quiet room, "We preserve the cycle, and we ensure the continuity. That is exactly the responsibility we have. Sentiments cloud the matter, you know this."

Chiharu's jaw clenched in a familiar flare of frustration—how easily Gimorea could flatten everything into something as unfeeling as process and result, stripping away the humanity from it. The Veil hummed faintly along the walls, duller than they could afford, and she has been short of begging for the rest of the Order to not spiral down the abyss. “We are making choices that we were never meant to make. It is a disgrace. A dishonour.”

That earned her a glance, one that was very brief yet as icy as the winter outside. Gimorea was one of the oldest High Priestesses, yet her eyes were still sharp despite her age, something akin to cut glass.

“You speak as though we have options.”

To Gimorea, the world was a system of pressure valves, free to adjust however the elder saw fit. To Chiharu, it was a body that could still feel pain.

"We do," Chiharu insisted, "We have survived centuries on restraint and abstinence."

"Except now they have begun to crack, as they always do," Gimorea lifted her gaze, and even though there was nothing unkind about them, they were the eyes of somebody who had no problem taking what she wanted and leaving others to bleed; a triage rather than mercy, "Now the lesser houses come to us with empty hands and prayers loud enough to wake us all."

She glanced back down, pausing just long enough for the ink to dry. "You forget, Elder Chiharu, that restraint only works when there is abundance."

Chiharu felt the words settle like sediment in water. She did not doubt the logic of it, that was the most insidious part of it all, and that frightened her. Truth could be bent, narrowed, focused until it excused almost anything, and Gimorea had always spoken this way, with a calm that made it impossible to distinguish necessity and virtue. And yet, listening now, Chiharu could hear something else beneath it, something that had not always been there: an appetite.

It was not greed in the crude sense, not the grasping hunger of an individual seeking more coin or power; it was subtler in its nature, more dangerous by virtue of it going almost undetected—the belief that because they had been entrusted once, they were entitled forever.

These arguments were not unfamiliar, yet hearing them spoken so plainly still felt like a transgression.

"You are talking about people."

"So are you," Gimorea said. "Just different ones."

A parasite, Chiharu thought, no malice in its little body but fear, feeding and feeding and feeding, until it convinced its host that consumption could be the same as survival.

Silence stretched between them, thick and uneasy, as the lamp flared suddenly, casting the shadows into bigger existence before settling again, as though even the flame was uncomfortable listening in.

"You have felt it," Chiharu tried again, because if she didn't try, if she didn't attempt something to save the nature and its course, she could not call herself an elder anymore, any kind of priestess anymore. "Don't insult me by pretending otherwise. The strain of the Veil, begging, the way it hurts because we keep taking, to drain our White Stag so—when we are meant to guard. Does that not concern you?"

Gimorea's quill stilled.

For a moment—just one measly little moment—Chiharu allowed herself hope as she watched Gimorea's face closely, the faint tightening around her eyes, the stillness creeping into her shoulders. Surely she felt it, too. Surely she knew this was not merely an adjustment, something to ignore, but a wound that was forbidden from healing, reopening again and again.

Then her expression softened, just slightly, almost kindly, and Chiharu almost wanted to flutter her eyes close at the look on her face, and the gentleness that she often wore to explain to novices the rules of the Order.

"Nothing is being stolen, dear."

"Isn't it?"

Gimorea corrected her, "What is being used was given to the world long before either of us were born. We are merely managing its flow."

"By narrowing it."

"By focusing it."

"No, by starving other places."

She hadn't noticed when she rose partway from her chair before catching herself. Across the table, when she looked at Gimorea, she saw not a monster but a mirror. There was nothing to say that had not already been weighed, measured, and found inconvenient.

This was how institutions rotted, she realised—not one thing that brought it down all at once, but with a thousand reasonable decisions made in sequence, each one justified by the last. The Order had begun to ensure the cycle of the White Stag to be continued, and now it leaned into it, convinced that without tightening its grip, everything would fall apart.

Perhaps that was true, or perhaps that was how they taught themselves to stop noticing the blood on their hands.

When Chiharu turned around to leave, Gimorea spoke once more, almost gently, a certain friendliness in the folds of her voice.

"Be careful, Sister, if you pull too hard at a thread, you may find the whole tapestry unravels, and then there will be nothing left for anyone."

Chiharu paused at the door, hand braced against the cold stone, feeling the roughness against her withered hands. When she closed her eyes, there was an ache in her chest: the grief she had not yet given a name.

"Perhaps that would be more honest than what we are doing now."

Elder Priestess Chiharu left the Order and did not return.

sakusa kiyoomi. — stag incarnate.

Having a new Veilkeeper was strange.

Kiyoomi moved through the inner corridor, the marble cool beneath his feet and the air faintly perfumed with incense. Strange not because you were an unfamiliar person—by now, you weren't—but because of how quickly all the old rules seemed to disappear. You walked with your own set; where the former Veilkeeper used to keep her distance and careful to never cross lines, you saw no line at all, or perhaps you didn't even believe in it.

He found his hand lifting to his earring as he walked, fingers worrying the familiar weight of it, grounding himself against the low ache blooming behind his eyes. He was tired. He had been tired for so long that it felt less like a temporary inconvenience and more like an ever-present state of his being.

"Young Master," the attendant at his side ventured softly, her steps hurrying to keep up with him, "perhaps you should return to your chambers. We could bring you anything you require. Tea. A draught. A—"

"I require nothing."

He found himself turning toward the outer gallery without quite deciding to. The thought of it had lodged itself somewhere between his ribs; it was not rest he wanted, exactly, nor solitude, but simply space: somewhere his thoughts could take time to form and to exist.

As he passed, servants bowed deeply, heads lowered, bodies folding around him, and, unbidden, he thought of the folded blanket draped over the chair he used most often. He had not asked for it; yet somebody had noticed where he sat, how he leaned, and so, there it was, positioned so it would fall easily over his shoulders if he leaned back.

Though, it wasn't just that—there had been many instances that if he were to linger on them now would strike him as peculiar in a way he did not quite like, and he found himself bristling at it on principle: the cup that was always placed just within reach, handle turned the way his fingers preferred; the curtains drawn an inch wider in the evenings.

His new Veilkeeper.

Of course he knew it was you. Of course he also knew that you had been keeping an eye out on his discomfort that did not even rival the way his servants had been serving him—not because you couldn't measure, but because they couldn't.

He also disliked what response it elicited within him whenever you visited him at night: the way his nose would pick up your faint scent as though it was perfumed right into his face, the way you hands always stopped short before they could meet his body, and he especially hated that some part of him feared the moment you would step away, because then he would have to confront what it meant that your nearness had begun to feel—against his will—like something his body did not want to relinquish.

He frowned faintly, realising he was still touching the earring when a throb answered the pressure, and forced his hand down.

A turn in the corridor brought you into view, and his frown deepened.

It was the high priestess-in-training; the woman he saw most often at night, monitoring fluctuations he wasn't supposed to feel. But what he could feel was you before you even looked at him, brushing against him even at a distance; a subtle pull that bound the Veil dancing around you to the one embodied in him.

You stood near one of the alcoves, hands folded at your waist, speaking quietly with a junior attendant. Looking up as he approached, you inclined your head, a soft and respectful greeting.

"Stag of Ours," you said.

"Priestess," he replied, the word leaving his mouth instinctively without any pause as he continued on, already turning his thoughts back inward, and missing, entirely, the way your gaze followed him for half a step longer, your brows knitted together in a frown.

"The kitchens have prepared—"

"I said nothing," he repeated, tone slightly sharper now at the insistence of his servant.

She faltered, then tried again, voice lowered as if her concern could be used for persuasion. "Your health—"

He held out a hand, and he felt rather than saw her fall back, chastened. The headache pulsed again behind his eyes, dull and persistent, and he breathed through it until the corridor steadied.

"I will walk," his words were not unkind, but they were final, and so she bowed, deeper this time, retreating a step, then another and another, until her presence was gone from his mind, and Kiyoomi was free to make his way into the outer gallery with high windows that promised air and distance to the court laying beneath and the illusion of choice he was kept given.

For now, it was enough to walk and to move under his own will.

shuji. — farmer.

When he buried the boy, the ground was still frozen.

He had tried to dig deeper, tried to make it right, but the shovel kept catching on stone and roots, and his hands shook too badly to continue. In the end, they laid his son down wrapped in the last clean cloth they owned.

It was not meant to wrap a body and it did not belong in a grave, and yet.

Shuji did everything he was told to do. He gave on Continuance day—bowed deeply when the riders came through to collect them in the stead for their Master—and he prayed; prayed a lot and taught both his children—his child—to pray as well.

That night, he sat with his back against the wall whilst his wife slept fitfully by the earth and the wind worried at the shutters, as he counted what little remained in their possession. Three loaves that had gone hard, a chunk of cheese that looked like it was molding, no coin to his name.

His forehead pressed to his clasped fingers and he tried to pray, but the words stuck in his throat, lodged between his vocal cords to forbid him from muttering another one of those useless supplications.

He had given everything, and the Stag still lived.

you. — high priestess-in-training.

You had been summoned in the late afternoon when the light slanted through the high windows and turned the dust in the air into something almost ethereal.

The chamber you were brought to on Lord Sakusa's orders was not the grand hall, nor any space meant for any official business; it was smaller, more intimate by design. So at least now you were sure that there was a conversation due that was not meant to be listened in, nor repeated.

"Please," Lord Sakusa was quick to gesture to the chair opposite to his desk, "Sit. You've been incredibly invaluable these past weeks."

You inclined your head and did as instructed, your legs lightly crossed by the ankles, hands folded in your lap. The desk in between you was rather bare, not something you would have expected from somebody who would use this room as often as the worn out seating would indicate. You wondered whether he just disliked anything superfluous or whether he wanted to keep any keepsakes from revealing anything.

"I trust my son has not made your work unnecessarily difficult," he continued, tone warm, the salt and pepper of his hair slightly ruffled, though not in a way that made him seem unkempt but more down to earth—like he belonged to the same level as you.

"No, he has been cooperative."

Not entirely, but something in you—the one part that noticed when the glow of the Veil brightened his skin and the shadows crept over his face—refused to give this vulnerability out to anyone.

A smile curled onto his lips, a touch of pride within the lines of his mouth, as he nodded along to you, "I am exceptionally glad. You see, Kiyoomi had always understood duty, even when it is something uncomfortable. But surely, you understand the sacrifice that he must place on himself, don't you?"

He finally took his seat, steepling his fingers and studying you, and not for the first time, you felt the faint prickle of being appraised beyond your station as a Veilkeeper. He waited for an answer, but there was none that you can give except a hesitant nod, because yes, that was indeed true. The White Stag's entire being was a sacrifice waiting to happen, and it was your duty to see it through.

"You were brought here under the auspices of care taking, maybe a bit of investigation for his peculiar situation," he went on, unhurried, "and that does remain true. The Veil's behaviour, after all, concerns us all. However…"

There was a small pause, like he wanted to give you the gracious opportunity of figuring it out yourself, and when you just waited—because what else could you do?—another smile stole itself on his mouth, pleased that he could solve it for you, "…we all require foresight, continuity."

It was less that you understood what he wanted that had your chest tighten but moreso the glint in his eyes.

"And as invaluable as you had been—"

That word again: invaluable.

"—it is also provisional. Your presence steadies things, yes, it soothes the Veil where it frays."

You almost wanted to narrow your eyes, but kept your expression as neutral as possible; the weight of the words settling anyway, heavy as damp wool.

"The difficulty with provisional measures," he went on, "is that the Veil does not understand them, fleeting as they are. It needs a bond that does not waver—a priestess may be recalled, a rite may require handling. These all invite fluctuations, I'm sure you understand."

You did understand. Very well, in fact.

"And marriage does not."

His smile deepened, as if glad that you had kept pace. "It's one of the oldest stabilising structures we possess. It's recognised by the King, sanctified by the Order, acknowledged by the Veil itself—that is what your fellow acolytes do, don't they? Honour the union in the name of all that is Blessed?"

It was something weird to you, that marriage was treated like a scaffolding; you were sure that it was not the magic that had Lord Sakusa offer this option to you—though, was it truly offering? Was it not the presentation of the only path he saw for you?— but rather what he gained from it. And marriage was rarely something done only in name if there were no families to join, and with you having grown up in the Order with no last name, no titles and no land, you had little to offer in that regard—which meant that rather what it could mean by name, the only thing a union like this could reasonably promise was… access?

To the Order?

The White Stag came to your mind as you had left him, of the way the Veil had reached for you; you thought of the exhaustion you had seen so clearly beneath his composure, of how little anyone seemed to ask what it cost him to simply exist.

You folded your hands in your lap, buying yourself a moment. The path he was urging you to step on was extremely narrow, because everything you might say could be framed as negligence, could be a risk, could be doubt of your devotion.

"If the bond is to function as you describe," you started, carefully, "then my role cannot be symbolic only. I would be able to intervene whenever it destabilises, without delay."

His brows lifted a fraction, a bit of amusement swimming in his dark gaze, in the wrinkles around the corner of his eyes as he smiled.

"You're asking for a great deal."

Considering your status and your role within the Order, you didn't think you were. However, if this was to be done, if your body and your future were to be pressed and moulded into service under the guise of balance—or whatever version of balance Lord Sakusa envisioned—then you would not allow yourself to be reduced to a silent component.

Wasn't that the least that you could do?

"It's only what would be necessary, my Lord, for his well-being, and for the success of this union."

The slightest narrowing of his eyes awaited you at that, and still, he nodded slowly, thoughtfully.

"Very well."

You understood the cost of what was asked of you; you understood that you may have to engage with the White Stag in ways you would have called blasphemy, but if you were to pay for it, you would not do so without ensuring that he—living, breathing, suffering—was not just sustained, but safe.

So, you swallowed down the nerve that wanted to crawl down your spine, closed the door to the anxiety spiking in your chest at the thought of sharing a bed, your body, your soul; pushed down and suffocated the urge to escape into the forest and never come back.

sakusa kiyoomi. — stag incarnate.

Moonlight draped the court yard in silver.

Sakusa Kiyoomi shifted and the crunch of snow softened beneath his boots; the hush of the Veil was like a cloak around him. He breathed slowly, evenly, always the way he had been taught—with his chin high, his shoulders straight, expression carved into the unbreakable calm expected of him.

Tonight, they felt heavy atop of his head, like a crown that he could not shake. His antlers curved upward and outward like branches, ivory pale amidst the dark of his strands. He had known them for very long, for years upon years, and so his fingers found every ridge and fork easily, just as much as the rhythm of magic pulsating around them felt so familiar.

A constant companion, they were. Long before he understood what they truly meant; the cycle they embodied, the sacrifice he would have to fulfill one day, and the reverence he was forced to endure. But during the night like this, when his valets left him be, they felt less like a crown of expectation and more like a living thing, a part of him he couldn't push off, and yet something so completely foreign—something to be feared.

Of course, the Veil responded to him when he asked for it, obedient in its answer yet wild in its extent—he did not understand: this weird pull inside his chest, the slow and draining throb that came and went in tides, and his hand wanted to rise to rub his chest in a soothing manner.

As soon as a single muscle twitched, his relentless discipline cut in and forced his hand down.

A part of Kiyoomi wished he could take them off, and shed them the way one would gowns after a long day. But they were bone. His bone. And with dryness, he remarked that they would fetch a fair price on the market if they were to be sold, no doubt.

Even then, he did not even need that, for if he refused to lift a finger, he'd still be considered the wealthiest in all the courts. People would whisper and bow and offer their coin—that was discounting the tithe that would find his house—and the same answer was drilled in him: the polite nod with which he was to accept them. He used to smile as well, though he found there to be no difference whether he offered that little bit of gratitude, for the people only saw what they wanted to see, anyway.

They adored the White Stag, they could not know the man beneath.

A surge of magic bit at him, in the back of his teeth and thrumming in restless tides, and he exhaled through his nose. It felt wrong, it felt draining, but shaped by decades of whispers, he flicked these feelings off. The Veil is erratic; it ebbed and it flowed and it was as temporary as the power it brought. Like a mantra, it started to bounce in his head: do not panic. Do not interfere. You are the vessel, the cycle will endure. You will not falter.

The snow compressed behind him distinctly, very lightly, and the sound carried through the otherwise silent court yard, muted by frost. Although there were many servants who were used to scurrying about with feet as soft as cotton, there weren't many who had the Veil accompanying their every step.

And so he knew it was you; as it always was.

Your steps slowed when you neared and he caught the faint scent of you once again, as though it was meant only for him; slightly spicy and flowery, a wooden scent following, something indefinably warm and almost tangy amongst the iciness of the world around.

"It's time, Stag of Ours."

Briefly, he wondered if he would ever hear his name spoken again. He supposed not; all everybody knew was the ceremonial address, whispers of awe, slight fear—fear of what? Of the antlers? Of the frost-white magic that pulsed through his veins? Of the vessel he had been shaped into?

He wondered if they even knew his name, simple and unadorned, the one that belonged to the boy he used to be, called on by a soft voice and warm hands, and it was followed, then, with the loveliest of affection, a caress of skin and a whispered our little stag against his hair.

Another exhale as he watched the puff of air dissolve in front of him. It was meaningless now, like asking if snow were to ever melt before spring. He had long since learned that sentimentality was a luxury he could not afford.

For after all, he was not to falter, the cycle to be endured.

you. — high priestess-in-training.

Usually, there was distance between you for this ritual: just enough to sense the magic, to read the heartbeat of its existence, to monitor the twirl of living strands wrapping around his antlers, along the sharp lines of his face and the taut muscles of his shoulders, but especially around his chest where the heart of it all lay.

You barely even noticed that you had stepped closer than before; the tide of his power was restless and uneven, tugging on your own energy in a way that made you think of a child crying for its mother's attention.

The White Stag Incarnate turned slightly, noticing your approach, and his voice, dry and clipped, cut through the quiet. "I suppose your word isn't worth much if you've decided to come that close."

Your eyes lifted to meet his for a moment, ignoring the underlying accusation in his words, "I have to. It's behaving very strangely, even more so than before, and so I cannot feel it properly."

There was an unspoken question in there, and in an unspoken answer, he turned his head back to the window with movement that was so impossibly human and yet so utterly other.

Your hands lifted slowly, and even though you did not touch him fully, even though your fingertips only dipped into the currents, you still could not help but feel an itch to trace the lines of his shoulder instead of the faint shimmer of the Veil. To trace his arm, his throat, the elegance of his profile.

Standing on the opposite side of that was the gravity of the sacrifice, the enormity of what he embodied. It pressed against your chest like a living, beating thing, akin to the way your heart tried to speak out. You wanted to look away, to remind yourself that you were trained, that you were practical—but you couldn't.

"You're dimmer than yesterday," you said quietly, masking the way you watched the curve of his jaw, the almost glimmer of silver flashing through eyes as dark as the abyss when they caught the moonlight, and for a moment, you disliked noticing the slight furrow of his eyebrows.

A holy vessel, a tool, a sacred object—Stag of Ours, that was what he was. And your task was guiding him, monitoring him, ensuring the ritual unfolding as the elders intended, and yet, as you stepped closer, your conscience tangled with growing awareness.

He let out a faint, humourless scoff, "Perhaps you're reading me incorrectly."

"The failing is not mine," you straightened at the tone of his voice; your own soft and calm enough to still show respect, yet the words honed to make sure he knew that you took this as seriously as you took your life, "The Veil speaks plainly. One must only listen. You, however, refuse to."

Kiyoomi's eyes stayed on the window, stubborn and proud, unyielding even when his pulse flickered beneath the skin of his throat and the magic responded in likes.

You almost waited for him to look at you, but he didn't. Of course, he didn't. Pride was a lattice woven into him as tightly as a forest's roots were in its ground. The White Stag did not bow, neither to kings nor to priests, and so you were not surprised when he refused to rise to your bait.

So you shifted your stance and he inhaled, quiet, with his nostrils flaring for a moment. The rise of his chest was minute, and his fingers twitched as though to flex before falling still again.

You sighed, "You should let me work, Stag of Ours."

Kiyoomi's shoulders tensed; the faintest tightening beneath the dark fabric, and he turned his head just enough to catch you in the corner of his gaze, heated, "I am letting you."

Incense curled from the brass dish near the hearth—resinous and meant to calm the senses; the Order phrased it as a way to help steady the Veil, but its meaning had always been lost to you. The magic did not tame any better with myrrh than it did without. You had liked lighting it for the scent, a way to calm and steady yourself, if anything, but tonight it only made the air feel heavier an thicker, far from the serenity it usually gave you.

With fingers still hovering, you exhaled, measured. "You're lying. Badly. And I'd very much prefer you didn't."

He angled his chin slightly, the faintest tilt that spoke of both defiance and restraint, as if the accusation itself required pose. A line of muscle ran along his jaw, the subtle flare of his nostrils betraying the controlled frustration he refused to voice. The antlers above him caught the silver of the moonlight, shadows shifting along the delicate ridges as if the magic within him mirrored his posture.

You were sure that some part of him wanted to scoff, to dismiss you, and you wondered whether another part of him, a quiet and unwilling one, felt the prickling heat along his spine, the same one that your hand picked up.

"You're very bold tonight," he ended up murmuring.

"And you are very faint tonight. I think boldness seems necessary when the Stag Incarnate sitting in front of me is even duller than the lamps out in the hall—and those have already been turned down to a minimal glow," your voice lost a bit of its barely concealed heat, "You know it and I do."

It was hard to miss the dark circles beneath his eyes, deeper than usual, etched like shadows that refused to be brushed away, and the rigidness of his shoulders, fearful to betray the weight he bore.

Heat rose in your chest, though not in the way one might expect from proximity to a man—nay, to the stag. It was the anxiety of duty, the urgent awareness that if you misread even a single strand of magic, the consequences could ripple far beyond this chamber—for this creature was the axis on which the world turned.

His jaw flexed, a concession. "I felt it last this morning."

"You should have said something, Vessel. I know I'm only permitted to help in the evening, but I could have at least come to help in some capacity. You should trust me enough for that, at least."

"I do." —but the words escaped him so quickly, so flat, it was difficult to believe he meant them.

Your lips pressed together, "No, you do not."

Wondering whether it was wise to step even closer, you did so anyway, enough that the cold of the chamber seemed to retreat from the space between you—or lack thereof. The room felt smaller when you stood almost chest to shoulder, the walls heavy with history and expectation as they seemed to crowd you.

It struck you then how young he looked in moments like this, despite the antlers and the high-collared robes; despite the way his ears grew longer and sharp-tipped with each passing month; despite the way his nails grew darker in colour; despite all that made him out to be something—someone—other than a worn blade.

Your chest tightened. This was what the Order had warned against, what they said would blur judgment and weaken resolve, but the court also slept soundly outside these walls, secure in their belief that the White Stag stood vigilant and whole.

"Being silent like that, keeping such a tight grip on the Veil," you continued, pressing a fingertip closer, feeling it dent beneath your touch, the way it reacted and wanted to wrap around your hand but was held back, "Do you think that allows me to do anything? Trust means you have to surrender at least this part of yours so I can do my best to help you regulate. Not choke it so tight that I have to exhaust myself just to pry it from your grip."

A small, almost imperceptible shiver ran through you when you felt the magic grew flatter, and you forced yourself to speak, "You cannot bear it all alone, and neither should you. Allow me to share it, if only a fraction."

Kiyoomi didn't look at you when his mouth parted and he exhaled shallowly. If he had, you might have seen a flicker of something unsettled pass through his eyes. With a lifted chin, he spoke evenly.

"You know as well as I do that I would be a fool to offer it so freely—to anyone."

"You'd be a bigger fool not to," you said, "Stag of Ours."

The air cooled almost immediately, and a small, flickering fear tugged at your mind: had you overstepped? Had speaking more directly altered the delicate balance you were meant to maintain?

The existence of that fear coiling around your heart displeased you incredibly; the thought was absurd. If anyone had the right to speak plainly to him, it was supposed to be you; you, who had spent years upon years studying, whose life was an amalgamation of all the hours spent bent over scripture and crouched over nodes of wild Veil.

You had, just as him, been raised for this.

Still, the silence that followed your words were stretched thin; and still, you forced yourself to inhale, slow and steady, and to focus on the man before you as a Vessel first, and only secondarily as a presence that lured you in ways you didn't yet understand. The warning of responsibility and the thrill of proximity collided in your chest, and you had to lean into the desperate plea of the Veil to remind yourself.

"I'm not asking you to yield your will," you said, and as the words left your mouth, you wondered if that distinction mattered to him at all. Whether, to someone like the Stag Incarnate who knew nothing else but obedience dressed as honour, will and control had ever been truly separate things.

You watched his posture tighten almost imperceptibly, as though your words had brushed against something old and reflexive instilled inside him. Did it bother him, you wondered, that you spoke to him as if he were allowed to choose?

"Just that you stop resisting so much, that you stop fighting me every time I try to help. Whatever is stirring around you—" you hesitated, choosing your words with care, "—it's… I can feel it pulling you in different directions, and I can feel you not knowing what to do with it."

One heartbeat, two heartbeats, and then he spoke. "And what do you require of me, then?"

The question landed between you like an offering and a test all at once—however briefly, allowing you the possibility to guide him, and so you honoured it properly, "Alignment. That's a good start."

His brow furrowed slightly, just enough to betray that he was considering it rather than dismissing it outright. "With what?"

You almost smiled, but only almost. There was something quietly earnest in the way he asked. "With truth would be best, but that's not to mistake it with whatever you've been taught. It has to be yours, the one truth that you actually believe in."

He almost grimaced, but only almost. Watching him, you did wonder how his elegant face would look like all scrunched up, all drawn in anger, all smoothed out in peace, all blinding with laughter. How would his face look like on the sacrificial altar? Would his eyebrows furrow the same way, would his fingers yearn to curve and form a fist? Would he finally know peace?

"You're asking a great deal."

"And yet," you said, "I am asking."

Another pause stretched between you both—thoughtful in its nature, and you were content waiting on him, content in holding still and watch the strands of magic yield more with each passing second.

"It's not…easy," he admitted at last, quieter now and you thought that nobody's voice sounded lovelier than the White Stag's, "Habits like this don't loosen kindly. My apologies."

Then, as though to deflect, his brow lifted a fraction, "I'll try to relax. However, what exactly—my antlers?"

"Your spirit, Stag of Ours."

His mouth curved faintly, and a huff escaped him, strange and unfamiliar, something close to a laugh as his shoulders eased by a fraction, "Ah, yes. Slightly more difficult."

shirofuku yukie. — priestess-in-training.

It used to be boring.

Now, Yukie had learned, very quickly, that nothing excited people more than when someone important just up and disappeared—as morbid as that was. It seemed that every corridor she turned to had opinions now, apprentices couldn't stop whispering.

The other elders had not announced anything. That was kind of new—usually, departures were doused in ceremony and blessed by the Veil, everything to make sure that every event could be used as an opportunity to teach.

Something about this disappearance especially, though, carried a certain kind of silence that felt ominous with the way there had been no talk of it, and naturally, that everyone noticed.

Yukie noticed most of all how efficient the sanctuaries had become, or rather than efficient, it became shorter over all. The morning convention ended faster, the joint rites no longer were stalled on any ethical clarifications, and—with Elder Gimorea taking over—even the teachings about the Veil shifted. Maybe she was only imagining it, maybe it actually was something to note, but even the amount of questions the new apprentices had was fewer.

It was really only an accident that she found herself in front of Elder Chiharu's old study again, with the door sealed and the old sigils broken.

It took Yukie a full five seconds to decide whether this was a terrible idea.

Then she shrugged, pushed the door open, and slipped inside.

The study smelt like dust and old ink and the particular scent of old people. It didn't look like Elder Chiharu had packed—was she still to be called Elder? Did this count as deserting?…was the Order something to desert?—or rather, she had packed selectively. The shelves were uneven now, some cleared with care, but others left crowded and disordered, as though you had walked mid-thought.

The well-worn chair sat slightly askew at the desk, one leg caught on the rug as though it was frozen in the middle of being stood from.

"Subtle," Yukie muttered, closing the door behind her.

She sat her satchel down and immediately rummaged through it, producing a wrapped bun and a handful of dried fruit. If she was going to commit a quiet transgression, she might as well be comfortable about it.

Perched on the edge of the desk, crumbs already threatening the sanctity of the workspace, she began to look through the nearest stack of papers; a casual irreverence in her behaviour, nothing was really that interesting.

Well, at first, it wasn't.

It was notes on the flow of the Veil—and she knew that it was already declining—marginalia that had her arguing with herself, diagrams that looked like circles arguing with other circles: it seemed that Elder Chiharu truly did love her arguing. Her handwriting grew messier the further down the pile Yukie went, less careful and more urgent; words like equilibrium, and asymmetrical draw were repeated often enough that it almost felt like a warning.

Yukie squinted, chewing thoughtfully. "Wow," she said to herself, "You really were not having a good time."

When she looked up, her eyes roaming over the rest of the desk, the edges of a ledger peeking out caught her attention. There was nothing special about how it looked, other than it was thinner than the others, bound in faded leather and—tucked beneath a false bottom in one of the drawers: badly hidden, honestly, which offended Yukie on principle.

She flipped it open with one hand, still holding her snack in the other, eyes skimming rows and columns that looked painfully dull.

Bloodlines, cycles, contributions, losses, same old, same old.

She followed one of the column idly, not really reading, just letting her eyes drift in the same way they used to do when the lectures were going on for way too long. The names blurred together, some of them from famous houses she had learned of throughout the years, and others without titles.

When—

Yukie froze, snack halfway to her mouth. She blinked, read it again, then leaned closer as though her eyes would suddenly focus properly and proximity might change the ink sitting in front of her.

"What…?"

Her stomach sank in the same way the waterlogged leaves did, slow and without much hurry. Your name sat there without any ornament and explanation, nestled amongst so many other variables, like a footnote sat there and forgotten. Her hand slowly lowered, appetite gone; and it was weird how a single realisation could make the study feel so different: now it was smaller, almost tighter as though the walls were slowly tightening.

Absentmindedly, she closed the book and, this time, read the title of the entries properly:

On the Continuance of Blessed Bloodlines.

you. — high priestess-in-training.

The carriage slowed with a gentle lurch, wheels crunching over the gravel. You felt the motion pull you forward just enough that you steadied yourself with one gloved hand against the door. Outside, the mansion rose pale and broad with many windows, banners hanging heavy on either side of the massive doors.

Across from you, Kiyoomi moved to dismount, and the nearness of him caught your breath in a way that you hadn't yet learned to anticipate. In the brighter light filtering through the carriage window, much different to the nightly visits within his chamber, the changes of his being were impossible to ignore.

The antlers, as imposing as ever, were not left uncovered for travel: a drape of fine linen with silk threads woven through was wrapped carefully at their base, drawn upward in meticulous soft folds. It didn't pad nor obscure their shape; the branching silhouette—and the growth of them in the last few weeks—remained unmistakable.

Sigils were embroidered along the length; its thread only a hair darker than the fabric itself, and years of studying had you recognise them at once: binding glyphs and old prayers for protection, and in the middle of it, unmissable, was the sigil of the Sakusas: a crescent moon cradling a single oak sapling. Kiyoomi wore it for protection, but it was almost laughable how bridal it looked in its formality, and how almost funereal it was in its intent.

Underneath the band, dark curls framed his face and, unable to cover it any longer, also his ears.

They were tapering slightly now, soft with a fine peach-coloured down that caught the light when he turned his head, the twinkle of his earrings not far behind, and beneath the dark curls, there were pale spots to be found, tracing the line of his hair, faint and almost delicate, like the ghost of a fawn's markings refusing to fade.

Each detail felt like a quiet tolling bell. He was becoming more—nay, closer to what he embodied; less symbolic and more literal by the day. The White Stag was no longer just a title.

The footman opened the carriage door, and cold air rushed in, sharp with the scent of pines and frozen earth. You stepped down first, boots sinking onto stones, grinding together to welcome you. Behind you, Kiyoomi followed.

You were acutely aware of him at your back, of the way his presence alone called all the residue towards him, like iron filings to a lodestone, and even though the servants did not know what was happening nor how, the slight shift in the air was unmistakable: as though for a singular moment, the world stopped spinning around its own axis and instead dedicated its craft to Kiyoomi.

He came to stand beside you, posture immaculate and his expression set into that, by now, familiar reserve; you had watched him enough now, though, to notice the slight bulging of his jaw as his muscles worked to accommodate the press of his teeth, the slight narrowing of his eyes when to welcome him into this mansion was… no one.

There was displeasure within the own set line of your mouth.

It was the tenth day of a new lunar cycle, which—to all who occupied the lands of this realm—generations upon generations had come to know as the Day of Sacred Continuity and Shared Grace, or, as you had learned from the lower court: Continuance Day. A softer name, almost comforting—definitely shorter as it was yelled across the market places beyond the estate.

It was no secret what that day entailed, that offerings of any form were to find their way into the hosting court of the White Stag, and it was equally no secret at all that Sakusa Kiyoomi would make his way to each of the Houses for a personal visit; a blessing upon the household.

You turned your head slightly and addressed one of the court attendants who had accompanied you—young and nervous to be standing in the presence of the White Stag, his eyes shifting ever so slightly to Kiyoomi with wonder and veneration.

"Go on," you were careful to keep an upbeat lift within the folds of your voice, almost a smile, but not just to calm him down, "Let them know the Stag Incarnate is ready to be received."

The attendant, with his hands clasped tightly to his sides, nodded, startled to be spoken to, and hurried up the great steps to knock. The thump against the dark wood echoed over the plaza for a second, with silence ringing in the aftermath. It was almost uncomfortable to be waiting, but Kiyoomi did not shrink beneath the attempted humiliation, and so you, too, waited patiently.

"I assume this is not your first time," came his voice, quiet, and you couldn't help but glance at him, surprised by his attempt to talk when the carriage ride over had not included a single uttered syllable. His voice was even, but there was something brittle under it, stretched thin by repetition.

"It is, Stag of Ours," you disagreed and one of his elegant eyebrows lifted slightly, "but I find myself to be a fast learner."

A corner of his mouth twitched; not quite a smile, not quite a grimace. "So it seems. Lucky you."

The words were slightly dry, a certain hint of bitterness caught in them the same way cardamom always found its way to the surface of black tea, no matter how many leaves blocked its way. You followed his gaze to the mansion again and the doors opening in a rush of movement and murmured orders, servants of House Shirakawa spilling out first as though conjured all at once.

Behind them came the lord of the house himself, richly dressed, breathless, with a wide and apologetic smile, and amongst the fray, the near-silent words of Kiyoomi's, "They'll always say it's hope, and that my presence reminds them that things are still working as was intended."

"And you don't believe that?"

"I believe," he said, after a small pause, watching Lord Shirakawa Yoshinori hurry over, "that they sleep better knowing I exist. I don't think that's the same thing."

There was no time to answer before the man arrived with wide-spread arms, but your gaze lingered on him for a moment more, long enough for his words to settle in the alcove between your ribs.

You might have answered; you might have told him that hope, even if it was thin and selfish and poorly reasoned, was still a kind of threat to cling to because it was one of the last things to die. Or you might have told him that he was wrong, that his presence did more than help them sleep, that it shaped the seasons of their lives in ways they could not articulate but felt all the same.

You didn't know which would have been kinder, or whether that was something he wanted at all.

Instead, you almost wished for something simpler and stupider: that you could take that bitterness from him outright. That you could shoulder the strain of the Veil each night the way he did, absorb it into yourself until it dulled. It was an absurd thought—presumptuous, even—but it came unbidden and sharp with sincerity.

But then the moment passed and Lord Yoshinori reached you at last.

"Stag of Ours—Your Grace—" he bowed low, much in the same way he would to the king of this country, and Kiyoomi's lips thinned at the title that did not belong to him, "A thousand pardons. What an unforgivable oversight! We were under the impression, ah, that your arrival would be announced within the hour."

You smiled at him, tight-lipped; an inclination of your head following, and Kiyoomi, too, regarded him with a nod, just barely—a gesture void of warmth, but nonetheless, at the very least an acknowledgement.

"It's of no matter."

He exhaled in visible relief, shoulders dropping as though a weight had lifted, seizing upon the forgiveness eagerly, "Of course, of course. We are honoured beyond words by your presence, Stag of Ours. Everything has been prepared, of course: the chambers, a place for you to rest after your journey, the tithe—"

Your eyes met as he spoke, and there was a small budding of satisfaction when his smile faltered for half a heartbeat.

"We wouldn't wish to keep the White Stag standing. It's been a long journey, indeed."

"Indeed. Yes. Please, please."

He gestured towards one of his very own servants, and as you crossed the threshold, you felt a stare dig into your back, and without turning it back, knew it to belong to Yoshinori. A move was made, publicly so. You, as the White Stag's retinue, had answered, publicly so. Whatever offerings awaited you within would be generous—publicly so, you had ensured that.

A small victory, then.

The inside was curated carefully and stood in contrast to the cold exterior; the foyer stretched high, the ceiling even higher as it arched in graceful curves, polished to a gleam that reflected the light of the hanging crystal lanterns. Every surface was immaculately cleaned; the floor swept to a sheen, the tapestries on the walls colourful and without a speck of dirt.

Even the air smelt faintly of a sweet mixture of herbs, meant to overshadow the unpleasant smell of polish still floating around. Servants were moving in a fluid stream, soft shuffling of feet, the gentle clink of silver.

It was all meant to impress, to remind visitors—whether peasant or dignitaries—of who was in control, though not just in wealth, but also in image: who can appear the most effortless? Who would be able to find the slightest mistake in posture or gesture?

It was a game to play with much to lose and a status quo to gain.

You denied yourself a look towards Kiyoomi; you had been serving him for a few months now and had found him exceedingly disinterested in any type of politics. It was moreso his father who jumped at the opportunity to sweet talk any emissaries and guests who visited the White Stag for even the smallest of blessings.

Truthfully, it wasn't your forte, nor had you any particular interest in doing so, but his well being and the continuation of the cycle was your duty, and if it needed adapting, then you would be damned if it failed because of you. And so you accompanied him to collect the tithes, and held an eye out for anything that could undermine Sakusa Kiyoomi.

The silk threads within the linen covering caught the light when he stepped into the great hall, faintly glimmering along the embroidery, and the servants froze almost imperceptibly, their murmured instructions trailing off; their eyes flicked to him, then quickly down, as if fearing to meet the gaze of someone who carried the reincarnation of the Veil within every line of his body.

You fell into step beside him, hand brushing the edge of your cloak against the floor, and noted how the lord of the house moved rather swiftly to intercept Kiyoomi at the foot of the grand staircase, gesturing towards the tables that had been prepared in the side chambers, laden with delicate offerings, fruits carved up into masterpieces, and small gemstones arranged to catch the lantern light amidst treasures upon treasures.

Kiyoomi's eyes scanned the room, deliberate in its speed—or lack thereof. There was no nodding, no smiling, only the faintest lift of an eyebrow signalling some acknowledgement, and you could almost feel the rustling of the servants' movements intensify, the slight quickening of their steps as they tried to ensure that nothing would offend and that nothing would be too casual.

He approached the central table where the offerings had been arrayed, and faintly, you could feel the Veil stirring right there, and if you could feel it, he definitely could. His expression remained unreadable, a mask perfected over the years of protocol, yet— there—the tension in his shoulders, the barely perceptible flex of his fingers hinted at not fear, exactly, not anger either, but something more akin like an acute awareness.

There was an almost strange look in his eyes as he regarded the table, and when he shifted minimally, his earrings caught the light like a beacon, green sapphire twinkling.

"I hope the arrangements are satisfactory," Yoshinori said, hands held just so like he was going to bow any second, "It is, of course, the highest honour—"

His words trailed off as you deliberately reached out and adjusted a ribbon on one of the offerings; followed by a slide chiding in the way he straightened up as you ensured the display met the subtle expectation Kiyoomi demanded of them, and for a short moment, the mask on Yoshinori almost crumbled.

When you settled back, his cloak brushed against your hand. The closeness was nothing you hadn't experienced before, nothing you wouldn't continue experiencing in the future, and yet the soft velvet brushing against your skin and the sudden awareness that he was the White Stag standing next to you had your head swimming for a moment.

There was a bowstring between you both, the Veil like a living, charged thing as Kiyoomi's voice, precise and almost a little bored sounding, rang out, "Enough. They have been received."

The lord of the house bowed low, almost prostrate, yet Kiyoomi's tolerance was little. There was nothing to be surprised about, not when it was clear that he recognised the gesture for what it was—just a performance to preserve appearances, nothing more.

sakusa kiyoomi. — stag incarnate.

Finding Veil nodes was no hard feat; even his old Veilkeeper could with a little bit of training, and so Kiyoomi expected no different from you.

Finding exhausted Veil nodes proved to be even easier; any commoner would find them even if there was no active attempt to search for them. Such a depleted node was unfailingly surrounded by a forest that looked wrong—the trees leaned at odd angles, as though tilted to accommodate the pull inwards whilst their bark lost colour until it resembled the surrounding snow; even the branches were scarred and knotted. Kiyoomi would not be surprised if even that turned out to be a punishment—a consequence for daring to grow whilst the Veil struggled so.

Even the soil felt cautious beneath his boots, soft and hesitant.

"Do you feel it?"

The Veil residue stirred, faint vibrations that he tracked with his eyes, slightly swaying the branches despite the tree's own stillness. His eyes narrowed at the distortions that rippled from the base, and his antlers tingled, hums dancing along their length until he felt the tremor in the back of his teeth.

He hated the sensation, hated how it made him feel exposed, yet he could not look away. "Yes."

You lowered yourself into the snow without hesitation, the hem of your thick cloak darkening slowly as the wool drank in the meltwater pooling at the base of the tree, where the vibration was strongest. Your knees pressed into the ice as though discomfort hadn't even thought to enter your mind.

After all that he had seen of you, he was not surprised—he wouldn't be surprised. Finding himself thinking of how you had spoken then, how you had read the silence of the doors and acted without being told, he saw the same determination and certainty now as you tended to the node. Your hands were steady as you painted a sigil into the air and the veil followed quietly to accompany your scripture.

He approved of that more than he was comfortable admitting, and he hadn't thanked you. Had that been your responsibility? Had you worked within the orders his father gave you?

Part of him wanted to catalogue the scene in front of him the way he always did; the same part that watched you like he watched everything else: any assessment of flaws, danger, for the moment where something would go wrong and needed correction.

He found the other part of him to be quieter, more treacherous.

Because that part watched the way you bowed yourself towards that duty; watched your attention that held none of the reverence, devotion without hunger for more; watched you glance back at him, brief and like it was another instinct, as though you had to ensure he was still around, still without wounds.

It was rather unsettling.

Kiyoomi felt it again; the familiar pressure building behind his eyes, a slight ringing in his skull as your fingers collected the dewy drops of the veil that was strewn around the node, and his jaw tightened. He refused to move, refused to give the sensation the satisfaction of a reaction, yet a moment later, his breath came a fraction deeper without his permission; relief worming itself down his throat into his chest, lodging itself uncomfortably between the folds of his lungs.

His former Veilkeeper had not your expertise nor your understanding of how to entice the Veil to listen, and he found the strain easing in small increments in response to your work almost insulting.

He had always been taught to endure and to be self-sufficient no matter how much was taken from him. Watching you draw the Veil out with such care made something in him recoil—because need was a liability—and lean forward—because for once the burden was handled as if it belonged to him, and not the symbol that he was. How incredibly humorous it was that all his efforts accumulated could only get him to stay still, in perpetual disarray, in complete uncertainty.

His throat ached with a fatigue so deep, it bordered on longing. For an instant—only an instant—he imagined what it would be like to sink into the snow beside you and let the world blur, to disappear into the quiet wrongness of the forest and not be required to stand immaculate and whole.

Kiyoomi, Stag Incarnate, swallowed the notion down.

Whatever this was—this care, this closeness—it was not something he could afford; and yet he remained where he was, eyes fixed on your hands, waiting for the moment you would turn to him and ask him to receive what you had gathered.

The quivering bud of magic within your hands smelt faintly of rain and something floral, impossible to name but intoxicating all the same. It was a shimmer of air, a visible field of power hovering, drawn together almost like translucent snowflakes. You rose from the snow, knees stiff, and for a moment, Kiyoomi thought you would stop there, maintain the distance his former veilkeeper always had.

You did not, and Kiyoomi did not know why he thought you would.

You stepped closer, one step after the other, until the space between you narrowed; and the veil responded like it wanted this. The anticipatory hum—not painful just yet, just weirdly and uncomfortably… pleasant—sharpened, resonating as though an invisible hand struck the air, and he stiffened despite himself.

"That's enough," he bit out, sharper than intended and yet not sharp enough, "You can release it from there."

You stilled, but the Veil remained suspended between your palms, trembling faintly. Your brows drew together, irritation flickering across your face before you reined it in with visible effort. It was an expression he had never once seen directed at him, and the novelty of it struck deeper than it should have.

"I am not going to give this to you and step away," you said, and your voice sounded controlled, but the restraint sat tight against your words, straining, "I know it used to be different, and I know you were taught to take it in alone, but—"

He felt it keenly, your anger. It was aimed nowhere near him and yet entirely because of him.

"You said that you would allow me to help. That night. You—" Breath catching as though you nearly stepped too far, and your fingers tightened minutely around the gathered magic, "You said you would trust me. You're not meant to bear it alone, Stag of Ours."

Kiyoomi had borne it alone for so long that the idea of not doing so felt almost irresponsible.

"You misunderstand," he said, reflexive and cold, "I am capable."

Your gaze did not waver from his, and somehow that was worse than if you had looked away. "I know."

Before he could object, you had taken a step closer again—still not enough to touch, you did not presume that, you made sure he knew that; but enough that his words were reflected in your eyes. He had indeed agreed to trust you, and it had seemed manageable then, but abstract concepts were always easy to accept when it had not needed any action yet.

The hum threaded down his spine, and accompanying it was a deceitful warmth—the awareness of your proximity, worked raw by commitment, eyes bright with something fierce and unrelenting that had nothing to do with duty to the Stag and everything to do with him.

Something in his chest pulled painfully inward. He should have denied you again, should have stepped back, reasserted the distance that had always kept him intact. Instead, he looked at you and the thought came unbidden, unwelcome, and utterly destabilising.

Beautiful.

His breath left him in a slow exhale. He hated that he wanted to yield, hated that a part of him was already reaching. "Fine."

For a heartbeat you only watched him, as though weighing whether he truly meant it. Then you nodded once, and raised your hands until the shimmer hovered between them, close enough that the distortion kissed the air at his chest.

"I will guide it, alright?" you repeated, quiet, so quietly it felt like it was meant only for him.

When you spoke the incantations that you had learned, guiding the Veil back into its vessel, the hum along his antlers deepened, resonant, thrumming through his skull until his vision edged onto darkness, but it was your low and steady voice that gave him direction, flowing upwards, coiling lightly around his antlers in a gentle embrace whilst the rest seeped through his chest with a wonderful and terrifying heat.

He couldn't look away from your eyes; unbearable and anchoring, and though every instinct in his body told him that yielding would not destroy him, he knew it might just undo him entirely, and he could not deny its lure. When his gloved hand lifted—unthinking—to steady himself as his chest seemed to expand from the inside, your fingers closed over his wrist, warm and insistent, a tether that sent a shiver up his arm, a silent stay.

The pressure was light, almost a whisper of touch, and he noticed the faint scent of forest cling to you.

Kiyoomi felt like he could breathe again when the shimmer thinned and dissipated like mist under the sun, and he stood there, his chest rising and falling with an easiness he had never experienced with anyone else, warm against the cold kiss of the winter.

you. — high priestess-in-training.

Back in Yoshinori's estate, the night has fully enveloped the world; your return just as quiet, marked only by the icy crunch of the gravel underneath your feet.

As you were shown to your chambers, you walked beside him, hands lightly clasped in front of you, once again feeling the slight brush of his sleeve as you passed between the servants still lingering in the hall.

You caught the faintest scent of him: a clean, sharp tang that made your pulse shift in a way you could scarcely explain. Fingers itching to adjust the silk covering of his antlers, to make sure nothing disturbed the protection sigils and the embroidery, and yet you hesitated. The smallest touch would be noticed, so you let your hand hover a fraction too close to his arm, feeling the warmth radiate subtly from him.

He did not move away; he did not flinch.

Though, at the end of the long hallway—to your surprise and to Kiyoomi's—you were met not with two rooms but a singular one. The pause that followed was brief—you had never shared a bedroom before, not like this—but with the leering of the servants around you, a shared glance was the only thing you could do, and so you accepted it as though it was merely an extension of your responsibilities as the White Stag's Veilkeeper.

Inside the room, it was there that his restraint had finally slipped. He exhaled, long and heavy, his shoulders sagging as though he had been carrying the weight of the day upon his back alone. His face tightening with displeasure, a crease forming between his brows, and he reached up instinctively—then stopped himself, hand hovering uselessly near the bindings that secured the covering around his antlers.

"I had almost forgotten how much I dislike those," he muttered, not quite directed towards you, but like an admission to the open air.

You lingered near the threshold, watching him. "I can help you remove it, if you wish." Then, after a small pause, gentler, "It may be easier for you to rest."

He hesitated, the muscle of his jaw jumping, before he nodded once, "Very well."

Kiyoomi's back was straight as he sat in front of you; the material of his deep navy blue robe hugging his shoulders tight, throat covered and hands balled into fists on his knees. The chair beneath him looked almost too small for the way he held himself, and you wished for a second that he would not think that any slack might invite something unwanted.

There was a low glow from the fireplace, the heavy curtains drawn and the world narrowed to the space between the two of you. Here, away from the unfamiliarity and strangeness of the mansion you resided in, away from the watchers and the choreography of the court, it almost felt warm; amongst the rejuvenation of the veil, it pressed gently at your skin.

Your fingers brushed the edge of the silk wrapping at the base of his antlers, careful not to startle; it was fine material and warm from the heat thrumming around the bone. Loosening the fastening at the base first, the silk almost sighed as it gave way, slipping a fraction—here, like this, it felt different than it had in the forest. In this room, there was no darkness and no cold to worm itself between you; here, in this room, there was only him and the quiet, the soft scrape of fabric and the awareness of how close you stood next to him.

You were struck, briefly, by the trust of his back to you and the way he had finally given in; by the vulnerability of allowing himself to be handled this way, and when you shifted, the furrow of his brow greeted you, and his shoulders, though still squared, seemingly drawn inward.

You let your hands still against the silk. "Something is bothering you."

For a moment, he did not answer until a scoff sounded out, "For the moment, only the small matter of being paraded and told—implicitly—that I should be grateful for all of it."

"If that sounds uncharitable," he added with a shift, the movement stiff, "it is because the day has been very thorough in exhausting whatever charity I had prepared for it."

You kept quiet, did not push him; only watched the way he inhaled and exhaled with some kind of indecision. When he spoke again, this time not just to let out his grievances, but especially the truth budding in his chest, his voice sounded strained, as though he wasn't satisfied with the way the words rolled off his tongue despite choosing them with care.

"Are you aware of what they are asking of you?"

It was not difficult to infer who they were in the midst of this room that they had put you both in, and understanding settled between you with inevitability as heavy as a snowfall that the sky had been threatening for days.

Your fingers hesitated only briefly before resuming their careful task, easing the embroidered silk back another inch. "Yes. And I also know it of you."

The words felt steadier spoken aloud than they had sounded in your thoughts; saying them made the truth unavoidable now. You hadn't come here blind nor you had not been deceived.

Your thumb brushed the base of one antler as you manoeuvred the fabric around one branch, careful not to startle him, and you could see his knuckles turning white.

"I won't let it be empty," you said, softer still, as though the promise was meant to convince him, "Stag of Ours."

His eyelashes fluttered close for a moment, and you wondered what he thought of when he heard that title, whether he liked it; the way he closed his sight like he could not meet that honour head on—was it that he did not think he deserved it?

You couldn't help but wonder if being revered from birth had hollowed that word out, turned it into an expectation so constant that it left no room for refusal, no space to fail or to want.

You thought of the Order of the Veil, and found a bitter taste spreading within your mouth.

"And if I don't want it at all?"

"Then I will stand between you and whoever brings you this displeasure."

It was strange how right these words felt.

Even stranger still, the idea of standing between him and his father—between him and the Order; it was nothing you had been trained for. Your vows were careful things, and yet, when you imagined stepping aside and allowing his discomfort to be deemed acceptable, something in you went cold.

Quietly, almost to himself, "How very peculiar."

"What is?"

He inclined his head to help you with his antlers, bringing him closer into your space as the curve of the bone passed beneath your hands. They were warm beneath your fingers, alive,and when he tilted his head further, his temple brushed your knuckled by accident.

Kiyoomi didn't move to correct it and neither did you. It was a brief contact, almost nothing, yet it settled between you with an unexpected weight. He exhaled in a huff, almost disturbed, almost bitter, "Do you think you have a choice?"

You swallowed, then named it aloud for the first time. "About the… marriage?"

Saying it almost brought a flush to your cheeks. You had known it was happening; had been directed once within the stone chamber of the Order and another within the lush hall of Lord Sakusa, and each time, it was something unfeeling, something that existed to serve.

That had not changed, and yet, underneath the command was a question; and it was with a quick prayer that you thanked the Veil that you were not looking into Kiyoomi's face. Seeing his jaw clench from the side, the muscle bulging briefly beneath his pale skin was enough to avert your eyes.

"Do you resent it."

Did it matter that you said the truth if it coincided with the doctrine of the Order?

"No. But I don't want to approach you as an obligation. Or—" you swallowed; throat dry, so dry, "Or be one to you."

His shoulders lifted a fraction beneath the robe, and his voice was rough, lower than usual, like he was fraying when otherwise he had always been so pristine and perfect, and it was thrilling; this dissonance between the etherealness that was so prominent within the antler in your hand and the humanity that peeked its head through.

"If you came to me only because you were told to," knuckles whitening on his knees like they wanted to grasp at something, he bit this out with no real sharpness coating the words, "I would endure it."

A heartbeat of silence save the soft crackle of the fire, the space where something more true pressed to be said, "But I would rather you didn't."

You had removed the covering fully, yet your own knuckles stayed next to his temple, your fingers still brushing up against his curls and they almost seemed to travel of their own accord, grazing the long, sensitive ears beneath, tracing down to the earrings he always wore. They felt spirited, pulsating like they were their own little world, and absentmindedly, in the back of your head—had they always been this big?

"I—it's true that I was sent here on an order," you started carefully, watching the way his ear twitched underneath the kiss of your fingertips and the way his shoulders rose with deep breaths, and something within you came alive at that, "To make sure everything is going as it's supposed to, that was—is the shape of it at the start. I think it would be even more dishonest to deny it. But…"

Could you admit that? Could you be so bold?

"… but wanting to make this easier for you—that wasn't commanded of me, not like this. And yet…"

And yet.

From where you stood, you could only make out faint movement. His shoulders—that were held in that rigid, ceremonial line—eased by the smallest degree, before he turned his head slightly, enough that you could see the edge of his profile, the long line of his jaw, the tension there softening into something uncertain, torn.

The flutter of his eyelids as his gaze dropped down felt like you were allowed closer to something private, and you hoped he was weighing the sincerity in your words with the same seriousness he gave to his own duty.

Then his eyes lifted and they met yours.

"And yet I find myself unable to ignore you."

Unreadable before, it seemed like his antlers were not the only things suddenly uncovered to you—what were those emotions that flickered inside his dark eyes?

It looked like restraint, though you could not name it cleanly; surprise, perhaps, threaded with caution and suspicion, old and well-worn, a wary attention that had not been there before, and there, for a second, beneath all of it, quieter still, something that almost looked like relief, so very thin and tentative.

"See, that sentiment troubles me," his voice remained even, yet to your ears, it still sounded tight; his eyes still on yours, "Everyone who wants to stand near me eventually wants something from it."

The words, as heavy as the accusation sounded like, were not aimed at you so much as laid bare between you both, and you felt, suddenly, how long he must have carried it—this certainty that every bit of attention was transactional.

"And you think I'm no different."

"I think," he said, "that you are very good at many things." There was a pause, not unkind inherently, "And I don't yet know what that means for me."

Was what unsettled him the possibility that you wanted something from him, or was it that he did not yet know how to protect himself if you did not? It would have been easy to say I want nothing, but that felt like a lie as well. There were many things that you wanted: clarity, perhaps, so that the rules between you both would stop shifting underfoot; time so that you could learn the shapes of his silences.

You wanted him to suffer less; you wanted the veil to hold, for the rites to work, the world to remain intact long enough that your choices wouldn't be rendered meaningless.

None of it was nothing; none of it was asking for nothing of him in return.

"I think that you are allowed to ask that. Of me." Your thumb on the base of his antlers traced an unconscious, grounding circle, then stilled again, "And I think it would be cruel to answer you before I understand it myself."

He let out a breath through his nose, quiet, almost wry. "You speak as though I have time enough to give freely. I don't know if I'm generous with things that I am still counting, Priestess."

Your fingers trailed down from the smooth curve of his antlers, hesitant but insistent, until the pads of your hands hovered right next to his cheek. The warmth of his skin was startling, so close and so alive, and you could feel the subtle shift of his posture beneath your touch, the barely perceptible lean towards you before he froze.

Breath held as his dark eyes caught yours, and your chest tightened. There was something precarious in the way he studied you.

"Then don't give it freely," slipped from you, almost stubbornly and entirely dumbfoundedly out of place, and maybe it was how intimate the chamber given to you by Yoshinori was; maybe it was because you stood so close to him that you could smell him, you didn't know. All you knew was that your thumb had a life of its own, brushing along the edge of his jaw, just grazing, just enough to support the weight of your words.

He startled; a tiny twitch of his ears, and his shoulders moved, though not away from you, but into the space you offered, and for a brief, suspended moment, you wondered if he even realised how close he had let you come. Your hand rested lightly against the curve of his cheek, the slow cadence of his breath beneath your palm calming the beat of your own heart.

Then, a whisper; a low and dry sound, with a strange warmth hidden within his voice's folds. "So very reckless."

shirakawa yoshinori. — lord.

Lord Yoshinori paced the high-ceiling study, the candlelight flickering across the intricate tapestries lining the walls. It almost gave it the illusion of movement, as though the depiction of hedonism were to come alive any second—not that Yoshinori minded at all. If anything, he would join the fray.

Outside, the clatter of servants starting to settle for the night carried through the corridors, and he stopped his endless back and forth to sip at a cup of dark, bitter tea, and his eyes traced the steam curling up—though his mind was far from the warmth.

His orchestration had gone slightly awry; he had not expected there to be another veilkeeper amidst the Stag's retinue and Lord Sakusa—conveniently maybe?—had forgotten to mention it. That that priestess had played this game for the Stag had not gone unnoticed, and albeit his own unfortunate deference, Yoshinori found a perverse pleasure in the knowledge that even Gayoku would be forced to hear of it and acknowledge the priestess' influence—something the elder man would not find easy to dismiss.

A soft knock drew his attention.

"Enter," he called, and a wiry man with a hawkish nose and eyes like a crow's stepped inside, bowing low.

"Lord Yoshinori," the man murmured, a thin voice echoing through the room, "Here to deliver my observations as requested."

A sharp sound rung out as Yoshinori hurried to set down his cup, and his hands eagerly found the other, kneading the flesh, "Proceed, good man. Out with it!"

"As correctly assumed, my Lord," his very own spy began, "they did indeed visit the nodes in the western part of the forest, though they have not gone to see the eastern yet. Master Kiyoomi seemed rather exhausted so they headed back, but they were close in comparison; closer than in any public settings. There was a lot of shared eye-contact, and he did not reject the proximity like with the previous veilkeepers."

Yoshinori's eyes narrowed slightly, a faint grimace tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Nothing else?"

"It seems Master Kiyoomi will accept her touch more easily now, though it has not ventured out of what is still considered mild."

Interesting.

To him, it sounded rather prude, yet still, there was a subtlety in these actions that seemed to matter to Lord Sakusa. Granted, he did not know the full scope of Gayoku's plans, nor the depth of his intentions, but he did know this: the pair's proximity could be useful to him.

If the boy's father placed weight on such details, then he could perhaps weigh them even further, twist them into something akin of leverage, or perhaps, secure a few more promised gems for himself.

Yoshinori allowed the information to settle in his mind like honey sliding down the cup of tea he was drinking. This was an asset, indeed.

"Make sure to note how often she positions herself in his peripheral space. Each time, you hear?" he muttered, thoughtful, mind racing with what to write in the letters he would send to the Stag's father—how easily he could paint a picture of his own competence; how he could inflate how significant these subtle displays were.

He couldn't deny that Yoshinori was giving him what he couldn't acquire himself, and so he was dependent on his information, and by extension, on Yoshinori's willingness to deliver it.

"Good, very good. By the time I frame it for that stingy fool, he will see only what I wish him to see, and it's only natural that he will pay for the diligence, of course."

He didn't bother to look whether his spy had been nodding along or not; instead, his eyes drifted to the shadows of the grand hall, imagining the two of them walking, touching, existing in ways the rest of the court could never perceive. It was rare, to witness power and devotion so entangled, and rarer still to wield it without anyone knowing.

Yoshinori sipped the last of his tea, already composing the angle he would take in the letters, and a fleeting smile stole itself on his lips.

you. — high priestess-in-training.

The day of the wedding ceremony arrived quietly and without fanfare. You had woken earlier than usual, not from nerves—at least, you refused to call it that—but something felt different, like the world had tilted and not taken you along.

It had also been a while since you last had seen Elder Gimorea.

Long enough that you noticed the change in yourself before you noticed it in the woman standing at the far end of the chamber. Once, the sight of her would have had your spine straightening, thoughts rearranging themselves to ensure that your instincts represented all that was taught to you.

Now you stood beside the White Stag, and thought that your attention was caught on something else; how he stood and how he regarded both, his father and the high priestess, in front of him.

The chamber was not one that was used for ceremony, which was perhaps the point; there was nothing to indicate a holy congregation, no banners and no witnesses. Just a vaulted room deep within the older wing of the estate where no servants were to be found unless on strict order of the Lord, and today, Sakusa Gayoku kept them far away. Even the lamps burned low, their light deliberately insufficient, leaving the farthest corners untouched and shrouded in shadow.

Kiyoomi wore white, though not the white garb used for such ceremonies, but something a little plainer, softer, the linen tunic unadorned save for the woven sigils along the cuffs and the collar, high on his neck. The fabric alleviated the seriousness he so often carried, falling easily along the lines of his body.

His antlers, too, were uncovered, branching gently from the forest of curls in elegant arcs. The light shone warmly on him, casting shadows on his face. The contrast was arresting—ink-dark hair against that glowing white, mortal skin against something ancient.

There was a quiet gravity to him; a beauty that did not ask to be admired but that made looking away difficult all the same.

By contrast, you were dressed in a dove-toned grey, layered with deep ash beneath, the colours of an early morning before the world fully awoke. Your garments were those of the Order, signalling your position as a priestess before it did anything else, and next to the White Stag, it was a strange balance.

Lord Sakusa stood opposite of you, hands folded behind his back, his expression cooled into something benevolent that seemed distant at the same time; a belief radiating from him with a confidence that he had no need to speak out.

Elder Gimorea, however, stood slightly to the side, neither a witness or an officiant alone, but rather something that encompassed both. Her eyes moved between you and Kiyoomi, vision trained to see how the veil responded between you both, and you wondered if she saw the way it seemed to lean towards you when you were close to its master.

"This union is not yet declared. It is not recorded, and it is not spoken beyond these walls. It exists only where it is enacted, only where it is wanted, only where it is accepted."

You knew these words, had envisioned saying them for willing participants before—had practised their cadence utmost of times. Hearing them now, spoken to you instead of through you, felt disorienting. There was a strange unreality to it: your hands empty at your sides, your voice silent, the rite unfolding without your own hand in it.

A brush of finger against yours, barely there, accidental enough to be deniable but enough that your breath caught anyway—and so, beneath the vertigo, a steadiness emerged that you had not expected.

A choice.

When Gimorea asked you to step closer, you obeyed with tingling senses, your skin prickling the moment the distance closed, until his warmth surrounded you, until you could almost feel the living hum that clung to him like a second pulse.

"There is anchor," she started, and your hand found its place on his sternum. There was a slight stiffening of his body, and imperceptibly, his throat moved with a swallow before, underneath the thin layers of fabric, his heartbeat answered your palm, steady yet not entirely calm. The veil settled around you, as if something long restless had recognised a familiar configuration.

"And there is containment."

Kiyoomi's long fingers came to rest over your wrist; his touch careful, measured, his fingers curved just so, thumb near your pulse, soft as though he was afraid of applying too much pressure. Would he pick up on the quickening of your heart?

"You may step away now," Gimorea said, her attention on you, a question, an order; but you kept your gaze on his face, on the curve of his nose, the heaviness of his brow. Up close, the beauty marks atop his eyebrow softened him in a way nothing else did—two dark points like a quiet pause written into his face, a colon that suggested a continuation of his story.

You thought, absurdly, that they resembled the remnants of affection rather than fate: marks left by repeated kisses, pressed too often in the same place until the skin remembered. In a body shaped by reverence and purpose, those small imperfections felt so unguarded, proof that he was not only a symbol made flesh, but a man who could still be touched—and marked—by tenderness.

Your fingertips pressed into his flesh, "I will not."

She persisted. "Step away."

"I will not."

"I ask you for a third time: step away."

Your hand remained on his chest, and his fingers tightened on your wrist, "I answer for a third time: I will not."

Gimorea turned towards Kiyoomi, her voice still carrying the same authoritarian order.

"White Stag, you may step away."

For a moment, he did not respond. His breath slowed, and his fingers tightened around your wrist as though he wanted to test the give of your flesh, of whether you would disappear, and for another second, you wondered what were to happen if he stepped away right then and there.

Whether his father's face would lose the friendliness; whether Gimorea's voice would adopt a different cadence at his refusal—whether that refusal meant failure, and more quietly still, you wondered what would be asked of you then—whether you would be expected to yield, to become leverage, to place your body and your vows in the service of somebody other than the White Stag.

The answer unsettled you by how both, clear and unclear, it was.

"I will not."

Relief came immediate, almost dizzying, slinking down your spine, and against your hand was a pressure as he almost leaned a little into you.

"Step away," she repeated, firmer, and again, he said: "I will not."

"I ask you for a third time, White Stag. Step away."

Kiyoomi did not move his gaze from yours as he followed the lines of your face, holding you—steady and unyielding, yet carrying a tremor of something scarily close to the trust you asked of him. He traced the careful weight of your hands, the pause of your shoulders, and in that look, you glimpsed a fragility beneath the steel of him.

"I answer for a third time," he said quietly, "I will not."

You wondered if for the first time he felt like the rites did not proceed through him but rather with him, and your chest tightened.

"Then stand as you will stand, for by proximity and by the regard you hold for each other, the bond is set."

Lord Sakusa spoke, but you barely heard him; Gimorea erased the sigils she had crafted into the air to bind the vows within the veil, but that too, you barely paid attention too. The only thing you kept thinking of was the glance Kiyoomi had sent you when you turned to leave.

It wasn't long, nor was it open, but it said something new, and when you walked down the halls in your grey ceremonial robes, you thought it looked awfully close to recognition of your being as you were.

sakusa gayoku. — lord father.

Sakusa Gayoku read Lord Yoshinori's letter twice now, then a third time more slowly as though the words might rearrange themselves into something more useful if only he applied more patience.

They did not, of course.

The parchment lay flat on the desk, weighted at one corner by a letter opener, his house's crest worked into metal at the pommel of the knife. The letter was rather disappointing, though Yoshinori had been tactful enough not to spell out his son's puritan behaviour with regards to his newly wed wife. No joining of bodies, no mingling deep enough to begin what Gayoku needed begun.

He set it aside with a sharp sigh and reached for the second letter.

Whatever carefulness Yoshinori was exhibiting in his choice of words, Priestess Yukie lacked.

Her handwriting was young, too earnest and too loose, clear in how much discipline she was missing. Gayoku read it again with a tightening jaw, his irritation shining through the grind of his teeth.

Blessed Bloodlines.

His fingers curled slightly, creasing the page.

So. The acolyte had been snooping, and Chiharu had been sloppy—wasn't that the entire reason they had gotten rid of her?—and you, oh the useful, capable little priestess his son married, were being positioned as a recipient of dangerous questions at precisely the wrong moment.

Gayoku leaned back in his chair and exhaled through his nose.

Two letters and two delays and two small failures that should not have mattered, and yet did.

His gaze drifted, unbidden, to the coffer near the hearth. It was not large, though it didn't need to be; slightly opened, it was, and the gems inside caught the light from the fire even through the narrow seam. Officially, they were gifts of devotion, tithes; but when he crossed over to the coffer and opened it fully, the full proof looked at him, plain and ugly in its abundance.

The White Stag was merely a conduit of the veil, nothing more and nothing less, and so the magic did not belong to Kiyoomi any more than the river belonged to the mountain it sprang from. The siphoning was done in a gradual way, almost gentle—really, wasn't he already being as lenient with his son as possible? Could anybody do it better, with any more love and any more care?

Gayoku picked up one of those gems and felt the warmth spread in the palm of his hands; it was always warm, a concentrated fragment of what his son bled into the world simply by existing—raw power.

It all came down to power: it was whatever brought loyalty, it brought influence; the power that ensured the houses continued to kneel, that the Order continued to allow him his way, that men like Yoshinori continued to watch and report and do his bidding.

Power that would one day need a successor within his Silver Court.

His mouth tightened.

That was what the marriage was for, wasn't it? To anchor the cycle within his house, to ensure that his son was finally spent, that there would be another vessel ready to take the strain. Your blessed bloodline; the affinity to the veil and your willingness to stand so close—it was all so carefully arranged, and yet.

And yet, there was no consummation.

Very well.

Gayoku returned the gem and closed the coffer carefully. If intimacy would not bloom on its own, it could be encouraged. Surely a couple aphrodisiacs would have to suffice; it wouldn't be difficult to rearrange an unfortunate situation to… goad his son into action. Kiyoomi could be a Stag as much as he liked, he was still a man at the end of the day, and men could be persuaded.

As for that troublesome Yukie—

There had been no accusation within that letter, which was very fortunate. If he played it right, he might still be able to choose the outcome of her curiosity. For now, there was no fear that you wouldn't play into his hand, as eager and willing as you had been in joining his son.

He rang for a servant.

"Find out who Priestess Yukie has spoken to in the past week, and ensure," he added, almost pleasantly, "that she is reminded how fortunate she is to belong to an Order that forgives meddling around."

Blessed Bloodlines.

How very perceptive of her. How very inconvenient.

sakusa kiyoomi. — stag incarnate.

Since that wedding day, his father had begun to look at him differently.

It wasn't exactly relief in his eyes, even though most of his face hinted at something close to it, because that would imply there was fear beforehand that got dissipated, and one thing his father did not do was fear things. Instead, marring his gaze, was an attentiveness that unsettled Kiyoomi; an eagerness he did not know what to do with.

Where suggestions used to be framed as concern, they came more as urged advice now: the chamber arrangements of his in connection to the priestess mentioned once, then twice, then with the self-assuredness that it was already decided. He is to not be alone anymore, his father had said, as though his solitude suddenly was a liability he couldn't afford. It would be inappropriate.

Marriage.

He almost laughed at that, the word still not sitting comfortably in his thoughts. He had never expected to be able to do ever experience that, not with the lifespan he was supposed to have and the duty that weighed on his shoulders; it implied that there was something to continue with, something to look forward to; a future. At least one that extended beyond his function.

Kiyoomi had always assumed that if he were to end, it would be alone.

And yet, they were meant to share a chamber now.

The thought lingered longer than it should have. It was practical—you wouldn't have to come and go for the nightly stabilising—but something about it hinted at other sentiments, some that refused to be named as cleanly as practicality. A pressure at his back, not unlike the way the Veil sometimes gathered, and for a second, he wondered whether that was what excitement felt like.

He did not want to call it that, he was careful not to, so instead, he settled on the word presence, on the idea that there would be someone there who could be a steady and real force. There was a tightness in his chest that he did not recognise, a faint restlessness he kept mistaking for fatigue. He had never been nervous before, not like this—ever like this?

His life had always been the same thing, predictable and common, and there had been no space for wondering whether something was a good idea or a mistake; things simply were, whether decided for him or given to him as was.

With the echo lingering in his ears, he found himself to be exhausted once more, a dull ache pulsing behind his eyes, familiar in the way he had always tolerated it, yet still persistent enough that he resented it.

His fingers caught the surface of the earring at his lobe, rolling it absentmindedly between thumb and forefinger; the metal warm, grounding him until he realised what he was doing a second too late and let go at once as though caught in a private transgression, the motion abrupt, almost irritated with himself.

An old habit he had meant to outgrow that was harder to ignore than all the others, and the headache lingered.

He closed his eyes for a moment and wondered, not for the first time, whether this was what beginning felt like—or whether it was just merely another narrowing of his path, only with a prettier outlook.

Maybe it was a terrible idea. Maybe it was the first good one.

sakusa kiyoomi. — stag incarnate.

The carriage rocked gently as it took the rutted road back towards the Sakusa estate, the sway familiar enough that Kiyoomi barely registered it anymore. He sat across you with your knees aligned with his own. Outside, wheels squeaked as they travelled through damp earth; inside, it was quiet, the silence easily inviting speech.

"You handled Lord Renval well," he said, and although the words—praise—still felt like he was borrowing them, he was also surprised with how easily they came, how little like sandpaper they felt rolling off his tongue.

You smiled, small and tired. "He was already inclined to fold. I only made sure he had a place of doing so without humiliating himself—I find that so long men in power have no fear of losing their status, they are much easier to deal with."

"Ah," he murmured, and his eyes tracked the way your head tilted, the way a strand of your hair threatened to fall into your face. "I suppose one could call it an act of mercy."

"Is that disapproval I hear?"

"No."

Your knee nudged his, and it was strange—this little act of familiarity, as though that presumptuous touch of yours did not warm his skin underneath the many protective layers; as though his body had not already begun to catalogue these moments, quietly and in betrayal to his self.

Would it help to tell himself it was nothing? That it was the jostle of the carriage? Coincidence? Courtesy?

And yet, he did not move his leg away. He felt the warmth linger even after the motion passed, a phantom pressure that had his jaw clench in faint irritation—at himself, mostly. Want was an inconvenient thing to discover so late, he realised with an almost offended surprise. He did not know what to do with the way his attention kept drifting back to your knee. It felt indulgent to notice; dangerous, even.

"It was admiration," he corrected himself, then added, drier, "I'm learning to tell the difference."

That earned him a quiet laugh—soft and surprised, as though you hadn't expected it from him. He found himself watching the way your shoulders loosened with it, how the tension you carried for him eased when you forgot, just for a breath, that you were supposed to… supposed to what?

You were his wife, were you not? Was that not how it was supposed to go?

After the ceremony, you suddenly existed in two overlapping shapes he could not quite separate: the woman who stood before him and the Veil together, and the woman who laughed across from him. Veilkeeper, wife. One role that he had been raised to acknowledge and prepare for, the other that he had never been given a language to understand.

He disliked how blurry the lines seemed nowadays, the way his attention kept slipping from one to the other; how he found himself noticing the cadence of your voice even when you spoke of trivial things that, under normal circumstances, interested him little. Yet with you, it became a means to hear more, to learn more; how he waited, absurdly, for your gaze to lift to his, as if that small acknowledgement steadied something inside his chest.

Across from him, you met his eyes again, still a smile surrounding your features, and something in him shifted—caught between restraint and an unfamiliar, aching curiosity.

"I didn't know you joked," you said.

"I don't," then he sniffed, "Apparently."

The door exploded inward.

The wood of the walls splintered and cold air rushed in, and before he could realise what happened, a figure lunged through the opening, face hidden behind a crude mask; the eyes wild from where he could see them flash through their slit in the mask. It flashed silver when the hand moved in a big arc.

Kiyoomi was already on his feet, the world narrowing down to the motion, as he caught the attacker's wrist mid-swing—it was clumsy, too wide, and so his body responded before any of his thoughts even had time to interfere; after all, it was instinctive muscle memory honed long before his antlers even started to grow through his skin.

His shoulder turned, weight shifting and thus, denying the strike its reach by redirecting the force the way he had been taught a hundred times in mirrored halls with blunted blades and his masters, one more patient than the other. The knife skidded against his sleeve, slipping loose, and he barely noticed the pain blooming across his palm where it kissed him.

If it had been a rapier, the movement would have been beautiful. As it was, it was simply effective. His other hand came up, and the weapon wielded against him was now his, only now its edge resting against the attacker's throat. He could end it right here and then.

He didn't.

Because it was enough that his own life was on the line, so he allowed the attacker to stumble back, breath knocked from him in a sound that was halfway between a gasp and a sob.

The carriage rocked to a halt around them within seconds, and Kiyoomi's heartbeat thundered so loud in his ears, drowning out everything else for a moment; a hard, disorienting rush that left him blinking and his chest heaving.

The priestess.

The thought cut through the roaring of his blood, and his gaze snapped to you immediately, frantic, cataloguing—your face, your hands, the line of your throat, whether any of your robes carried a speck of blood, the way you were pressed back against the carriage wall.

Nothing; only the wideness of your eyes, and relief hit him so hard his knees nearly buckled.

"Forgive me, Blessed Stag—please—f-forgive—"

Only then did Kiyoomi move—forcefully—his eyes away from you, down to the man dropped to his knees, who was then seized by the shoulders, wrenched upright only for the guards to falter at the sight of his face in the light of the torches. His mask was half-torn away, revealing a face raw with grief, eyes red and unfocused with too much loss and too little sleep.

"Stag of Ours—!" The driver had already hauled on the reins, knuckles white and breath coming hard as he twisted in his seat to stare back at the wreckage inside the carriage, mouth working soundlessly, a silent prayer, "Have you been hurt?"

He had been in the technical sense, the wound on his hand still stinging, but still, Kiyoomi could only move his head minimally, a shake to the left and to the right. Outside, the night pressed close. The road was narrow here, flanked by blackened hedgerows, a heavily breathing unfamiliar horse struck to the ground as though the assailant was tried to be halted once before.

The man wept, even as the guards bound his wrist, even as one barked for silence, yet his words kept spilling, "We can't hold on, we can't—My girl—my boy, oh my boy—please—you have to die, please. If you don't, what are we suffering for—"

The knife's weight in his hand became undeniable then; real, and wrong for him to hold it any longer. His fingers slackened, and the knife slid from his grasp.

He wanted to ask the man's name.

The impulse came with an insistence so strong that it startled him. He wondered, absurdly, whether the man had once been called something softly, by someone who expected him to come home at dusk; whether that name had been spoken over a cradle, or shouted in laughter across a field; whether it was the same name his wife still used when she cried into her bed of straw.

He had always known he would die—he had been raised with that knowledge, taught to regard its inevitability the same way he would the weather or the season, something vast and impersonal that arrived when it must.

But now, it had never felt so small and unbearably close.

For the first time, Kiyoomi felt the weight of being alive as something that actively harmed. Every breath he took delayed something others were desperate for; every heartbeat was a withholding, and standing there with the knife slick in his palm—guards closing in, your presence an ache at his back—he understood with quiet horror that his continued existence was no longer neutral.

It was a choice being made, again and again and again, at someone else's expense.

GLOSSARY; VEIL — the magic of this world. there's only so much of it that can be used: it fuels the fertility of the land, ensures the growth of crops, it provides blessing. over decades, it spreads thinner and thinner with use and greed, until it fragments.

VEIL NODE — concentrated aggregation of the veil in specific locations; used to absorb the strewn around remnants of the veil with the help of a veilkeeper, which the white stag then feeds on to build the reserve.

VEILKEEPER — priestesses of the order; specifically trained to guide the fragmented veil back into the nodes and are commonly amongst the retinue of the white stag; they have an innate understanding of the veil.

WHITE STAG — the veil's conduit. its chosen vessel for recollecting dispersed magic back into a single living form so it can be released safely again.

THE CYCLE — can be subdivided into a waning and a waxing phase. the waning phase sees the veil weakening because of excessive use, so to prevent collapse, it begins drawing magic inward and a child is born as the reincarnation of it: white stag. the waxing phase sees the white stag accumulate the dispersed magic until it is ready to be sacrificed → the magic is released back into the veil which can redistribute the magic across the land again.

ADDENDUM; — at first i wanted for the reincarnation to be a curse upon the sakusa bloodline, but then that didn't really work out the way i envisioned; when i worked on it being a blessing then instead, it was surprisingly easy to work in the cursed aspects of it all.

— the sense for political intrigue was inspired by game of thrones during my rewatch.

— this was supposed to be a one-shot btw. [puts on clown's nose]

— thank you for reading!! i appreciate it incredibly lots. it's not the most polished or the cleanest executed story, and i bet there are still a billion mistakes but i loved coming up with it and working out the lore. (i will read through it and fix some mistakes later on; i think i cannot look at this anymore haha)

— last but not least: i love you incredibly much, lale.

TAGLIST | @takestoo

[levi-4uckerman]

knight!Satoru x princess!reader

*ੈ✩‧₊˚ 𝓔𝓷𝓬𝓱𝓪𝓷𝓽𝓮𝓭 𝓦𝓪𝓽𝓮𝓻: 𝓓𝓸 𝓝𝓞𝓣 𝓓𝓻𝓲𝓷𝓴! ✧˖*°࿐

mostly suggestive w/ little (if any description of anatomy), sex pollen, thigh-riding, reluctance if you squint but NO dub con, orgasms, romantasy AU... happy birthday, Gojo 💙

Leave some kudos on Ao3!

You are not ready for a new knight.

You say this to no one. Not your ladies-in-waiting, not to the courtiers who sidle up to you with soft voices and hungry eyes— hoping for gossip in the shadow of your grief. And you certainly do not say this to your father, whose patience for your mourning ended the moment your old knights’ body was in the ground.

Oh, Ser Aldric…

He had been with you since you were small enough to ride his shoulders through the training yards, shrieking with laughter as he pretended to stagger beneath your weight. He was there for your first lessons, the time you first bled— awkwardly standing guard outside of your bathing chambers as your maids fluttered about you in a panic. He stood at your back when you learned to wield a blade, when your father decided that a princess should at least look like she knew how to defend herself.

And he was there at the end. A gasp, a flash of steel, and a grunt of exertion. The wet choke of a dying man, still standing between you and the arrow meant for your heart.

You still wake sometimes, in terror at the sensation of his blood on your face, fresh tears warm in your eyes.

So no, you are not ready for a new knight.

And yet…

You stand at the base of the dais in the Great Hall, the king— your father —-seated above you like a carved idol of war. Light spills through the tall windows, pale and cold, catching on polished marble, the banners, the watching eyes. The air smells of incense and steel.

“The Princess requires protection,” your father says, tone leaving no room for argument. “The people are unsettled. They whisper weakness.”

(And, what he didn’t say, “I won’t have them see you shaken. You will stand straight, you will smile, and you will accept what I give you.”)

You do not tremble. You are practiced at not trembling.

The herald’s staff strikes the floor three times; the sound echoes upwards into the vaulted ceiling.

“Presenting Ser Satoru Gojo of the First Lance,” the man booms. “Sworn this day to the service of His Majesty, and to the protection of his royal heiress.”

A murmur ripples through the gathered nobles.

“Mercenary,” someone breathes nearby.

“I heard he killed thirty men in a single battle,”

“Elven blood, I heard—,”

“Surely, the King wouldn’t…,”

“They would turn a blind eye to anything if it wins them a war.”

Your jaw tightens. Elves are not spoken of in polite company. Not openly. The old stories paint them as beautiful, primal things… too strong, too quick. Too pleased by bloodshed. And far too dangerous to be trusted.

Not that the King ever much cared for politeness.

The doors at the end of the hall swing wide, and your heart beats faster when you see the shadow approaching beyond.

✦ ✦ ✦

He strides in with easy confidence, that of a man who has never doubted himself in his life. Shining platinum armor gleams over a body that was built for the battlefield— long lines and coiled muscle, plates etched with faint, unfamiliar sigils. A white cloak hangs from his shoulders, stained in places with old, stubborn rust that couldn’t be scrubbed away. His helmet is closed, visor down; only a thin band of darkness where his eyes must be.

He moves like a wolf among sheep. Not hurried, not stiff… just certain. Each step a soft, building promise of violence.

He reaches the foot of the dais and goes down on one knee in one smooth motion that leaves you breathless, the tip of his sword kisses the marble with a soft ting.

“Your Majesty,” he says in address to your father, voice low and rough around the edges, like he’s not used to bothering with courtesy. “You called,”

Your father’s smile is sharp. “The tales of your constitution travel faster than my own banners, Ser Satoru. I wish to see if rumor remains worth the coin.”

“Rumor usually sells itself, Your Majesty,” comes the easy reply. “But I don’t mind putting on a show.”

A ripple of disapproval moves through the hall, and your father’s eyes narrow.

Then, his attention shifts to you.

“My daughter,” he says, the word hollow as a bell. “Our line’s only heir. You must guard her above all things.”

You feel the weight of the court’s eyes like claws on your back.

The knight’s head turns. The slit in the helmet angles up, up, to meet your gaze. You cannot see his eyes, but you feel it— the sharp, assessing sweep of him taking you in.

“The royal heir,” he repeats softly. “As my life.”

“Remove your helmet, Ser Satoru,” the king commands. “My people should see the face of the beast I have bought.”

There it is again. That flicker of disapproval, quickly buried in murmurs. Ugly word, beast. Ugly notion, that your father thinks of this man as nothing more than a weapon in a scabbard controlled by him. You’re sure the disgust can be seen in your eyes, as you wince and flinch away from the knight.

The knight rises without complaint. His hands— gloved in articulated steel —lift to the clasps at his jaw. There’s a soft scrape, the faint hiss of displaced air, and then he pulls the helmet free.

White.

His hair spills out, bright as new snow, falling in tousled layers just past his jaw. It should make him look boyish. It doesn’t.

The planes of his face are too clean, his jaw too sharp, his mouth too curved with lazy amusement. His skin is pale, but not the sallow pallor of the chronically ill; he was akin to something otherworldly, the pale of moonlight spilt upon marble.

And his eyes…

You inhale without meaning to.

They are pale, too— but not colorless. A bright, shining blue that may have felt cold if not for the warmth within. There’s a glow to them in the dim hall, like light on ice.

Inhuman, the treacherous part of you thinks.

His hair shifts when he inclines his head. For a heartbeat, you see the line of his ear— it’s subtle. Just a touch too fine, too pointed at the tip before the hair falls forward again. Enough to send a frisson of unease through you, and perhaps the nearest cluster of lords.

You understand, then, why people whisper of elves when he is nearby.

He doesn’t seem to care.

But Ser Satoru’s gaze lingers on you the way a man might regard a painting he wasn’t expecting to like, a hum of interest.

Then, he smiles.

Small and private, entirely at odds with the stories you’ve heard.

“Princess,” he says, and your title sounds softer in his mouth than it ever has before. “It is an honor.”

Your cheeks feel warm. You hate it.

You straighten your back and respond clearly, in the manner familiar to you, “Ser Satoru.”

Your father is watching. The court is murmuring. You can feel their judgement, their hunger, their fear. You dip your chin just enough to be polite.

“He seems capable,” you say.

Those pale eyes crinkle, as if you’ve said something funny.

“Only seems?” he murmurs, just for you. “Wounding.”

You ignore him. Mostly.

Your father chuckles, the sound devoid of warmth. “You’ll find he’s more than capable. See that you prove worthy of the expense, mercenary.”

Satoru inclines his head, the grin never leaving his mouth. “I always do.”

Your father dismisses him with a gesture. “Escort her back to the chambers. We shall meet again in the courtyard tomorrow eve. Consider this your first duty, Ser Satoru.”

He turns away, already bored. The court’s attention shifts with him like a flock of birds.

For a moment, you and your new knight stand in a pocket of stillness at the center of it all.

Then he steps toward you and offers his arm.

“Princess,” he says lightly. “Shall we?”

You swallow. Your fingers curl around his forearm, the metal warm from his skin. His eyes soften, just a fraction, like he’s pleased by something you don’t understand.

He leads you from the hall. The whispers follow.

✦ ✦ ✦

The next day, you ride.

The appointment ceremony was held at a lesser keep closer to the front lines—a show of strength for the visiting generals. Now you are returning to the main castle grounds, to the familiar sprawl of stone and garden that has been your gilded cage since childhood.

The road here is narrow, cutting through thick forest. The light of dusk filters through the leaves in latticed patterns, dappling your horse’s mane. Birds sing, insects drone. Somewhere off the path, water moves over stone.

Ser Aldric would have ridden at your side, just close enough that your knees brushed. He would have talked, low and calm, distracting you from the ugliness of the world with stories of silly recruits and drunken captains.

Ser Satoru rides a little behind, and to your left. Recognizable by the white of his cloak, the easy set of his shoulders. Keyed into every movement made around him.

You have been aware of him all morning.

When he lifted you onto your horse, his hands were firm at your waist. His grip was careful but undeniably intimate, leaving a phantom warmth blooming beneath your ribs. His fingers spread too confidently for a man unused to touching royalty.

When a breeze cut through the trees and sent a shiver up your spine, he leaned over without comment and adjusted your cloak, gloved hands smoothing the fabric over your shoulders— knuckles grazing the bare column of your throat, where your laces didn’t quite meet.

“What are you doing?” You’d asked, the words coming out sharper than you’d meant.

“I am merely doing my job, Your Highness,” he replied, unbothered. “We can’t have the Princess catching a chill.”

Something in the way he said it made your chest feel tight.

Now, as the road begins to curve along a slight slope, your mare sidesteps skittishly. The forest feels… closer here. The shadows feel deeper.

You glance back.

Satoru meets your gaze easily, reins held in one hand and posture relaxed. “You’re tense, Princess,” he observes. “Bad saddle? Bad memories?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“I didn’t peg you for a liar, Princess.”

You bristle. “You forget who you are speaking to, Ser Satoru.”

He chuckled, and your cheeks heat at the boyish sound. You look away.

You’re thinking of a retort when it happens— so fast, you nearly miss it.

An arrow slams into the earth inches from your horse’s hoof. Your mare screams and rears, nearly throwing you off. You clutch the reins close to you, heart in your throat. Shouts erupt from the front of the column— the crunch of boots on leaves, the ringing of steel. Another arrow whistles past your face, close enough that you feel the wind of it.

“Down, soldiers!” someone in your entourage yells. “Protect the Princess!”

Hands grab for your reins, your skirts, your arms— too many, too fast. Your horse panics, muscles bunching beneath you.

Then there’s a blur of white and steel.

Satoru is there.

You don’t see where he came from. One moment, your vision is full of panicked faces and flailing limbs, and the next, it’s just him: cloak snapping behind him, sword flashing in the light of the setting sun. A man lunges into view, knife raised; Ser Satoru’s blade takes him through the throat in a wet, efficient slice. You feel the warmth of his blood splatter your cheek.

Your knight in shining armor does not even flinch at your scream.

“Princess,” he commands you, strong voice cutting through the chaos with an urgency you’ve never heard from him. “Hold on.”

He drops his weapon to the ground and dives for you. Strong, gloved hands find your waist, your hips, and then you’re airborne. He hauls you from your saddle as if you weigh nothing at all. There’s a flash of treetops in your vision, and a little bit of sky before all you see is him— beautiful face tilted toward you, pale eyes sharp and focused.

You’re then cradled against his chest, arms hooking around his neck on instinct. You feel the flex of muscle beneath his armored tunic as he turns and runs.

The world in your periphery becomes a smear of green and brown motion. Branches whip past you, against you, over your heads. Leaves slap against your legs, and frantic shouts from your entourage fade behind you as forest swallows the road.

You close your eyes, digesting the terror as you bury your face against his pauldron. You are vaguely reminded of the times Ser Aldric carried you to your chambers as a child, or after you’d been injured. The motion never felt quite so intimate, and he’d definitely never moved so fast.

It felt inhuman, Ser Satoru’s speed. His reflexes. The ease and instinct with which he moved, manipulating the battlefield as if he owned it.

You focus on the steady, human heart beating in his chest. Yours is a mess of wild drumbeats within your ribcage.

✦ ✦ ✦

When the sounds of battle are gone, only then does your knight slow his pace. His boots sink into softer earth, and the air around you feels thicker. The sun has set now, and moonlight guides your path through the trees. Your lungs are burning, and sweat starts to bead at your temples. You are vaguely aware of a flowing stream nearby, fresh water chuckling over stone.

Ser Satoru releases you from his hold, kneeling before you on a soft bed of moss. His gloved hands linger at your waist a heartbeat longer than necessary, and a strange warmth erupts across your cheeks.

He lets go.

“Are you hurt?” he asks you, voice softer now, and stripped of that battle-edge. His eyes roam over you quickly, efficiently, cataloging every spot where an injury could hide. “Did an arrow graze you? Is that your blood?” His thumb wipes at your cheek.

You shake your head, batting his hand away. “No, I— I do not think so.”

His shoulders ease, then, as if he is genuinely relieved. “Good. You did well.”

Something flutters in your chest at the quiet pride threaded through his voice, and you recall the way you clung to him like a child.

You open your mouth to speak— to say something properly royal, properly distant, but a strange heat is coiling low in your belly, twisting upward in a dizzy wave.

The sensation urges you to step away from your knight, and he rises from his spot on the mossy forest floor. His pristine brows are downturned in concern, and he reaches for you. “Princess? Are you—,”

You jerk back.

“Ser Satoru,” you say quickly, forcing steadiness into your voice. “Please, I—… would like to visit the stream. I would like to wash off the… dirt and blood.”

His blue eyes flick up to your face. The distance between you is only a foot, maybe two, but you feel like you can breathe when his skin isn’t so close to your own.

Why does your knight make you feel like this? Confused, flustered… fevered.

Ser Satoru nods, his jaw tight. You can tell he doesn’t like it— the idea of distance after the attempt on your life. And yet, he relents. “If you must. I will remain close.”

“I would expect as much,” you respond with a tight smile. “Do try not to hover, Ser Satoru.”

His lips twitch— amusement, maybe? Frustration? You aren’t quite sure.

“As you wish, Your Highness.”

✦ ✦ ✦

The stream lies tucked between two great roots, its surface rippling with crystalline clarity. You kneel beside it, cupping cool water in your palms before pressing it to your flushed cheeks, scrubbing at your skin.

Your knight stands a respectful distance away, far enough that you cannot feel the heat of his gaze upon you— though, you sense it anyway. Watchful and steady, never straying from your surroundings.

You close your eyes.

Hands on your waist. Calm, firm voice at your ear. The way he looked at you in the aftermath, like something precious and fragile in his rough grasp.

You press your wet fingers to your burning throat.

This is not right.

Your knight should not look at you that way. You should not be feeling… this. That strange warmth has returned, and your mind is restless. The weight of Satoru’s gaze feels as if it’s smothering you now, and you reach for the water once more.

Something shimmers beneath the surface as your fingertips brush over it.

You blink, unsure if it’s a trick of the moonlight or your own adrenaline getting the best of you. It happens a second time, faint swirling iridescence dancing across the surface as it trickles over riverstone.

When it reaches the tender inside of your wrist, you gasp.

Hurried steps shuffle forward, and you know that something isn’t right. Heat spikes through your veins, the stubborn warmth spreading slowly and intensely across the span of your body. It pulses with your heartbeat, moving up your forearm, your shoulder, sinking deeper and twining through your ribs as if it’s alive—

Water should not feel like this.

“Princess?” Satoru calls behind you, his proximity giving you pause.

There’s a beast inside of you, and it wants him close. Closer than before, closer than anyone has ever been. You don’t answer his calls. Your pulse hammers against your throat as your skin prickles, your mind spiraling into something molten and frightening.

The stream is glowing in his shadow.

Not moonlight.

Magic.

You’ve realized, much too late, that what coats your skin is no ordinary water.

The laces of your gown feel too tight, your chemise too rough against suddenly oversensitive flesh. Heat blooms low in your belly, startling and wrong. Your thighs press together, unbidden, in a vain attempt to ease a burgeoning ache that makes no sense.

“I—” Your hand flies to your chest, fingers clutching at the fabric there. “Something’s—wrong.” The syllables sound foreign to your ears, thick and clumsy, like you are speaking underwater.

Your lungs burn, the air suddenly too dense to pull in. It’s as if all of the oxygen has been sucked from the world, leaving you gasping. The strange, feverish heat is raging through your body. Your fingers dig at your bodice, trembling. You need space, you need air, you need… you need—

You are vaguely aware of your knight’s bootsteps crunching over leaves behind you, a sound that should be reassuring but instead ratchets your panic higher. You feel as if you may faint, the forest pulsing in and out of focus around you. The trees quiver to the beat of your stuttering heart, their branches bending closer, drawn to the spectacle you’re becoming. Gasping, thrashing, whimpering as your knees hit the moss below you.

There’s a blur of white at your side before Ser Satoru is kneeling before you, his hands steadying your shoulders. His touch is gentle but it sends a wild spark through your nerves, equal parts agony and need.

“Your Highness,” there’s concern there, in his sharp but worried tone. “What’s happened?”

“Everything—,” The word comes out broken. You swallow, throat suddenly dry. “My skin—my face, my—” You cut yourself off, mortified. Even thinking about the way your body is throbbing feels indecent.

Satoru’s gaze flicks around you. Only now do you really notice the place he’s brought you to, the water staining your bodice.

His jaw tightens.

“Of all the places…” he mutters.

You can barely hear him. The heat is getting worse—curling under your skin, fogging your thoughts, turning every point of contact with the world into too much. Your bodice feels like a vice. Sweat beads at the nape of your neck. You shift, and the friction of your chemise between your legs sends a shocking jolt through you.

You hiss, biting down on a sound you don’t recognize.

Satoru is suddenly all that you can see, his strong hands hovering as if afraid to touch.

“Princess,” he says, low and intense. “Look at me.”

You try, but the attempt is rather pitiful. You drag your gaze up to his, noticing his wide pupils— blown, just a little. From concern, you reason— nothing else.

“I can’t,” you suck in air that doesn’t seem to reach your lungs. “Everything is… too tight.”

“Slow your breathing,” he commands, the pad of his thumb brushing just beneath your eye. “You’ll faint.”

He exhales through his nose, a sharp sigh that isn’t directed at you. “This grove is not meant for mortals to travel through. I should have paid closer attention.”

You blink at him, struggling to focus.

“The stream, its water… contains an irritant,” he says, picking his words carefully. “We are close to elven territory. What have they taught you about elves in the castle, Your Highness?”

“Do not drink from their water,” you repeat immediately, face growing even warmer. “Oh, Ser Satoru, you must think me so dense, I was not—,” you stammer.

“I do not,” he affirms, his gloved hand tightening on your shoulder. “You must think me a poor knight, leading you straight to danger. Forgive me, Your Highness,” There is a subtle and unexpected catch in his voice: not the steel of a commander, but something softer, almost apologetic. “I will free you from this.”

The promise, though earnest, sends a shock of panic through you. “Free me—?” you echo, and the meaning curls in your mind like a tongue of fire. Shame and want tangle together in your chest; you can sense what he means even as you deny it, even as you hope for it. The hunger inside you claws at your insides, and the pulse between your legs grows sharp and insistent, impossible to ignore. The fabric of your gown is suddenly intolerable, every seam an offense, every brush of the rough chemise beneath a new agony.

“Make it stop,” you choke out. “Please.”

✦ ✦ ✦

For the first time, Ser Satoru’s composure cracks. His fingers curl just a little tighter at your cheek, his eyes darkening.

“I can’t stop it,” he says. “But I can help you through it.”

You don’t understand what he means. You don’t care.

“Please,” you repeat, the word nothing but breath and desperation.

He swears softly in a language you don’t know. Then he moves.

One arm slides behind your back, the other under your knees, lifting you again—but this time it’s slower, more careful. Like he’s handling something fragile. He finds a sheltered spot beneath a tree, setting you down gently on a bed of moss.

For a moment, he hesitates, eyes darting over your face before moving to the buckles at his throat. With quick, practiced motions, he unclasps his chestpiece, sliding the cold steel aside. The sound is muffled against the moss as he sets it down, followed by the bracers at his forearms, each piece shed with a steady deliberateness. Without the armor, he seems more human—less the untouchable knight, more a man offering himself to your need.

You fumble with the laces at your bodice, desperate for relief from the suffocating fabric. Your fingers tremble, but he helps, untying the tight ribbons at your sides and easing the garment down your shoulders until you can breathe again.

Only then does he lower himself to sit with his back against the tree, settling you astride his lap, your legs falling to either side of a muscular thigh.

“This is indecent,” you rasp, even as your traitorous body sighs at the contact. He’s solid beneath you, warm, his thigh pressing up between your legs, right where you need it—

The contact is electric. His thigh is a firm, unyielding pressure at your core, perfectly placed. When you shift, the friction sears a path through your body, dragging a shameless gasp from your lips. You are feverish, every nerve ending alight; somewhere beneath the haze, your mind protests. You are a princess. Eyes are on you at all times. You should not be feeling this. You should not want this.

And yet, you do.

Ser Satoru’s hands— now void of gloves—frame your face with startling gentleness, as if afraid you might shatter. “I know,” he murmurs. “It’s the magic. Not you.”

You nod along, but you cannot breathe. Your body is not your own, a marionette with its wires tangled in want and shame. You cling to the folds of his tunic, reveling in the warmth of his body beneath you as you seek purchase in the muscle of his thigh. Your hips move of their own accord, grinding not because you mean to, but because it hurts so bad when you don’t. You feel warm hands slip to your waist, steadying you, helping you move in slow, inexorable motions.

You bite down on his shoulder to stifle a cry, tasting leather and the faint salt of his skin underneath.

His own breath catches.

“Good,” he whispers, the word slipping out like a reflex. “You’re doing well.”

You’ve never done anything less dignified in your life, and yet the praise lands somewhere deep, coiling hot and needy. No one has ever spoken to you that way: with such focused, undiluted approval, a knight’s praise given not for valor, not for cleverness or beauty, but for the way you are unraveling in his arms.

Heat and shame war in your belly. The rough weave of your chemise, the give of his body, the solid press of his thigh—every tiny sensation is magnified by the grove’s influence and by the way he holds you like you’re something precious, something sacred.

Your forehead presses harder into the crook of his neck. You can feel his pulse fluttering there, faster now, betraying the strain all his pretty control costs him.

“You’ll hate me for this later,” you manage, half-delirious.

He laughs softly, and there’s something in it that sounds almost… fond.

“I could never,” he murmurs into your hair, the words trembling with restraint.

His hands are steady but gentle, guiding you as your movements grow desperate. Greedy. The heat between your thighs is unbearable; each roll of your hips sends sparks arcing through your nerves, sticky and shameless and unstoppable.

“Just like that, Princess,” he whispers, voice roughened with want.

Your breath stutters. You whimper, chasing friction, pleasure building in dizzying waves. Every drag of fabric makes you wetter, your soaked underthings a pitiful barrier between your sticky center and the warmth of Ser Satoru’s thigh. His breathing is ragged and thick, and you can feel the outline of his own longing pressed hard against your outer thigh where you straddle him.

Soft kisses against your temple, soft encouragements in your ear— good girl, beautiful, let go —each one pouring heat into your skin. His grip is tighter, anchoring you to his body as you chase the wild, primal sensation that has taken you both.

Your movements grow wild, urgent, driven by a need you barely recognize as your own. His thigh is solid beneath you, and his hands—steady, certain—guide you along, shaping your desperation with gentle strength. Everything else vanishes: there’s only the hot, slick ache at your center, the press of fabric, the low encouragements he murmurs against your skin.

You chase the sensation helplessly, gasping and whimpering, each roll of your body stoking the pleasure higher, tighter, until it feels as though you might shatter. The tension builds and builds, sharp and bright, until you break—a wild, helpless sound torn from your throat.

You muffle the cry in the only way you can think to: you seize Ser Satoru’s face in your shaking hands and press your mouth to his, greedy and desperate, swallowing your own release against his lips. He stiffens for a heartbeat, startled by the kiss, but he doesn’t pull away—he holds you tighter, matching your hunger, letting you burn yourself out against him.

You shudder and shake, the world fracturing into white-hot pleasure, your body trembling in his arms. For a long moment, you’re lost in it—his mouth, his hands, the strength of him holding you together as you fall apart.

Then, gently, you sag against him, every muscle spent. His arms come around you, protective and careful, as your breath evens out and your lashes flutter. The last thing you feel before the world goes dark is the slow, soothing circle his thumb traces on your back, and the quiet, reverent way he whispers your name.

✦ ✦ ✦

When it’s over, you’re shaking.

Not from the cold.

Satoru eases your movements to a stop, gentling you back down when your body tries to chase more without thinking. His hands are careful as he shifts you, turning you so you’re curled against his chest, your legs draped over his. His cloak comes around you both, a warm, dark cocoon that smells like him, the forest, and a faint tang of iron.

He doesn’t speak for a long moment. His palm moves in slow circles between your shoulder blades, grounding. Your heart gradually remembers its proper pace. The heat ebbing from your skin leaves you feeling raw and strangely hollow.

“Better?” he asks at last. His voice is rougher than before.

You manage a shaky nod. “I… yes.”

“Good.” He exhales, relief almost palpable. “It’ll fade now. The grove’s hold doesn’t last long once it crests.”

You focus on the steady rise and fall of his breathing beneath your cheek. When you finally dare to lift your head, his eyes are already on you.

There’s something in them you haven’t seen before.

Fierce.

Soft.

Uncompromising.

You look away quickly, shame flooding you anew as memory catches up—the sounds you made, the way you clung to him, used him—

“I’m sorry,” you blurt. “That was—it was— I shouldn’t have—”

“Stop.”

The word is quiet but absolute.

His fingers find your chin, coaxing your gaze back to his.

“You were in pain,” he says. “You asked for help. I gave it. There is nothing in that to be sorry for.”

Your throat aches. “It wasn’t… proper.”

His mouth curves, but it’s a sad little thing. “Proper would have left you suffering on the forest floor while I stood three paces away reciting court etiquette.”

You huff a weak almost-laugh despite yourself.

“I would rather be improper,” he continues, “than useless.”

You study his face, the play of light and shadow across too-perfect features, the set of his jaw. For a moment, you swear you see something else there—a kind of contained panic, a dawning realization he’s not ready for.

But then he’s looking away, adjusting the cloak around your shoulders with brisk efficiency.

“We should get you back,” he says. “Before your father decides to send half the army into the woods.”

The thought of your father seeing you like this—disheveled, cheeks still flushed, tucked against this man’s chest—makes your stomach twist. You scramble to sit up straighter, pulling away more abruptly than you intend to.

His hands fall back, flexing once against his knees before curling into fists.

“Can you walk?”

You test your legs. They wobble. “Perhaps… not far.”

Something complicated flickers across his face; then he nods, as if he expected that.

“Then we’ll go slowly.”

He helps you to your feet, his grip steady, patient. You lean against a tree as he assembles his armor, a gentle pang of longing when the last of his skin is covered. When you sway, he steps in without comment, letting you shift as much of your weight onto him as you need. He doesn’t reach for your waist this time. His hand settles, instead, just above your elbow—a compromise between propriety and instinct you don’t realize he’s making.

The walk back feels longer. Your senses slowly return to something like normal. The green dimness of the grove gives way to the brighter dapple of the main forest; the distant clamor of men and horses filters back in.

By the time the castle’s outer walls rise into view between the trees, you’ve convinced yourself it wasn’t as bad as you remember. That he didn’t see as much, feel as much, know as much.

At the gates, that illusion shatters.

✦ ✦ ✦

Your father is waiting.

He descends the steps like a storm, cloak snapping, crown glinting. His eyes rake over you, the mess of your clothing, then the knight at your side, then the woods behind you.

“What happened?” he snaps, closing the distance and grabbing your shoulders hard enough to bruise. You cry out in surprise and pain. “Where are your guards? Why are you—”

You flinch at the volume, at the sudden rough contact after the careful way Satoru had held you. Your body remembers the grove, the way touch became something else entirely, and reacts with a confused jolt of wrongness.

Satoru goes very, very still.

The change is subtle—a tightening of the line of his jaw, the way his hand drops from your arm to hover at his side, fingers twitching. His eyes flick to your father’s grip, then back to your face.

You see something flash there.

Possessive. Protective. Dangerous.

It’s gone in an instant.

“Bandits, Your Majesty,” Satoru says, voice level. “Or hired blades. They had good aim, but no discipline. Your men are driving them off.”

“And your first instinct was to run?” your father snarls. “To abandon the field?”

“My first instinct,” Satoru replies, tone cooling, “was to remove the heir from immediate danger. Your men are not my charge. She is.”

Your father’s fingers dig harder into you. “You presume much, mercenary.”

“Only to do what I was bought to do.”

The tension between them is sharp enough to cut. You feel caught in the middle of two storms, one loud and familiar, one quiet and new.

“Father,” you say, mustering what dignity you have left. “Please. You’re hurting me.”

He blinks, as if only just aware of his grip. His hands fall away.

“Get her inside,” he snaps at Satoru rather than at you. “She looks a fright. We’ll discuss your ‘tactics’ later.”

He turns and strides back up the steps, surrounded by advisors like carrion birds.

Satoru watches him go.

His expression is carefully blank. His jaw may as well be carved from stone for how tight it is.

“Come,” he says softly.

Ser Satoru does not touch you during the walk back to your chambers.

He walks half a step behind, and to your left, silent, eyes fixed on some point ahead. The easy humor from before is gone, the teasing, the lazy confidence. What’s left is something stripped down and raw—discipline wrapped like iron bands around a core that wants to do anything but obey.

You want to say something. To thank him, perhaps. To apologize again. To ask what, exactly, just happened.

But the words are stuck behind your teeth. None of them feel safe.

You reach your door. Your ladies-in-waiting are nowhere in sight yet; the hall is momentarily, blessedly, empty.

You turn to him.

“Ser Satoru,” you say.

His eyes meet yours. For a heartbeat, you see it all there—the grove, the heat, the way your body had fit against his like something old and remembered. The way his hands had guided you without taking. The way he had almost stepped between you and your father on the steps, like he had more right to your safety than any king.

Then his lashes lower, shielding whatever might have been there.

“Princess,” he replies, voice polite and distant again. “You should rest. The aftereffects can be… tiring.”

“Is this… normal?” you ask before you can stop yourself. “What happened, I mean.”

His mouth twists.

“In those groves?” he says. “For humans, yes.”

It’s not an answer, not really. But it’s all he offers.

You nod, fingers curling around the edge of the door. The wood is solid under your hand. Real. Unmoving.

“Thank you,” you say quietly.

Something in his face softens, fractures.

“You never need to thank me for doing what I was meant to do,” he says. “Guarding you is not a burden, Princess.”

There’s a beat of silence.

You realize he’s expecting you to go inside. You should. It’s what’s expected.

Instead, you hear yourself say his name like you did in the grove.

“Satoru.”

His eyes snap to yours.

The vise in his chest tightens; you can see it in the way his breath stutters, just once.

“Yes,” he answers, softer now.

You don’t know what to do with that, so you do what you always do when the world feels too sharp. You retreat.

“Good night,” you murmur, and slip behind the door.

It closes with a quiet click.

On the other side of it, you press your back to the wood and slide down until you’re sitting on the floor, skirts pooling around you, heart pounding. Your body remembers the grove in flashes—the roughness of cloth, the solid press of his thigh, the sound of his voice in your ear telling you he’s got you, that you’re safe, that you’re doing so well.

You bury your face in your hands.

You’ve had knights before. You’ve had protectors. You’ve had duty and expectations and a crown waiting like a weight above your head.

You have never had this.

✦ ✦ ✦

Outside, in the hall, Satoru stands where you left him.

He waits. One heartbeat. Two. Three.

He expects the feeling to ebb. It doesn’t.

Instead, something inside him settles with a terrible, crystalline certainty.

He has done this before, back home. Held trembling hands. Guided shaking bodies through sacred rites in sun-dappled groves. Shared breaths and vows with females who knew exactly what they were asking of him. Bonds meant to be sweet, temporary, a cherished memory before politics and marriage took their inevitable toll.

Those ties were ribbons. Pretty. Fleeting.

This is iron.

He has begun something he cannot end.

You are human. Unknowing. Bound to a world that will one day hand your hand to another man for a crown.

He is Elven, whether this kingdom chooses to see it or not. A creature they tolerate for his usefulness, not his heart.

And yet, when your body sought his in the grove, when your lips formed his name, when you leaned into his guidance and let him carry you out of the worst of it—

Every instinct in him recognized you.

Mine, something quiet and vicious whispers in his blood.

His jaw clenches. His hands curl into fists at his sides until the leather of his gloves creaks. He inhales slowly, forcing air into lungs that feel too tight.

He should deny his assignment. Return home. Close the door on this before it can open any further.

He doesn’t move.

He stands watch outside your door until the torches burn low, listening to the slowing of your breath, the steadying of your pulse on the other side.

The vise around his heart never loosens.

i am NOT fucking w/ html and gradients rn so enjoy as is haha. will be posting to ao3 as well. see you guys later w/ the next lgits update!!

[drenched-in-sunlight]

the gamers AU no one asked for 😭

[seellove]

FAVORITE SUKUNA TUMBLR FICS

My Fave Tumblr Writings by Others Organized by Type! Author is tagged in each!

Long-Fics / Multi Chapter

No. 1 Party Anthem - @indiewritesxoxo

Pour it Up - Strip Club Owner Sukuna - @madamechrissy

Knocked Out/Up! - @indiewritesxoxo

Controller - @yenayaps

He's Not My Man - Rancher Sukuna - @indiewritesxoxo

Yakuza Sukuna - @yuujispinkhair

College Hockey Player Sukuna - @yuujispinkhair

Faking it - @indiewritesxoxo

Mama I'm in Love with a Criminal - @cinnamorollcrybaby

Tourist Trapped - @indiewritesxoxo

Skater Sukuna - @cupimina

FratKuna FWB - @spideyyeet

Defiance - @yenayaps

Not Just Anybody - @yenayaps

To Distant Lands - @sukunahs

Sweet Tooth - @sukunahs

Blurry - Divorced Dad Sukuna - @w0rm3y

Blank Canvas - Angsty - @saintobio

What you Know - @starmapz

Oneshots / Multi Part Series

Stoner Virgin Sukuna - @screampied

School Project w/ Virgin Sukuna - @kamitv

The King - Childhood Friends w/ Boxer Sukuna - @peachsayshi

The King - Ring Buying - @peachsayshi

Let me in Your Ocean, Swim - @madamechrissy

Fuck Buddy turned Whipped - @ivyvenus333

YenaYaps's Husband Sukunas - @yenayaps

BabyDaddy Sukuna - @yushiguro

Husband Sukuna interrupted by your kid - @nilla03

Historical Hoe - @prettyngeto

Husband Sukuna kills Someone Hitting on His Wife - @kingkaisen

LDR w/ Sukuna - @iamaslutfor3dman

Sex is the Most Intimate Thing - @m1stm3

Street Racer Sukuna Series - @goyardgoyangi

Trying to get you Pregnant - @iamaslutfor3dman

Family Jewels - @kunasthiast

Wedding Ring Down the Drain - @meowdei

College Bf Sukuna Getting you Pregnant - @yuujispinkhair

Cowboy Sukuna - @yuujispinkhair

Blueberry Yum Yum - Dealer Sukuna - @madamechrissy

Wolf of Wall Street Kuna - @valleydolli

F1 Sukuna on Holiday - @indiewritesxoxo

Using your Safeword - @anglbunny

Kuna take a Meeting in the Bathroom with you - @kunasthiast

FishKuna - @yenayaps

Sukuna Sleeping on the Couch - @theorphicangel 

Canyoneering w/ Sukuna - @sukunahs

Criminal Sukuna - @j3llyc4kes

Loser Sukuna (multiple oneshots!) - @crude-saint

Running into each other Years Later - @crude-saint

Hate Sex w/ Your Ex - @crude-saint

Husband Sukuna & the Morning After - @crude-saint

Degrading Husband Sukuna - @bluukive

Bouncer Sukuna - @miirily

Attending HS Reunion w/ Sukuna - @sukukisses22

Only Fans w/ BF Sukuna - @riveredmoon

Sharpest Tool - Ex Situationship HEAVY ANGST - @riveredmoon

He Wants to Make a Baby with you - @sinkuna

Mine, Eventually - @sixxels

Scandalous - Sukuna and You in a Band - @sixxels

Off Limits - Older Brother Toji's BF Sukuna - @sixxels

IKEA w/ Sukuna - @cupidstrace

Pregnancy Hormones w/ Sukuna - @crude-saint

DadKuna scared to hurt you while pregnant - @nilla03

Sukuna's breeding kink - @gojodickbig

Scared and Sleeping with Roommate Kuna - @novaimperia

Winner Takes All - TojixReaderxSukuna - @sukunahs

First Husband Prank - @yenayaps

Headcannons

Drug Dealer Sukuna - @goreandbunnies

Accidental Fuck on Set - @whorexis

Pornstar Sukuna - @webism

Pick your Player - Gamer Sukuna - @indiewritesxoxo

Street Racer Sukuna - @chosolar

Nerd Kuna - @yuujispinkhair

Pornstar Sukuna - @madamechrissy

College Sukuna - @whosmariaaa

Plug Sukuna - @gojodickbig

Reading Husband Kuna's Mind - @yeagersss

Athlete Sukuna - @cupidstrace

Whipped Sukuna - @cupidstrace

Giving BF Kuna Head at a Concert - @cinnamorollcrybaby

Multi-Character

Valentines Day - @kamitv

F1 Racers - @nanamiskentos

Spin the Bottle - @lisafrankgojo

Smaus

I Hate You - @cherryblossom-heart

JJK Men Eat an Aphrodisiac - @naammiii

Cat Dad Kuna - @cherryblossom-heart

Roommate Kuna - @bluukive

[kunareads]

get it over with

sukuna x reader

you break down, and he holds you together, no questions asked.

masterlist

wc: 1.6k

love letter to the emotionally stunted girlies <3

content: established relationship (sort of), hurt/comfort, nothing explicit, reader breaking down, he loves you so bad, soft sukuna

i'm wondering why it keeps thundering

it’s late.

sukuna expects to find you in his bed, buried in his clothes, curled up like you always are. his apartment doesn’t feel right when you’re not here—when he doesn’t see the shape of you sprawled across his mattress, dreaming in the space that somehow became yours without either of you saying it out loud.

if you are awake, you’re waiting for him. lights dim, a movie playing, stretched out on the couch like you own the place. you always greet him the same way—some lazy remark about how long he took, how you almost fell asleep waiting, how he should be grateful you stayed.

(he never says it, but he is.)

but the apartment feels wrong tonight, like it’s holding its breath.

he almost trips over your bag, your shoes, abandoned in the entryway. the lights are off, the city casting long shadows through the windows.

he pauses in the doorway, gaze sweeping over the space, something tugging at his chest. at first, he doesn’t see you.

then he finds you. on the living room floor.

small, curled in on yourself, arms around your knees, head bowed low. your jacket is still on, halfway down your shoulders, like you meant to take it off but didn’t get that far.

he watches.

you’re never like this. you hold things together better than anyone he knows. you walk through hell without flinching, without showing anything but that sharp, steady ease you wear like armor. he’s seen you pissed, triumphant, reckless. he’s seen you exhausted, on the edge of something dangerous, close to breaking but never quite there.

but this is different.

he stands there, his arms loose at his sides, breath even. it’s not hesitation, just unfamiliar ground. he doesn’t know what to do with the way your shoulders shake, the way your whole body folds into itself like something’s crushing you from the inside.

(you look like you’re trying to erase yourself. he hates it.)

something heavy settles in his chest. it’s not pity. not discomfort. some other nameless thing.

without a word, he moves. he crosses the space, lowers himself to the ground beside you, and pulls you in. his arms slip around you, steady and certain, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

won't you just rain, and get it over with?

you don’t move.

your weight against him is hesitant at first, like you’re not sure if this is allowed. like you’re deciding if you can take this from him. he notices it in the way you hover, how your body stays tense, how you brace for something that never comes.

(you’ve never really asked sukuna for anything that matters. would you, if you knew he’d give you whatever you wanted?)

his arms stay firm around you, one hand resting at the back of your head, the other wrapped around your waist. it’s not cautious, not careful, just solid. like this is normal, even though it’s never happened before.

you smell like yourself, but also like the cold. like wind on skin, like you’ve been outside too long and the night air is still clinging to you. he knows you do that sometimes—wear yourself out on purpose, walking for hours, chasing exhaustion, outrunning whatever’s clawing at you.

it didn’t work.

because now you’re shaking, breath coming too fast, whole body trembling against him.

he feels it hit all at once. the sharp, shaky inhale you take before your body caves inward, the sudden weight of you collapsing against his chest, the way your fingers twist into his shirt, searching, clinging. like you don’t even realize you’re doing it.

you’re sobbing. hard.

sukuna doesn’t know if you even realize it. he doesn’t know if you care. you never let yourself break like this, not in front of him, not in front of anyone.

he waits for it to pass. hoping it does.

when you exhale—shaky, uneven, tired—he presses you closer, fingers curling into the fabric of your jacket like you might slip through his grip if he doesn’t.

something in his chest loosens when you don’t pull away.

he exhales too, slow and steady, trying to regulate you, trying to get you to follow. breathe with me. he doesn’t say it, but he doesn’t have to. you always match each other this way.

you do now, too.

without thinking, he nudges his chin against your temple. a small touch. nothing, really.

but you feel it. he knows because you react—just barely, a fraction of a shift, but enough that he notices. enough that it does something to him.

he leans back against the couch, pulling you with him, guiding you down until your weight is fully against him, your head burrowed in his chest, his arms holding you steady, no space left between the two of you.

(anyone else seeing this would think they were hallucinating. you, breaking. sukuna, holding you together. sukuna doesn’t care.)

you need him. he knows, even if you never admit it.

i see you rolling it, let's get it over with

your breathing slows first.

it’s not steady, not even—just less broken. the sharp, gasping sobs soften, unraveling into something quieter, tired, worn down by their own force. your tears still soak through his shirt, warm and damp, but they come slower now.

your body follows.

slowly, gradually, exhaustion dragging at your limbs, pulling you under like a tide. it’s like your bones have gone heavy, like you fought it as long as you could. you’re sinking further into him without even realizing it.

(you’ve been holding your breath for years. he remembers when you started. he should’ve seen this coming.)

sukuna stays still, patient in a way no one would expect from him. he doesn’t move, doesn’t risk disturbing the way you’ve practically melted into him. just lets you stay, lets you breathe. lets himself hold you like this.

the room is silent except for your breathing, the occasional hiccup from your chest.

your body loses its tension, but his mind won’t stop running. it won’t stop cataloging everything—how small you feel, how he should’ve known, how he should’ve done something before it got this bad.

this is the first time you’ve ever let him see you like this. the first time you’ve let anyone see you like this. he wonders if you’ve ever been like this at all.

eventually, you sag against him fully, exhausted, the last of your resistance slipping away.

sukuna exhales too, low and steady.

something about it feels like a truce.

he doesn’t let you go.

even though your sobs have quieted and your breathing has evened out, even though the room has settled into silence. he keeps his arms around you. not tight, not restraining. just there.

he’s not good at this kind of thing.

he doesn’t know what people are supposed to say in moments like this. doesn’t know how to string together the right words to make any of it better. doesn’t know what you need.

so he leans down, murmuring against your hair, lips brushing your temple.

“’m here.” it’s not meant to comfort you, not exactly. just to ground you. to remind you.

you shift slightly, your face still against his chest, your breath warm through the fabric of his shirt. when you finally move enough for him to see you, your face is flushed, eyes red and swollen, lips parted like you’re still catching your breath. his heart squeezes hard.

(he can see the wheels turning in your head. you’re already trying to stitch yourself back together. he wants to tell you not to bother.)

he doesn’t comment. doesn’t smirk, doesn’t mock. he just looks at you.

for once, he doesn’t have anything to say. for once, you don’t either.

it’s rare, this silence between you. he’s not sure if he likes it.

then, after a long moment, voice quiet—

”you done?”

a beat. room to say no.

it's alright, we can roll in the clouds

you pull back first.

slowly, carefully, like you’re testing the movement. you sniff, avoiding his gaze, wiping your face with your sleeves.

sukuna lets you go, but not completely. his hands slide down your arms, slow and deliberate, settling at your wrists. his fingers don’t press, don’t hold. they just linger.

you clear your throat, shifting like you’re trying to find a normal that doesn’t exist here. “we can get up now.”

he doesn’t budge.

he just gives you this soft smile, looking way too comfortable, leaning back against the couch, watching you like he has all the time in the world.

“you first.”

silence.

neither of you move. you stare each other down for a moment.

you sigh, rolling your eyes, but you don’t pull away. instead, you settle back into him, easy, instinctive, like it’s nothing.

he feels it—the weight of you against him, the way your body relaxes back into place, the quiet trust in the way you let yourself stay.

it does something to him, the lack of hesitation.

you wouldn’t do this with anyone else. he knows that much.

(you let him hold you like this once. a lifetime ago. laughing against his throat, warm and careless and half-asleep, burrowing into him like it was the most natural thing in the world. he almost forgot what it felt like.)

he tilts his head down, presses a kiss to the top of yours and lingers there, breathing you in. he stays there longer than he means to. when he speaks, his voice is quiet, soft in a way he’d never admit.

“crybaby.”

“asshole.”

but you’re smiling now.

[nanamiskentos]

✶ 𝗪𝗛𝗘𝗡 𝗗𝗜𝗗 𝗬𝗢𝗨 𝗚𝗘𝗧 𝗛𝗢𝗧 ? ── gojo satoru (五条悟)

𝗦𝗬𝗡𝗢𝗣𝗦𝗜𝗦 ── Genius profiler, Gojo Satoru, is the FBI's resident boy wonder, human Wikipedia and the reigning king of tragic cardigans. He can read a killer's pysche in seconds, but you can't figure him out. A grudge that's half a decade old, a stakeout, and a virgin all collide in the front seat of your car.

𝗣𝗔𝗜𝗥𝗜𝗡𝗚 ➤ Gojo Satoru x Reader

𝗖𝗢𝗡𝗧𝗘𝗡𝗧 ── Nerd!Gojo, Criminal Minds AU, feat. Ensemble Cast (Sukuna, Shoko, Geto, Naoya, Nanami) • Miscommunication, Plot, Descriptions of Criminal Minds-esque cases ⚠️ • MDNI [ Vírgin!Gojo, Sūb!Gojo, BIG DÍCK GOJO, Getting pūssy drunk and he's BABBLING, Morning-after Séx, Multiple Rounds, Overstímulation, Getting caught, Creampíes ] • AFAB!Reader • glorious art by @to00fu

𝗪𝗖 ── 9.5k

𝗡𝗢𝗧𝗘 ── kisses to all who can recognise the muse for gojo in this fic

The office carries the scent of burnt coffee, and old filings. It's the kind of place that wears its years proudly, with scuffed desks, walls washed pale by fluorescent light, and the constant clatter of keyboards and phones. A new espresso machine hums in the corner, already claimed territory, for half-empty mugs and discarded sugar packets are scattered around it. Like offerings to the temperamental god of caffeine.

You pull your new (itchy) blazer tighter around yourself as you step inside. This is it, the Behavioural Analysis Unit. Your new home, and the result of a decent few years clawing after case files and letters of recommendation.

You've always been told you were a prodigy in the field. Sharp, quick and too intuitive to be stuck doing desk work in the downtown city offices. The BAU was always looking for brains that could pluck patterns out of the noise, to predict a potential criminal's next move before they even made it.

And now? You finally got to prove it.

"Oi, you're the new hire?" A voice barks, sharp enough to slice through the buzzing office noise.

You turn, resisting the urge to ask why he feels the semantic need to ask that question, considering he was the one who stamped the approval on your unit transfer. But you doubt that your new boss is the sort of man you want to cross, on your very first day no less.

Ryomen Sukuna is a lesson in not judging a book by its cover. Wheat-golden skin, lined with streaking dark tattoos over his cheekbones and jaw. A shock of peach and raven-black hair streaked in a rough undercut. He looks as though he should be running a biker gang, not a federal unit, but there's something in his maroon stare. Hard and cutting, that makes you stand a little straighter.

"Don't slow us down," he grunts.

No handshake, no warm welcome. Just a warning, but you can understand why.

Time is of the essence in the Behavioural Analysis Unit, as is the ability to stomach the uncomfortable.

You pad after him, doing your utter best to not scuff the linoleum floors as you dodge strewn cables near the heavy glass doors. The entrance leads to a smaller nook, a quiet room with an oaken, circular table stacked with flimsy files, bulging with stamped papers. Worn chairs are scattered across the circumference, and you do your best to flatten yourself against the wall as others filter in.

Great. Meeting new people, your favourite hobby, right?

Although, that being said, you had studied all of their case files, with the sole benefit of not fumbling your way through first impressions.

You begin to match names to faces, hesitantly lowering yourself into your cold seat, in an attempt to look busy.

Nanami Kento was the first one who entered, and to your chagrin, he gets a brief handshake from Sukuna. Fuck, why didn't you get one? But Nanami's presence seems deliberate and measured, for he's tall, with every inch of him pressed into a well-tailored steel blue suit. His honey-blonde hair is neat, his face solemn yet thoughtful.

He's flanked by two others. The first being a woman with cinnamon-brown hair, twirling a flat lock idly between violet, chipped nails. Nicotine and cheap beer, threaded through with something unexpectedly floral.

Shoko Ieiri.

You know from pouring over her file that she has more years of medical knowledge than anyone else on the team, but right now, she looks like she'd rather be anywhere else.

The man pulling himself into the chair on the other side of Kento is, frankly, a perfect candidate for a haute couture ad. Long, dark hair pulled loosely back, with strands falling around his face in delicate arcs, like the petals of a spider lily, brushing the dark stud that glints in his ear.

Suguru Geto. Built like a bear, broad enough to block the doorway, his strong frame draped in a scuffed indigo racing jacket that looks permanently fused to him. Hie flips through a case file with the kind of casual detachment that comes from too many years doing this job. You've heard he's been here the longest, and from the way the others glance at him, shoving their own files to him, you can tell it's true.

The fourth new face nearly barrels into the table, gaze glued to his phone. He looks up just in time to scowl, as though it's everyone else's fault he wasn't looking where he was going.

Floppy sandy-blonde hair falls over the man's amber eyes, messy enough to look intentional. Dark roots peek through at the top, while moss-green tips dye the ends in a streak of rebellion. That Prada suit is a slim, toned fit and you know it costs more than your car insurance.

You don't need a file to place Naoya Zen'in. One could argue he only scored this job thanks to his father, who sits pretty high on the federal chain, pulling strings. But apparently, he isn't exactly dead weight. For what he lacks in tact and brawn, he makes up for in sheer agility.

That, and his reputation of being an utter jerk.

"I see you people way too much," Geto is grumbling, though his arm is already stretching around Kento to snag a glazed doughnut. He shoves the doughy confectionary into his mouth, smacking his lips shamelessly, as he muffles around sticky crumbs, "How is it we're already being assigned another case? We only just flew back in yesterday."

"The beauty of this is that it's a gift that keeps on giving," Sukuna's voice rumbles like gravel as he drains the last of his mug, "Sick fucks always findin' new ways to hurt each other." He slams the empty mug down the table, tattoos flashing like black cuffs around his wrists. His russet eyes flick up, catching your stare.

You grimace, pretending to admire the lead pencil in your hand, as though you were looking at literally anything else.

Sukuna rolls his eyes, "And lookie here, we've got fresh blood." He jerks a thick finger in your direction, "Department approved a new transfer since Kashimo ditches us for whatever adrenaline-junkie bullshit he does now."

"Probably bungee-jumping into a volcano," Naoya mutters, not bothering to lift his eyes from his phone.

A round of quiet nods and murmurs of ascent follow, resigned as you gather this must track for the famed, impulsive Hajime Kashimo.

"That, and the fucker kept tryin' to take my job," Sukuna growls, but his sharp eyes swing back to you, "So, kid. Tell us where you crawled out of."

You shift, suddenly wishing you'd spent a little more time preparing a decent show-and-tell, "I – uh, spent some time after the academy in Cyber. Worked cases involving data trafficking, predictive algorithms, behavioural mapping and —"

The doors bang open as a ridiculously tall man blows in, alongside a rush of cold air, balancing a pastry bag and an oversized coffee, as though he's walked through a hurricane. His tie is loose, white hair windswept, and his glasses are a little askew.

"Sorry, sorry — I'm late," the man blurts, breezing in like a hurricane with a coffee cup in one hand and a pastry bag in the other. He cuts across the room in long, careless strides, clapping Kento on the shoulder as he passes, "Don't start without me."

"Oh, no, your majesty," Sukuna mutters, voice dripping with snide disdain, "We were all waiting for you to grace us with your presence. What, fifteen minutes late? Wouldn't want our little genius missing the fun."

The man flushes mid-step under Sukuna's glare, shoulders stiff, "Look, man — "

Sukuna raises a thick brow.

"Uh, I mean, sir. Yes, sir. No, sir. Won't happen again, sir."

"Get your ass in a chair."

Geto presses a hand valiantly to his chest, and it takes all your Herculean effort to not stare at the counter of his sculpted chest beneath his top. But the man is as solemn as a priest, "He won't do it again, boss. Nope. I'll personally buy him an alarm clock."

Shoko snorts into her ocean-blue turtleneck, tugging it tighter around her throat, "He doesn't need you to suck up for him."

"Welcome to the team," Naoya finally drags his amber eyes away from his glaring phone screen, pinning you with an exhausted stare, and once again, that look that blamed all of his displeasure on others, "Not too late to hand in your two weeks' notice."

God. You should have read that case file one more time. Should've done a single ounce more of snooping into your new team. Then, maybe, just maybe, you would have been more prepared.

If you had just bothered to read the last and final page on the current members of the Behavioural Analysis Unit, you would have picked up on this.

Gojo Satoru.

He's sinking into a wheeled chair, flipping through a file and shuffling stacks of crisp paper. Loose navy cardigan over crisp slacks, and a cream button-down, with sleeves rolled to his elbows. White hair a little too long, falling into his glacial blue eyes, hidden behind wire-rimmed glasses that look devastating on him now.

The last time you saw him was, when? High school?

He had been a mess back then, composed of crumpled Lord of the Rings hoodies from Hot Topic and a ramble of babble that everyone attributed to him being, well, an absolute nerd.

Gojo Satoru, the valedictorian. The boy genius with a scraggly bowl cut and round, prescription sunglasses. The guy who could speak a dozen languages, and pass an exam without cracking open his book once. Eidetic memory, and all that.

But he had always been a bit of a social pariah. If he wasn't alone, mumbling over textbooks in the library, he was probably exchanging Pokémon cards with some friend of his, like the bumbling, dark-haired Ijichi.

And now? Well, it's an ironic choice of words considering your line of work, but he looks criminal. Still a nerd, but in that hot way that Pinterest girls swooned over. Tall, broader than you remembered, sharp-jawed and somehow pulling off a cardigan better than you right now.

Your mouth is already open before you can stop yourself, "When the hell did you get so hot?"

Gojo's head lifts quickly, blinking at you like you're an anomaly in a code that he was clueless about. No recognition, no faint spark of memory in those jewel-toned eyes. He adjusts his glasses, pink lips quirking, "I'm sorry, have we met?"

Every cell in your body goes into system shutdown. Somewhere in your periphery, Kento's face flattens, as though he's embarrassed to have spent time in your presence. Across the table, Shoko slips a twenty into Geto's waiting hand. You catch Naoya sliding in a crisp fifty with the same bitter grace as tossing meat to a dog.

You cough, cheeks puffing as you scramble for rapid damage control, "I mean, wow. When the hell did it get so hot in here? I'm sweltering. Are you guys hot? Because I'm hot. Like, wow, summer's already here? Global warning, am I right?"

"It's the middle of winter," Sukuna throws you a look of mild disgust, as though you're contagious with a brand of idiocy he wants to avoid.

"Phewwww." You wipe your brow theatrically, refusing to die in utter shame, "Must be just me then. Because I'm boiling in here."

Naoya leans back, eyes dragging over you with lazy, bored curiosity, lips curling just enough to flash his fangs, "You do know all BAU agents have to pass a psych eval, right? You didn't bribe the assessor?"

Shoko perks up suddenly, leaning forward with the first glimmer of interest in her doe-copper eyes, "Could be medical. Hyperthyroidism, maybe. Or pheochromocytoma. Seen an endocrinologist lately?"

"Uh..." You falter, because Gojo is frowning at you with real concern over his puzzled face, "I'll get it checked out. Thanks."

You hear Sukuna grunt something about 'fuckin' idiots' before he's already sliding individual files towards everyone. His huge hand click the pointer, and the wall-mounted screen flickers to life.

"Remember our mystery case from last year?"

"Flat-top weirdo who set people on fire?" Geto frowns, pushing your file towards you, from where Sukuna tossed them onto the middle of the table. You murmur a quick thanks, careful not to meet Gojo's eyes, the gaze boring into you from across the table, suddenly quite stern.

"The unsub was found not long after. Jogo, wasn't it?" Kento murmurs.

Naoya wags a finger towards the screen, "Then there was that freak with the bio-warfare. Something about flowers and shit?"

"Hanami. Also caught. Do you even pay attention to what we do?"

Naoya just shrugs, golden hair fluttering as he tilts his head with little regard for Kento's disapproving stare.

"Eyes up here," Sukuna warns, his tone like barbed wife. He clicks, and the next slide makes your stomach lurch. You'd braced yourself for crime scenes photos, comes with the job, obviously.

But nothing quite prepares you for the patchwork grotesque on the screen. Stiff sheets of human skin, stitched together with light blue-grey thread in patterns so deliberate it makes your chest crawl.

You swallow hard, throat tight as you hold onto your breakfast. But the others? Entirely unfazed.

"Yeah, that's the telltale M.O, it's poppin' up more and more," Sukuna shoves his hands into the pockets of his charcoal-grey denim.

"Oh man, yeah," Shoko says, leaning back in her hair as though this is a casual conversation about the weather, "That case has been open for months, I thought the unsub had stopped acting, and we had to put the investigation on hold?"

"Nah." Sukuna sums it up eloquently, "This is from two days ago. Something's triggered the killings again." He drops the pointer, tossing it onto the table with a thunk! Your boss jerks his chin towards the far side of the table, "But I'll let boy genius tell you more."

Every head swivels towards Gojo Satoru, except for yours. You keep your eyes firmly trained on the stacks of paper in front of you, the coordinate grid maps of where the unsub had previously struck last year.

Gojo's pushing his glasses up the bridge of his hawkish nose with one long finger. The glow of the projector washes his pale skin in sterile blue, catching on the sharp edge of his jaw. For half a second, the thinnest sliver in time, you could swear he looks at you, watches for your attention.

"Okay, so — " He claps his hands together once, quick and sharp, and you swear the sound reverberates through your bones, "Our unsub. Male, mid-twenties to mid-thirties. We could assume he's highly organised, almost meticulous with what he does, but impulsive to a fault. He does what pleases him, and gambles on what he thinks will give him a thrill."

"Like Kashimo," Shoko mutters, rolling a strand of flat, chestnut hair between her fingers once more.

Geto shakes his head solemly, "True that."

"The victims are skinned postmortem. And we've consistently found that pale blue thread is used to stitch pieces together. The shade of blue is consistent, almost ritualistic. The nylon fibres were analysed in the lab, and our unsub uses the same brand. It's cheap, easy to get at specific convenience stores so we can track his location as a path."

"You gettin' this?" Sukuna peers over at you, startling you out of your mild reverie. You fumble for the nearest Sharpie, already creating crosses over the past locations, wincing at the sound of the marker squeaking across paper.

"And like I said earlier, his stitches really are meticulous. Cross-stitch, blanket stitch, whip stitch. It's like he's experimenting with technique. I doubt it's random."

"Who spends time learning this shit?" Naoya mutters, reclining in his chair, but straightening up once Sukuna levels a shark-like flat look at him.

"Shut up, you wouldn't know a running stitch from a running nose," Gojo scowls, firing back without missing a beat, and he's pacing now. Voice picking up speed, words tumbling like dominos, "Locations? Spread across three prefectures, but always within walking distance of either a fabric store, or get this, cinemas? Something personal, perhaps?"

"Last time, agents found notes he had left behind, a manifesto?" Kento wonders out loud, dark eyes narrowed as he peers at the illuminated screen.

"Yeah, but it was nothing useful," Shoko shrugs, before pointing to Gojo, "Sorry, hang on. I'll get back to you. But there were no fingerprints left, not a speck of DNA to trace. And most of his ramblings made no sense, something about 'Idle Transfiguration' and his motivations, like humans hating and fearing each other."

"Like that's anything new," Sukuna grumbles, "Most people are like that."

"You're an optimist, boss," Geto notes, broad shoulders rippling beneath his jacket, "Anything about victimology?"

Gojo pushes his glasses up once more, glancing at you briefly. You loathe the feeling that pushes against your ribcage, and force your buzzing mind to actually focus on his words, "See, this is an anomaly. For someone so driven and focused on what he considers his craft, his victims seem to be chosen at random. Complexion and – uh, texture seem irrelevant. So, he's not really chasing consistency for his patchwork."

"But you guys caught him on your radar last year? You didn't find patterns?" You ponder, and while you know none would believe your words, you could swear that Gojo flinches at your voice. Ugh.

But the white-haired man gnaws his lower lips, "Yeah, yes. Patterns, yes. He disappeared for weeks, sometimes months, then resurfaced. That's typical cooling off period in disorganised killers, but this is the one part of his behaviour that doesn't seem as impulsive. He seems to hunt deliberately after mass public events. Tragedies, natural accidents, moments where there's a lot of negative public sentiment in the air. Like that's his time to source the right..." Gojo snaps his fingers, suddenly grinning, "Like sourcing the right fabric."

Naoya pulls a face, idly picking at a raw cuticle, "That's disgusting."

"Yeah, don't you love our job?" Gojo pushes his sleeves up, revealing toned forearms, dusted with light hair. He's clicking to the next map overlay, a string of red pins dot the screen, matching the marks you've made on the map in front of you.

"Notice the clusters. Each crime scene radiates outwards from a central hub. That hub? Abandoned textile factory in the south quadrant. It's a line of vast sewer tunnels, and I'd guess that's where our unsub probably feels safest returning to?"

Gojo coughs into his fist, finally lowering himself into his chair, as though he's just remembered that oxygen exists, "So. Yeah, that's – uh. That's what we're dealing with."

"Yeah, I knew all that," Sukuna snickers, slapping his thighs as he stands, "But now — "

"What?!" Gojo's head snaps up, scandalised.

"I knew, 'course I read the profile. You think I don't do my job? Just wanted you to get it out of your system, so maybe you'd get the chattering out of the way and I'd get five blessed minutes of silence at least."

Gojo mutters something under his breath that is absolutely not HR safe, folding his arms sullenly over his cardigan. Geto reaches over to pat his sulking friends shoulder in slow sympathy, "There, there. You'll always be my favourite profiler."

Shoko rolls her eyes skywards, sharing a long suffering look with Kento.

"Anyway," Sukuna grumbles, "We've got enough agents to stake out the predicted strike zone. We'll be in the field, but I want two of you pulled back a little, car surveillance, eyes on any movement in the surrounded abandoned area."

"I'll do it," Geto offers smoothly, putting his palm up. But the reaction is immediate and violent.

"No way." "Impossible." "You better not even fuckin' think about it." "Not after Kenjaku-gate."

You frown, brows furrowing, "I'm sorry. Kenjaku-gate? This was some...incident?

"Don't," Geto warns sharply, stuffing another helping of glazed dougnut into his mouth.

"Please do," Shoko encourages, propping her chin upon her fist with wicked interest.

Naoya leans in, and you're struck by his immense resemblance to a hyena, "Yeah. There was this guy, Kenjaku. His whole M.O was identity fraud, always swapping bodies, new disguises, different lives. Shit got real sticky, he even wore Geto once."

You wonder if you heard that correctly, glancing at Geto, who looks like he'd rather be anywhere else, "Wore? As in — ?"

"Right," Naoya continues gleefully, "So for a hot minute, everyone thought he was guilty of all these weird crimes. Big mess, and the higher-ups in the government had to get involved. They were foaming at the mouth and all."

"Mhm," Sukuna huffs, leaning back in his chair, and jerking a thumb towards Geto, who was currently scowling daggers at no-one in particular, "He's been cleared now and all, but that bastard caused a lot of problems. Nearly sank the team."

Your eyes flick to Kento, who hasn't said a word, but who looks far more strung. You mouth, something personal?

The golden-haired man hesitates, then gives the barest nod, Don't ask. Something about his twin brother.

You file that away, stunned. You frankly can't picture your new boss having friends, let alone a brother. But before you can prod, Sukuna's sharp eyes cut back to you like a blade.

"Well, how about this then?" His voice is slow, dripping with challenge, "I'll send ya' out there. You and boyband wonder, hmm?"

"Me?" You freeze, sudden heat climbing your neck.

But Gojo, mid-sip of coffee, sputters, "Boyband? Man, what the fuck?" He runs a nervous hand through his hair, pushing it up self-consciously.

"Shiny teeth, tragic wardrobe, zero substance?" Naoya offers with venomous glee.

"I have so much substace," Gojo sinks further into his cardigan, "Like, layers. Onions-level."

"Enough," Sukuna cuts through Gojo's muttering like a blade, voice sharp, and the casual chatter dies instantly. "I'm not your fuckin' babysitter. So, let's focus before I do lose what little patience I have left."

Gojo winces, lips quirking into an awkward grimace, but Sukuna ignores him and taps the case file with a thick finger, "We've got fresh dumpsites with consistent signatures. Stitching patterns, the pale blue thread. Most recent was two days ago, meaning we've got a live unsub working fast. That puts us on the clock."

You feel Gojo's eyes flick to you again, quick and unreadable, and your stomach twists. He still hasn't said anything. Not a flicker of recognition. Not even a hey, long time no see. Just nothing.

It pisses you off more than it should, irritation welling up in your throat.

"Fine," you blurt, before your brain can catch up, "I'll do it. Stakeout. Whatever you need."

There's a faint quirk at the corner of Sukuna's mouth, like he can smell the edge of desperation under your words, that urge to prove yourself. But his eyes are colder, "We'll see about that."

"Kento, Ieiri. You canvas the medical angles. Hospitals, ER admissions, anyone who might've stitched somethin' suspicious together. You'll get the most traction."

"Geto, Zen'in, go after witnesses and locals. Hit the perimeter, dig for chatter. And don't give me excuses about your personal vendettas gettin' in the way."

At this, Geto and Naoya give each other nasty, defeated looks. You briefly wonder the dynamic between them is.

But Sukuna's glaze cuts back to Gojo and you, "Which leaves you two. Surveillance car. Abandoned industrial area on the south side. Keep ya' eyes open, and if you get trigger-happy, I'll have your badges before you can blink."

The team starts gathering files, muttering, scraping chairs against the floor. You catch Geto purposefully knock his elbow into Naoya's ribs, but one by one, they filter out. You're slow to move, waiting till Gojo gives you a hesitant look and pushes the door open.

But you're absolutely aware that Sukuna's gaze is still pinned on you.

"Stay a minute," he orders.

Your spine stiffens, wilting under his maroon eyes. Oh, god. What did you already screw up?

But Sukuna doesn't waste time, "You want to prove yourself? Do it out there, not in here." His arms cross over his vast chest, tattoos shifting with the movement, "This isn't a playground. People die if you fumble, or freeze."

You swallow, throat tight, "Yeah, I know. I mean, understood."

"For the record..." Sukuna pauses, eyes narrowed as he seems to search your face for something, "The only reason you're here is because someone vouched for you. Usually I don't take rookies without field scars."

"Someone vouched?" Your heart stutters, thudding beneath your sternum.

"Yeah," Sukuna's lip curls, like the whole thing is a nuisance, "Gojo. Said you were worth the risk."

Your jaw practically unhinges, in the most unflattering way possible. Gojo? The same Gojo who looked you dead in the eye, and treated you like a stranger, while you babbled on about global warming?

Sukuna seems to read your silent expression, rolling his eyes, "Don't get sentimental. Whatever history you've got with boy-wonder, that's your problem. Out there, I only care if you can keep up." He jerks his chin toward the door, "Now get outta' here before I change my mind."

You nod quickly, fighting the ridiculous urge to kowtow, and grabbing your file before scurrying away with a spinning head.

"...So, you like jazz?" Gojo offers, peering low over his glasses, voice low in the hush of the car. His breath clouds in front of him, puffs in the winter chill.

You throw the white-haired man a sullen look, "Are you quoting the Bee Movie right now?"

Gojo's brows crawl up his face, "What? No." He wiggles in his seat, reaching into the pocket of his corduroy jacket. Producing a battered stack of discs, each one labelled in his crooked scrawl, "I bought jazz. Miles Davis, Louis Armstrong, Ella Fitzgerald. All the greats."

You must look gobsmacked, because flushed colour creeps across his cheeks. Gojo coughs and fumbles them back into his jacket, like contraband, "Sorry. Didn't know what you liked. If you don't want — "

You wave his stumbled fragments off, eyes darting to the frost-laced window, "No, it's fine." You gesture at the ancient CD slot on the dash, "Yeah, put whatever you want on."

Gojo perks instantly, sliding a CD in, and soon the tinny trumpet of Miles Davis fills the stale air of the car. You fold your arms, not looking at him, jaw clenched against the silence that starts to stretch.

For several minutes, the only sound is jazz, the occasional creak of your gloves as you flex your hands against the chill, and the scrape of Gojo's graphite pencil as he pulls through a crossword puzzle.

"So, first official stakeout. Excited?"

"Thrilled."

Gojo drums his long fingers against the steering wheel, "You know, these stakeouts are a rite of passage. It's the long hours, bitter coffee, and the leg cramps from being stuck in the car." He glances at you, smiling faintly, "Builds character."

"I can't wait," you mutter, eyes flicking over the dim, warm street lights casting long shadows across the pavement.

More silence. A car passes down the far end of the abandoned street, headlights sweeping briefly across the dashboard.

"You think he'll come tonight?" You ask finally, if only to give Gojo something else to do, other than throwing you confused looks.

"The unsub?" His voice sharpens, "Maybe. The dump site pattern isn't perfect, but this location fits his trajectory. High likelihood he'll circle back tonight."

"Guess all we can do is watch, no?"

Gojo hums in agreement, pink lips pressed together, before pulling his battered, cracked phone out of his pocket, "Naoya said he would send through any witness statements, I just hoped he stayed on task enough to remember."

You snort, "Has he always been this insufferable?"

Gojo smiles, and his expression is surprisingly warm, "He wasn't always. We grew up together, actually. Naoya was — " Gojo shrugs, eyes flicking to the windshield, " — pretty cool, back then. Somewhere along the way, he just became a jerk."

The bitter edge of jealousy curls in your chest, faster than you can halt it, "Well, it's nice you remember him."

Gojo's head jerks towards you, as though he's baffled by the sudden venom coating your tongue, "Uh, what?"

You moodily jab the dashboard a little harder than intended, "Seriously? You've been pretending not to know me this whole, like I'm some stranger you've never met, and I know it's not that deep, but it's — " You choke on the words, cheeks suddenly burning, "It's embarrassing. It hasn't been that long since high school, Satoru. Did I do something to you, or what?"

It seems that the air in the car has gone very still. Jazz murmurs faintly from the speakers, a trumpet line winding upward like smoke.

Gojo just blinks at you, stunned, lips parted like a fish out of water. But his expression shifts, sours suddenly. White brows knit together, that plush mouth pulling into a scowl.

"Are you asking me that?" His voice isn't loud, but the irritation in it cuts sharper somehow.

You gape at him, "What? Me? It's not like we were best friends or something, but a 'Hi, hello, how are you?' would have been nice in that team room. You practically ignored me."

"Yeah?" Gojo's laugh is humourless, bitter, "Well, it's better than tearing someone down, isn't it?"

Your heart stutters, confusion blooming, "What the fuck are you talking about?"

Gojo shifts in his seat, huncing in a way that looks wrong on his tall frame, pulling out his phone. You catch sight of the battered case, corners fraying, as though it's the same one he carried back in high school. He's frowning as he scrolls, before flipping the dim, cracked screen towards you.

Huh. A text message, addressed to you.

The date is old, years old, but your name is right there in the contact header. You drag your eyes over the clumsy words.

Hey, I was wondering if maybe you wanted to go out sometime? nothing fancy. maybe that new burger place by the train station? i’ll even pay. (don’t laugh at me too hard, ok?) >_<

Your stomach flips, as you take in the following reply. Short, cruel. Mean in a way that only teenagers could manage.

"Wow. That's...wow. That's mean."

Gojo's throat bobs as he swallows, and he opens his mouth, but you sharply cut him off, "But that wasn't me."

"Huh?"

You force yourself to meet his eyes, hidden behind thick frames, startling blue, wide and wounded, "That wasn't me. I never saw this. I never replied to this."

"But —"

"Yeah," you blurt, "I changed numbers. Utahime dropped my phone in a pool, on a senior trip. I ended up just getting a new one, even a new number. Whoever did this just thought they were fucking with you, I mean, it's messed up, 'cause I never would have said that."

You swallow, the weight of the sudden silence pressing on your chest, but Gojo suddenly breaks it, blurting, "So, you think I'm hot now?"

Your head whips towards him, startled, as heat crawls up the back of your neck.

Gojo immediately winces, shoulders caving in as though he's trying to fold his giant frame into the tiny car, "Sorry. Just tryna' think of something to say. I didn't meant to embarrass you earlier. I don't know, I was just —" He waves his hand vaguely in the air.

You shouldn't lose focus, but your eyes linger anyway. His hands are elegant. Long, tapered fingers. Neat nails, calluses just barely catching in the dashboard light. Hands probably steadily enough to wield a scalpel or...

No. Don't go there.

Your breath hitches, and you drag your gaze away, desperately praying he didn't notice the temporary loss of your composure.

"No, it's fine. I mean..." You stumble over the words, trying to find stable foot, "I heard, well, Sukuna said that you vouched for me. Which is nice. I appreciate that."

Gojo's expression softens, a flicker of something unreadable passing over his features, "Yeah, well." He shrugs, defensively, "I asked Sukuna to keep it a secret, but figures he sold me out."

You almost smile, "Doesn't change the fact that you stuck your neck out."

"Guess I did," Gojo scratches at his jaw, over the faintest hint of stubble, glancing away, "Thought you were worth it."

Your heart stutters.

The car feels smaller suddenly. The cold air outside fogs the windows, but inside, it’s warm, too warm, the kind of heat that sticks to your skin. The mournful trumpet fades into a husky croon, and every note seems to hang between you like a dare.

You shift in your seat, knees brushing his by accident. He tenses, just barely, but doesn't move away. And maybe you're imagining it, but his gaze drops, to your mouth, then back to your eyes. Quick. Guilty. Like he hadn't meant to.

But you'd seen it.

The silence between you grows roots, tangling around the both of you. You can still feel the phantom brush of his knee against yours, the way his eyes had flicked to your mouth. It lingers, heavy, like the saxophone whispering from the CD.

Gojo clears his throat, Adam's apple bobbing. Then he clears it again. And then he blurts, "You know, statistically, unresolved tension like this usually results in impulsive decisions that compromise stakeouts."

"…What?"

"I mean," Gojo gestures helpless, corduroy sleeve slipping down his wrist, "It's – it's basic psychology. Two people with history, recent emotional clarification, physical proximity." His voice is speeding up, rambling now, "That kind of cocktail basically rewires your brain chemistry and then, um, then you end up, you know, uh —"

Gojo swallows, blue eyes fixed straight ahead, "Kissing."

You just stare at him.

Gojo winces, palms pressed to his knees like he's bracing for you to laugh in his face. "Not that I'm saying we should, I mean, I am saying that, but not in a creepy way, I just – " He cuts himself off, groaning, pressing a hand under his glasses, "God, I sound insane."

Something in your chest twists. Because under all the words spilling from his mouth, he looks…nervous. Really nervous. The kind of nerves that can't be falsified.

Then, like the world's clumsiest miracle, he drops his hand, and his blue eyes meet yours, wide and shining and sincere. His cheeks are flushed pink, breath puffing in the cold air.

"Please, I would like to kiss you," Gojo says softly, before stiffening, "Only if you want to, uh, doesn't have to be now."

The world tilts, blood roaring in your ears. You're frozen for a second, but before you can second guess yourself, you lean in, heart hammering as you press your lips to his.

At first it's tentative, testing the waters, your mouth brushing his like a question. But then Gojo's warm hand comes up, hesitantly cupping your jaw, and the way he exhales against your mouth, like he's been waiting years for this, answers it for both of you.

The trumpet solo wails on, high and bright.

The kiss should've ended at that. A brush, a sigh, a fragile thing left untouched. But Gojo makes this soft sound in his throat, half whimper, half groan, and suddenly you're tipping forward, hand fisting in his cardigan to drag him closer.

He kisses like he talks; too much, too fast, spilling over himself. His teeth click against yours, and when you gasp, Gojo's tongue darts in shyly, then a little bolder, like he's cataloguing the exact angle, the exact pressure that makes your breath hitch.

"F-fuck," he murmurs against your mouth, voice cracking, "I didn't –I've never actually..."

You pull back a fraction, dazed as you stare the swell of his glossy lips, "You've never…?"

Gojo's ears are pink, his white lashes trembling as his nose brushes yours, "I read about it. But I've – uh, not, you know. This, or anything like this. Not with anyone."

Oh. Suddenly, the fumbling, the eagerness, it all clicks. And your chest squeezes at how earnest Gojo looks, like he's terrified you'll ridicule and mock his inexperience.

"Relax," you whisper, sliding closer, your thigh brushing his., "You're doing jus' fine."

Gojo's groan is strangled, raspy as you press your lips to the juncture of his neck, "The fact that I'm even here, doing this with you is a-amazing, actually."

Then he kisses you harder, messy now, a little greedy. His hand finds your waist, hesitant at first, then tugging you practically into his lap.

Fuck.

You feel it straightaway, the thick, solid press of his cock straining in his slacks. Gojo jolts like he's embarrassed you noticed, but you grind down just a little, chasing after some friction between your legs, and he breaks the kiss with a loud gasp, forehead thudding against yours.

"Jesus Christ —" Gojo's voice is wrecked, wrecked in a way that makes heat curl low in your belly, pool between your thighs, "I'm – fuck, I'm so hard right now, this is, oh my god."

You giggle, breathless, nipping at his berry-pink lip, "Focus, genius. Stakeout, remember?"

And as if on cue —

BANG. BANG. BANG.

The car door rattles violently, as though someone has pounded their first on the window. You both jolt, scrambling, your thighs jostling as you clamber off Gojo's lap.

Sukuna, arms crossed in his windbreaker uniform. Face twisted in a scowl so utterly disgusted and sour that could curdle milk. The type of expression that promises consequences so severe that medieval executioners would tremble in fear.

Your head falls back against the seat with a groan, as you kick the door open, taking in the swarm of federal agents rushing past your stakeout car, most likely to chase after your unsub, "Oh, you've got to be fuckin' kidding me."

Gojo, meanwhile, is fumbling with his seatbelt, sliding his cardigan off to pull his windbreaker on, doing little to cover his very obvious erection, whining under his breath, "I can't go out there like this, holy shit, he's gonna kill me. W-wait, don't leave me, tell Sukuna I've caught the flu and —"

You shove yourself out the car door, shooting Gojo a look, "I'm sure he just saw that. Can only pray he doesn't send us to be hung, drawn and quartered."

Gojo follows, still muttering, still rock-hard, but trying desperately to stand up straight, "He's really gonna' kill us."

"Kento got a lucky shot, didn't he? They're gonna' have, uh, what's his name? Mahito? They're gonna' have him put away for life." Gojo buzzes, as the motel door clicks shut behind you, the muted clamour of the hallway falling away. You toss your duffel bag onto the bed, exhaling hard.

"So," you sigh, pushing off your shoes, groaning at the ache in your ankles, "How much paperwork do you think Sukuna's gonna bury us under? Forty hours? Fifty?"

Gojo groans dramatically, collapsing face-first onto the other bed. His muffled voice filters through the sheets, "I can still hear him yelling in my head. Like a banshee with a nicotine problem. I've never seen him so mad."

You laugh, unzipping your flimsy jacket, tossing it on the cheap sheets, "At least he didn't bench us completely."

"I thought he was gonna' shove my badge down my throat."

Gojo flips over, messy white hair fanned across the pillow, glasses crooked. He stares at you for a long moment, his ears pink, before he says it. Quiet. Too quiet for Gojo.

"…It was still worth it."

You freeze, turning slowly, "What?"

His hand scrubs over his face, as he pulls his glasses straight once more, "Not the badge down my throat part. The stakeout. Car. You. I don't –" he breaks off, sits up abruptly, ocean-blue eyes bright with nerves. "I've never felt anything like that before. And if Sukuna yells me into the ground every day for the rest of my life, it'd still be worth it."

The room goes hushed. Your chest tightens at how serious he looks, this tall, awkward genius who's always been a little too much, suddenly stripped down to something raw.

You cross the room slowly, settling onto the edge of his bed, "Satoru…"

Gojo's throat bobs, and the tips of ears are flushed, "Can I —" He stops, shakes his head, tries again, quieter, "Can I have this? With you. Tonight?"

Your heart lurches. He's never done this before. You can see it in the way his fingers twitch on his knees, in the unpracticed tremor of his voice.

You lean in, brushing your lips against his temple, "Yeah," you whisper, "I really want that."

Gojo's exhale is shaky, relief and hunger all tangled together. When he kisses you this time, it's clumsy but desperate, his hands hovering, not sure where to land until you guide them, pressing them to your waist, your thigh, your chest.

And then it breaks open, heat curling, restraint snapping. Gojo groans into your mouth as you push him back against the pillows, his long body sprawling, his cock already stiff and aching against his plaid slacks.

"F-fuck, I don't, 'cause I've never…" Gojo pants, face flushed, "Just tell me what to do, please, I'll do anything —"

You take in the fine sculpt of his nose, the long lashes framing his eyes, the broad press of his shoulders against the woven fabric, "I can't believe you're a virgin, Satoru."

"Hey! I've been too busy to get laid."

The laugh bursts out of you before you can stop it, warm and teasing all at once, "It's a compliment, I don't know if anyone tells you this enough, but you're hot."

Gojo groans, flopping back on the bed like he wants the carpet to swallow him. You rake your nails beneath his shirt, feeling his toned abdomen, lightly dusted with fine hair.

And oh, the noise he makes. Like his soul is trying to claw its way out of his throat.

You lean down, kissing him again. Soft at first, then not at all, because Gojo is hungry, fumbling hands tugging at your hips, and then over your ass, groaning into your mouth like he's been starved of this forever. And maybe he has.

It's clumsy, teeth knocking once, but then Gojo moans. Loud. Like you've just discovered a frequency that short-circuits his neurons. His cock twitches under you, hard already, "S-sorry," he gasps, pulling back, blue eyes blown wide, "I can't, it's so – this is so embarrassing, I'm already —"

"Hard?" you tease, grinding your hips down so his cock presses right against your building heat, "Good. Means you want me."

Gojo whines, white hair tipping back against the pillow, throat flushed pink, "Of course I fucking want you. I've wanted you since — " He breaks off with a strangled groan when you rock against him again, "Shit-shit-shit, don't stop. Please don't stop —"

Gojo's rambling, babbling like he does at case briefings, but instead of statistics, it's just desperate filth, "Y-you're so warm, I can feel you even through my pants, I think I'm gonna die, – wait, am I supposed to – should I —"

You cut him off with another kiss, tugging at his worn belt until it clatters open. Gojo's shaking, half-helping, half-getting in the way because his large hands are trembling too hard. But finally you shove his slacks down enough to free him —

And oh, he's big. Thick, veined, dripping already, precum beading at the fat tip. Virgin, sure, but blessed in ways unfair to humanity.

Gojo gasps when your hand closes around his flushed shaft. Loud. Shocked. His head knocks back against the headboard, glasses sliding askew, "Oh my god, you're – holy shit, I'm gonna cum just from this, don't make f-fun of me —"

"Not making fun," you murmur, stroking him slow, savouring the way his soft, velvety cock kicks in your grip, "I'm impressed."

Gojo groans like you've shot him through the heart, grabbing fistfuls of the sheets, hips jerking up into your hand helplessly, "Impressed —fuck, oh god, I think I l-love you, wait, shit, did I just say that out loud?"

You laugh against Gojo's throat, kissing down the column of his neck as he trembles under you, whining like he’s already on the edge, pearly slick already staining your hand.

"Relax, Satoru," you whisper, lining him up with your own slick entrance, pushing your panties to the side, feeling the thick, hot throb of his fat head near your core, "I'll take care of you."

And when you sink down, slow, tight, inch by inch, his groan could wake the entire floor.

"Oh, fuck, you're – you're t-tight, fuck, you're gonna break me —" His hands are everywhere, gripping your waist, sliding helplessly up your sides, pushing his glasses entirely off, "I-I'm inside, I can feel everything, I'm – oh my god."

You clamp a shaking hand over his running mouth, leaning in close. "Shhhh. Walls are thin, baby."

He nods frantically, eyes wet, muffling little cries into your palm as you bottom out, feeling every hot inch swab your gummy walls. His cock twitches inside you, already dripping, already too close.

And when you start to move, rolling your hips slow, grinding down until he's gasping into your hand, he nearly comes undone on the spot.

You barely get three swivels of your hips before he loses it.

"F-fuckfuckfuck, oh god, no – wait, shit —" Gojo's whole body seizes, hands clawing at your waist, voice cracking into a sob as his cock jerks inside you, thick head prodding dangerously close to that sweet spot, "I'm, oh no, I'm —"

And then Gojo's already climaxing, thick, creamy spurts spilling into you, thighs trembling, glasses long discarded on the thin sheets of the motel bed.

You blink down at him, stunned, feeling a heavy throb in your cunt, clenching around an overstimulated Gojo, "Did you just — "

"Don't say it," Gojo covers his face with both hands, chest heaving, still twitching weak spurts inside you, "Don't say I just came in thirty seconds. I know. I know. I —" His voice breaks into a whimper, muffled behind his palms, "Fuck, I'm so sorry, I didn't, wasn't even, fuck, it's like the data didn't predict this outcome."

You laugh, despite the fading ache between your legs, eager for some friction. Because only Gojo Satoru would be blushing and pulling out scientific metaphors while still buried heavy balls-deep in you.

"Baby," you coo, stroking a hand down his flushed chest, thumbing over a pink nipple, and the action makes him keen, "We're not done. Not even close."

Gojo peeks out from behind his fingers, cerulean eyes wide and wet, "Wh–what do you mean? I already —"

"Yeah," you purr, tightening around him just to watch his jaw drop, to feel that delicious ache purr back to life as your groin tacked across his sticky hips, "And you're still hard."

And Gojo is. His thick cock, flushed angry-red, still twitches inside you, leaking, pulsing like it hasn’t gotten the memo.

He makes a broken noise, "That's not biologically s-supposed to happen. Well, sometimes, it c-can."

"Guess you're pretty special then, aren't you?"

Gojo arches, loud and shameless, like you've just electrocuted him. "It's too much – wait, wait, I — fuck, I can feel everything, you're so wet, so tight, god, I can feel your pretty pussy's heartbeat around me."

You press your lips to the shell of his ear, nipping the sensitive skin. “Then c-come on, fuck me more, Satoru. I know you can do m-more than thirty seconds. Show me what you've got."

Gojo whines, rasping, "I don't, – fuck, I've only read about positions. And everyone knows the Kama Sutra actually wasn't o-originally about s – woah, mmph!"

You shut him up with a kiss, rocking down harder, grinding his cock deeper into your sticky, drooling walls. He moans into your mouth, a desperate mess of teeth and tongue as he chases after your lips, his hips finally jerking up to meet yours.

"There ya' go," you pant, breaking the kiss to bite his jaw, "Just like that. F-fuck me back."

And something finally clicks. Some primal gear in Gojo finally slots into place, and suddenly he's gripping your hips with surprising strength, thrusting up into you with a rhythm that makes your breath catch. Hitting that sweet, roughened spot over and over in a way that makes you squeal.

"Shit, shit," Gojo gasps, white hair plastered to his forehead from sheer exertion, "I'm doing it, right? Like, I'm actually f-fucking you. It's so good, is it good for you? Tell me it's g-good."

"It's a-amazing," you whine, crescent-tipped nails digging into Gojo's shoulders as your own head tips back, "Fuck, 'Toru, you're so d-deep."

He groans like you’ve just told him he solved the world’s hardest equation (knowing him, that's probably the type of shit that gets him off).

"Deep, yeah, I read average vaginal length is l-like three to four inches but your cervix can actually – fuck, fuck, fuck, you're clenching – holyshit — "

You cut him off with another grind, walls fluttering around him until Gojo groans, head tipping back against the pillows once more, flushed and writhing.

"C-can't – can't take it,” he babbles, hips snapping frantically, the sound of skin slapping sticky echoing through the room, "Too good, too hot – fuck, your pussy's gonna kill me, I'm actually gonna die a virgin after all, oh god — "

You laugh breathlessly, tightening your quivering thighs around him, pinning him to the mattress as you ride him through another orgasm. He spills again inside you, creamy and opaque, drooling down your thighs, gasping your name, shaking under you like he's unraveling thread by thread.

And still, still — he's hard.

But Gojo looks wrecked. Vibrant blue eyes dewy, cheeks wet with sweat and tears, lips kiss-bitten and swollen, "Why, why won't it go down," he moans, almost panicked, pulling his cock out to slap at your wet folds, and the stimulation over your throbbing clit makes you squeal.

You cup his face, leaning close, "H-hey, we got plenty of time to practice now, right?"

Gojo breathes out one last shattered plea, voice cracked and raw, abdomen heaving with splattered release, "Teach me again tomorrow?"

The first thing you register is sheer heat. The second is warm weight, Gojo's ridiculously toned body pressed against you. Half on top of you, and half spooled around you as though he's afraid you'll vanish.

The third thing you notice is something hard rutting insistently against your hip. Smearing warm slick over your soft flesh.

"S-sorry, pretty girl," Gojo blurts, voice hoarse, and you don't miss the mild crack at the end, "Didn't meant to wake you, fuck, where are my glasses? I just, uh, well, morning wood is biologically inevitable due to nocturnal penile tumescence cycles but this feels way better than when it just happens randomly in my sleep."

You cut him off with a lazy roll of your hips, grinding back into his cock, just at the right angle so it slips between your thighs, curving upwards deliciously. Gojo yelps, biting the edge of your shoulder.

"Please," he whimpers, eagerness thrumming in his voice, "Round two? I read that recovery time after multiple orgasms is supposed to be, like, hours but I think maybe last night recalibrated me — "

You turn onto your back, grabbing his face and dragging him down into a messy kiss. He's still nervous with it, teeth knocking, lips wet, as though he didn't carve his way through your pussy last night, but he's so adorably desperate it makes your heart ache.

"Satoru," you murmur against his sweet mouth, "Just fuck me.”

His whole body jerks, like you've just flipped every circuit breaker in his brain. Gojo pushes in deep, groaning like he's dying, hips stuttering as your glossy folds envelop his thick shaft once more, that delicious stretch making you quietly keen.

"You're so – oh my god, you're so warm, and s-so wet. It's better than anythin' that I've ever – fuck, you're squeezin' me so good."

You laugh into Gojo's mouth, clenching around him just to hear him scream, "God, you're cute. S-shut up and keep moving."

And he does. Frantic, erratic, messy, his big hands gripping your hips like lifelines, flushed cock driving into you with the enthusiasm of a man who's just discovered heaven is real and he's the only one inside.

When you finally come, with a quiet moan, stars glittering in the peripherals of your vision, heart racing as your pussy's clenching tight around him, Gojo breaks, face buried in your neck, babbling ironically sweet nothings as he spills into you again, cock plugged thick up in your walls.

His blue eyes are bright as he slumps against you, sweaty and trembling, whispering into your skin, "…So, I should have asked you this earlier, but if I asked you to go out with me, like a real date, would you say yes?"

You blink up at him, breathless, taking in the sight of the gorgeous. man hovering above you, earnest and wide eyed, "…Yeah. I would. 'Course I would, Satoru."

Gojo's grin splits his whole face, stupid and boyish and beautiful.

The entire team is staring, and Shoko's cigarette falls from her elegant fingers, "No way." She's staring between you and Gojo, copper eyes narrowed, "So if you two ended up –," she pulls a face, "I can't even say it. But that means he won, fuck me."

Sukuna's grin is all fanged teeth, and he barks out a rough laugh, "Called it."

Naoya scowls, slamming a crumpled fifty onto the table, "Bullshit."

"Pay up," Sukuna orders, already extending one tattooed hand. Geto groans and drops a twenty, shooting you a dirty look that implies you deprived him of his lunch money. Shoko sighs and pulls a fifty from her wallet. Even Kento slides over a neat fifty-dollar bill.

Sukuna collects them all with a grin sharp as broken glass, whistling as he counts the notes, "Easy money. I told you boy-wonder was gonna' crack first."

"Hey," Gojo protests, cheeks blazing, "We – we did not crack, thank you very much."

Naoya sidles past towards the churning printer, snickering "No, you got cracked."

"That's a bit unfair."

"Please," Sukuna cuts him off with a sneer, "I sent ya' on a stakeout for a serial killer, and I caught you cryin' over a boner. You're lucky you got off this easy."

"Heh, got off," Geto murmurs, and with all past rivalries apparently forgotten, he receives a joyous high-five from a gleeful Zen'in.

You groan, dropping into your chair, "Can we not?"

But Sukuna leans back, shuffling his new wad of cash with a victorious hum, stuffing the roll into a suspiciously expensive Italian leather wallet. You privately wonder if your surly boss has a private side-gig in any less illustrious black markets.

"Nah, it's deserved. But still, it's a good welcome to the team. First rule of the unit, everybody fucks up. Second rule, don't fuck during an assignment. And third?" Sukuna whistles, pushing through the doors of his office, "Don't bet against me."

Gojo leans over to whisper in your ear, mortified, "This is the worst day of my life."

But you only smile, pushing a strand of soft, white hair out of his glasses, "Relax. You're still the one taking me out tonight."

The way Gojo's ears go pink? Worth every cent Sukuna just pocketed.

[clemenlush]

astrophysics and music nerd gojo is like a breath of fresh air

[to00fu]

[the-pen-pot]

This is your semi frequent reminder that there is no official AO3 app

All those are unofficial and available on the Google play store as of August 13th 2025. They mirror AO3's content and insert ads, for which the developer gets paid by page impression (that's every time the ad appears in the fic you're reading) not just clicks.

No money goes to AO3, nor to the fic writer. It goes to the person who did the bare minimum.

Many of these apps have poorly worded or non existent privacy policies, so they may also be mining as much data as possible and selling that on to unknown third parties.

Please, just use the official AO3 site and the browser.

[sweethearticism]

──── ℱ𝐎𝐑𝐁𝐈𝐃𝐃𝐄𝐍 𝐅𝐑𝐔𝐈𝐓 ₎ა ˙˖

ᘛ ꒰ 𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐊𝐓𝐎𝐁𝐄𝐑 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟓 : 𝑓𝑜𝑟𝑏𝑖𝑑𝑑𝑒𝑛 𝑙𝑜𝑣𝑒 ੭

when your mind knows it's poison but your heart yearns for it anyway. a dirty desire that blooms in the darkest of crevices— you know they're no good for you and yet still cradle that bloodied rose in your eager hands. but don't you know? forbidden fruit always tastes sweeter. updates every friday & tuesday.

ᘛᰍ𝅄 ׁ 𝐂𝐖 ⨾

fem reader :: forbidden love :: taboo love :: explicit content :: threesome :: masturbation jealous sex :: age gap :: phone sex :: voice kink :: praise kink :: somnophilia :: breeding :: unprotected sex :: mentions of violence :: mentions of blood :: blackmail :: dacryphilia :: creampie :: gun play :: dumbification :: mob dynamics :: corruption :: oral fixation :: sex work :: brat taming :: size difference :: humiliation :: degradation :: power imbalance

♡ 𝟎𝟑 :: 𝐁𝐑𝐎𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑'𝐒 𝐁𝐄𝐒𝐓 𝐅𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐍𝐃𝐒!𝐒𝐀𝐓𝐎𝐒𝐔𝐆𝐔 𝐗 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐄𝐑 ⌗ guided masturbation, overstim, jealous sex

you haven't the slightest idea where your brother picks his friends up from. satoru and suguru served only one purpose in your life; to get on your nerves. but when they see you at a party you shouldn't be at, suddenly their bullying and protectiveness seems. . . like something else.

♡ 𝟎𝟕 :: 𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐅𝐄𝐒𝐒𝐎𝐑!𝐊𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐎 𝐗 𝐒𝐓𝐔𝐃𝐄𝐍𝐓!𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐄𝐑 ⌗ phone sex, voice kink, praise

exam season has been horrendous. you're sleep deprived, wrecked and overstimmed— and not in the way you'd hope. but perhaps your boyfriend's professor's concerned call could help you out?

♡ 𝟏𝟎 :: 𝐇𝐄𝐈𝐀𝐍 𝐄𝐑𝐀!𝐒𝐔𝐊𝐔𝐍𝐀 𝐗 𝐅𝐔𝐆𝐈𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐀 𝐇𝐄𝐈𝐑!𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐄𝐑 ⌗ somnophilia, breeding

only days away from being wed to a man you loathe. you accept, this is your duty as a powerful clan's heiress after all. but your lover just has to stake him claim on you one last time. lover? or your clan's worst enemy?

♡ 𝟏𝟒 :: 𝐒𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐀𝐋 𝐊𝐈𝐋𝐋𝐄𝐑!𝐒𝐀𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐔 𝐗 𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐒𝐄𝐂𝐔𝐓𝐎𝐑!𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐄𝐑 ⌗ blackmail, dacryphilia, creampie

it's only been a few days since you fucked the man you're trying to put behind bars. but here he is, showing up with a bouquet and that charming smile. you have to tell him that it was just a one time thing, even if your heart and body couldn't care less about protocol. but. . . he doesn't seem to appreciate your answer. did you think it was just about the sex?

♡ 𝟏𝟕 :: 𝐂𝐑𝐈𝐌𝐄 𝐁𝐎𝐒𝐒!𝐒𝐔𝐆𝐔𝐑𝐔 𝐗 𝐋𝐄𝐆𝐀𝐋 𝐉𝐎𝐔𝐑𝐍𝐀𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓!𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐄𝐑 ⌗ gun play, dumbification

months upon months of sticking your nose into his business— headlines galore with his name in bold ink. and suguru finds out that the infuriating journalist whose smugness he can taste in every entry. . . is actually his newest hire?

♡ 𝟐𝟏 :: 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐋𝐄𝐑!𝐒𝐇𝐎𝐊𝐎 𝐗 𝐏𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐂𝐄𝐒𝐒!𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐄𝐑 ⌗ corruption, oral fixation

with so many suitors showing up, you start growing nervous about marriage and what it means to please a partner. you confide in your royal doctor during a checkup, and she offers to teach you exactly what to expect. for the sake of your health, of course.

♡ 𝟐𝟒 :: 𝐁𝐄𝐒𝐓 𝐅𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐍𝐃'𝐒 𝐃𝐀𝐃!𝐒𝐀𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐔 𝐗 𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐈𝐏𝐏𝐄𝐑!𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐄𝐑 ⌗ brat taming, size difference, belly bulge

you've always been wildly attracted to him and this is the last place he should be. so why not have some fun and see how far you can push mr gojo? he always seems so patient, and you're itching to test his limits.

♡ 𝟐𝟖 :: 𝐒𝐔𝐊𝐔𝐍𝐀 𝐗 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐄𝐑 𝐗 𝐃𝐄𝐅𝐄𝐂𝐓𝐄𝐃!𝐒𝐀𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐔 ⌗ humiliation, power imbalance

it's been a year since your ex left the jujutsu society behind to stand beside his new lover, sukuna. together the strongest sorcerers wreck havoc, leaving you desperately trying to fill gojo satoru's shoes as the second best. until a mission goes south and you're suddenly on your knees before a king, with satoru eager to show you just how much he misses you. . . and what you're missing out on.

──── comment to be added to taglist ₎ა ˙˖

© 𝒔𝒘𝒆𝒆𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒊𝒄𝒊𝒔𝒎. no plagiarism or ai training authorised.

[sluturu]

men can’t do shit right holy fuck

[sluturu]

nanami this isn’t about you

[alygator77]

࿐ vows of duty ── part 1

࿐pairing. arranged clanhead! satoru x fem! reader

࿐summary. the gojo clan is untouchable, and their new ruler, gojo satoru, is the most powerful sorcerer of his generation—unrivaled, unrestricted, and utterly uncontrollable. for years, he has defied the expectations of his clan, rejecting tradition, resisting the cage they built for him. but even the strongest must bow to duty. a deal struck, a marriage arranged. you, the daughter of a fallen clan, are chosen to stand at his side. not out of love, but because gojo satoru always gets what he wants. and if he's obligated to marry, fuck it, he wants you. though, you quickly learn that your place is not beside him—but beneath him. why? because gojo satoru doesn’t do love.

࿐tags/warnings. nsfw 18+, smut, angst (with eventual fluff), slight canon divergence, arranged marriage, satoru is emotionally detached, he's kinda a dick at times, breeding, breeding kink, praise kink, some degradation, loss of virginity, mentions of infidelity, mentions of a prior scandal (i'll update tags as i write more) » 【this part — involves a 7 yr time skip, from both reader and satoru's pov. satoru's a little shit. he's arrogant and gives no fucks. suguru defects. sexual content. fingering, handjob, orgasms, male ejaculation on tits, lots of dirty talk】

࿐wc. 16.4k (suuuurprise.... heh)

࿐a/n. hiiii. it's finally here—the full fic of this drabble. you can expect this fic to be multiple parts, i'm just not sure how many yet. anyways, i had fun writing a canon version of satoru. i love my canon pookie. even if he's emotionally constipated here. enjoy 🫶🏻 (art by @/_3aem on X )

➔ next part ➔ series masterlist ♫ playlist ➔ ao3 ➔ primary masterlist

Your mother had always told you—there were four great clans in jujutsu society. Four names that shaped history, wielding power that stretched back for centuries.

The Zenin Clan, ruthless in tradition, where strength dictated worth and weakness was met with exile.

The Kamo Clan, a relic of the past, clinging desperately to their once-unshakable influence, willing to spill whatever blood necessary to remain relevant.

The Gojo Clan, untouchable, revered—the bloodline of gods. A name so powerful it stood above all others, their very existence defined by the Six Eyes and Limitless, abilities so rare they might as well have been myth.

And then, there was your clan.

A family as old as Kyoto itself, a bloodline sharpened by centuries of discipline and technique. The fourth great clan, standing alongside these names not as a rival, but as an equal. You were always told that your family had not built its legacy on brute force or deception, nor had it relied on a singular, overwhelming ability to dominate the battlefield.

No—your clan thrived on precision. Strategy. Control.

Respected. Feared. Established.

Yes, let it be known that your family produced some of the finest jujutsu sorcerers Kyoto had ever seen—that alone secured your place among the elite. And so, you had spent your life walking the delicate line between tradition and expectation, power and obedience. You were raised to be precise, to be measured—a perfect reflection of the strength your family stood for.

And that was why you were here tonight.

Because power, recognized power.

And tonight, the most powerful clan of them all was crowning a new king.

Tonight—December 7th—on his eighteenth birthday, Gojo Satoru would be proclaimed Clan Head of the Gojo family. The invitation had been sent to only the most respected and esteemed. This was more than a celebration; it was a display. A reminder.

All of Japan had known for years that the next ruler of the strongest clan had been chosen. Ever since the moment Gojo Satoru was born, it had been inevitable. But tonight, it would become official.

Inhaling deeply, you forced stillness into your spine—your expression smoothing into something unreadable.

You were no stranger to moving through halls filled with power—no, you had been raised for moments like these. You knew how to hold yourself, how to command respect, how to navigate a room full of Kyoto’s most dangerous and influential figures.

And yet…

There was something about tonight that felt… different.

Perhaps it’s because, for the first time, you would stand in the same room as him. The prodigy. The untouchable. The strongest sorcerer of his generation—a living legend before he was ever grown, a force of nature wrapped in a human body.

You had heard his name more times than you could count, but you had never seen him.

Not in person. Not until tonight.

"Fix your kimono.”

Your mother’s voice cut through the quiet hum of the car, sharp and precise as ever.

She didn’t look at you as she said it—she never had to. The flick of her gaze toward your reflection in the window was enough. Cool, assessing. She expected perfection.

You didn’t argue. You never argued.

Instead, your hands moved instinctively, smoothing the silk draped over your lap. Midnight blue, embroidered with delicate silver cranes in flight—a symbol of strength, of longevity, of duty. A reminder of the life you were bound to.

The obi at your waist had been tied flawlessly earlier that evening, its silken folds pressed into place with meticulous care—yet you still adjusted it. Not because it was imperfect, but because she had told you to.

Exhaling softly, your mother’s eyes swept over you briefly—as though the smallest flaw in your presentation might tarnish the family name.

"Appearances matter," she murmured, smoothing the folds of her own ivory kimono, embroidered with peonies and bamboo—symbols of wealth and resilience. Even in the dim light of the car, she radiated elegance, flawless as always.

"Tonight, we do not lower ourselves."

She spoke as if you didn’t already know. As if she hadn’t spent years molding you into a perfect reflection of the family’s strength.

Across from you, your father shifted, stretching his legs slightly as he leaned back into his seat. The glow of his phone screen flickered over his face, casting sharp shadows across his features. As his fingers tapped idly against the side of the device, the screen was angled just enough that neither you nor your mother could see it.

Yeah… that was a habit of his. One you had learned not to acknowledge.

Your mother never acknowledged it either. Not in words, at least.

But you saw it in the way her fingers tensed against her sleeve, in the subtle shift of her posture, as if willing herself to ignore the obvious.

"You put too much weight on these things," your father muttered, carrying an air of finality. "The Gojo Clan already knows who we are. No amount of perfect posture is going to change their minds."

The silence that followed was familiar.

A subtle tension seeped into the space between them—the kind that had no beginning and no resolution. Something ever-present, like a thread woven too tightly through the fabric of their marriage.

Lowering her gaze slightly, your mother adjusted the folds of her sleeve with slow, deliberate care.

"Power is not always displayed through strength alone," she said, softer now. "It is seen in the way others perceive you. The moment you allow someone to look down on you, you have already lost."

Exhaling through his nose, a quiet sound rumbles through your father’s chest—neither agreement nor disagreement. He wasn’t listening. Not really.

"Depends," he sighs dismissively. "There are worse things than being looked down on."

Your mother’s hands froze for just a moment, before she recovered, smoothing out her sleeve with a quiet nod.

"Of course…" she murmured, conceding with practiced ease.

She would not challenge him. She never did.

Turning yourself toward the window, you felt the weight of their silence settle into your ribs.

You had seen this scene too many times before. So you looked away. Focusing on the world outside, rather than the quiet battlefield inside the car. Then, finally, it came into view.

The Gojo Estate.

It did not sit among the rest of Kyoto. It stood above it.

Carved into the mountainside, the estate loomed over the landscape like something untouched by time. Its outer walls stretched endlessly into the dark, built of aged wood and blackened stone, reinforced not just with craftsmanship but with sorcery itself. A silent warning. A declaration of power—this was not a place where outsiders were welcome.

Beyond the towering gates, the estate unfurled like a painting.

The courtyard was vast, an expanse of raked gravel and polished stone pathways that twisted through pruned bonsai, moss-covered lanterns, and koi-filled ponds shimmering beneath the moonlight. Each element was a silent testament to a clan that valued not just power, but control—as if even the earth beneath the Gojos’ feet bowed to their authority.

A long row of cherry blossom trees lined the outer garden, their pale petals quivering in the night breeze. Winter had stolen the color from Kyoto’s streets, but here, the blossoms remained in eternal bloom—preserved unnaturally, suspended in time by the lingering touch of sorcery. As the wind passed through them, petals drifted down in soft flurries, catching in the air like falling snow.

Your breath stilled slightly.

Even for someone raised in a powerful clan, the sight of the Gojo estate was enough to humble.

The car slowed to a stop, just before the entrance, and your gaze flickered toward the attendants waiting outside before shifting upward, toward the main hall that loomed beyond the courtyard.

It was not a home.

It was a throne.

And tonight, the man who would rule it was waiting inside.

༻༺ꨄ༻༺

“Y’know, I really don’t get why everyone’s making such a big deal out of this,” Satoru drawls, tugging at the stiff collar of his ceremonial robes with a dramatic grimace. “They’ve known I’m the strongest since birth. Feels a little redundant, don’t y’think?”

Across the room, Suguru lets out a slow exhale, his shoulder pressed lazily against the wooden frame of the window. Beyond him, Kyoto stretches into the night—rooftops bathed in silver moonlight, the glow of distant lanterns flickering like dying embers. But he isn’t looking at the view. His gaze flickers toward Satoru through the mirror’s reflection, watching as his friend fussed with the layers of fine silk draped over his shoulders, like it’s a burden rather than an honor.

“They have to make a big deal out of it,” Suguru murmurs, quiet, almost bored. “Otherwise, what’s left for them?”

Satoru scoffs, shifting his weight as he tugs at the sash around his waist, loosening it just to tighten it again.

“Yeah, well. If this keeps ‘em busy, maybe they’ll hold off on nagging me about marriage for another year.”

Suguru hums, pushing off the window frame. Taking a slow step forward, his hands slip into the wide sleeves of his yukata as he watches Satoru wrestle against his robes like they were shackles.

“You say that like they won’t have a new excuse next week.”

Catching Suguru’s gaze in the mirror, Satoru’s lips curl into a lazy, knowing grin.

“Think they’ll get creative?”

“They always do.”

Clicking his tongue, an exaggerated sigh slips from Satoru’s lips as he finally turns from the mirror to grab the ceremonial overcoat folded on the edge of the lacquered table. The fabric is rich and regal—deep indigo silk embroidered with gold, the threads gleaming under the dim candlelight.

“Tch… I swear…” he barely spares the elegant silk a glance before throwing it over his shoulders, the heavy material settling like a crown he never asked for. “Maybe I should start charging for every goddamn time they waste my time.”

Suguru hums, tilting his head.

“You’d make a fortune.”

“Please,” Satoru scoffs, flicking at the intricate gold trim on his sleeve, grin sharp and self-satisfied. “I’m already loaded.”

Suguru lets out a quiet breath, one hand slipping into his sleeve before pulling out a cigarette, rolling it between his fingers.

“And yet…” he muses, placing it between his lips as he fishes for his lighter, “all that money, and you’re still stuck wearing that ridiculous thing.”

Satoru let out a long-suffering sigh, rolling his shoulders under the weight of the overcoat, shifting slightly—like he could somehow make it sit lighter on him.

“Right?” He turns back toward the mirror, tugging at the stiff collar with an annoyed pull. “I look like I belong in a fucking museum.”

Suguru says nothing at first. The metal flicks, a sharp scratch of sound, flame briefly illuminating his face as he lights the cigarette. The glow reflects in his violet eyes for half a second as he takes a slow drag.

“Or on a wedding altar,” he exhales smoke in a measured breath.

Satoru’s hands freeze mid-adjustment. His head snaps up, and through the mirror, he shoots Suguru a flat look.

“Not funny.”

Suguru smirks, the cigarette hanging loosely between his fingers as smoke curls through the air. “I’m serious,” he murmurs, tapping ash into a nearby tray. “Wouldn’t put it past them to slip an engagement announcement into tonight’s festivities. You know how they like their surprises.”

Clicking his tongue, Satoru runs a hand through his hair, deliberately messing it up again.

“Yeah, well… first sign of trouble and I’m teleporting the hell out of there.”

A quiet chuckle slips through Suguru’s lips, but there’s no humor in it.

“And then what?” his voice softens, but the words weigh heavier. “You gonna outrun your own clan forever? Your duty?”

Satoru shrugs. “If I have to.” He’s grinning, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

With quiet consideration, Suguru exhales, watching Satoru with a mixture of amusement and exhaustion. But this time, it’s not his reflection he’s looking at. It’s him—standing there in those ceremonial robes, draping over him like chains, wearing arrogance like armor.

“You… really think it’s that simple?”

Satoru doesn’t hesitate. His grin sharpens, flashing white teeth like a blade.

“Of course it is. I’m Satoru fucking Gojo.”

Though Suguru’s expression doesn’t shift, his gaze darkens, something quiet and knowing creeping into his features.

“Yeah…” he murmurs. “You are.”

“C’mon, you think they actually care?” He pauses, eyes flicking to Suguru through the mirror. “This isn’t about me. It’s about the name. The bloodline. Hell, they’d be throwing this same party for a rock if it had the Six Eyes.”

There’s a lingering silence.

Through the mirror, Satoru sees Suguru’s expression shift—his posture still loose but somehow weighted, as if each breath he takes is heavier with words unspoken. Suguru’s long raven hair falls slightly into his face, but it doesn’t quite hide the quiet strain pulling at his features.

“Damn…” Satoru exhales sharply through his nose. “You look like shit, man.”

Suguru blinks, briefly startled, before scoffing, rolling his eyes as he flicks ash into the tray beside him.

“Gee, thanks.”

But Satoru doesn’t let up. His gaze lingers, cutting through pretenses like a blade.

“No, seriously. Have you slept at all this week? ‘Cause from here, you look like you’re about to keel over.”

Suguru lets out a quiet chuckle, but it’s weak, hollow—gone before it ever really forms.

“Yeah…” he lifts the cigarette back to his lips, taking another slow drag. “I dunno. ‘m just tired.”

The ember burns bright for a moment, casting sharper shadows along his best friend’s face—deepening the lines of exhaustion—a quiet weight that Satoru’s been too busy to address. Then, clicking his tongue, Satoru focuses back to the mirror, dragging a hand through his hair with careless ease.

“You’re thinking too much again…” he mutters. “Always a bad sign.”

“Yeah, well...” Suguru exhales, smoke curling lazily around him. “Guess someone’s gotta do it.”

Quirking a brow, Satoru turns toward him fully this time.

“Oh, fuck off.”

Suguru smirks, but it’s small, faint—the kind that barely lifts the corners of his lips before disappearing altogether. As he leans back against the wooden frame of the window, his fingers tap against his arm, holding the cigarette loosely in his grip.

“What are you thinking about?” Satoru asks.

Suguru quirks a brow before he huffs, shaking his head slightly.

The silence sits heavier this time. There’s something distant in his expression—like his thoughts are a step ahead of him, somewhere neither of them can quite reach. Flicking the cigarette between his fingers, he taps ash into the tray with slow precision.

“I’m just wondering…” Suguru mutters, his voice quieter now, something careful in the way he says it. “If you weren’t who you are—would they still be kneeling at your feet?”

Satoru blinks.

“Uh. Duh.”

Suguru scoffs, shaking his head, his fingers tightening slightly around his bicep.

“No, Satoru. If you weren’t—” He stops himself, exhaling sharply through his nose, his jaw flexing slightly like he wants to say something but doesn’t trust himself to. Instead, he shakes his head. “Never mind…”

Satoru’s gaze narrows.

“Um. The hell was that? You can’t just say something cryptic and then drop it.”

For a moment, there’s something unspoken between them—something lingering just beneath the surface, pressing at the space between words. Then, just as quickly, Suguru’s expression smooths over. Whatever flicker of thought had been there vanishing behind an effortless, practiced mask.

“It’s nothing.”

It wasn’t.

But whatever it was, Suguru wasn’t going to say it.

Exhaling through his nose, Satoru watches him for a second longer before rolling his shoulders—shaking off the conversation entirely.

“Anyways,” he sighs, stretching his arms above his head as he strides toward the door, loose and unaffected, like he’s just heading out for a stroll instead of stepping into the weight of his legacy.

As he passes the lacquered table, his hand instinctively reaches for his sunglasses, flipping them open with a careless flick before sliding them onto the bridge of his nose.

Suguru’s gaze drags back to him, eyes lingering over the contrast of expensive, embroidered silk and dark tinted glasses. He smirks. “Doesn’t really fit the robes.”

Satoru groans, shoving his sunglasses up into his hairline before letting them drop back onto his nose.

“Tch. I know, I know. Too fucking modern for their delicate sensibilities, right?”

Suguru chuckles, putting out his cigarette. “Something like that.”

With a resigned huff, Satoru tosses the sunglasses onto the table with a clatter.

“Fine fine…” he grumbles, pausing—considering. A wicked smile curls onto his lips. “Hey… what do you think—should I blindfold myself instead and pretend I can’t find the stage? Give ‘em a little show?”

Suguru barks out a short laugh, shaking his head as he exhales.

“You’re really gonna make a fucking scene on your own celebration?”

“Oh, Suguru,” Satoru’s grin is all teeth as he makes his way toward the door. “Make a scene? When have I ever done that?”

Suguru gives him a long, slow look as he follows.

“Do you want that list alphabetically or chronologically?”

Satoru snorts. “Smartass.” He shoves the door open without hesitation. “Y’think I can piss off at least three elders before the night’s over?”

“Mm... four, if you really try.”

“That’s the spirit.”

And as Satoru steps forward—toward the weight of a legacy that meant nothing to him, Suguru lingers behind him, watching as Satoru walks ahead, carrying the world like it’s weightless.

But Suguru knows better.

He always has.

༻༺ꨄ༻༺

“Stand up straight,” your mother murmurs quietly—so soft that only you can hear it. “And try not to stare.”

Your spine straightens instinctively, shoulders pressing back—but stare? Fuck. How can you not? The Gojo estate is unlike anything you have ever stepped foot in.

The ceilings stretch impossibly high, wooden beams arching overhead like the ribs of some celestial beast. Hand-painted fusuma panels line the walls, gold leaf catching the candlelight, depicting Kyoto’s landscapes in elegant brushstrokes. There is a stillness here—something ancient, untouched by time. Unshaken by war or weakness.

A faint trace of aged incense lingers in the air, blending with the clean scent of fresh tatami, wrapping around you like something sacred—a quiet reminder that tradition is absolute here.

The steady flow of guests direct you down the grand walkway, toward the main hall, and the air hums with low voices—silk robes rustling as elders and elite sorcerers file in, taking their assigned seats.

Assigned by status.

The highest-ranking families settle nearest to the center of the hall, where Gojo Satoru will take his place, while the lesser clans drift toward the outer edges, far enough to understand their place.

You barely register it.

Because just beyond the walkway, past a row of sliding doors left slightly open, something catches your eye.

A dojo.

Wide and open, its polished wooden floors gleam under the dim glow of candlelight. Tall, arched windows invite in the cool night air, carrying the rustling of bamboo from the gardens beyond. Along the walls, beautifully crafted bokken rest neatly in their racks beside long naginata and aged katana, their lacquered hilts gleaming faintly.

It is… perfect.

Unlike anything your own estate has ever had. A proper space for training—not the rigid, structured sessions dictated by the elders, but something freer. A place to move, to breathe, to fight.

God… it’s everything you’ve always wanted.

After all, your clan was built on precision, control, intelligence. Not raw combat. You have trained—mastered every movement drilled into you since childhood—but never were you allowed to spar without restraint. Never trained to be a sorcerer, never encouraged to fight in a way that would leave bruises—that would stain silk with sweat and blood.

You were raised to be a perfect reflection of your family, a perfect wife—that is all.

And yet, here it is. Fuck. A proper dojo—what a dream. So perfectly built for battle, yet it’s tucked into the halls of the most powerful clan in Jujutsu society, probably taken for granted as if it were nothing.

As your steps slow, you barely realize how long you’ve been staring, until you feel the lightest tug on your sleeve.

“Enough,” your mother mutters, grip light but firm.

Your heart jumps. Shit. It was one thing to observe. To admire. But it was another to linger.

“Eyes forward,” she lifts her chin, and you follow her deeper inside.

Moving ahead, the crowd shifts around you, elders and elite sorcerers weaving through the grand hall, settling into their assigned seats—but damn it. You’re still thinking about that damn dojo.

What must it be like to strike and be struck back, to train not just for form but for battle?

But your mother’s grip subtly shifts. Tightening.

Then, with the slightest turn of her head, she murmurs, “…w-what? Where did he go…”

Your breath stills as you realize, your father is no longer beside her. Glancing around, he is nowhere to be seen, lost in the sea of flowing silk and quiet murmurs. But you don’t need to ask where he’s gone—you already know. And… so does she.

Despite it, she doesn’t curse. Doesn’t let her expression falter. Doesn’t break stride. But you see the way your mother’s lips press together, the way her fingers curl slightly against the sleeve of her kimono, gripping fabric like it’s the only thing she can control.

A slow, measured breath leaves her nose. Then, with a practiced ease, she smooths out the folds of her sleeve.

“Wait at your seat…” she instructs softly. “I’ll find him.”

And just like that, she is gone.

It’s not the first time.

Not the first time she’s swallowed the weight of his absence, nor the first time she’s forced herself to chase after a man who has never once stopped running. A man who dishonors her with such frequency that it no longer feels like betrayal—only expectation.

And she goes anyway. Every time.

Why?

You begin to ponder.

How many wives have had to smile through disgrace, bound by duty to men who do not see them? How many have sat in silence, enduring the quiet disintegration of a marriage, knowing their suffering is only theirs to bear?

The thought lingers as you move toward your assigned seat, your steps slow, lost in quiet contemplation. You barely register the way silk brushes against you, the flickering candlelight casting shifting shadows across the polished floors.

“You’re in my seat.”

The words are crisp. Clipped.

You barely have time to process them before the weight of who they belong to settles in your chest like stone. Glancing up, your stomach drops.

Shit.

You’ve sat in the wrong seat.

Not just any seat.

His seat.

Gojo Hajime.

An elder of the Gojo clan. A man whose presence alone commands respect and caution in equal measure. His reputation is built upon unforgiving discipline, a fierce advocate for upholding the hierarchy that governs jujutsu society. You have seen how lesser-ranked sorcerers bow deeper in his presence, how his voice alone is enough to quiet a whole fucking room.

And you—you—have just taken his seat.

You should apologize. Immediately. Stand, lower your head, bow so deeply your knees kiss the floor—but you don’t even get the chance. Because the moment your lips part, his voice cuts through the air again.

“How disgraceful.”

The murmurs start immediately. Soft at first. Rippling outward.

A misplaced seat is not just an accident—it is an insult. A disruption to the hierarchy, an unspoken challenge to status. And it is not just your mistake—it is your family’s.

Eyes begin to turn.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

Your heart hammers against your ribs, panic coiling tight in your stomach. You can feel the weight of scrutiny, the silent condemnation pressing against your skin like needles. But just as the tension threatens to crack open, before you can even move, before you can correct your mistake—

“Damn,” a voice cuts in. “I didn’t know we had assigned seats based on grumpiness. If that’s the case, maybe we oughta scoot you a little further up, gramps.”

The murmurs die instantly. A ripple of silk as heads turn, a breath caught collectively in the throats of the room.

Because everyone knows that voice.

Gojo Satoru.

And when you finally force yourself to look, when you finally shift your gaze toward the source of your salvation, you find yourself staring into the bluest damn eyes you’ve ever seen.

They are a color not meant for this world—icy, piercing, almost otherworldly under the flickering candlelight. Not simply blue, but something deeper, something endless, like the sky when it stretches too far, too high, too unreachable.

And then, just as effortlessly, he drops into the seat beside you.

“Hope ya don’t mind if I sit here, gramps,” he sighs, propping his chin against his palm with a lazy grin. “Since, y’know… you’re already standing.”

The elder bristles.

“Gojo-sama…” he says slowly, voice strained. “Seats are assigned with purpose.”

Satoru exhales loudly, stretching his neck. “Right, right,” he drawls. “And lemme guess—some dusty old men in a room decided where everyone sits?”

“The council—”

“Right, right,” he interjects, waving a dismissive hand. “The same council that decided I needed to wear this stiff-ass robe tonight.” He tugs at the embroidered silk draped over his shoulders for emphasis before flashing a sharp grin. “Real forward thinkers, those guys.”

A flicker of disbelief passes over the elder’s face.

Satoru hums, tapping his fingers idly against the table. “Tell ya what… since I’m feeling generous tonight, how ‘bout we just let it slide? Y’know, pretend we’re not wasting all this energy over a damn seat?” He leans back, stretching his arms over his head, his voice dropping to something lower, lazier. “Unless, of course, you’d rather keep arguing with me in front of all these lovely guests? On my birthday, need I remind you?”

The words are spoken lightly, casually, but there’s an underlying challenge in them—something daring, something edged with amusement, as if he already knows how this will end.

And the elder does, too. Because what can he say? What will he do? It’s a battle he can’t win. Not against the strongest.

A long breath drags through his nose before he bows his head stiffly.

“…as you wish, Gojo-sama.”

Satoru grins, entirely pleased with himself. “See? That wasn’t so hard.”

With that, the elder moves stiffly to another seat, the murmurs gradually settling into quiet acceptance, though you can still feel the lingering weight of curious glances thrown your way.

And finally—finally—your lungs remember how to breathe.

You should say something. Thank him. But before you can, Satoru turns his attention to you, tilting his head slightly, that easy smirk still curving his lips.

“There,” his fingers play idly with a tousle of your hair, letting it twirl between his grasp. “A lady of your caliber deserves the best seat in the house, don’t y’think?”

You blink, still caught between lingering panic and something dangerously close to awe.

Because just like that, with a grin and a few well-placed words, he had made a mockery of the entire situation. Had turned the weight of expectation into something trivial, something meaningless.

Had made defiance look so damn effortless. And for the first time tonight, you wonder what it would be like to live that freely.

Satoru watches you, head tilted slightly, as if waiting for something. Amusement flickers in those ridiculously bright eyes, sharp and unreadable beneath the flickering candlelight.

You realize then—you haven’t said a word.

Shit.

Heat pricks at the back of your neck. You force yourself to blink, to breathe, to gather the scattered remains of your dignity before finally managing, “…oh, um… t-thank you, Gojo-sama.”

He exhales sharply through his nose, shaking his head. “Ugh. Don’t do that.”

You blink. “…do what?”

“That whole ‘Gojo-sama’ thing. Bleh.” He scrunches his nose, expression twisted in exaggerated distaste. “You make me sound old.”

You hesitate, caught between confusion and amusement. “But… you’re the Clan Head now.”

He groans dramatically, dragging a hand through his hair. “Ugh. Don’t remind me.”

Your lips twitch, just barely suppressing a laugh, and his gaze flickers to you at that, something playful sparking in his eyes. Leaning in slightly, his elbows rest on the low table, voice dropping to something conspiratorial.

“You wouldn’t believe how many speeches I’ve had to sit through already. I swear, they’ve been reciting my life story like I’m some kind of historical relic.”

You raise a brow. “…aren’t you?”

Satoru gasps, clutching his chest like you just struck him. “Wow. The betrayal.”

Shaking your head in amusement, you finally allow a small laugh to slip out.

“I… didn’t mean it like that.”

“Uh-huh.” He squints at you in mock suspicion before his lips stretch back into an easy grin. “Alright, I’ll let that one slide, since I like you.”

Your stomach does a strange little flip.

It’s nothing… right? Just the nerves. The residual stress from earlier. The weight of too many eyes lingering in the periphery.

But as he watches you—head tilting slightly, like he’s trying to figure you out—you don’t know what the hell to say. And yet… you also find yourself not wanting to look away.

Because Satoru Gojo is beautiful. Undeniably.

He is elegance without effort, arrogance without apology, a man who moves through the world like it was built to accommodate him. His snowy-white hair is a tousled mess, catching silver beneath the candlelight, framing the sharp angles of his jaw, the high curve of his cheekbones, the ever-present smirk tugging at his lips.

And his eyes—God, his eyes.

They aren’t just blue. They’re endless. A shade too sharp, too striking—like fractured gemstones, like glacial ice catching the light at just the right angle. They don’t just see, they consume, pulling you in as if the whole fucking world just disappears when he looks at you.

What the hell are you supposed to say to him?

Shit. You’re lingering again. Your mother would curse you for this. You should speak—say something, anything. But the words never come.

Luckily, you don’t have to figure it out.

Because just then, a sharp chime rings through the grand hall, signaling the start of the formal ceremony. A ripple of movement stirs through the guests as heads turn toward the center of the room, where the elders begin to take their places.

Satoru exhales, stretching his arms overhead in a lazy arc. “Guess that’s my cue.”

He rises smoothly, adjusting the heavy silk of his robes with little care, as if he’s already bored of the whole affair. But then—before stepping away—he casts you one last glance, that ever-present grin still playing at the edges of his lips.

“See ya around, sweetheart.”

And then, like this entire night is nothing more than a game to him, he waves, casting you a playful wink. Casual. Effortless. Like you’re old friends. Like this moment, fleeting as it is, belongs to just the two of you—despite the dozens of eyes still lingering in your direction.

And, without hesitation, he turns, stepping toward the center of the room, where the weight of his legacy awaits him.

༻༺ꨄ༻༺

The ceremony is exactly what Satoru expected—long, tedious, and filled with more self-important speeches than he cares to count. The elders take turns praising the significance of his ascension, the legacy he carries, the burden he must now bear.

As if he doesn’t already fucking know. As if the weight of the Gojo name hasn’t pressed against his spine since the moment he was born.

He stands at the center of it all, a crownless king in layered silk, his every move watched, measured, and judged by the dozens of expectant faces surrounding him.

Whatever. Let them say whatever they want.

Because at the end of the day—he is still Gojo Satoru. And they can dress him up in their finest robes, seat him at the highest throne, weigh him down with the expectations of an entire clan—but they can’t make him care.

And they know it.

So, when the speeches end and the ritual formalities dissolve into something more palatable—celebration, sake, music—the real scheming begins.

The moment the first note is played, an elder clears his throat. Satoru doesn’t even look up.

“We have taken the liberty of selecting your first dance, Gojo-sama,” the man says, hands folded neatly in his sleeves, the picture of diplomatic grace. “She is from a highly esteemed bloodline. A perfect candidate for marriage and—”

Satoru groans. Loudly.

“Oh, come on.” He drags a hand down his face, tilting his head back like this entire conversation physically pains him. “You’re really pulling the marriage card already? I just fucking turned eighteen.”

The elder’s expression doesn’t shift. Doesn’t falter. They’ve played this game with him before. They know Gojo Satoru only bends when it suits him.

“We must get ahead of things. And it is tradition for the head of the Gojo Clan to take his first dance with a suitable partner—”

“Right, right.” Satoru waves a dismissive hand, eyes scanning the room for anything more interesting than this conversation. “And lemme guess—she’s got a nice lineage, proper manners, and the personality of a wet napkin?”

A pause as the elder clears his throat. Yeah. That’s all the confirmation he needs.

Satoru exhales, shaking his head, fingers drumming lazily against the lacquered armrest of his chair.

“Yeah… I think I’ll pass,” he’s rising from his seat as the elder begins ushering a poised, graceful young woman towards him—clad in silk, the color of cherry blossoms.

Satoru doesn’t even look at her.

He’s looking for an escape, and as his eyes sweep the crowd, he sees you.

The girl from earlier.

And just like that, his mind is made up.

Before the elder can say another word, before the girl can step any closer, Satoru moves.

Not toward her.

Toward you.

༻༺ꨄ༻༺

“Dance with me.”

You blink, gaze dropping to his hand, extended toward you, palm open, fingers relaxed.

It’s not a request.

It’s a decision.

A disruption—a defiance of everything expected of him.

And the room knows it.

The air seems to tighten, a subtle shift in the atmosphere as hushed murmurs flicker between the guests, silk rustling as heads turn. The weight of attention presses against your skin, heavier than the finest-woven kimono, heavier than the eyes of your parents, now fixed on you, unreadable.

Your lips part slightly, but no words come. Fuck. You should at least breathe. But you don’t. You can’t. Your mind is barely processing what the fuck is happening.

Then, a quiet but pointed sound—your mother clearing her throat beside you.

“She would love to.”

Her voice is soft, but firm, a smooth, graceful assertion that leaves no room for question. A response crafted not for you, but for those watching, those weighing this moment, those who will whisper about it long after the night ends. Because this is not just a dance. This is a spectacle. A shift in the script carefully written for the evening.

And your mother knows that. To refuse would be foolish. To hesitate would be disgraceful. To accept, however—

An honor.

So, when she turns toward you, offering the smallest, most practiced of smiles, you understand her meaning entirely.

You will dance with Satoru Gojo.

With a breath you weren’t aware you had been holding, you glance back toward him. He’s watching you, amusement flickering in those impossibly blue eyes, that lazy, knowing grin still curling at his lips.

“See?” he hums. “Mother knows best.”

You don’t know what possesses you—perhaps the weight of expectation, or perhaps something else entirely—but your hand lifts. Fingers barely brushing against his before he takes it completely, enclosing it in a grasp that is warm, steady, unwavering.

And just like that, he pulls you into the center of the room.

Into the center of everything.

His grip is firm but unhurried as he leads you, like none of this is a big deal. Like he hasn’t just overturned an entire evening’s worth of careful tradition.

Your heartbeat thuds in your ears, your breath barely finding its way back into your lungs as you let him guide you into position. One of his hands settles lightly at your waist, the other still holding yours, his thumb brushing over your knuckles absentmindedly.

“Relax,” he murmurs, just low enough for only you to hear. “You’re stiffer than my old kendo instructor.”

You huff, trying to ignore the warmth of his palm against yours. “I—this is just… unexpected.”

Exhaling dramatically, he spins you effortlessly into the first steps of dance. “Tell me about it,” he groans. “You just saved me from another goddamn elder trying to shove some proper young lady into my arms.”

You blink. “What?”

“Oh yeah,” he drawls, twirling you smoothly before pulling you back into his grasp. “The matchmaking schemers are working overtime tonight. Bet they’re seething right now.”

You stifle a laugh. “So… you picked me out of spite?”

“I picked you because you looked like you needed saving too.” His eyes flicker toward you, sharp but warm, like he’s seeing straight through you.

You hesitate. He’s… not wrong.

“Well… my mother was about to give me a very long lecture about decorum,” you admit quietly.

His grin widens as he hums. “Guess that makes me your knight in shining silk, huh?”

You roll your eyes, but the laughter bubbling in your chest betrays you.

Satoru’s grip shifts slightly, his hand pressing just a fraction firmer against your waist as he leads you through another step. He moves so effortlessly, like the weight of expectation never touches him, like the rules of this world bend just for him.

For a moment, the heaviness in the air fades.

For a moment, you almost forget the crowd watching.

For a moment… it’s just the two of you.

As the melody slows—the last few notes stretch through the grand hall like a fading breath—you barely register the shifting of the crowd around you. It feels like the world has shrunk.

And then, stillness. The dance is over.

You should step away. You should let go.

But Satoru lingers.

His fingers remain curled lightly around yours, as if he’s forgotten to let go—or maybe he just doesn’t feel like doing so yet. His touch is warm, steady, and entirely too deliberate for someone who seems to take nothing seriously.

As his gaze drops to your hand for a fraction of a second, his smirk deepens, something unreadable flashing in those impossible blue eyes. Then, with a casual ease—like it’s the most natural thing in the world—he lifts your hand slightly and presses a chaste kiss to your knuckles.

Soft. Unhurried.

Barely a brush of his lips against your skin, but enough to send something fluttering wildly in your stomach.

Damn him.

You feel it everywhere—the warmth of his breath against your skin, the way his hold lingers a second too long before he finally lets go. When your hand drops back to your side, it’s still tingling from the contact, and you know you should say something, but your tongue feels too damn heavy in your mouth again.

Satoru, however, looks perfectly at ease, like he hadn’t just turned your world sideways with a single fleeting kiss. Still, the moment stretches—something about it feels… different. A beat too long, a silence that carries something unspoken.

But when he shifts, the moment simmers away as he turns his head slightly, his attention suddenly caught by something beyond you. Or, someone.

Geto Suguru. His best friend.

His posture loosens as he exhales through his nose, casting you a final glance. “Well, sweetheart,” he drawls lazily, taking a step back. “Hate to dance and dash, but duty calls.”

And just like before, he lifts a hand in that same casual wave, and winks—slipping back into the crowd with the ease of someone who has done this a hundred times before.

Following his gaze, you look just past the cluster of mingling sorcerers, at the figure leaning lazily against one of the wooden pillars. His dark long hair falls across his shoulders, his arms are folded neatly into the side sleeves of his yukata, and his eyes are half-lidded, bored.

Satoru reaches him in just a few strides, and whatever the two of them exchange is lost to you beneath the hum of the room—but they’re laughing, at ease.

Exhaling slowly, you force your trembling hands to steady at your sides, your racing heart to settle, remembering where you are. Because the world moves on. The music starts anew. The guests return to their conversations.

But you don’t. Not yet.

Because this—this is something you’ll remember. The night you first met Gojo Satoru.

The night you first saw him for who he was—not just the head of the Gojo Clan, not just the strongest, but something untouchable, something defiant. Something free.

And maybe, just maybe, a small part of you will always hold onto that moment.

A moment you wish you could claim for yourself.

༻༺ꨄ༻༺

Seven years have passed since that night. Seven years since the weight of an entire clan was draped over his shoulders like a silk noose.

Gojo Satoru is still the strongest, still the untouchable ruler of the Gojo Clan, but the years have done little to change the one thing the elders have always hated about him—he refuses to be controlled.

But their patience is wearing thin.

The moment he steps into the council chamber, Satoru already knows he’s going to hate every second of this.

Same old stiff-ass room, same old stiff-ass elders. The walls lined with painted screens depicting wars won centuries ago, incense burning in the background like it’s meant to cleanse him of his sins or some shit. He exhales loudly, rolling his shoulders back, then strolls forward with all the urgency of a man walking to his own execution.

Dropping lazily onto the tatami, Satoru lets out a long, exaggerated sigh.

“Alright,” he drawls, popping his neck with a slow tilt of his head. “Let’s hear it. What crime have I committed this time?”

A tense silence follows.

Gojo Hiroshi, the eldest of the council, lets out a long, deliberate sigh, his sharp gaze steady beneath thick silver brows. “Your inappropriate conduct has reached our ears again.”

Satoru smirks. “Oh? I’ve got fans? You geezers keeping tabs on me now?”

His words are met with cold, unimpressed stares.

“You mustn’t treat this as a joke,” another elder chimes in, voice lined with restrained patience. “Your recklessness is a stain upon our clan’s legacy.”

Satoru scoffs. “Recklessness? I’m pretty sure I’ve saved more lives than any of you sitting here. Y’know, by doing my actual job.”

“The strongest should not act so carelessly,” Hiroshi cuts in. “And yet, all you do is goof off. Throwing yourself around, jumping from woman to woman, acting like some common fool—”

Satoru groans loudly, tipping his head back with a dramatic sigh. “God, is this really about me having a good time? I hate to break it to ya, old man, but I’m twenty-five, not fifty. Maybe if you all had a little fun in your youth, you wouldn’t be so damn uptight.”

The closest elder levels him with a stern glare. “We have tolerated your… indulgences long enough.”

“You speak of a ‘good time’,” another elder continues, fingers steepled together. “But you must consider the future. This—this frivolity—must end.”

Satoru clicks his tongue, tapping his fingers lazily against his knee. “Yeah? And just where are ya gettin’ at, gramps?”

Silence. A slow exchange of glances between them.

Satoru watches as they silently decide who will be the one to say it. They always do this. Always sit in their stiff little circles, acting like their words carry the weight of gods.

Finally, Hiroshi exhales, slow and measured, before speaking.

“The next leader of the Gojo Clan must be born.”

There it is.

Satoru lets out a slow, exaggerated breath, tilting his head back. “Man… you guys really need a new hobby.”

“We have been patient,” Hiroshi continues, ignoring him. “But the time for childish defiance is over.”

Satoru’s lips twitch. Childish? He could wipe this entire damn room off the map if he wanted. Not that he would, though—he’s mostly reasonable.

An elder shifts slightly, fingers curling over the edge of a plain, unassuming folder resting beneath his palm, and as Satoru’s gaze flicks to it, recognition flares.

Ugh. Not this bullshit again.

This isn’t new. He knows what’s inside. A folder full of names. A folder of candidates—eligible women, bloodlines deemed strong enough, clans deemed worthy. A relic of a past he never fucking asked for.

His irritation spikes as he begins to rise.

“Yeah, so… fuck this. I’m gonna stop ya right there—”

“You will sit down, Satoru.”

The words are sharp. Final. Satoru freezes mid-step, the weight behind them pressing like a blade against his spine.

The fucking audacity. A command? A fucking order?!

Exhaling through his nose, he bites back the burn of frustration clawing up his throat. “Nah,” he mutters, waving a dismissive hand as he turns on his heel. “Fuck off.”

“The next leader of the Gojo Clan must be born.”

Satoru stops.

A slow laugh bubbles up from his chest—sharp, humorless, before turning back to face them. Tilting his head, an icy chill threads his voice.

“Let me get this fucking straight. You dragged me all the way here, wasted my precious time, just to tell me I need to knock someone up? Wow.” He lets out a sharp whistle, slowly clapping his hands together in mock awe. “Out of all of your excuses, this one takes the fucking cake.”

“You fail to take this seriously,” Hiroshi’s voice is quieter than the others, but heavier in its own way. “You never have.”

Satoru’s jaw tightens. “Maybe because I don’t need to. I’m the strongest, remember?”

“And yet,” Hiroshi exhales, “even the strongest will one day fall.”

The words settle in the air like a foregone truth. Satoru doesn’t flinch. But something in his jaw ticks, barely perceptible.

Even the strongest will one day fall.

He hates the way those words burrow under his skin, clawing at something he doesn’t want to acknowledge.

“You refuse to take a wife. You refuse to consider the future,” Hiroshi continues, voice steady. “You’ve left us no choice. And so, we have taken it upon ourselves to make the choice for you. Marriage arrangements are already in place.”

Satoru’s brow furrows—a seething rage building underneath his skin. Pulling down his blindfold in a slow, deliberate movement, he reveals the impossible, piercing blue of his Six Eyes.

“Excuse me?”

The air shifts, thickening under the weight of power, of warning—of a challenge.

For a moment, all he can hear is the rush of his own blood in his ears. And then, just beneath the suffocating weight of his own fury, another voice cuts through.

‘You gonna outrun your own clan forever? Your duty?’

A memory. A voice.

Suguru.

The words hit him like a hammer, striking something raw, something he thought he buried a long time ago.

Geto Suguru.

His best friend. His brother. The one person who had ever truly understood him. The only person who could ever match him step for step, thought for thought.

The person he lost. A man who had abandoned all right or reason. Who had turned his back on everything. On Jujutsu High. On their ideals. On him.

And suddenly, the weight of it all presses heavier on Satoru’s shoulders. It feels suffocating. Because for the first time in years, something inside him wavers. And damnit… that pisses him off.

With a sharp step forward, Satoru’s hand snatches the folder from the table in one swift motion, the rustle of paper slicing through the silence like a blade.

The room tenses as he flips it open, eyes scanning the pages, the names, the faces—the future they’ve decided for him.

As he goes through its contents, a folder he’s seen often but never truly looked into, he realizes it’s exactly what he expected—polished profiles, lists of pedigreed women, hand-selected for their bloodlines, their breeding, their usefulness.

Every file reads the same.

Perfect posture. Proper etiquette. Skilled in traditional arts. Fluent in tea ceremonies. Raised to serve, obey, bear children.

Gross.

His brow furrows in irritation as he skims through the neatly cataloged qualities, as if he’s browsing a fucking menu.

Expert in tea ceremonies. Elegant calligraphy. Well-versed in ikebana.

Exhaling sharply through his nose, he flips to the next file with a flick of his wrist.

Gentle temperament. Raised to uphold family honor. Culinary excellence.

Jesus.

It’s all the same.

Not a single original thought, not a single fucking thing that isn’t meant to mold them into perfect little wives and mothers.

Satoru’s fingers twitch as disgust curls up his throat.

What? Is he supposed to just pick one, put a ring on her, fuck her like some obligation? Breed an heir with a woman whose only defining trait is knowing how to arrange flowers?

Tch.

He’s already itching to slam the folder shut and walk out of this room, consequences be damned.

But then—he halts. His gaze briefly catching on a familiar face.

You.

A picture clipped neatly to your file, just like all the others, but something about it makes him pause.

He knows you… right?

Or—at least, you look somewhat familiar.

Satoru has slept with countless women, but he’s pretty damn sure he’d remember if you were one of them. Plus… you’re a virgin, according to your file, so… that can’t be it.

He scans the page with mild curiosity, barely reading at first—and low and behold, it’s another list of fucking perfect traits designed to impress him.

Cooking. Baking. Floral arrangements.

Right. Of course. Same as the rest.

But then, his eyes flick lower.

Martial arts.

His brow lifts.

Huh. Now that’s new.

Shifting his weight, his gaze lingers on that one detail. You practice martial arts? Interesting.

The corner of his lips twitch, intrigue curling at the edges of his amusement as he flips through the rest of your file—skimming for anything else that isn’t some prim manufactured selling point.

Not much stands out amongst the crowd, expect that, yeah, you’re hot too. That certainly doesn’t hurt.

If they’re really forcing him to do this shit—if he really has to fuck a woman and produce an heir—he’s at least going to pick someone who can actually hold his attention. Hell, if he has to fuck her, she better be someone who can at least get his dick up.

Exhaling through his nose, his eyes flicker back up to the elders, their bated breaths held with anticipation.

“…fine,” he mutters, “I’ll marry.”

A ripple of movement shifts immediately—a murmur of approval.

“But.” His voice cuts through their satisfaction like a knife. “Cancel whatever bullshit arrangement you had planned.” His Six Eyes gleam as his gaze flickers up, sharp, glacial. “If I’m doing this,” he exhales, voice smooth as glass, “I’m doing it my way.”

And with that, he slams the folder down, open with a photo of you.

“I at least want a say in who the fuck I’m picking,” he mutters, voice cool, final. Then, his gaze flickers up. A smirk—sharp and defiant—curls at the corner of his lips. “So… there ya have it. I pick her.”

A beat of silence. Then another.

Satoru watches as the elders’ expressions shift as they take in your photo, their brows knitting together, their lips pressing into thin, disapproving lines. There’s something unspoken between them—hesitation. Uncertainty.

Jesus Christ... what now?

His fingers tap idly against the table, impatience curling at the edges of his composure. Rolling his eyes, he exhales sharply before plopping back down onto the tatami. 

“What?”  his irritation spikes, gaze flickering between the stiff-ass old men. “You gonna tell me she’s not good enough? That her tea ceremony etiquette isn’t up to your impossible fucking standards? She was in your folder!”

Silence.

Then, Gojo Hiroshi clears his throat.

“There is… history.” His words are careful, measured. “With her clan.”

Satoru lifts a brow, unimpressed. “Okay… and?”

A flicker of unease passes between the elders.

“Satoru,” another speaks, voice steady, placating. “Clan politics are not so simple—”

He scoffs. “Oh, for fuck’s sake. You think I give a shit about clan politics?”

More exchanged glances. More unreadable expressions. But Hiroshi remains still.

“It is not just politics…” he finally says, gaze unwavering. “There was a… scandal.”

Satoru exhales, fingers pausing mid-drum.

God, he fucking hates when people beat around the bush. His patience is wearing thin. He agreed, didn’t he? What the hell more do they want?

“Scandal?” he echoes, voice flat, uninterested. “Oh, let me guess. Daddy lost a business deal? Mommy hosted the wrong kind of dinner party? Spare me.”

A slow breath.

“…her family has been outcasted.”

A pause.

“Disgraced,” another adds. “Stripped of their status. They have nothing. They live in ruin.”

Arching a brow, Satoru lets the silence linger—lets them wait for him to grasp the supposed severity of the situation.

But he doesn’t give a shit about status.

He just wants these crusty old men off his back, and your folder was the least boring in that entire damn stack.

“…and?” his voice is flat. “I fail to see what the fuck any of this has to do with me. She was in your folder. That’s who I pick.”

The tension thickens as the air feels heavier. The elders remain silent, exchanging glances, waiting for him to finally understand—to realize what he’s signing up for.

Hiroshi is the one to finally speak.

“She comes with nothing now, Satoru,” his tone’s heavier now. “She was a suitable candidate… yes. But now? She has no wealth. No influence. Her mother is drowning in debt. If you choose her, you will be marrying into ruin.”

Satoru groans, loudly, dragging a hand down his face. He’s so fucking tired of this conversation. With a sigh, he rises, reaching into his pocket for his blindfold.

“You old geezers really think I give a shit about money?” he mutters, shaking out the fabric before sliding it over his eyes slowly—like he’s already disengaging from the conversation. “God, you’re all so dramatic. I’m loaded. Who fucking cares.”

“Satoru—”

“I said I’d marry. It’s her or nothing,” his voice is final, unwavering.

The folder snaps shut in his hands, the sharp sound slicing through the hushed tension. A flick of his wrist sends it skidding back across the polished table.

“So, there you have it. Call her mother, we’ll draft an arrangement.”

A ripple of unease shifts through the council, their stiff expressions unreadable. Hiroshi’s brow knits. “An arrangement?”

Satoru exhales, rolling his shoulders, stretching his arms overhead like this entire conversation has physically exhausted him.

“Yup.” His fingers splay lazily as he waves a hand through the air, tone entirely too casual. “I’ll pay off their debts. In return, she marries me. Win-win. There. Easy.”

Then, that smirk—cocky, taunting—pulls at his lips as he leans back, tipping his chin up in mock amusement.

“Anyways. Good talk.” He pauses. “Sooo… uh. We done?”

༻༺ꨄ༻༺

“Eat.”

The command is soft but firm, breaking the silence that has stretched too long across the small table before you.

Your mother sits across from you, poised as ever, lifting her chopsticks with careful precision, plucking a small piece of tofu from her bowl. The once-pristine silk of her kimono has dulled with time, its ivory threads faded from wear, from struggle. But she wears it the same way she always has—with quiet dignity, spine straight, hands resting carefully in her lap, an image of control that nothing—not scandal, not exile—has managed to break.

She doesn’t look up as she speaks to you once more.

“You’re staring at your food again.”

You don’t remember the last time dinner felt this quiet.

Well, at least not this kind of quiet. This quiet is… different.

It’s not the quiet like when your father was still here—sitting where your mother is now, tapping idly at his phone, barely listening as you spoke about your day. Not like the quiet nights when he would come home late—smelling of perfume that didn’t belong to your mother.

Not like the quiet night he left—walking out the door, taking everything with him.

A soft clink pulls you back—the sound of your mother setting her chopsticks down with slow, deliberate care. When you lift your eyes, she is already watching you, her expression as unreadable as ever.

“You must eat.”

Picking up the chopsticks, your fingers feel stiff against the smooth wood. The miso soup in front of you has gone lukewarm, its thin broth barely fragrant, stretched with water to make it last longer. A meal meant to sustain, not satisfy.

“I’m… not hungry.”

Your mother doesn’t sigh. Doesn’t frown. She simply takes another bite of her meal, chewing with quiet deliberation before dabbing the corner of her mouth with a napkin.

“A weakened body leads to a weakened mind,” she murmurs. “You cannot afford to be careless with your health.”

You don’t roll your eyes, but damnit, the urge is there.

Even now, she speaks in lessons, in discipline. As if you still had a name to uphold, a family to represent. As if any of that mattered anymore.

Frustration coils in your stomach, tight and twisting, but you don’t let it show. Because she won’t. She never has.

Not even the night he left.

You still remember it—the way your mother stood there, unmoving, as your father walked out the door. No screaming. No pleading. No chasing after the man who had stolen everything from her, from you.

Just stillness. A quiet that swallowed everything—a quiet that never fucking leaves.

And then, the fallout.

The scandal that burned through the clan like wildfire. The disgrace. The exile. The slow, agonizing unraveling of everything you once knew.

You swallow hard, forcing the thoughts down, lifting your chopsticks to take a bite.

Because your mother doesn’t dwell on the past. She doesn’t even acknowledge it.

And so, neither do you.

Suddenly, a sharp ring slices through the air.

Your mother stills—her gaze lingering on the telephone for a moment before she moves, rising to her feet with effortless grace, lifting the phone to her ear.

“Hello?”

As she silently listens to whoever’s on the other line, her shoulders stiffen. It’s subtle, but you see it. The faint tightening of her jaw. The way her fingers curl around the receiver, gripping it just a fraction tighter than necessary.

“I see…”

Another pause.

“Yes. Understood.”

The quiet click of the receiver settling into its cradle echoes through the small room, and you study your mother for a moment as she remains still—motionless.

“…mother?”

When she turns, something flickers in her eyes. Not worry. Not resignation. Something else. Something you haven’t seen in years.

Hope.

“…we have been summoned.”

Smoothing down the fabric of her kimono, she settles back at the table—smiling serenely.

You blink. “Oh… okay. By who?”

“Gojo Satoru.”

༻༺ꨄ༻༺

A familiar weight settles over your shoulders as you step past the towering gates of the Gojo estate. It’s been so long since you last walked these halls, and yet you still remember the first time, seven years ago—the grand ceilings stretching impossibly high, the golden glow of lantern light against hand-painted fusuma panels, the hushed murmurs of Kyoto’s elite.

Now, as you pass through the inner courtyard, it is just as intimidating as you remember.

Just as breathtaking.

A servant bows low, silently ushering you toward the tea room, leading both you and your mother in graceful step. As the entrance nears, her voice breaks the silence.

“You will be on your best behavior,” she murmurs, not unkind, but firm.

Right… as if you needed the reminder.

Stepping inside, the tatami mats barely creak under your careful steps, and the scent of incense greets you first—rich, woody, cloying. A low table sits at its center, the lacquered wood polished to perfection, a ceremonial tea set already in place. And across from it, seated with an unmistakable air of ease, is him.

Gojo Satoru.

Even draped in expensive silk—his robes stitched with the distinguished colors of his clan—he carries himself with an irreverence that clashes against the rigid atmosphere of the room. One arm rests against the table, the other draped carelessly over his knee. His blindfold is absent, and for the first time in seven years, you once again meet those impossibly blue eyes head-on.

“Ah, there she is,” he hums, lips curling into a lazy grin. “Thought I was getting stood up.”

Your mother clears her throat pointedly, bowing in greeting. You quickly follow suit, the practiced motion ingrained in you.

“Gojo-sama,” she says smoothly, “it is an honor to be welcomed into your home.”

Satoru waves a dismissive hand, leaning back. “Yeah, yeah. Big honor. Let’s skip the formalities, huh?”

Seated around the table, the elders watch the exchange in silence, their presence heavy, suffocating. You recognize Gojo Hiroshi among them—his sharp, assessing gaze narrowing on you briefly.

Oh… awkward.

Is he still mad about his seat?

Hiroshi exhales, dragging his gaze to your mother. “We will discuss the terms of the arrangement in the study,” he says, voice calm, measured. “In the meantime, Gojo-sama and his intended should use this opportunity to… familiarize themselves.”

There’s a beat of silence.

Then, Satoru sighs—stretching his arms with a dramatic groan. “Right. Tea ceremonies. My favorite.”

Placing a gentle hand on your shoulder, your mother gives you a knowing glance, a silent reminder—behave.

And then, with a final bow, she follows the elders as they shuffle toward the adjoining room, their hushed voices retreating beyond the sliding doors. The quiet click of wood sliding echoes in the stillness, leaving just the two of you.

Alone with Gojo Satoru.

A familiar weight settles in your chest, something tight, uncertain. His gaze lingers—not scrutinizing, not cold, but assessing. And God, he’s just as beautiful as you remember him. Too beautiful. The same easy confidence. The same impossibly blue eyes that seem to pierce through everything.

You’ve always held onto that feeling from the first time you met him—what was it, exactly? Admiration?

“Well,” Satoru exhales, stretching his legs slightly beneath the table. “Guess it’s just us now.”

Something about the way he says it makes your tummy clench. Is that the admiration? Fuck, whatever. You know what this meeting is supposed to be. A display of grace, a demonstration of propriety. A wife’s first duty to her husband-to-be.

And so, you inhale, slow and controlled—reaching for the tea set.

“Care for some tea?” you murmur, lifting the delicate porcelain into your fingertips, moving through the familiar, measured motions of ceremony. Of tradition.

Lifting the teapot with both hands, you tilt it just so, allowing the warm liquid to pour in an elegant arc, no wasted movement, no hesitation. The way you were taught. The way it has always been.

Then, with just as much care, you offer it to him, your gaze respectfully lowered.

“Please… enjoy.”

With an unreadable expression, Satoru’s fingers brush against yours as he takes the cup from your hands. Exhaling through his nose, his eyes flicker down at the tea, before taking a slow sip.

There is an unnerving silence.

“Is it… to your liking?”

“Uh…” he shrugs, flashing a boyish grin. “Tastes like tea?”

You blink.

What are you supposed to say to that?

A growing nervousness flutters in your chest. Your mother is depending on you—don’t fuck this up. Nodding, your hands fold neatly in your lap as you recite the lines of tradition.

“It is an honor to serve you, Gojo-sama. May this tea be a reflection of the harmony I hope to uphold in our union.”

For a moment, nothing.

Then—Satoru laughs. Not a small chuckle. Not polite amusement. Full-bodied, head-tilted-back laughter.

It startles you, your body tensing at the sound as he sets his cup onto the table and doubles over, catching his breath between chuckles.

You stiffen. What the hell was so funny?

“…did I say something amusing?” you ask carefully.

Satoru waves a hand, shaking his head as he wipes beneath his eyes. “No, no. It’s just… wow. You really went full perfect wife mode, huh?”

Your brows pull together slightly. “Yes… well. It is only proper to conduct myself with—”

“Yeeeah… let’s not,” he waves a hand, leaning forward slightly, arms folding over the table. “You don’t have to do that with me, y’know.”

You hesitate. “Do… what?”

“That.” He gestures vaguely at you, expression amused but pointed. “The stiff politeness, the whole ‘it is an honor to serve you’ thing. Jeez… feels like I’m at another meeting with the elders.”

You blink, your fingers curling slightly against the fabric of your sleeve. “But… this is a formal arrangement.”

He hums, tapping a long finger against the porcelain cup. “Yeah, but we’re also people… aren’t we?”

His words catch you off guard.

People.

You’re not sure if you’ve ever been allowed to simply be that—just a person. Not an heiress, not a proper wife, not a disgraced daughter in need of redemption.

You glance at him, at Gojo Satoru, and suddenly… he doesn’t feel so unreachable.

Oh…

He’s the same as you remember—the man who saved you seven years ago. The one who made defiance look so effortless, so free.

Perhaps… with him, you can breathe. Live freely.

Shifting slightly, your fingers relax in your lap.

“…Very well,” you murmur. “Then how would you prefer I speak to you, Gojo-sama?”

Satoru exhales dramatically, tilting his head to the side. “Well for starters, drop the ‘Gojo-sama’ thing. Hate that.”

You bite back a smile. “It’s a title of respect.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he waves a hand. “But every time you say it, I feel like I need to go yell at some underlings or something. I’m twenty-five, not fucking ancient.”

Your lips twitch slightly. “Alright… what should I call you then?”

He grins. “Just Satoru s’good.”

“…mmkay,” you hesitate for a moment. “Satoru, then.”

His smile widens, pleased.

“Perfect.” He leans forward slightly, resting his chin against his palm, one long finger tapping against the table. “Now… be honest. You don’t actually like this crap, do you?”

You blink. “Pardon?”

“This.” He gestures vaguely at the tea set, the meticulously arranged porcelain, the lingering scent of incense curling in the air. “All this traditional, stiff-ass, sit-in-silence tea ceremony nonsense.”

Your fingers clench slightly in your lap. “It’s… important.”

Satoru hums, unimpressed. “Yeah, yeah. But do you like it?”

You hesitate. It’s a simple question. A stupid one, even. But for some reason, it feels… foreign. Like no one has ever asked before. You should say yes. It would be the correct answer. The proper one.

“…it’s familiar,” you settle on.

Satoru hums again, watching you closely. “That’s not a yes.”

Looking down at the tea in front of you, a quiet weight settles in your chest. Then—he leans back with a sigh, stretching his arms behind his head.

“Sooo… whadda say we ditch?”

You blink. “Huh?”

“I mean, c’mon,” he groans, tilting his head to the side like this is the most obvious thing in the world. “This is boring as hell. You don’t actually wanna sit here drinking tea all day, right?”

You lift a brow. “But… isn’t this what the elders want?”

Satoru’s grin turns sharp. Mischievous.

“Yeah, and I like pissing them off,” his voice dips slightly as he shifts closer. “So… let’s try something.”

He pats his lap. Once. Twice.

“C’mere,” he says, lazily.

You stare—heat rising up your neck, your fingers gripping the fabric in your lap.

“…what?”

Satoru lifts a brow. “What?” he echoes, with a grin. Then, he pats his thigh again, nonchalant. “You heard me. C’mere. Sit.”

You open your mouth, then close it. Then open it again. “Erm… how does… this have anything to do with ditching?”

“Hmm… maybe, it doesn’t.” Satoru shrugs, lips curling at the edges. “Maybe I just wanna see if you’ll do it.”

A pause. Your stomach flips. Your pulse skips. Your brain is screaming at you. This is improper. Completely inappropriate. Unbefitting of a proper woman, much less a bride-to-be.

And yet—

Fuck. He’s watching you with expectation, amusement, curiosity. Because this is Gojo Satoru. The man who has always done whatever the hell he wants—and somehow, that makes you feel like you can too.

Before you can talk yourself out of it, you drag in a deep breath, then move—shifting onto your knees and leaning forward. With a quiet exhale, you turn, lowering yourself onto his lap, your back against his chest as your hands rest awkwardly in your lap.

The moment you settle, his arms curl around your waist. The air changes, and your heart flutters.

“…huh,” his voice is closer than expected, his breath warm against the shell of your ear. “Didn’t think you’d actually do it.”

You swallow, refusing to meet his gaze—when suddenly, the world bends.

Weightlessness seizes you—like free-falling, like slipping through space itself. Your stomach lurches as reality warps around you, fleeting, untethered—until solid ground finds you again.

A slow blink. Gone is the tea room.

Where the hell are you?

Soft lantern light flickers against dark wood and paper screens, casting shifting shadows along the floor. The air is crisp, laced with pine, and beyond the open veranda, a private onsen awaits—its surface steaming beneath the early evening sky, mist curling lazily across the mountain air like silk. The distant hum of cicadas thrums through the silence, the world around you untouched, secluded, still.

Satoru exhales, a pleased hum, shifting beneath you.

“Ahh, much better…”

Warm fingers thread through your hair. Slow, deliberate—gathering the strands to one side. You feel a brush of lips against your shoulder as he murmurs,

“…don’t you agree?”

Shit. The realization settles over you like heat—you’re still in his lap.

“Wha—” the room is hazy—you’re a bit breathless from the sudden shift in reality, and fuck, it’s mixing dangerously with the heat of his touch as his fingers slowly drag along your waist.

Hesitantly, you tilt your head back, meeting his eyes. Blue. Endless. Watching you. You should look away, but you don’t.

“Um…”

“Ta-da,” he murmurs smugly.

Shifting slightly, you try to will away the heat in your face, slipping away from his chest as you adjust. Your thighs drape over his lap now, half-facing him. And fuck—was that a mistake?

Because now, he’s all you can see.

Snowy white hair, framing a face too perfect to be real—his mouth curving into a lazy grin that makes your tummy clench in a way you’re entirely unfamiliar with.

“Where… are we?” you manage.

Satoru hums, shifting beneath you—his fingers dancing over the silk of your obi. “Oh… y’know,” his hand drags higher, resting just below the curve of your breast. “Just somewhere no one will bother us…”

As your dizzy mind tries to recalibrate from teleporting, you blink, finally processing the position you’re in. Or rather, the position he’s in—lounging on a shikifuton.

His fingers twirl the tie of your obi, and you tense, suddenly incredibly nervous.

“G-Gojo…”

He clicks his tongue. “Satoru.”

“Um…” his other hand begins to slide higher up your thigh. “S-Satoru,” you amend, barely above a whisper.

A dangerous grin. “Good girl.”

Oh. You’re fucked. A shudder rolls through you.

“This place… um…” you try to distract yourself with words. Because what the fuck are you supposed to do when he’s touching you like this?! “Its… not the estate, is it?”

“Nah,” he murmurs lazily. “One of my private villas.I’ve got property all over Japan, sweetheart. Figured I’d take you somewhere more… comfortable.”

Comfortable.

Because sitting in his lap counts as comfortable… right?

And shit. Just what is this heat coiling at the base of your stomach? It’s dizzying. You need to move—need space, need air. But as you shift, attempting to slip from his lap, his grip tightens.

“Ah, ah,” he tuts, hands steadying you with effortless strength. “Easy there, sweetheart.”

Your pulse stammers, and for a second, you forget to breathe.

“I—I just need to—”

“Stay put.” His fingers flex against your waist. Firm. Unyielding. “We just teleported. Move too fast, and you’ll tip over.”

As your lips begin to part—a protest forming—a sudden wave of dizziness washes over you. Your breath hitches as the edges of your vision blur for a fraction of a second, and you sway, balance slipping.

“Ohp. There it is.”

Satoru moves before you can even react.

One hand slips behind your back, the other finding your hand as he gently lays you back against the futon. The silk of your kimono pools around you as his palm slides back to the curve of your waist.

And suddenly, he’s everywhere.

Leaning over you, elbow propped up—half above, half beside you. A frame too broad, his snowy-white hair falling forward just slightly, strands ghosting against your forehead.

The air shifts.

Those impossibly blue eyes drink you in, framed by thick lashes that soften the sharp cut of his jaw. “Still dizzy?” he murmurs teasingly.

Inhaling shakily, your eyes flutter shut for just a second, searching for something steady, something solid. But there’s only him—his presence, his warmth, the scent of him—clean, crisp, intoxicating.

Yup. You’re fucked.

“…no,” you whisper. But it’s a lie.

Because it’s not the teleporting that’s making your head spin anymore.

Satoru hums, knowing.

“Since we’re to be wed…” his fingers resettle just below your breast, lips curling into a slow, deliberate smirk. “I think you deserve a sample, don’t you?”

Huh?

You should say something. Anything. Your lips part instinctively, but before you can form a thought, before hesitation can settle in—Satoru is leaning in and your brain is short circuiting.

His hand lifts, cupping your cheek as he tilts your chin just so, and with a tenderness, his lips brush against yours in a soft, lingering press.

It’s like a dream. Gojo Satoru—the man you’ve admired, so sweet, so charming, so free—kissing you? Is this real life?

When he pulls back, he studies your expression, a smug grin dragging up his lips.

“What? You want more?” his lips brush against yours, and you barely process it when he mutters, “…wanna ruin you…” kissing you again.

This time, his lips are moving—slow, languid, like he’s introducing himself to you in a way words never could, coaxing you into the unfamiliar rhythm. He doesn’t rush. He guides. Mapping out your hesitation, your breath, the way your body tenses before melting beneath him.

Is your heart going to beat out of your chest? It feels like it. Just as you ease into his movements, his tongue flicks against the seam of your lower lip—soft, teasing.

“C’mon…” he quietly demands, tongue tracing your lips again, “open up f’me…”

And God, you do. Because he feels too good not to.

“Atta girl…” he hums, tongue slipping past your lips with ease. And now, that slow, lazy exploration turns headier, more consuming, more demanding. Groaning quietly, he’s pulling you in, guiding you. Leading. Teaching.

Oh.

That heat in your tummy… it’s spreading down between your legs now. You’re simmering with an inexplainable heat, and you instinctively clutch his robes, whining involuntarily as he kisses you stupid.

He’s grinning smugly against your lips, your sound fueling him as he devours you more. As your lips crash, you feel him shift, his fingers tugging at your kimono—toying with the delicate knot of your obi.

Wait.

You freeze.

Oh god.

Are you about to lose your virginity to the man you are to marry—before your wedding night?

Noticing you tense, Satoru’s smirk gentles and his movements slow. His lips taper, trailing down your jaw with tender pecks.

“Heh… relax, sweetheart…” he purrs against your skin, caressing your body. “In case you’re wondering, ’m not taking that tonight.”

Your breath stutters, heat curling beneath your skin.

Are… you relieved? Fuck… do you want him to fuck you? He’s making your head spin, and with him, tradition feels unnecessary.

 “Oh… I-I just…” you swallow. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.”

He raises a brow, a slow smirk pulling up his lips. “Yeah? Then I can show you, baby.” His lips graze the curve of your throat, fingers still teasing at your obi. “But I need to hear it from you first.”

You blink up at him, heat pooling between your legs at the look in his eyes—dark, heavy-lidded, consuming.

“What do you want? Gonna let me play with what’s mine?”

Your heart stammers. Fuck, you should hesitate. This is entirely unbefitting of a proper lady. It’s against everything you were raised to be. But the moment his teeth graze your jaw, fuck it, you’re already nodding.

“…yes, please.”

Satoru hums. “Good girl.”

And then, with a deft tug, your kimono slips open as he pulls it apart—the cool air kissing your skin just before he does, lips trailing from your collarbone to the curve of your breast.

“Fuck,” he breathes. “So pretty… look at these tits…” His tongue flicks against your nipple, and you whine, “S-Satoru—ahhh…” shuddering as his mouth wraps around it, swirling his tongue as he sucks the peak.

Smirking, he releases your nipple with a wet pop. “Bet you’re not as prim and proper as you look…” he muses, lips dragging lower, nipping at the sensitive dip of your waist. “Bet there’s a filthy little thing hiding under all this tradition…”

His palms descend, smoothing over your thighs, coaxing them apart with ease, but you tense just a bit.

His gaze lifts, ice-blue and smoldering. “Nervous, sweetheart?” he teases, kneading at the soft flesh of your thighs, thumbs sweeping slow, lazy circles—soothing, patient. But there’s a tension in him, the way his breath deepens, the way his hands flex like he’s holding back.

Your lashes flutter. “I… I just… I dunno how to, I—”

“Shhh,” he coos, smirking, “relax f’me, yeah?”

You give him a little nod as your thighs part further beneath the coaxing of his hands, and fuck, fuck, the sight of you like this—open, pliant, so soft and untouched—has his cock aching.

His breath shudders, fingers dragging up your inner thigh. “Mmm… I can already tell—you’re gonna be a dream wrapped around my cock.” A choked whine escapes you, body shivering, and his smirk deepens. “Ohhh, you like that?” he chuckles, fingers slipping beneath the silk of your kimono, spreading it further open. “Like hearing how bad I wanna fuck you?”

And fuck, does he want to fuck you. The restraint it takes to not flip you over and rut into your cunt is damn near unbearable.

It’s been days since Satoru’s had someone in his bed—days of listening to those stiff-ass elders drone on about duty, responsibility, marriage. Fucking is his stress relief. His role—this position as clanhead, as the strongest. God, he acts like he doesn’t give a shit but it’s exhausting. So, he fucks who he wants, when he wants. And now? Now he’s got you beneath him, trembling and breathless, your kimono slipping from your shoulders like a perfectly wrapped gift waiting to be undone.

It’s almost enough to make him say fuck it and take you right now.

Almost.

But he’s not completely selfish—knows you’re untouched, knows he’d probably wreck you if he took you raw the way he wants to. And as much as he loves breaking pretty little things, he’s gotta prepare you. Prepare you for the worst. Because Satoru? He doesn’t make love, he fucks.

“Satoru… I… I’ve never—"

“I gotchu sweetheart,” he drawls, fingers slipping beneath the waistband of your cotton panties. “Gonna take my time. Let’s see how filthy my pretty little wife can get f’me, hm?”

You whimper as his middle finger circles the entrance of your slick cunt, teasing, testing, before pressing in an inch, feeling a small taste of your tight heat wrapped around him.

“Mnnh…” your voice wavers as your fingers grip his robes. “S-Satoru.” He groans, dragging his fingers through your slick, spreading it, making sure you feel every stroke. “Shit, baby…” his voice dips, husky, teasing. “Already soaked, hm? Just from me kissing you? Heh… see.” A wicked grin curls against your neck and you’re whining as he parts your folds, circling against your wet heat. “Knew it. You’re a naughty girl. Feels good huh?”

You nod, head tipping back as your cunt drips on the futon, hips shifting toward him.

“I-I… haaa…” you look up at him with pleading eyes as the tip of his finger sinks inside your tiny hole, then retreating just as quickly, playing with you. He groans, “God I’m gonna fucking ruin you… lemme feel how tight this little pussy is f’me…” and then he pushes his finger in fully, sinking knuckle-deep in your entrance.

“Ahhh!” you gasp, body shuddering, face burying into his neck as your cunt clenches him greedily. “Ohhh, shit,” he groans through his teeth because fuck—your tiny pussy’s already swallowing his finger like you don’t wanna let go. Satoru’s cock is twitching painfully in his hakama, leaking, straining against the fabric. He can’t wait to split you open on his thick throbbing dick.

“There ya go, sweetheart,” he coos, lips brushing against your ear. “Nice and easy, baby.” He’s moving now, curling his finger against that tender spot, and you gasp “S-Satoru…” burying further into his neck as you soak his hand, clutching his kimono as you whine, “nngh… s’too much…”

“Aww… s’okay…” he’s pressing wet open-mouthed kisses along your throat, finger slowly fucking into you, “Shit… this is only one finger sweetheart. Poor thing. M’gonna have to stretch you real good, huh?” he pumps through every word. “And you’ll take all of me, wont’cha? Take me like a good girl?”

Your lashes flutter. It’s overwhelming, but god, you love it. Stretching your hot little cunt with his long finger, the way his pretty blue eyes watch you, the way his voice drips into your ears, coaxing you further under. “I-I… nnngh…” your needy pussy’s gushing all over his knuckles, “Satoruuu…” you whimper, squirming slightly, unsure what you’re asking for.

But he knows. Of course he fucking knows.

“Faster?” he croons, nipping at your earlobe, pumping you fast, and fuck, your eyes roll back. The sounds of your sopping slick mix with the hum of cicadas. “That’s it… m’gonna teach you. Show my perfect little slut of a wife how to take cock, how to be a good girl for her husband.”

He curls his finger further, sliding against your tight wet walls. “S-Satoru—ahhh…”

“Shhh, I got you,” he soothes, cock angry in his pants as he pumps you stupid. “Shit, you’re so wet… feel that?” his free hand splays over your stomach, feeling your tiny hole flutter around him. “Ah, fuck… you’re gonna feel so tight around my dick… can’t wait to fuckin’ pound this needy pussy.”

Your breath is stuttering as he’s stretching you faster, making your cunt drool all over him, pretty blue eyes watching you through fluttering white lashes.

“Gonna fuck you so good, baby…” he murmurs in your ear, voice deep, velvety. “Hope you’re ready, gonna milk my fuckin’ dick, be my little obedient, sexy toy for me to use whenever I want. Yeah?”

Your body moves on its own and you arch further into him, desperate for more of his ministrations.

“…satoru,” you pant, and his cock leaps in his pants the moment you ask, “m-more… please?”

“Shit…” he groans, slipping another finger into your sopping cunt. “Knew you’re not as innocent as you look. Gonna pump you so fucking full, paint your insides white with my hot, thick cum,” he pants, finger fucking you faster. “This want you wanted needy girl?”

“Mhmm…” you nod, eyes squeezed shut, legs squeezing around him, a whimper spilling for your lips. “Ohh, fuck yes…” he growls, licking into your mouth.

Fuck, Satoru’s cock is throbbing so much is hurts now.

The thought of fucking you raw? Of splitting you open on his cock, ruining that untouched little cunt, making you stretch around him, crying, gasping, begging? Fuck—he could cum in his pants just thinking about it.

Because that is something he doesn’t do with other women. He’s always careful. Always keeps things clean, simple. Never finishes inside—ensuring there’s something between him and whatever meaningless distraction is spread out beneath him. Because at the end of the day, Gojo Satoru has a lot of meaningless distractions, and none of them are worth that kind of indulgence.

But you? Breeding you? Filling your tiny little hole, stuffing you full, making you drip with his cum until you’re leaking, messy, begging for more? Fuck, that’s more than a perk—that’s a goddamn plus.

A plus that, at least in marrying you, he’ll have someone to fuck whenever he wants. Satoru always gets what he wants. And he loves to fuck.

That’s all this is. That’s all you’ll be. A perfect little wife, ready to spread your legs and take him like you were made for it. Why? Because Satoru hates being tied down. But if the elders want an heir?

Fine. He’ll fucking give ‘em that.

“O-Oh… ohmygod…” you’re whimpering now, nails digging into his shoulders as he’s scissoring your dripping pussy, stretching you wider. “Ahhh!” The moment his thumb finds your clit, your body jolts, and he chuckles. “Mmm… there it is…” he’s rubbing slow circles against your swollen bud, pumping your cunt as your whimper and writhe. “That’s what I wanna see… let it take you… let it break you, baby.”

He pulls back slightly, just enough to look at you—eyes hooded, lips parted, white hair falling over his gaze. Fuck, he looks ruined just watching you come apart. You’re gasping, chest rising and falling, and he smirks. “S’too much,” you whine, voice trembling, “too much, Satoru… I… ahhh!”

Leaning in, his lips brush against yours. “C’mon sweet thing,” he rasps, “Cum f’me. Lemme see how pretty you look when you fall apart…”

And fuck, you do.

Your pussy clenches, tightening around his fingers as the coil in your stomach snaps, sending pleasure crashing through you.

A choked cry slips from your lips as your body shudders violently, legs squeezing around his wrist, cunt gushing down his knuckles. He groans, feeling every pulse of your release, the hot slick dripping down his hand as he fucks you through the aftershocks.

“Oh, fuck,” he grits out, watching you unravel beneath him. His lips curl, dark amusement flashing in his eyes. “That’s it, baby… look at you, makin’ such a mess on my fingers.” His thrusts slow, easing you down from your high, his free hand stroking up your trembling thigh as you’re panting, gripping the sleeve of his kimono as you look up at him with dewy eyes.

“Mmm… such a good girl f’me,” he murmurs.

Your lashes flutter, hazy and weak, as he slowly withdraws his fingers from your spent, fluttering hole. You whimper, body jerking slightly at the sensitivity, and a thin, glistening string of arousal connects his fingers to your soaked entrance before it snaps, slick dripping down your thighs.

Satoru hums. “Well, well…” he’s lifting his hand to the lantern light, watching you glisten on his fingers. “You really did make such a mess, sweetheart…”

Your dazed gaze meets his just as his tongue slips between his fingers, sucking them clean. “Mmm…” he groans, lashes fluttering, eyes rolling back before pulling them out with a wet pop. “Can’t wait to devour your cunt properly… bury my face between those pretty thighs n’ make you cum on my tongue while I feed you my dick…”

You’re fucking speechless, barely processing his filthy words before he’s shifting, his free hand dipping beneath the folds of his hakama. Blinking, dazed, you look down and—

Oh.

Oh, fuck.

He’s pulling himself free, that thick flushed cock springing up—flushed, red, and glistening with precum. It throbs, slapping against his abs, needy and aching. You look at Satoru’s blue eyes and they’re watching you, amusement tugging at his lips.

Gripping the base, he gives it a slow stroke. “Mhn… see what you do to me?” he smears his arousal lazily over the swollen head, exhaling. “Ahhh… look how fuckin’ hard I am just from playing with your pretty cunt…”

Swallowing, your thighs press together, heat blooming in your tummy. Each pump of his cock is hypnotic, deliberate—like he has all the time in the world.

You can’t take your eyes off it.

Fuck

His fingers were already enough to drive you insane, but that? How—how the hell are you supposed to fit that inside your pussy?

Satoru catches the way you bite your lip, the flicker of uncertainty in your gaze.

He smirks, tilting his head. “C’mere,” and he’s reaching for your hand, bringing it toward him. “Wanna play with it?”

Your fingers twitch. “But, Satoru—”

“Shhh,” his thumb brushes soothing circles across your wrist. “Told you, ‘m gonna teach you.” Lifting your hand, he presses a chaste kiss to your palm—soft, sweet. “You’re gonna be my wife, baby… that means learning how to handle my cock, too.”

“Oh…” your lashers flutter, a blush creeping up your cheeks. “Okay.”

For a fleeting second, the moment feels… almost tender.

But it shatters as he’s spitting directly into your palm—hot, slick, filthy.

“Gotta get it niiiice and wet…” he mutters, guiding your drenched hand to his throbbing dick, smearing the sticky substance around his shaft. “Grip it like this… kay?”

“Okay…” your murmur, thumb brushing against a thick vein. And god, it’s hot—hotter than you expect—twitching in your grip, heavy and pulsing beneath your tiny fingers.

“Mm, good girl,” he exhales, watching you through lidded eyes. “Start slow, yeah? Let me feel you.” He moves your hand beneath his, setting a pace, slow and teasing. A deep groan rumbles through his chest, lashes fluttering as his head tips back. “Fuuuuck… yeah… that’s it, jus’ like that, baby…”

Biting your lip, you look up at his filthy expression. “Like…this?” you experiment, squeezing a little harder, gripping his dick with more purpose. His cock twitches violently and his lips part. “Fuuuuck…” he grunts, grip tightening on your wrist, “y-yeah… that’s it—shit—keep going, just like that.”

God, the way he looks right now has you dizzy—lidded eyes, jaw slack, breath coming short and heavy. He’s falling apart from your touch alone—like there’s a power to it. That realization makes you bolder, your strokes growing more confident.

And fuck, he seems to like that.

“There ya go, sweetheart,” his cock’s jerking in your grip as he pulls back completely, pretty blue eyes flicking form your hand to your face, smirk turning pure filth. “God, look at you… pretty little wife, strokin’ my cock so fuckin’ well. Maybe I oughta let you do this every night, huh? Put those soft little hands to good use.”

The slick, obscene sounds of your hand working over his cock fills the space as he leans back, shamelessly reveling in it, hips twitching into your grasp.

“Nnngh… keep strokin’ me just like that…” his lips hover a breath away from yours, panting, desperate. You squeeze a little harder, rolling your wrist, and his brows furrow, a sharp hiss escaping him. “Shit—” his head lolls back, voice wrecked, “fuck, you’re such a quick learner… bet you’d let me fuck that tight little throat next, wouldn’t you?”

You cunt is throbbing at his words, slick pooling in your panties. God, how are you supposed to answer him? He’s filthy. But you love it. Your thighs squeeze together, and Satoru sees the way you shift—his grin stretching, wicked.

“Betcha like strokin’ me.” His voice is rough, thick with need, fingers threading into your hair. “Betcha like feelin’ my cock throb in your hand, huh?”

Biting your lip, you squeeze his dick harder. “Y-Yeah…” your cheeks burn at your own filthy admission, and his smirk is vicious, pure sin. “Knew it. Fuckin’ knew it.” He groans, cock twitching in your palm as his flushed tip drools all over your tiny hands. “Naughty little thing… keep that up, n’ m’gonna cum all over these pretty fingers…”

You swipe your thumb over the tip, rolling the head as you murmur “what if… I want that?” and as the words slip out, Satoru’s eyes snap to yours, blown wide, something feral in those cerulean depths.

“Oh?” His grip in your hair tightens, a sharp, desperate inhale through clenched teeth. “Say that again.”

You breathe slowly, smearing his drooling dick, and Satoru’s cock leaks more, jerking violently the moment you mutter, “I… I wanna see you cum.”

With a primal growl, he snaps—lunging forward, lips crashing against yours, messy, consuming. Breathless, desperate, your strokes turn frenzied as he’s groaning into your mouth, his hand groping your tit, his cock jolting in your palm, pulsing vigorously.

“Fuck,” he pants, forehead pressing against yours, his breath ragged, needy. “Faster—m’fuckin’ close—fuck, baby, don’t stop—”

You obey, jerking him quicker, harder, your palm slick and messy with his slick. The lewd, obscene sounds spilling from his lips are shameless, his hips jerking up, chasing the friction.

It’s invigorating, and so—fuck it.

Before you can second-guess yourself, you lean forward, part your lips—and spit. A long, slick stream dripping down, coating his thick cock, gliding over your fingers as you pump him faster.

Satoru chokes on a breath.

“Shit. Shit. Fuuuuuuck,” he groans, head tipping back, throat bared, veins straining. “Goddamn…” his voice cracks, laughter breaking through. “Look at that. Gonna turn you into the perfect little slut f’me, aren’t I?”

Your hand is a blur now—stroking, twisting, rolling over the ridge of his cock, milking him as he gasps, shuddering, hands roaming over your tits, groping, squeezing.

“G-Gonna cum all over you,” he groans, voice unraveling, grip tightening as his thumb flicks your nipple. “Wanna see it? Fuck—my cum dripping down your hand—” A ragged whine catches in his throat. “Or maybe—m-maybe your tits? Haaa… s-shit… yeah.”

Suddenly, his hand shoves you down, pinning you against the futon as he straddles you, knees pressing against your sides. Your eyes widen as his cock hovers above you, dripping, leaking, his grip tight around the base as he strokes himself furiously.

“Fuck… fuck… fuck!” The wet faps of his fist grow louder, his panting wrecked, desperate. “Gonna fuckin’—haaaa—s-shit, take my cum!”

And then, he’s spurting his thick gooey seed all over you, spilling rope after rope of that sticky white essence, shooting it from the ridge of his pulsing dick as it erupts is messy arcs. It's warm and wet, his body lingering above you, his breath coming in heavy, uneven pants as he wrings every last drop.

Groaning, his head lolls, lazily pumping the last few spurts, blue eyes dropping to the mess he’s made of you—cum dripping down your tits, pooling in the dip of your stomach.

“Fuck…” he exhales, thumb grazing your bottom lip before tilting your chin up. “Just look at you. Drenched in me.”

You blink, dazed, body still humming, skin sticky and dewy with sweat and cum. Satoru watches you for a moment, then huffs a lazy chuckle, shifting off you. You barely register the way he reaches for something beside the futon, only catching the warm press of a damp cloth against your skin a second later.

Lying there, breathless, he carelessly wipes his release off you. He’s not gentle, not exactly, but he’s careful—moving with the ease of someone who’s done this plenty of times before. When he’s done, he tosses the cloth aside, stretches his arms over his head, and flops onto his back with a satisfied sigh.

There’s a beat of silence as you both exhale. The weight of what the fuck just happened, settling in your chest. Then, his smirk returns as he tilts his head at you.

“Welp,” he sits up, rolling a shoulder, cracking his neck, as if already moving past the moment. “S’pose we oughta head back, huh?”

Your stomach knots. “Oh… um. B-Back?” Because how the fuck are you supposed to sit in front of the elders, in front of your mother, after this? After he’s just—after this?

Satoru snorts, already adjusting himself, tucking his cock back into his hakama like none of this just happened. “Yeah.” He grins, fixing the folds of his robes. “I got what I wanted. You had your fun, yeah?”

O-Oh? Your breath stutters. You swallow.

He smirks, glancing over at you, a few stray drops of his cum still drying on your skin. “Besides… can’t have ‘em thinking I already knocked you up before the wedding.”

The implication is clear. The possessiveness is clear. But the affection? That’s missing. It’s like… he’s already moved on, like this was nothing more than a way to pass the time.

Gojo Satoru doesn’t love you.

He owns you.

And as he extends his hand to you, waiting for you to take it so he can pull you up, there’s… no warmth in his touch.

“C’mon, sweetheart,” he coos, blue eyes gleaming—calm, unreadable, detached. “Time to go home.”

Home.

But, it’s not a home—it’s a throne. And not yours to claim, only yours to be kept in.

a/n. hiiii welcome to the debut of this fic! i had to set a lot up here before we dive into the angst and the smutfest that's to come. ngl, this is a bit out of my comfort zone bc as a demisexual i crave emotional connection with sex. like, i'm really gonna want satoru to hold me after he fucks me stupid 🥲 but ALAS. this fic is not that (at least... not yet. give satoru some time, soon he's gonna be whipped for readers coochie, hehe 🤭) anyways, tysm for reading. would love to hear your thoughts 🫶🏻 like i said, this is going to be multiple parts. no clue how many just yet tho! -> click here for part 2

taglist pt 1:

@forest-nymph420 @linabugaboo @enhasrii @indiewritesxoxo @yamagucji

@aerareads @devils-blackrose @starpachinko @sadmonke @sylussss7

@slutoru1207 @satoruxsc @sukunasunflower @reihimbo @madamechrissy

@sleepykittyenergy @artist1936 @eggrollforyou @nishloves @serenxtii

@lastsubstance @sarapherna1ia @7thsthings @merrydoe @earliergrave

@106-94 @propan-3-ol @oromanticism @chxllix @nonamebbsblog

@honeybunnnnie @beereadzzz @moonchhu @bunheadusa @atschii

@cherriee-ee @kiyoko182 @itsinherited @fairygardenprincesss @7haze

@hedgefundmeg @adreamingpendulum @etsuniiru @velvetyshu @genshingeeksworld

@waterfallu @haruhatake @schooki @magnificientscarlett @strychnynegirl

[ofmermaidstories]

the sooner people understand x reader as a literary device and not a blank slate for you get mad at for not actually being a blank slate, the more fun we’ll all have. the reader-insert will never be a perfect empty canvas. even without character and world motivation it’s just the sheer fact that these things are written by imperfect humans—some of them do it better than others but all of them will leave their dirty filthy thumbprints on ur precious mirror of a entryway, that’s literally just how creation works. it will never perfectly include everyone, it’s not meant to, they work exactly the same as other characters—the degree to which you relate to them will depend on the story, what they do, and who’s writing it (and you who’s reading it, of course).

[septemberkisses]

the fact that i'm no longer the same age as the protagonists of novels and films i once connected to is so heartbreaking. there was a time when I looked forward to turning their age. i did. and i also outgrew them. i continue to age, but they don't; never will. the immortality of fiction is beautiful, but cruel.

[indiewritesxoxo]

say you don't

today's episode of...who the fuck did I marry? (literally)

synopsis: so you woke up next to the hottest man you've ever met. except, you've never seen him before and he swears he's your husband. and the more you talk to him, the less certain you are he's even human. what'll break first? him? or your sanity?

pairing: eldritch-esque entity!gojo x f!reader

wc: 7.3k

content: mdni, DARK CONTENT, angst, light smut, gojo is an entity masquerading as a human lol, but he's down BAD for you, basically God!Gojo has no concept of any kind of societal norms and is pathetically in love with you, technically kidnapping, gaslighting, manipulation, obsession, gojo gets everything he wants and that includes you, Geto guest starring as fellow gaslighter LMFAO, some slight body horror (occasional extra eyes and limbs), wet dreams, fingering, touching, casual affection, mentions of taking meds (that aren't actually needed), reader is convinced she's going crazy, messed-up dynamics, some codependency

a/n: this was a super special commission from @specialgradefckr that was SO fun to write!! hope you guys enjoy too <3

The man sitting across the table from you was not your husband. 

It didn’t matter what the shiny gold ring on his finger said – or the glittering diamond on your own. His mouth was moving, but nothing was coming out. Pretty pink lips parting, the bright white teeth behind them opening wider, the sharp tips of his canines catching the bright sunlight streaming through the window of an apartment you’d never been in before. 

You weren’t even sure he was human. 

Or if you were still asleep. 

“Something wrong, sweetheart?” He cocked his head to the side, but he couldn’t even get that right. You guessed it was supposed to be cute (well, it kinda was) but it was angled too far, his ear nearly touching his shoulder.

The newspaper in his hands was upside down. The coffee in front of him was half sugar. He hadn’t blinked once in the past two minutes. 

You might not have picked up on that if his eyes weren’t so blue. It wasn’t the same shade as the oceans or the sky. Nothing in nature matched what was staring straight at you. They shimmered, brilliant and burning, intensely focused on each little twitch of your face. 

Spit was pooling in the back of your throat, pulse pounding in your ear as you smoothed down the hem of a thin slip you definitely didn’t own and certainly hadn’t dressed yourself in the night before. No, you just tossed on a ratty old t-shirt before crawling into your own bed, pulled the comforter over your body and crashed. When you woke up, you were here, wherever here was, with no fucking clue how you got here. Or who he was. 

With him half on top of you, sturdy arms wrapped around you and the prettiest man thing you’d ever seen purring good morning in your ear. Kissing your cheek like you and hugging you tight like you were some stuffed toy he always slept with. 

You pinched the back of your hand under the table. Hard enough for your nail to break the skin. You weren't dreaming. 

So he was, for better or worse, real. 

“I should go,” you cleared your throat, glancing down at the almost untouched plate in front of you. Pancakes, apparently, although you’d personally never had any that were so…spongy. You poked it with a fork when he first set it down, but you couldn’t bring yourself to stomach it. 

“Is my cooking not good enough for you?” He quizzed, stark white brows scrunching together like it was a problem he had to solve. Like you were. 

“It’s just, whatever this, uh, weird roleplay thing is-” 

He blinked. 

One eye at a time. 

“What do you mean?” He frowned as you stood up, dropping the newspaper he wasn’t reading to stand too. 

You stepped back, only glancing away to mentally calculate how far away the front door was. 

“I should go back home,” you slowly reiterated. Not that you had any way to get there. You didn’t have your phone, your wallet, your keys. No clue how fucking far you were from your place. 

“This is home.” 

You shook your head slowly, left hand closing into a fist, but it just reminded you of the ring on your finger. Five carats, set in white gold and glimmering while you reflexively looked down at just another detail that didn’t add up.

“No,” you muttered. “This-”

You blinked, and you were on the couch. It was softer than yours, didn’t creak when you shifted, missing all the spots and stains that came from people actually sitting on one. It scratched something in the back of your brain, bothered you for a reason you couldn't name as you sat up and looked around to confirm your suspicion. 

“I'm worried about you,” Satoru murmured, carrying a glass of-

Wait. 

How the hell did you know what his name was? 

Was it on something you’d seen without realizing it? On his phone when you were waking up? On a diploma or piece of mail somewhere your brain had subconsciously picked up on? 

He placed the drink on the clean coffee table in front of you. There was only a small vase with a few white-and-blue flowers stuffed in it as decoration on it. No coasters in sight. And somehow, no scratches or water rings staining the light wood finish either. 

“Who are you?” You asked, hearing how hoarse you sounded. Scared. 

You didn’t want to take the water – but all you could think of was how sore your throat was, reluctantly reaching over to take a sip. 

“Your husband?” He insisted, firm and a little sarcastic, like it should be obvious. 

“I’m not married,” you scoffed, even if the weight of the ring on your finger got heavier by the second. “I don't even have a boyfriend.” 

He made a soft sound, a coo, humming like this was still normal. 

And then it clicked. 

It had to be a prank. Probably pulled by one of your asshole friends who heard you complain one too many times about how sick of being single you were – or maybe even part of a shitty show that would only get aired on an absolutely unethical network. 

“Are you an actor?” You asked, and he laughed, as if you made a joke. “It's not fucking funny. Did someone pay you? Or-”

“I'm your husband,” he echoed, like it was one of the only lines they'd given him. 

“Seriously, are there cameras somewhere?” You started to stand, but your legs felt like jelly. Not quite limp, but unsteady on your feet as you took a step forward. But you bumped into the corner of the table right as he grabbed your arm to steady you, water spilling on the carpet, the cup remaining intact and rolling under the couch.

The only stain on it. 

“Cameras, baby? Really?” He dismissed, innocence you didn’t believe in shining in those big blue eyes. 

“That’s not a no,” you pointed out, looking up and around from the furniture to the corners of the room for any blinking lights or objects out-of-place. 

But nothing stood out.

Except for the fact there wasn’t a single personal item in sight. No photos or signs. No bookshelves stuffed with albums of memories or even shoes or socks left forgotten on the floor? 

“I mean, it doesn’t even look like anyone lives here,” you kept going when he didn’t deny it, gesturing to what could be a stock photo for a bachelor pad. “I mean, you didn’t bother photoshopping a single photo of us? That’s just lazy-”

He slid a photo album across the table you were pretty fucking sure had just been empty.

You stopped, stared blankly at the clean black leather, uncracked. Shiny as he flipped it open to the first page. 

And there you were, in a white wedding dress you’d rather die than wear, one of those poufy princess ones you couldn’t believe actually existed. Your mouth fell open, mid-exhale as your fingers trembled to flip through yourself. 

If it was edited, he’d done a good goddamn job at it. 

His arm was around you, fingers flexing against your waist and a beaming smile across his mouth. No glaring issues or missing fingers to point at. But the flowers in the vase were almost identical to the bouquet in your hands in the photo.

You pulled one free from the plastic, flipping it over to find a date on the back. Almost a full year ago. 

“What is this?” You asked, but the bite in your voice was gone. 

“Our wedding pictures, pretty girl,” he answered, and his bottom lip pushed out like he felt bad for you.  

You didn’t know what was worse, the pity on his face or the pride in his voice.

Each photo was more perfect than the last. The lighting, the shadows, your makeup, his suit, all the tiny details that might give the deception away in order and as expected. Not even a stray hair in sight. 

Your family was in them. Standing in the background or barely in frame, friends laughing and drinking and toasting to a marriage that just materialized. 

“You wanna call someone and ask?” He offered, a calm expression on his face, and you couldn’t help but think he’d done this before. 

“Where’s my phone?” You felt weak, your brain getting foggier as you tried to organize and collect all the information being splayed out in front of you. 

He dug it out of his pocket, and you wanted to protest – tell him that it was weird as shit that he had it. 

You held your tongue though, trying to think of who wouldn’t go along with a prank like this and would actually come clean if they knew someone who would. 

It was kind of hard when your homescreen was him though. 

A candid too, one that looked like it’d been taken in a restaurant somewhere, across the table from him with a candle burning and casting warm shadows on his unnaturally pretty face. 

Your thumb still unlocked it though, and all your contacts were still there – even if there were also now a thousand more photos of him clogging up your storage when you scrolled through. 

It took five phone calls to convince you that something was very, very wrong.

Family members, friends, even a fucking coworker, and they all thought you were the one pranking them. Chuckling at your discomfort, asking how Satoru was, inviting you both over for dinner before your panicked pleas for them to tell you the truth twisted their amusement to concern. 

When the last one hung up on you, you couldn’t even look up.

Just stared down at the smile on your screen, the first full squeeze of fear taking hold in your heart when he said nothing either, waiting for you to look up at him. You could feel his eyes on you. Oppressive and heavy, almost as if some invisible force was pressing against you. 

“I think we should schedule another appointment with your psychiatrist,” he hummed, leaning down to press a kiss to your forehead, like he really just wanted what was best for you. 

Which, according to him, was an emergency session with a man you’d also never seen. 

You had a psychiatrist already – an appointment you always kept. Every three weeks, curling up on a couch and complaining about work and your friends and venting about everything that bothered you from stupid to significant. 

But he was about half a foot shorter and balding. Not another absurdly attractive guy who shouldn't know your name and still somehow did. 

You blinked at him. 

He stared back at you. 

The clock ticked – your appointment time slipping by in silence when you refused to speak at first. 

You broke first. Glanced out the window at the barren trees outside, wind blowing a brittle chill and frosting the edges of the glass. Shifting seasons. “Weird weather we’re having, huh?” 

“Is that what you’d like to talk about today?” He cooly replied, a sharp edge of sarcasm cutting through the tension.

You shrugged, not that you expected him to answer back with anything actually helpful. 

It was summer last night. The heat had choked out the ac in your apartment, your skin sticky and slick with sweat when you fell asleep, mumbling under your breath it was too fucking hot before you got under the covers

That was the first thing you’d noticed this morning. Your first clue. Eyes still closed and thinking that it was freezing – that your ac must have somehow fixed itself.  

The weather was wrong outside. The man on the other side of the door kept saying he was your fucking husband when you knew he wasn't. And the rest of the world seemed to be in agreement. 

“What brings you back so soon?” Your new psychiatrist asked, one hand firmly gripping a ballpoint pen while the other pushed a thin pair of glasses higher up his nose. How were you supposed to answer when you didn't even remember seeing him once? 

Rationality hadn't quite let you, your brain suggesting reasons you didn't fully believe. Maybe your old one quit, some family emergency or last-minute thing and this was just a replacement he'd forgotten to tell you about. 

You looked over the diplomas proudly displayed on the wall for a Suguru Geto. You made a mental note of the name, one you were sure you’d be searching and scouring the internet for later to see if any of them were real and he was actually an accredited doctor. 

God, that really did sound fucking insane. 

Genuinely suspecting the fact a (hopefully) licensed psychiatrist was just another paid asshole fucking with you? 

There was a calendar by the diploma closest to the windows, and even though the days hadn’t been marked off, it was still on the last month you remembered. You pretended not to notice, shifting your stare back to him. 

What the hell had happened in the past twelve hours? 

“I’m not crazy,” you preemptively said. It wasn't very convincing coming from someone sitting on this side of the desk though. 

“Did I say you were?” He smiled, but it was sly. He reminded you of a fox in a funny way, casual remarks coming off crafty. A hint of cruelty hiding underneath his polished, professional surface. 

“You’re staring like something’s wrong with me.” 

“What would be wrong with you?” He returned your statement with another annoying question, your scowl coming easily as you picked at your cuticles in your lap. 

“I don’t think anything is,” you argued back. Except he wasn’t arguing – he was just setting traps and waiting for you to walk into them. 

“Then why are you here today?” 

Because you fell asleep and somehow in eight hours you’d gone from your bed to living a stranger’s life? Even worse, becoming a stranger’s wife? 

“Why don’t you tell me?” You frowned, eyeing the thick folder he pulled out when you walked through the door, one he quickly closed before gesturing for you to sit. 

“Your husband started bringing you here before for, ah, memory issues for the past year,” he soberly said, like his seriousness could make up for the fact he was full of shit too. 

You almost scoffed. A year? No fucking way. 

“Memory issues?” You repeated, daring him to elaborate and dig them both in a deeper hole. 

He cleared his throat, eyes narrowing like he’d decided on a different approach since the current one wasn’t working. 

“We could start considering inpatient treatment,” he started to suggest, a flare of panic seizing your chest at the thought of a future spent in grippy socks and stuck with needles. 

“No,” you swallowed hard, shaking your head and quickly turning to where your husband was waiting on the other side. Even if you didn’t know him, couldn’t remember a fucking thing about him and didn’t have an explanation for any of it, he wouldn’t let that happen, would he? 

“How about this? I'll write you a new prescription then and schedule a follow-up in a few weeks to see how you're feeling,” Suguru smiled at you, but it was cold. 

“Sure,” you returned his fake smile. 

It wasn’t like you had another choice. How hard would it be to flush pills anyway? 

“Mind sending your husband in for a few minutes?” Your possibly-fake psychiatrist asked, and you could feel your brow twitch, threatening to betray your suspicions. You weren’t all that familiar with privacy laws, but it still felt like a breach of confidentiality. “I would like to discuss a few details of your care plan.”  

Care plan – like you were some troubled child that needed nurturing and hand holding instead of actual answers. 

Stuck sitting in an uncomfortable plastic chair out in the hall while they chatted behind a closed door, unable to hear what they were talking about. Just that the man you were supposedly married to looked thrilled walking out, leaning down to kiss your cheek and promise to pick up your favorite food on the way home. 

You figured out two answers of your own about him in the car. The first being he was a really bad driver. You weren’t sure how you hadn’t noticed on the way there, but you guessed you’d been busy staring out the window trying to discern whether or not this was just a really weird vivid dream or not. But now? Paying full attention to the way his hands were positioned on the wheel, the complete and total lack of awareness he had for anyone else on the road? 

It was ridiculous. 

He rear-ended someone five minutes into it. Completely crushed the back of her bumper, about to drive away until you hissed at him to stop and give the other driver his insurance information. He cocked his head to the side like he didn’t really understand, but he got out of the car anyway – in the middle of the busy road and blocking all traffic behind him. 

The woman he hit was pissed, short hair bobbing in the wind as she started shouting at him while you attempted to hide your face in the passenger seat. 

Until your husband just grinned at her, pointing at her probably totaled car and casually chuckled. That was all it took for her to freeze, mouth hanging open, cheeks blushing when he took another step closer. 

“I think that was your fault,” he hummed, and she nodded. 

“I must’ve stopped too fast,” she said it like she hadn’t been screaming three seconds ago, her eyes glittering like he was a goddamn celebrity who was so kind to grace her with his presence and hadn’t just hit her car. 

“Yeah, you should be more careful,” Satoru cooed, all condescending and still somehow charming, clapping a hand over her shoulder and squeezing before getting back in the driver’s seat.

You stared at him, and he just looked to you for approval. 

“Do you always get what you want?” You asked, too surprised to even frown. 

“Pretty much,” he flashed a smile. What, was it just pretty privilege? 

That the world bent around him because he thought it should? 

You weren’t sure when you started to bend too.

Just that the proof (and inconsistencies) started piling up – and started burying you beneath it.  

He knew everything about you – things you never told anyone else. Not just the easy stuff like your favorite color or food, but what hole-in-the-wall restaurants you liked to order it from and what day you liked to do your laundry on. Could recite off when you were born and what you got for your fifth birthday, collected memories of yours like coins or stamps he wanted to save. 

Any way you tried to slice it, he was either the most sentimental man you ever met or a stalker. 

Maybe both. 

When you asked for the marriage certificate, he pulled it from the shelf on a bookcase in his office. When you wanted to know what college he graduated from, suddenly there was a degree hanging on the wall. If you questioned how long you’d been dating, tried to pick apart his timeline, he pulled up the messages between you from as far back as your first date. 

“You don’t trust me,” he pouted, pushing out his bottom lip too far as he tossed his phone on the couch. 

You bit your own lip. Looked at the floor so you wouldn’t have to find something wrong with his face. 

“Why me?” You asked instead. Why couldn’t he go pick some other girl to torment? Get a divorce and unbind his life from yours? 

“Would you believe me if I said it was love-at-first-sight?” 

You didn't really believe anything he said. 

Even if he always had an answer (or an excuse) at his disposal.

But other stuff stood out, getting ready for work a few mornings post your psychiatrist appointment just for him to furrow his brows and station himself by the front door to ask where you were going. 

“My job?” You huffed, slipping on your shoes. All your clothes had come with you here, half his closest stuffed full of them, your shoes set up on a nice little rack by the door. There were a few things you knew you hadn’t bought, frilly and flimsy and all in that unnatural shade of blue, but you ignored them. 

Foolishly tried to kid yourself that pretending they weren't there would make them go away. 

“You don’t work,” he casually replied. 

“I do,” you insisted, trying to push past him before he stopped you with a firm hand wrapping around your wrist.

“Sweetheart,” he tried to sound kind, but there was no mistaking the authority in it. “You quit six months ago.” 

He guided you back to the kitchen table, sat you down softly before walking over to one of his dark cabinets. Pulled out something from the top shelf and returned to you like he was every ounce the devoted husband he was pretending to be. He handed it to you, something you were sure was supposed to be a show of trust. 

The pill bottle was clear. Thick, almost translucent, white label stretching around with pretty blue pills rattling inside when you shook it. 

Simple instructions printed neatly below your name to take two a day with food. 

“I’ll make you breakfast, baby,” he promised, waiting for you to open the cap and take two. Part of you wanted to accuse him of just not being able to open the child-proofed caps. 

You slowly did, feeling ill already, although it was hard to tell if it was from the idea of eating his cooking or taking the pills. 

He waited for you to put them in your mouth, stood there while you let them sit on your tongue.

“Don’t make me check,” he chuckled, a low warning you could tell he meant.  

You swallowed. 

And still, through the side effects and brain fog they seemed to bring on, you clung to the edges of your sanity, the logic remaining. Enough that when he was distracted typing away at his laptop, you were trying to text former coworkers, your old boss, anyone that would know anything more. 

But none of the messages were ever marked delivered. And when you looked up your former place of employment, you discovered everything about them had been scrubbed online, completely wiped. Like it never even existed. 

And when you managed to slip past him four days later down the stairs and out into the parking garage, you couldn’t find your car. 

The days dragged on - no job, no distractions. Just him and the cocktail of prescription drugs to coast on. 

His work schedule wasn’t kind to you. Allowed him to ‘work’ remotely, although he barely seemed to be in his home office, usually too busy bugging you. Half the week he never even stepped foot in there at all. But they never fired him. Never seemed to pester him to finish projects or demand for more of his time. 

You, apparently, were the most difficult part of Satoru Gojo’s life.

“One kiss?” He pouted, pointing to his cheek and leaning against the wall by the office door, an easy grin on his face.

“I haven’t brushed my teeth,” you excused, itching to walk away for the few hours of peace you got a day.

“Later then,” he shrugged, still unbothered, like he had all the time in the world. 

He liked to take you shopping after work or on weekends, doll you up in dresses and treat you to overpriced restaurants where he always seemed to score free meals or desserts every time. Although, the first time, he accused a waiter of flirting with him (and eventually you) just for asking questions about what he wanted to eat, demanding to speak to a manager. Squinting and scrunching his nose up like ‘is the food to your taste?’ was the equivalent to asking what color underwear he was wearing. No one listened when you tried to apologize for him. Paid any attention to you saying it was fine. The waiter was fired and your food was comped. 

People stared when he passed by. Men asked him about his cologne and his clothes. Women told you how lucky you were to lock him down.

As if it had ever been your choice in the matter.

Sometimes, you'd slip. Forget that you should be fighting this. Instinctively reach out for his hand in crowds in public, offer him bites of your food, roll over closer to him in bed on cold mornings. And somewhere deep inside, you knew it wasn’t right, but you seeked his comfort anyway, soothed yourself with his freezing hands and warm voice like it’d make your skin stop crawling, like it’d scrape away all the paint and varnish covering up the ugliness hiding underneath your relationship. 

You always snapped back to what was left of your reality eventually. 

It was after you pulled back that it would be there, the unsettling discomfort of his stare when you turned away from him. 

It was the worst in the mornings.

Crawling out of the sheets first, leaving him with his legs tangled in the blankets. He only ever slept in his boxers, his chest bare and rising slowly. It took too long to fall, like he was faking it. Mimicking sleep like he was imitating something from a movie.

And even when his eyes were closed, long white lashes fluttering, you could still feel them watching. 

His body, however pretty, however perfect, felt more like a shell, a casing containing something too big for it. A man who’d never been told no – and knew how to make sure it was never an option for you.

Not when every day you teetered closer to crazy, swallowing pills you didn’t need, sitting next to Satoru on the couch with a strong arm slung over your shoulder, stuck in a never-ending routine of brain-numbing domesticity. 

You couldn’t even lay in bed and sleep in late. 

The sky outside his window never seemed to get lighter until you got out. Your phone was always out-of-reach – Satoru didn’t confiscate it, but you conveniently could never find it once night time rolled around. He never had watches around either – even though he seemed like the exact sort of asshole that would own a Rolex and brag about it. 

You might’ve called him out. Confessed your suspicions, made a whole fucking list of them to shout at him, scrutinize every tiny detail and demand answers. Until you started seeing the eyes and were forced to reconsider the growing possibility that you were the problem here. 

He was talking – he almost always was. Telling you some convoluted story you were pretty sure was the plot of a bad tv movie he must’ve watched while you were sleeping, one you had overheard blaring from the bedroom, the volume also perpetually stuck too loud. He never left the remote out for you to change it either. 

Your stare had been fixed on the tv anyway, nodding along bored until you caught a glimpse of it out of the edges of your vision. Right below his cheek. An extra eye, just as bright and observant as the other two. It blinked, and you turned.

But it wasn’t there anymore, and Satoru was staring at you innocently, head tilted to the side like he was pleased to have captured your attention at all.

“Everything alright, pretty girl?” He purred, reaching out to place his hand over yours. You didn’t pull away, couldn’t convince your body to move when the surprise had left you practically paralyzed.

You tried to sleep it off. 

But they kept popping up. Behind you in the mirror. When he was making breakfast. On his hands and face and even once on his back. The second you looked, the moment you tried to look directly at it, it was gone, dissolved back into normal skin like it’d never been there at all. 

And then came the ones in places they couldn’t be. 

On the walls and in the furniture. Constantly being watched whether you were alone or with him. 

You used to think you could get used to anything. 

But the paranoia never ended – and you were starting to question if maybe he’d been right this whole time. How much of this was him? And how much was in your head? 

“How have you been doing since the last visit?” Your psychiatrist asked, fixing you in the same cold stare as last time. You hadn’t wanted to come back, but Satoru insisted – and despite all your digging, you couldn’t find any proof he wasn’t who he said he was. 

“Fine,” you lied. 

You were one string away from unravelling. On a short tether ready to snap with one more eye, one more changed memory or crooked detail that didn’t match up.

“Have you remembered anything? Any flashes? Images?” He asked, like someone who had a degree probably would. 

You shook your head, the urge to claw and scratch and fight this slowly seeping out. “Um, no.” 

“Well, we can talk about something else then,” he smiled, and it still didn’t reach his eyes. He shuffled through the folder in front of him. “How about your family then? Or maybe your friends?” 

Your mouth had started to open, to dismiss the idea of talking about the one area of your life you still considered somewhat private until a name he shouldn’t have known left his lips. Until he continued to mention more information you only ever told your old psychiatrist about. 

“I think I’m done today, actually,” you muttered. You brushed down your skirt, standing up and hurrying over to the door to twist the knob just for it to bump into something on the other side. 

Satoru had been listening in. 

But he didn’t condemn you for ending your session early. Just wrapped a strong arm around your shoulders and brushed your hair out of your face before asking if you wanted to go out to eat or pick something up. 

Suguru Geto would never be able to give you the help you needed.

You didn’t think help like that even existed. What god would be able to overwrite your husband when it seemed like he was the one who made the rulebook? Who never did wrong and always got precisely what he wanted? 

In a weird way, there was an odd comfort in being with him. He didn’t make you feel crazy – even when you threatened to throw his shit out the window and cried yourself to sleep when you did toss his stuff out just for it to reappear in the same spots. He just cooed that it was okay, promised that it would be better soon, pressed faint kisses against your shoulder blades and down your skin like his touch could make the world stop spinning. 

Something was seriously wrong with him and you.  

You were both bad at pretending to be normal. 

Maybe you didn’t remember him. Maybe you hallucinated the eyes on the walls and the secrets buried in his skin. But here he was, sitting on the couch while the sun was still out watching a girl get her back blown out with a fucking notepad in his lap. 

Squinting at the screen while she got backshots in 4k Ultra-HD, her gasps and moans the soundtrack while he made unintelligible scribbles on the page. Pants on, fully clothed, not even fucking erect or hard or anything.  

If he noticed you behind him, he didn’t say it. 

“You're not jerking off,” you dryly commented, leaning against the doorframe. 

“Do you want me to?” He glanced over his shoulder, sincerely asking. 

You stared at him, lips parting as you tried to formulate what the fuck you were supposed to say to that, your own eyes shifting down to where the notepad was suddenly gone, his hand already tugging down his zipper and about to pull out his cock. 

Maybe you would've said no, but you shut up the second you saw it. And really, it was kind of fucking absurd. 

Even more than the situation itself was.

Bigger than what the guy on screen was packing, like someone copy-and-pasted what an ideal one was supposed to look like, vein throbbing and pre-cum leaking around a pretty pink swollen tip. As if it hadn't just been soft and hidden under his jeans a handful of seconds ago. 

“I'm, um, going to bed,” you awkwardly stammered, jutting your thumb down the hall. 

Sleep washed over you here. Like a hand pushing your hand under waves until you were forced to suck water into your lungs. 

But you never drowned. 

You dreamed of being somewhere vast, where the dark stretched out endlessly in each direction. Outside, you guessed?

Except there wasn't a sky. No ceiling. Just space – cold and cruel but not empty. Eyes were everywhere. Instead of being on CCTV, you were being captured from every goddamn angle by the same unblinking blue eyes that haunted your days. You used to think two was a lot. That it was all he needed to see though you. 

Here there had to be at least two hundred. 

All watching you splayed out for their viewing pleasure. Pale hands held your wrists in place, veiny arms and thick fingers tracing and groping you. Squirming against (into?) him while another set of palms spread your thighs. His touch seared. 

Burned into your soul with each pattern he painted and pressed along your skin and inside you. It wasn’t like he had a face, or like you could hear his voice. But you knew it was him all the same. 

And you didn’t resist. 

Didn’t want to. 

When dreams had blended into your waking world already, what was so wrong about letting yourself have him like this? The rest of your life was wrong anyway. You closed your eyes, rested your head back for another hand to hold it up, fingers petting your hair while another set did the work of spreading you open and stretching you out. 

It didn't feel like fingers though, not when each touch was pure energy, electricity that raced through you and back down, pressure building and cresting just to come back twice as hot with each pump of something thick and hard thrusting inside you. It curled cruelly, reached places you never could on your own, invisible and intoxicating as it dragged you close to your climax just to rinse and repeat. 

Being rearranged and remade into something that fit him better. That felt better.

Time didn't exist. It could've been five minutes or five hours. Lost in the void of him while he lost himself inside you. 

You could've lived in it. 

But your life had taken on its own dreamy shape, one that bordered on fantasy. 

The sheets were damp. Thighs soaked and slick. 

“Sleep good, sweetheart?” He prodded when you woke up to the sun shining through the window, a lazy arm slung over your side. Deceptive. You knew if you went to slip out, if you pulled away too soon, his relaxed grip would turn into a harsh squeeze, holding you against him until you whined that it was hard to breathe. 

You were about to turn around to look at him, but his fingers groped your tits and when you started to count how many there were on you, there were too many. 

In your panic, you elbowed him, pulling away before he could fully react. 

And you saw it. 

Not just a glimpse. Not a flash. 

But a full second where there was an extra arm attached. 

It was gone again by the next blink. But you'd seen it, and it felt like everything shattered again. 

“You-” You started, pointing at where it had been. 

“I what?” Satoru dared you to say it. 

“You had another arm,” you accused, voice trembling. 

“You must have missed your dose yesterday, huh, beautiful?" He crooned, still smiling at you like it was okay you just implied he was a fucking shape shifter or alien or some fucking creature charading around as your husband. 

He'd pull documents out of thin air the same way he made an entire limb disappear. Convinced people to give him whatever he wanted for free with just a wink or a purr. 

How easy would it be for him to do the same to you? 

“I'm not crazy,” you said it again, but you weren't so confident. 

Because whether it was real or not, pieces of him, thoughts and images and daydreams, had all started to seep through into your heart. Consideration or codependency, although maybe that was just you coping. Telling yourself that it wasn't some fucked-up form of lust or love. 

There was too much you couldn’t reconcile from reality and the world he was trying to convince you of. 

Something had to snap - and it was you. 

And still, he tried to act like everything was normal, tried to hold your hand in the waiting room and took you to the conveniently-available doctor. 

Suguru Geto tapped his pen against his desk. 

And you tapped your nails against your leg. 

“I think my husband isn't human,” you admitted. Said the big bad words that had been bouncing around in your head out loud. “I don't really know what he is, but-”

“You do realize how ridiculous that sounds, right?” Suguru dismissed, but the corner of his mouth twitched. 

“I know,” you nodded. 

You'd come up with a list of theories on the car ride here while Satoru promised to prove how much he cared about you. An alien disguised as a human? Some freak stalking you? That one didn't explain the arms or the eyes. The dream you guessed could've been all you, spurred on from seeing his cock. 

“One moment,” Suguru held up his finger, and you figured this was it. He'd call the psych ward and you'd have white walls to look forward to instead of the cool blue of Satoru’s bedroom. 

He stood up, walked towards the door where Satoru was waiting outside. Offered you another professional smile before stepping out. 

Your file was left on his desk. 

It took you two seconds to snag it, flipping through it, half-expecting it to be normal. To be another piece that you'd be left wondering if it was fabricated. But no, most of them were in familiar handwriting, notes taken by your previous psychiatrist, signed and dated precisely how you remembered. 

Suguru was a fraud – and your husband, whoever (or whatever) he was, was too. 

His office was unfortunately on the third floor, too far from the ground for you to make an escape through the window. So, you did the next stupid thing you thought of, pressed your ear against the door like you'd hear anything that would fix the anxiety churning in your stomach. 

Your brain was trying to block out the information you found, to hit erase and rewind the clock on today. You felt fuzzy, thoughts slipping away before you could fully hold onto them. 

“You really fucked this up,” your pretend psychiatrist grunted, irritated as you tried to blink away the fog, to drag your mind out of the haze and back to clarity. “I told you this would happen. Just scrub her memories and then add your own.” 

“I want her to like me for me,” Satoru whined, and the next blink made the world around you sway. 

“You're an idiot,” Suguru scoffed at him. 

“Am not,” he argued back. “I'm intelligent, attractive, attentive, shouldn't that be good enough?”

“Not when she doesn't know you,” Suguru retorted. 

You felt like you were going to pass out.

“Well, you said she started to figure it out so-” 

You didn't mean to make a sound, but your knees threatened to buckle, and you had to lean against the door to stop yourself from falling. They immediately stopped talking. The doorknob jiggled, and then opened, Satoru catching you before you could collapse.

“There's my smart girl.” He poked your nose, one long finger pressing softly against the cartilage as he chuckled. Like an owner playing with its pet. 

A kid testing the limits of his toy would probably be closer. More accurate.

A vein throbbed across Suguru’s forehead, annoyed at how this was playing out. You guessed he was like him too. Something that was out of your understanding, too much for you to fully conceive, under the cover of human faces and fucking around with someone like you because they could. 

“What are you?” You bluntly asked, unable to pretend to not know. To act like you hadn't been listening. 

“Your husband.” 

You wondered what he'd do if you asked for a divorce. Although, here, in his arms, with him looking at you like he loved you, like in spite of everything else that was real, you didn't want one. 

What vows had he sworn? 

For better or worse? In sickness and health? Human or not? 

“Fix this.” Suguru didn't ask. Demanded. 

Satoru frowned, but there weren't any frown lines. Barely even a crease between his brows either. An emotion he hadn't mastered well in this body of his. 

“I could just reset her,” he grumbled, unhappy at the prospect. 

You barely had any strength left – but you scraped together enough to shake your head. You didn’t want to be fucking reset. 

“No,” you hoarsely said. “Don't.”

Satoru’s face immediately brightened, grinning and pulling you closer, squeezing too tight again, until you hit his chest twice to get him to stop. 

“Sorry, Suguru,” he shrugged. “I do what my wife wants.” 

You fiddled with your ring in the car on the way home. For the first time, it felt like yours. Or maybe, you'd just accepted it as part of you. Let go of the pieces of you that didn't fit anymore. Shed those parts of your skin like he stepped into this one. 

“What do you want?” You asked as he ran a red light. 

“You,” he easily answered. 

“You could've asked me on, like, a date,” you grumbled, resting your head against the window. 

“Do you want to go on a date now?” He quizzed, cocking his head to the side at the correct angle this time. Learning, adapting to acting his role out. 

“I want to go home,” you murmured. 

The image in your head wasn't your apartment anymore. When you thought of bed, you thought of his. 

And when he parked the car (and managed to scrape the front bumper against the concrete wall), he still hurried around to open your door for you, to hold your arm to steady you. 

Took off your coat when you got back inside, got down on his knees to take your shoes off. 

“You know you can ask me for anything, right?” He hummed, and there was something unsettling at the thought he could actually conjure up anything he wanted. 

But being scared was exhausting. 

So you didn't say anything when he followed you to the bedroom. 

You stripped off your clothes, one piece at a time, methodical, precise. He stared, reverent. The lump in his throat bobbing as he took small steps forward. 

“Do you love me?” You asked, unsure. 

“You're the only thing I care about,” he reassured, fingertips settling slowly on your hips, one-by-one too. Dipping into the flesh, feeling it for himself and breathing in your air. His eyes glowed. 

Literally. 

A bright gleam that hurt to look at, burning into you with a dangerous intensity. When he spoke, his voice reverberated into your core. “Do you love me?” 

“You're all I have left.”