Yandere! Footballer who uses his fame to get you. He makes subtle hints that he's dating someone. But who?
You, of course!
He makes subtle slip ups in an interview, cryptic Instagram posts and other things that lead fans to your Instagram. All of a sudden, hate comments flood your notifications.
"How dare you get with him?"
"Is it true you hunted him down just to fuck him for some clout?"
"I can't believe you're in it for the money."
Those are the tamer ones. The other comments/dms you would get include calling you mean names like "whore", "bitch", and other depravity you would not ever talk about.
You're a normal person that posts once in a while, or every so often, not because you have fans to post for. You try to push it off and convince yourself it's all going to die down soon enough but he doesn't let it. There's posts that fans psychoanalyze for no reason and somehow it comes back to you?
It's all alleged until he starts following you, and all hell breaks loose.
Being the gentleman that he is, he finally appears at your doorstep with flowers. He gives you that empathetic look and asks, "do you wanna talk?"
Biting your lip in hesitation, you agree to let him in.
"I don't want this," you start.
"I know you don't, but I want to give you a choice," he elaborates.
You take a deep inhale, ready for whatever he's about to propose but you don't know the true weight of the future.
"It's either you bear being known as a "slut" to everyone, or you actually come home with me and we sort things out," he watches you in amusement. "I can make the parasocial fans disappear with one story, as long as we make it official."
"I-" you want to say something, to fight back, but nothing goes past your lips.
"So?" he uses one finger under your chin to make you look at him.
"I-I don't know what to say..." you mutter.
"Just come with me, it's the safer option of the two, no?" he asks, a spark in his eyes that sends shivers down your spine. Possessiveness? Lust? Control? You have no idea, but what you do know is you never wanted this.
"A-are you kidding?" you blurt out.
His expression turns dark. "Do you think I'm joking about this? Is me soft launching us a joke to you?"
"What— no!" you exclaim.
"Alright then, what's your choice?" he asks. "I'll give you some time to think about it."
He leaves you alone in your apartment— thinking and confused.
in honour of the world cup except this is not about a certain football player. also i fucking hate argentina & messi so merino better not mess this up.
꩜ – FRAT PRESIDENT SATORU GOJO (and the shy girl he's obsessed with!)
(18+) HEADCANONS :: – frat!gojo x innocent!reader, college au, smut, dom!gojo, handjobs, praise, corruption kink, manipulative behavior, slight dub-con
frat president!satoru, who’s used to every type of girl at his party except you, all big eyes, wandering around his house like you didn’t know what to do. he’s asked suguru to offer you everything under the sun in the last thirty or so minutes — a drink, a smoke, a joint. you just politely decline, shaking your head so prettily.
frat president!satoru, who swears he’s just got an ego when he decides he’ll be the one to show you all of that and more. he could do it if suguru couldn’t, if no one else could.
he starts off all nice, walking you to all your classes, offering his sweaters in the lectures you had together (which he only started attending for you), buying you lunch and listening to your cute little rants about your worst profs.
frat president!satoru learns that you like being held when he’s the first one to find you after an exam you swear you’d failed. he doesn’t get it ‘til he’d realized your eyes are all glassy, so shiny as you peered up at him with wobbling lips, trying not to cry in front of him.
frat president!satoru loves the way you’d just melted into his arms after that. he calls you easy to his friends for it, but something inside him never wants to let go whenever you’re willing to press yourself into his chest, wherever you’re willing to do it.
frat president!satoru, who asks you what you’re wearing all the time and sends even prettier things to wear to your dorm when he thinks you can do better.
frat president!satoru, who’s spiraling at night, jerking off to your contact photo, wrapping his large hand around his dick and pretending like it’s that sweet mouth of yours engulfing his length. he imagines how shy you’d be, lips parted wide, smearing pre-cum and replacing your candy lip balm. he wants you tasting like him, those soft cheeks drenched in his cum, eyes screwed shut until he’s all you can think about.
frat president!satoru likes making you need him, doting on you and driving you around like a princess, spoiling you until you frown whenever his hand isn’t on your hip, or whenever he dodges your calls for fraternity meetings. he likes the idea that you might become obsessed with him (like he is with you).
frat president!satoru, who’s grinning cruelly the minute you finally tell him, “you know, you do so much for me, I feel like I’m not doing enough for you.” in that nervous voice of yours one day, while you’re tucked into his side at your apartment.
frat president!satoru, who’s never missed a meeting or a call until that day, when he’s finally got you whimpering shyly in his lap while he gently mouths at your neck, tasting that perfume he’s been searching online for for weeks, whispering about how he’s so grateful you wanna help him out, how sweet you are for making it up to him too even when you didn't have to.
but he’s been waiting for weeks, you’re all soft and impressionable on him, and he’s not letting a moment of your kindness go to waste.
frat president!satoru guides you with a husky voice when he teaches you to spit in your own palm and wrap your hand around his cock, nearly shivering at the contact — “make me feel good, pretty girl, it’s the least you can do.”
frat president!satoru, who just chuckles at the fact that you’re all nervous, looking up at him as if asking what to do next, just for him to wrap his palm around yours, engulfing it entirely. he groans lowly as he moves your palm up and down on his already-hard length, bottom lip catching between his teeth at how warm your hand feels against his dick.
“shit, just keep it like that, baby, up and down…”
frat president!satoru, who kisses you slow when you gasp at how he bucks up into your hand, keeping his own wrapped around it while desperately attempting not to just use you, jerk himself off with your tiny little fingers, maneuver you down and slam himself deep into your tight cunt. “hah — fuck, gorgeous, y— you’re good at this, huh? so good for me, so fucking cute…”
“i’ve never done this before,” you admit into frat president!satoru’s mouth, hushed and breathy like it’s a secret. he wants to fucking laugh, but he’s cut short by a low hiss as you thumb at his slit without him having to teach you, making him lose his mind piece by piece. shit, you’re just perfect, aren’t you?
“am — am I doing okay, satoru?”
frat president!satoru has nearly had enough of patience when you say that. shit, he bites down into your lip without even realizing, hand tightening around yours when you whimper. and it’s barely enough to notice at first, but he pumps your hand around him faster, growling into your mouth at the way your fingertips flex around his length, making a slick! sound that echoes across the room.
“you’re — shit, just like that — doing perfect, baby. so perfect.” frat president!satoru groans into your throat, even though he’s using your hand like a fuck toy now, smearing his own pre-cum mixed with your saliva all over his huge dick, bucking his hips up into your plush skin like a glorified fleshlight.
the only one he’s dreamed of in the past few weeks, at least.
frat president!satoru gets off on how eager you are to match his pace, his other hand cupping your cheeks to purse your pretty mouth open for him as he spits down your throat and relishes in your confused little whine. he doesn’t even realize how tightly he’s gripping your hand now, forcing you to jerk his cock faster.
“that’s it,” he pants into your lips, “just let me have you, okay? hah— so good, shit, you’ve been wanting this too, haven’t you?”
“satoru—” your voice is a wet dream, how it feathers off around the edges and breaks like you’re not sure.
frat president!satoru groans at the sound of your confusion. “been, fuck, thinking about this, baby. want you creaming on my cock next, yeah? or maybe it’s — haah! — too big for your first time. gotta — shit — prep you first.”
frat president!satoru spills into your hand with one last rough stroke of both your hands around his length, gasping low with his tongue down your throat as he finally lets your hand go. he watches the way your palm shakes, eyes dark, lifting your cum-covered fingertips to your mouth without thinking. and he thinks you won’t do it, until—
your sweet fucking tongue darts out to lick experimentally at your own fingers, and satoru thinks he’s gone to heaven.
frat president!satoru, who can’t help himself when he’s grabbing you by the waist now, laying you flat on your back and coming up to slot his knee between your thighs, committing the way your face scrunches up in both confusion and pleasure to memory. he thinks you’re the cutest fucking thing in the world, and he wants you broken in every way possible until you can’t fuck any other guy without imagining his dick.
“thank you, baby,” he grins against your neck. “can i make you feel good now?”
frat president!satoru, who decided he’d never let you fuck anyone else anyways the moment you'd nodded.
Thinking about Yandere Lieutenant Gojo known as the mad dog amongst his troop. Born to a long line of military commanders and with a reputation for being more fearsome than any of those that preceded him. Entirely too unpredictable and with that sort of backing, no one dared question the things he did.
All you had wanted was protection. The military was not the place for the likes of you but now that you were there you just wanted to ride the coattails of better and more powerful men until you got discharged and a fat pension to accompany your trauma. It was supposed to be simple but you chose the wrong man to kiss up to. They had warned you about the mad dog and you really should have listened. Nothing comes for free.
Wordcount: 14k+
Notes: Not canon-compliant, alternate universe where curses are widely known and everyone can see and fight them. Yandere behaviour, non-con touching, violence and threats of violence. Crack-like until things get serious. Loosely inspired by the manwha Passion.
You bit nervously at your nails, watching all the others gear up as though they were going to play laser tag and not be exposed to real bloodthirsty curses. You hadn't thought this far when you signed up for the Special Force Against Curses. All you knew was your old neighbour who had retired from SFAC now stayed at home all day eating snacks and yelling at his television. That was all you wanted from life.
The brutal 9-5 for decades would wear you out too fast. You couldn't spend the majority of your life waiting desperately for the weekend. It would be easier to enlist, tough it out until you found a way to be discharged with pension.
You hadn't really considered all the danger you'd be exposed to. Suddenly that fat pension made sense. They could afford to dangle it over your heads knowing most of you would not make it to the finish line.
The others began retreating from the weaponry breaking you out of your thoughts and making you wonder if you had taken too long dallying. Now only the stuff no one wanted would be left but then you saw the tall figure make their way through the parted crowd. Not only taller than all the other men but that shock of white hair made him stand out all the more. The one everyone called the mad dog. Though to you he looked more like an extraterrestrial being with those freakish blue eyes of his.
You had heard the rumours. He was as strong as ten men, so fast he could take out a whole gang of curses before they even realized they were under attack. Thought of strategy and planned attacks out in ways others couldn't even perceive of. It sounded like the winning recipe for a soldier but apparently, and according to the more envious men, he was barking mad. You thought it was just jealousy of his skill.
You weren't the jealous type. No, you were the type to recognize that there were others in this world who had advantages and skills you didn't possess but just because you didn't have them, didn't mean you couldn't make use of them. The mad dog, or Gojo Satoru as you would respectfully address him, was exactly the kind of friend you needed to make it out of here alive and get to use the pension you had signed up for.
That day as you cowered behind a wall while the others attacked, you kept an eye out for that shock of white hair. Watching as the man disappeared from your line of sight and reappeared at intervals almost always brutally finishing off a curse and it became quite clear as you watched why he was called the mad dog. He had a smile on his face more frightening than the creatures as he disemboweled them, those freakish eyes of his glowing in the darkness like that of a predator.
That was a man you could hide behind and one clearly capable of protecting you from any and all threats. That evening at dinner when you had gotten your tray of food you marched it over right to Gojo Satoru’s table.
"Can I sit?" You asked before you could think better of it.
Those blue eyes gazing out the window slowly trailed over to you. Not even the slightest shift in his expression as he stared at you as blankly as he had been looking at the scenery out the window beside the table he always sat at, alone.
"No." He said, making your stomach drop. You had been planning how to approach him but you hadn't really considered the possibility he might turn you down.
"I'll give you my dessert." You bartered, his eyes flicked down to your tray.
"Blech, I don't like raspberry pudding." He said making you glance down to your tray too.
"I asked for chocolate." You exclaimed.
You had asked for the chocolate pudding but clearly the blind bat serving had given you the raspberry instead.
"That blind bat." You muttered lowly under your breath, glaring back over your shoulder at the old lady serving. Nearly jumping out of your skin in fright when a bark like laugh erupted from the man sitting before you. Eyes now sparkling when just before he had been looking at you like he wouldn't bat an eye if you dropped dead.
"That's my great aunt." He said, making your heart drop. You had really ruined all chances of friendship.
"She lost her eye sight in one eye while serving and then majority of her sight in the other in a curse attack." He continued. Not only had you ruined chances of friendship you'd gone and made an enemy of the strongest man in the troop, not to mention that he was your superior.
"I'm so-" You started but were cutoff by him speaking again.
"She's got a nose like a hound though so she definitely gave you the raspberry on purpose. Nasty old bat." Gojo said and you nearly went boneless in relief.
"I knew it couldn't always be a mistake." You said swinging one leg over the bench but a tutting sound made you freeze.
"I didn't say you could sit." Gojo said and you blinked at him like a deer in headlights before awkwardly pulling your leg back.
"Find another table, this one's mine." He said, glancing away from you in clear dismissal.
You joined one of the many other tables where the soldiers, clearly still sour that you had hid during the attack, gave you dirty looks which you ignored. Too busy trying to figure out what had happened because there had been a moment when you thought you'd found your in with Gojo Satoru.
You retreated that day but that didn't mean you stopped trying. From then on where Gojo Satoru went, you followed. If he was heading to meals then you were right behind him, tray in hand and getting the exact same foods he chose. You woke when he did and retired to sleep when he did. At first it was just to align your routine but the madman was an early riser so soon you needed to go to bed early if you were going to survive waking at dawn like him.
The only time you weren't dutifully following him around was when you all ran laps. He outpaced you several times and would eventually make it back into your blurred line of sight as you gasped and panted for air while being heckled by your commander for being a disgrace.
He mostly acted like you didn't exist. He would respond when spoken to but still made it abundantly clear you weren't welcome in his space. He had yet to allow you to sit at his table. The only time he had any sort of positive reaction to you was when he would hear something you muttered to yourself and would let out that bark-like laughter that nearly pierced your eardrums.
It was one of those mornings where you were dragging yourself to the training room. Knowing Gojo was already there and cursing him for being such an early riser when you finally saw what made the others avoid the man and speak of him as though he were the legend of a spooky ghost story and not their fellow comrade in arms.
You opened the door to the gym, still a bit bleary eyed but the fog of exhaustion disappeared the moment you took in the scene in front of you. Gojo Satoru was straddling a man on the ground beneath him, pummeling fist after fist into his face. The man's face, now a swollen, bloody mess, was completely unrecognizable even though you had been spending every waking moment surrounded by your fellow soldiers.
You couldn't help the gasp that escaped you when the next punch resulted in a spray of blood splattering up from the man's nose that had been reduced to a mangled mess of bloodied cartilage. Drops of crimson spraying out onto Gojo's pristine, marble-like pale skin. The sight made more unsettling by how other than that splatter of blood across his jaw and neck, there was not even so much as a scratch on him. Not even his hair was mussed.
At the sound, Gojo glanced up making you freeze in place. Those manic blue eyes now on you, glowing just the way they did when he was hunting curses.
"Good morning." Gojo huffed, sitting back on the man as though it were not the body of a person he'd beaten into unconsciousness but a bench.
"Good morning." You breathed, whirling around when you heard footsteps coming down the hall. Your heart nearly fell through your stomach as you made eye contact with the beady pair of your commander.
Violence against fellow soldiers was strictly prohibited. If the commander saw Gojo now he would expel him and all your efforts in fraying him down would have been for naught. The others didn't particularly like you for being weak and hiding during attacks. You had spent all your time following around Gojo and the others had already formed their little cliques. There was no hope of finding another protector.
"Commander, sir, Lieutenant Hiroshi was looking for you in the weaponry. Something about needing help with a holster." You said, making the man pause. It was common knowledge the commander had the biggest crush on Hiroshi.
"A holster?"
"Yes sir, his thigh holster has come loose I believe." You said and the man didn't even bother responding. Turning right back around the way he had come.
"Lieutenant Hiroshi wasn't in the weaponry." A voice said from behind you and you nearly jumped out of your skin. Whirling back around to see Gojo stood behind you with an amused glint in his eyes and more concerningly the blood still splattered across his face.
"I know that but I had to get the commander out of here. If he saw this you would have been discharged from the military and that too disgracefully. You know you don't get pension if you get discharged disgracefully right?" You asked, unthinkingly licking your thumb and swiping at the blood on his jaw.
He flinched back, catching your wrist but you wriggled your hand out. Pushing against his chest so he was forced back into the gym and out of anyone who may be passing's line of sight. You leaned out, scanning the hall before turning back to look at the man whose large chest muscles you only now noticed your hands were still on considering he was looking down at them like he didn't understand what they were.
"Okay, now listen, you head back to your room and if anyone asks you were feeling sick so you didn't come to work out today. If you weren't at the scene of the crime, then you couldn't have committed it. I'll say I found him here like this. Just help me drag him over to the showers so I can say I only saw him after my workout."
Gojo was still watching you in complete silence as though you were speaking another language he didn't speak.
"Come on, get moving. If anyone sees you we're done for." You said.
"We?" He asked, reassuring you that he had in fact not forgotten his mother tongue out of shock. Though he didn't look the least bit flustered or shocked, only slightly perplexed but not at the situation, at you.
"Yes, we. If I get caught covering for your ass then I'll also be discharged dishonorably, completely defeating the purpose of why I enlisted in the first place so you better start putting that brain and those muscles to use." You said, walking over to the man and grimacing at the mess Gojo Satoru had made of his face. You had been about to grab his shoulders but that was too close to the mangled face so instead you moved to grab his legs which were more in tact.
"Why would you cover for me?" Gojo asked suspiciously and you huffed at seeing he still wasn't making any effort to help you. While he'd been enthusiastic about causing the mess, he was quite reluctant to join in on the necessary clean up.
His question registered and you were glad that you had been stooped down to try to lift the unconscious man's legs so Gojo couldn't see the momentary panic on your face. It probably wouldn't do to tell him that it was because you wanted to be brought under his wing until you found a way to be discharged early.
"Because we're friends." You responded, sounding a little unsure even to yourself but a quick glance up at Gojo told you he hadn't quite noticed.
His otherwordly eyes had a far off look and you wondered if he had now gone into shock before he met your eye and you watched as his gaze narrowed in on you reminding you eerily of a hawk zeroing in on their prey, sending a shiver down your spine. You really should have paid more attention to that uneasy sense of foreboding.
Instead of responding, Gojo stooped down to lift the man up by the shoulders and carried the heft of him over to the showers without taking his eyes off you but you were a bit too busy struggling to carry the man's legs to notice.
After you had both dropped the man in the showers you again told Gojo to go back to his room. Catching his wrist just as he was about to leave. He glanced back, looking at your little hand on his wrist and then up to you. Brows creased in worry for him.
"Did anyone see you on your way here?" You asked and when he took a moment too long to answer rushed to clarify.
"Besides the unconscious man."
He shook his head in negative, something about that worried expression rendering him speechless when so many horrors and wonders he'd faced hadn't been able to.
"Good, go." You said releasing his wrist and turning to fret over the unconscious man again.
Gojo walked back to his room in a daze. You didn't know who he was. He had assumed you had been following him around like a shadow because you wanted to be affiliated with the Gojo heir. Set to inherit all the wealth, influence and glory of all the Gojo clan before him but your actions today made it clear you had no idea about his family background.
It wasn't often that people tried to get close to him. Not since what used to be rumours had become so undeniably backed by proof he had provided at nearly every turn in his life that even his parents couldn't refute them without risking looking like fools. And no member of the Gojo clan would ever risk being made a fool.
He had never had a friend. At first it was because his parents simply didn't think anyone worthy of standing beside him as an equal when he so clearly surpassed all the children his age in every conceivable way. That made him used to being alone and not at all used to sharing.
Gojo knew what the others called him - the mad dog for his territorial ways. Gojo didn't take kindly to anyone trying to take what was his. He didn't go around attacking people for no reason but when they tried to use or take his things that set him off. Admittedly he had a tendency to go a bit overboard when set off.
Like this morning when he'd gotten to the gym and seen one of the others using the weight machine he woke up so damn early to be able to use without others pawing all over it. He had asked politely for the man to find another machine because that one was his but the man hadn't listened and Gojo only asked politely once.
When he'd first enlisted these sort of misunderstandings happened fairly often. People mistook living in a shared space to mean Gojo would be sharing what was his. After that misunderstanding had been clarified with some of his fellow comrades in arms, word spread and they learned to stay away from Gojo's things.
He had broken limbs and beat people to unconsciousness in front of their commander and no one had ever dared to so much as write him up. It was real cute though to see you fretting and scheming for him. No one had ever worried over him like this. People had worried because of him. Worried over the damage he could do to them, their reputations in his parent's case or other such nonsensical things.
He found he quite liked your worrying. If this was what being your friend meant then he was quite ready to have you as his first and only friend.
After that morning incident it was like a flip had switched. Suddenly you didn't need to follow Gojo around anymore because he always managed to find you first.
In the morning he was at your door, knocking to be let in and dragging you along to the gym barely awake. If you got to meals later than he did then he'd have a tray of food waiting for you identical to his and if you went together then there was no question you'd be sitting right next to him.
Somehow no one had bothered to question what you had said about finding the man Gojo had beaten into an actual coma on the shower floors. You had been terrified a full investigation would be done and in your nerves suggested that maybe he had just tripped in the showers when your commander had been questioning you about the incident.
At the time he had made it seem like he would be digging into the matter and you were going to be in a lot of trouble if caught lying but then he'd never brought it up again. Perhaps you were a better liar than you thought.
What you couldn't deceive anyone about though was your lack of physical prowess and were currently feeling the full weight of your commander's disdain as everyone running laps circled you for a fourth time while you struggled to complete your second. Gojo had ran past you six times already. Giving you an encouraging thump on the back the first time that nearly laid you out on the ground had he not caught you, and then with an encouraging cheer and laugh as though he were having the time of his life every time since.
"Having to watch you run is the only time I regret enlisting." Your commander was saying when you felt someone run up next to you. You glanced over, seeing double from exhaustion before your sight settled somewhat and you realized it was just one very pissed off Gojo glaring at the commander.
"Would you like me to give you a couple other reasons?" He asked and the commander seemed to turn as green as you probably were with how nauseous you were feeling.
"I-uh have to go check on the others." The commander said, breaking out into a full sprint across the field. Apparently not even the commander was above being intimidated by Gojo.
To not have to hear the commander's disparaging while you endured having to do the activity you hated more than anything felt like a blessing and out of happiness you flung yourself at Gojo. Clinging to your saviour with all your might.
Had it been anyone else you both would have gone sprawling onto the field with the way you practically tackled him into a hug but Gojo had just gone very still, staring down at you in shock. He couldn't remember the last time someone had hugged him.
You were so soft and warm against him. So much smaller than him you barely reached his chest. Burying your face into him like he was your only hope.
Before he could think of how to react you were glancing up at him beaming. Your face pink from the exertion, the afternoon sun making it glow and bringing out the flecks of gold in your eyes. He hadn't so much as broken a sweat while running those laps but now all he could hear was the blood rushing through his ears and his heart thudding against his ribcage.
Never before had he so desired for something to be his. And you were his, weren't you? It had been your idea all along to become his friend. You were the one to force yourself into his orbit and now that you had he had no intention of ever letting you out.
He allowed his arms to wrap around you, chest clenching at how right that felt. This was where you belonged, within his grasp.
You released him as abruptly as you had embraced him leaving him feeling cold and bereft. But there was still the lingering warmth of your touch and the heat that bloomed within his chest as you smiled at him in that way. Challenging him to a race you both knew there was no way you would win.
The effort however of trying to out run the Gojo Satoru had you so belligerent with thirst you couldn't be bothered to try to find your own water bottle amongst the many at the finish line. Swiping his from his hand and holding it up above your mouth so you could gulp it down.
A hush fell over the others, silence so pronounced that it made it through your haze of exhaustion. Every one of the others was looking at you, or actually upon closer inspection, not at you but behind you at Gojo.
Gojo waited for the familiar rage to rise up within his chest as he watched you gulp down his water from his water bottle. That feeling of wrongness and outrage but there was nothing. No rage, just that weird tightness he'd gotten in his chest earlier while looking at you.
It had been amusing to see you trying to beat him with your much shorter legs and how incredibly out of shape you were compared to him. He probably could have run that lap faster if he were carrying you than you had managed to on your own.
He had always liked running. It cleared his head and let out some of that pent up energy always buzzing in his veins but running with you panting next to him, gasping for air and asking if he was even human was the first time he had found running fun.
You made everything fun, life had been so dull before you. He couldn't imagine going back to that. He found everything you did entertaining. Your little habit of muttering to yourself. It was always rude or bitter comments said under your breath but he found them hilarious.
The way you made no attempt to hide that you had no interest in defending people by eradicating curses but were just here for the pension. Hiding away every time you were all sent out on a mission. Your honesty was a breath of fresh air amongst all the false bravado and nobility he had grown up surrounded by.
He threw an arm around your shoulders, feeling a strange urge to have you close that he'd never felt for anyone before.
"Let's get you out of the sun. You look like a tomato." He said and you scoffed through your panting.
"Sorry we're not all godly beings that can run laps in the sun and still look like we're filming an athletic wear commercial. Did you even sweat, you freak?" You asked, hearing a gasp from amongst the others but not paying any attention as you got up on the very tips of your toes to try to prove your point.
Gojo froze as he felt you nose into his neck and take a quick inhale. Feeling the blood rushing down south as your body pressed against his side, letting him feel the shape of you and the heat emanating off your skin. Your warm breath against his throat and the scent of you, clean sweat and soap filling his senses and making his head spin.
Suddenly he was the one that was breathless.
"How do you still smell good?" You muttered against his neck.
He couldn't help himself and pushed you away, only remembering at the last minute to not use his full force but still sending you stumbling back a couple steps.
"Oh can you not sweat? Are you like those animals that don't have sweat glands?"
You took his silence for affirmation and grimaced sympathetically.
"My bad, that's probably a touchy topic for you. It must be tough being unable to control your temperature and just overheating like a reptile in the desert. I won't bring it up again." You said, giving him a sympathetic pat on the shoulder as you passed him.
Letting you think he was missing sweat glands was better than trying to explain that he was actually sporting a raging boner because you had sniffed him. He let you walk away with his water bottle still held in your hand, turning to watch the commander a moment. That sight had his hard-on dying down fast enough and he scooped up your water bottle and chased after you just as you made it to the doors leading inside.
"Should we hit the showers?" He asked as he made it to your side.
It was strange that after a training session like that you and Gojo somehow had the showers all to yourselves. Usually this place was packed to the brim after a brutal training session with sweaty men all wanting to quickly shower so they could get to the dining hall as fast as possible.
"Can I borrow your shampoo? I'm all out." Gojo said and you quickly squirted some into your hand before turning to pass the bottle to him but froze at the sight that awaited you.
It wasn't unexpected. At that height and stature and with hands that were more like giant paws you couldn't have expected anything else, but this was nearly inhuman. It twitched as you continued to stare and you couldn't help the startled scream that escaped you at the sight of a monstrosity like that having any life in it.
You flung the shampoo at the man next to you and quickly turned to face forward again, hearing him chuckle.
"What, are you really acting like you've never seen a naked man before?"
"I've seen naked men but I haven't seen a weapon of mass destruction swinging between their legs before." You muttered furiously, chancing a glance at the man when you didn't get a response to see his face had gone completely blank.
"Which man have you seen naked? Was it one of those bastards?" He asked advancing on you completely ignoring the rules of the communal shower. You had assumed everyone knew that in the showers you always kept your eyes focused straight on the tiles in front of you and you never got too close to anyone else while your privates were swinging about.
"Woah, woah you stay over there and keep that thing away from me." You said, holding your hands out ahead of you in defense.
"Tell. Me. Who." He demanded.
"I've been sharing a shower with all those duds for months, of course I've seen them naked though none of them have been as shameless as you." You said, finishing up your shower and hurriedly wrapping your towel around yourself.
He grabbed your arm as you made your way past him.
"I've got clean clothes in my bag, wear those. Don't go out there like that." He ordered, eyes roaming down your body.
"Do you have a problem with the way I wrap my towel?" You asked.
Back when you were in school the other kids had given you shit for that though you never quite understood what you were doing so differently than the others.
"No, I have a problem with how small it is and how little it covers."
"It's the standard size they give everyone. Are you body shaming me right now? I'm sorry I don't have a six pack like you." You huffed.
"8." He said, a smirk twisting up his lips making you furrow your brows in confusion.
"Here, see -" He said having grabbed your hand, forcing your fingers to trail down what really was an 8 pack and counting out each row.
As he got to the bottom row and your palm brushed against the trail of hair that led to the image you were afraid was seared into your brain forever, you couldn't help but let out a yelp and snatch back your hand. Instinctively slapping him before your brain could catch up with what you had done.
Your eyes went wide as you saw his head turn. The pale skin of his cheek sporting a faintly pink handprint that perfectly aligned with the hand you would probably be losing in just a moment.
"Oh my god, I'm so sorry. Gojo, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to. I don't know why I did-"
He turned his head back to look at you making your mouth clamp shut. He took a step forward and you mirrored it by taking a step back. He took another and you did the same, both of you playing this game until your back hit the shower wall.
He placed his palm next to your head making you jump as he leaned in. Bringing his face level to yours as you cringed back into the wall, feeling like your heart was caught in your throat. All the rumours you had heard about his temper returning to you now.
"Kiss it better." He muttered.
"W-what?" You asked hesitantly, almost entirely sure you had misheard him. Perhaps he had said something about his intentions to kill and you had heard kiss.
"Kiss it better." He repeated, turning his pinkened cheek towards you and tapping his finger against it pointedly.
"Oh, uh okay." You said, you didn't quite want to kiss your naked comrade in arms on the cheek but it was better than being disemboweled in the communal showers so you leaned up and pressed a quick kiss to his cheek.
He grinned as though you had done something particularly pleasing and his nickname began to make more sense than ever. The man really was barking mad.
"Now grab something from my bag to wear. I'll rip out the eyes of anyone who sees you like this." Gojo said, turning to saunter back to his shower.
You watched him go, wondering what sort of lunatic you had gotten yourself acquainted with. In the coming days you'd have that thought more often than anticipated.
Gojo Satoru wasn't just a powerful man, but an odd one too and for some reason everyone else just made allowances for it. Now that you were under his wing, that meant they made the same allowances for you.
The taunting by the others and dirty looks they had given you since your first mission when you hid instead of fighting had stopped. So had the very vocal disapproval of your superiors for your lack of strength and endurance.
Hanging out with Gojo also meant getting the gym to yourself, which was a great place to take a nap while the lunatic spent hours on various weight machines building muscles in places you didn't know people had them. It also meant never having to share the showers with anyone but Gojo though you didn't know if that was an upgrade considering he seemed to have no idea how to act in communal showers.
He was always chatting away and staring right at you as he did. The others may have hogged the hot water and been more unsightly in their nude form but at least they didn't stare. That was a small price to pay for all the perks though.
Being his friend wasn't hard. When you had first approached him you'd expected to be something of a lackey, imagining fetching his meal trays and egging him on when he got into a fight with someone. Truth was he did more for you than you did for him.
He got your meals for you because his great aunt actually gave him what he asked for and he would refill your water and even buy you snacks. It was unfortunate he didn't use his power to excuse you from training entirely but you tried not to get too greedy.
Eccentric as he was, beneath the aristocratic features and muscled physique that would imply an empty mind, he was actually quite smart. Seemed to be well-educated too so why he was so intrigued by you was genuinely a bit confusing. You didn't know what it was about you that made him seem to hang onto every word.
Those intense eyes of his bore into you while you spoke, though you were starting to get used to the other-worldly blue of them. He would burst into laughter at the oddest of times, particularly when you weren't intending to be funny. Though he'd always crack at least a smile at even your bad jokes. Grabbing you by the scruff and hauling you in when you truly made him laugh, resting his forehead against yours in a gesture you'd normally think too affectionate for friends but perhaps that's how comrades were.
The sound of the pulldown machine he was currently using was faintly registering as your mind began to wake but you refused to let yourself fully rouse to consciousness. When the sound of the machine struggling against the maniac who had had dragged you here this early finally seized, you had just begun to sink back into sleep when you heard the murmur of your name.
You groaned, turning over and clenching your eyes shut. Trying to escape into dreamland so you wouldn't have to face another day of arduous training and the resulting cloud of body odor that lingered in every room of the building because of it.
"Come on, wake up." Gojo said, poking your cheek but you batted at his hand.
“You’ve been napping for two hours. Do you not sleep at night?” He asked, which were long sentences and if you were understanding them then that meant the fall back asleep ship had sailed without you on board.
“No Gojo, I don’t sleep at night.” You sighed, sitting up and rubbing at your eyes.
“Why?” He asked, passing you his water bottle and smoothing your mussed hair as you took a long drink from it. Making you choke on the water as you dodged his hand irritably.
“Because the rats I’m roomed with stay up till ungodly hours playing games and drinking.” You said, once you’d finally managed to clear the water in your airways, helped by Gojo’s thumping of your back.
“Do they make you play with them?” He asked, returning to his patting of your hair.
“No, as if I’d ever do something so childish.” You scoffed, batting at his hand.
Truth was they didn’t let you play nor did they share their booze. Apparently rewards were for “soldiers not cowards” according to those jerks.
“Then why can’t you sleep?”
“Because they’re loud and stop touching my hair or I swear to god.” You growled, slapping at his hand.
“Swear to god to what?” He asked, though his gaze was a bit far away. Staring at the wall across from you both as though lost in thought about something. Probably trying to mentally tally the reps he had done, the meathead.
“I’ll - I’ll bite you.” You said, floundering for a threat when the man was double your size.
He smirked, amused. Holding up his giant claw of a hand before you like an offering.
“Well, as long as you’ve learned your lesson I'll let it pass this time.” You said, going to get up but that offending appendage forced you down by your shoulder. One of his claws keeping you seated and the other mussing up your hair until you really were livid enough to risk it all.
You caught his hand, bringing it to your mouth not paying any attention to how deceptively easy that was to do. Sinking your teeth into the soft flesh between his pointer finger and thumb like a feral pest.
Missing entirely the way those blue eyes darkened as he watched you, pupils blown wide. The hand forcing you down now cupping your shoulder and guiding you closer.
You pulled away, worried if you continued you might actually draw blood.
“My turn.” He said and you only had enough time to feel your stomach drop as he leaned in and then his teeth were sinking down into the conjecture between your neck and shoulder and you were screaming.
Pain wasn't familiar to you and to feel the teeth of a brute sinking into your sensitive flesh wasn’t something you could withstand with the grace of a soldier.
You slapped and batted at him but your hands were caught in his and easily restrained. Finally after what felt like an eternity of agony, he pulled back. Staring down at the mark he’d left in your soft flesh with a satisfied gleam in those freakish eyes of his.
He leant back in making you scream again but it broke off into an exclamation of “ew what the fuck man” as you felt something warm and wet drag over the bite mark.
You pushed vindictively at his chest when he pulled back and released your hands. Running over to the closest mirror to inspect the wound.
“You’re a fucking freak.” You called over your shoulder as you looked at the clear indents of his goddamn molars in your flesh.
“Be glad I didn’t break skin.” He said, making you yelp as he seemed to materialize right behind you like some sort of fucking ghost. Staring at your reflection with his mark on your soft skin with so much satisfaction and intrigue it turned your stomach.
You moved back intending to stomp his foot but froze as you felt something hard and large poking into your lower back.
“Please tell me that’s your water bottle in your pants.” You muttered.
“Nope.” He whispered back, popping the p in a way that had you jumping away.
“You’re a real freak. You better stay at least 6 feet away from me from now on.” You warmed.
He grabbed your wrist, hauling you in to his chest. You screamed again as the monstrosity in his gym shorts pressed into your stomach. Pushing against his chest but he kept you pinned with an arm around your waist.
“Nothing can make me stay away from you. You’re mine, I do what I want with you.” He said as easily as one tells the time and you scoffed.
“Like hell you do. Bit me like I’m a goddamn prime cut steak and then popped a boner. What a- oh my god are you a cannibal?” You asked, eyes wide in terror as you looked up at him. Mind jumping to the only conclusion you could think of in which a fellow soldier would be turned on by biting you.
“I wasn’t before but I might just become one because of you.” He muttered lowly, leaning down towards your neck as he spoke and snapping his teeth at you making you yelp again.
“6 feet, you rat.” You warned, somehow getting lucky and managing to shove him off as you accidentally brushed the beast pressing against your stomach in a way that had him going a little weak in the knees.
You watched him warily, a hand held out before you which you pulled back to your chest when his gaze dropped to it. He took a step forward and you took one back to maintain the distance.
“I-I’m warning you.” You said shakily which he ignored completely. Stalking forward until you were pressed up against the mirror with him hovering over you. That offending snake between his legs pressing against your stomach again.
“Warning me of what? Are you gonna bite me again?” He asked, tone light with amusement but those freaky blues still darkened in a devious way that didn’t sit well with you.
“I might if you force my hand.” You said, sounding uncertain even to your own ears.
The last bite had resulted in you nearly getting a chunk torn out of your neck and then getting harassed by a thing that should only exist in those bad romance novels you sometimes liked to read. You weren't really itching to repeat that episode.
“Do it here, please.” He breathed, and just for a second you could see why all the other soldiers complained he had it all.
So mesmerizingly pretty as he titled his head up, exposing the long column of his strong neck to you. Long lashes that nearly touched the apples of his cheeks when he blinked, pointed little nose and lush pink lips but then the words they uttered registered and the trance was broken.
“You’re completely fucking nuts” You mumbled, almost to yourself but he heard anyway.
“Too bad you’re stuck with me.” He said, backing off and finally you could breathe without the oppressive hulk of him looming over you. The monstrosity between his legs and the fangs in his mouth a safe distance away from you.
“We’ll see about that.” You mumbled, missing the way his eyes narrowed at your comment. No longer amused or playful.
You had known Gojo was weird but not threatening cannibalism or popping boners at his fellow comrades weird. It was making you reevaluate your chosen survival strategy.
Unfortunately while you were pondering whether it would be in your best interest to distance yourself from him, he was thinking the exact opposite. Planning how to get you more securely into his clutches.
He hated the thought of others around you. Not to mention others sharing a room with you. He couldn’t believe he hadn’t thought about it sooner. People other than him around you while you were at your most vulnerable, asleep or changing.
That had to change immediately.
He wiped at your mouth with his thumb, swiping off the bit of sauce on the edge of your mouth. Bringing it to his own and licking it off. You hadn’t reacted to him wiping your face since he did it so often but your eyes went wide as saucers as you saw him lick the sauce off his thumb.
“You really have got to stop doing shit like that.” You said when you got your bearings back after staring at him blankly for another minute.
“Here you can have my karaage too.” He said, pushing his tray forward which was enough to distract you.
“Your roommates really bother you, don’t they?” He asked, watching you stuff your face with the karaage from his tray.
“Yeah, they’re complete assholes. Childish too, did I tell you they play games all night? Like talk about lack of maturity.”
“You should change rooms.”
“I tried, not allowed. Apparently we need to man up and learn to deal with each other’s shit.” You said, quoting the Commander.
“You can if there’s a vacancy in one of the other rooms.”
“Is there? Oh yeah the guy you put in the- I mean the guy who took a bad fall’s bed is probably empty but he’s roommates with that guy who smells like blue cheese. I’d rather not.” You said.
“My room has a vacancy.” He said.
“I thought lieutenants got their own rooms.” You said suspiciously.
“Yeah exactly, there’s an empty spot for you to take.”
You blinked at him, trying to mentally calculate if lack of sleep or risking being eaten by the snake swinging potential-cannibal was worse.
“The Commander doesn’t do his morning wake-up calls in the lieutenant’s rooms.” He said and you were sold. To not be forcefully woken to the unfortunate sight of your Commander screaming in your face that you were a waste of space and would regret not waking up sounded like a dream.
“Rooming together would be cool.” You said, already fantasizing about getting to sleep-in.
“Great, finish eating. Then we’ll go pack your stuff.” Gojo said, only then picking up his own chopsticks and beginning to eat his food.
Packing was quick when you had superhuman strength on your side. Your roommates cleared out in a matter of seconds when they saw Gojo follow you in, not that they would have tried to stop you either way.
You walked alongside Gojo who was carrying both your bags in one hand swung over his shoulder, following him to the lieutenants’ quarters where his room was.
You waited behind as he unlocked his door and then stepped in after him. Scanning the room that was surprisingly neat. You’d only ever gotten glimpses over his shoulder as he locked the door after himself.
The detail that stood out to you most though was the count of beds in the room which stood at a steady and alarming one.
“Where’s the empty bed?” You asked. Watching as Gojo set down your stuff and then sat down on the bed.
“I said empty spot, and here it is.” He said, to your utter horror patting the spot next to him on the solitary bed in the room.
“Oh no. That's not gonna work. Thanks but hard pass.” You said stepping forward and grabbing your bags. The larger one of which you were quite unsuccessful in lifting and resolved to drag towards the door instead.
Before you could even make it more than a step away while dragging the bag that probably weighed more than you considering you were never a light packer, Gojo was in front of the door. Blocking the only exit.
“The change is processed. You can’t go back now.” He said.
“Processed where?” You cried. You had this discussion less than an hour ago and certainly hadn’t put in any requests.
“In the system. Your bed’s being given to the new arrival and you’re rooming with me.”
“I didn’t submit anything, how’s that possible?”
“I did it for you.”
“The office closes at 4.”
“I processed it this morning.” He said making your jaw drop at the sheer audacity of the extraterrestrial being before you.
“What do you mean you did it this morning? I didn’t even know this was happening till an hour ago.”
“I knew you’d agree.” He shrugged.
“Well I don’t, so kindly please go tell them they can’t give away my bed and help me carry this back. I know it's mine but I don't understand what I put in here to make it weigh a ton.”
“Not happening, darling. I told you you’re stuck with me, so you might as well settle in. Feel free to shower first.” He said and it was all too much for your brain to process but one particular detail stuck out.
“Wait, you’re telling me you have a shower in your room?
“Yeah, convenient isn’t it?”
“So why the fuck have you been using the communal showers?” You asked.
“Because that’s where you shower.” He answered as though that was a completely reasonable thing to say.
“Yeah like I said, hard pass on this whole situation. I’ll drag that newbie out by his toe hair if I have to. That bed’s mine.” You said, starting for the door, intending to somehow push past him while you dragged your overly large bag.
Perhaps you could somehow use the weight of it to your advantage. You remembered them teaching you all something about throwing off your opponent using their weight so this had to be similar. Not that you ever mastered that maneuver either.
"Darling, you have two options. Be good and listen to me, start unpacking your stuff, take a shower and then come to bed or I tie you to the bed. I unpack your stuff and then shower you myself. Either way you're staying in this room." He said making you pause in your very unsuccessful dragging of the bag sent from hell.
You stared at him, trying to discern if he was quite serious and would really follow through on his threat. Nothing about those blue eyes of his was giving you any confidence that he had a single rational or normal bone in his oversized body and so you gave up.
"I'm building a pillow wall between us." You huffed.
Your pillow wall lasted about 0.3 seconds before being quite unceremoniously, and unnecessarily violently, tossed to the floor. Then you were pulled back into the chest of the lunatic who had tricked you into his den and were used like a teddy bear.
There was no dignity in any of this. That pension could not begin to cover the damages that you had incurred here in this hellhole.
It was warm though, and his bed was softer and blankets fuzzier than your own. The weight of his long limbs on you was making you drowsy even through the haze of anger that nearly blinded you.
"You're a bad man." Was all you could manage before sleep overcame you.
Gojo didn't sleep though. He couldn't believe how good it felt to have you in his arms. So soft, so warm against him. If he wanted, and god how he wanted, he could completely envelope you in his arms so none of you was left exposed to the rest of the world. Take all of you for himself.
You moaned in your sleep, arching up slightly and he loosened his hold just enough to let you turn once he realized that was what you wanted and then on top of being sleepless, he was also rendered breathless. You turned, resting your head on his shoulder easily as though even in your sleep you could tell you two fit like puzzle pieces.
His heart clenched as he stared down at you. Watched your parted lips, still not knowing what they tasted like. Gojo wasn't ignorant to the effect he had on people and yet somehow the only one he had ever wanted was entirely immune.
He pulled you in closer, lowering his head to press his lips to your forehead. Feeling a warmth bloom in the core of his being that he had never felt before. This had to be what others called being at peace. So fulfilled, like there was nothing else he wanted, nowhere else he would rather be. This was addicting.
You woke enveloped in warmth, arching up and stretching in the little space you had between the awfully heavy covers pinning you to the bed. Finally opening your eyes and then screaming in horror when you were met with two blue lightbulb like objects floating in a blurry pale shape mere inches from your face.
"What is it?" The shape asked and as your vision focused you rest your hand over your racing heart. Trying to catch your breath from the insane jolt of adrenaline seeing something so unnatural that early had caused you.
"Don't do that. Why are you staring at me with your 500 megawatt bulbs at - god 7 in the morning." You said, turning to check the clock by his bedside.
"Wait isn't this actually late for you?" You asked, remembering he normally rose at 5.
"I didn't want to risk waking sleeping beauty." He said with a smirk.
"You could be doing laps around the bed with a lawn mower and I wouldn't wake up once I'm asleep. I just can't fall asleep in noise." You clarified.
"Lucky I'm quiet as a mouse at night." He said.
"It takes a big man to admit he's a rat." You said, going to scooch off the bed but Gojo tightened his arm around you.
"Where are you going?" He asked.
"To get changed for training, we're already late." You answered.
"They would understand if we skipped a day." He said.
"No, I want to see the thief that stole my bed."
You could never have anticipated that in that thief you would find a kindred spirit. A soldier who flinched when anyone came near them in combat practice or looked out at the field with utter dread painted on their face. Perhaps that bed was simply fated only to have rational heads rest on it, or cowards as the rest of the troop would put it.
It was inevitable that you two would begin to get close when you were always the last ones to finish a lap, dragging your feet and cursing having ever laid eyes on this place. Standing with your backs against the wall as the others went hand to hand as though fighting for their lives when it was just practice.
Of course there was someone who highly disproved of this camaraderie. Gojo hated the new guy. Would glare daggers into him whenever he saw you both together and was the only reason you weren't braiding each other's eyebrow hair and exchanging pension fantasies.
"Oh man if that weight had fallen on my foot I'd be lined up at admin with my direct deposit form in hand faster than Commander could call me an idiot." The new guy - Kaido said making you guffaw and nod in agreement.
"What a fucking dumbass, telling the Commander he's just fine. That was a golden ticket to pension land." You agreed.
"You're too young to be thinking about pension." A voice said from right behind you making you yelp and turn to see Gojo looming above you and Kaido.
"I think you just shaved ten years off my life. We really need to put a bell on you." You said, taking the offered water bottle from Gojo and letting him pull you back so you were stood by his side.
"Lieutenant Gojo, sir." Kaido greeted awkwardly making you laugh and elbow Gojo, glancing up expecting him to laugh too but rather seeing him looking down his nose at Kaido as though he were dirt on his shoe.
The Commander called you all in before you could say anything but it stayed on your mind the rest of the morning anyway.
"Do you not like Kaido?" You asked as you sat on the bed that day while Gojo was folding both your laundry making him pause.
"No, I don't." He said, looking up at you, taking you by surprise. You had at least expected him to deny it.
"Why?"
"Because he sticks too close to you."
"No, you stick too close to me. Kaido understands the concept of personal space." You said.
"He better. I don't like seeing you with him, stay away from him." He said making you frown.
"I like Kaido, Kaido's my friend." You defended, not noticing the way the way Gojo froze at your words.
"He's your friend?" He asked, voice deceptively level and calm.
"Yeah, unlike the rest of you try-hards he understands the appeal of the easy life. We get each other." You answered not even getting a moment to try to back away before Gojo had tossed aside the towel he was holding and was rounding the bed.
Grabbing you by the jaw, he pushed you down flat onto the bed. Knocking the wind out of you with the unexpectedness of the movement. He sat down straddling your hips, keeping you pinned in place.
"Tell me again who’s your friend." He said.
"What the fuck dude? What's wrong with y-" You asked, being cut off by your own gasp of pain as he tightened his hold around your jaw to the point where the bones creaked in protest.
"Who is your friend?" He asked again.
"K-Kaido." You answered, not quite understanding what his problem was.
His eyes darkened and grip got even tighter making you grab at his hand, afraid he really might break your jaw.
"G-Gojo please it hurts." You mumbled, words barely intelligible with the way he was holding your face.
"I'm your only friend. You don't need anyone else. Just me." He said, leaning down closer so your noses nearly brushed against each other. Enouncing each word clearly and calmly as though he weren't actively trying to crush your face between his hand.
"Fine, fine just you. Please let go, it hurts." You pleaded. Willing to say anything to make him release you in that moment.
He let go of your face, seemingly satisfied but didn't get off of you. Watching in silence as you rubbed at the clear imprints of his fingers on your face. The bruises darkening into your soft skin.
He felt a pang in his chest, he hadn't meant to hurt you. He had just lost his mind a little hearing you so casually give someone else the place he held in your life.
"Let me see." He said, reaching for your face but you slapped at his hands. Pushing him away and when he saw the way your eyes were watering with pain he backed off readily, heart sinking as he realized he had hurt you to the point of inducing tears.
"I'll get you some ice." He said.
"No need." You scoffed, wiping at your eyes with the back of your hand. Scooching off the bed and heading for the door.
He let you go, knowing you needed some time to cool off. He'd always gone too far when it came to protecting his things and keeping the paws of others off of them. He'd never meant to hurt you though.
You slammed the door behind you. Immediately headed to the admin office. In the past few weeks you had often wondered if choosing to befriend Gojo had been a mistake but today had proven it. He was a far bigger lunatic than you had initially known. Volatile in his unpredictability. You were better off without someone like him by your side, either he'd get you in trouble or he'd end up hurting you seriously in one of his fits.
"I'd like to change rooms." You said as soon as you made it to the admin office, approaching the man sitting behind the desk who you'd never bothered learning the name of.
"Why?" The man asked, looking like he'd rather be doing anything but his job.
"I'm rooming with Lieutenant Gojo right now-" You paused as you saw the man's eyes widen and him sit up straighter.
"But there's only one bed so I'd like to request to be switched into any room with a vacant bed." You continued, wondering why he looked so alarmed.
"There's no vacant beds." The man said making you scoff.
"I know there has to be at least one considering Tomoya is still in a coma and will probably be in no condition to continue in the force when he wakes." You said.
"His bed was sent to headquarters." The man answered and you stared at him blankly, making his ears turn red at how stupid of a lie he had just uttered.
"Okay, well I don't have a bed so can you request headquarters to send it back so I have a place to sleep?" You asked.
"I'll put in the request." The man said.
"And how long is that going to take?" You asked.
"I don't know but I'll let you know when it's processed." He said making your eye twitch.
"Fine, thanks." You relented, getting the feeling there was no reasoning with this soulless slave to bureaucracy.
You would check Tomoya's dorm yourself. If you found the empty bed then you'd come here and demand this lying rat to process the transfer right then.
You lurked in the corridor outside Tomoya's room, icing your bruised jaw until one of his roommates finally emerged. The door opened and the pungent smell of blue cheese wafted out, singing your nose hair but you still forced yourself forward to take a peek. Letting out a triumphant "ha" which had your future roommate flinching out of surprise.
"I knew that man was a liar." You said to the soldier currently staring at you like you had two heads before marching back to the admin office. Swearing out loud when you saw the door was now closed. It probably wasn't even 4 yet.
You would be back first thing tomorrow morning. Waiting outside before the office opened to force that stinking liar to process your transfer request. That meant you just needed to figure something out for tonight. Tomorrow by this time you would have roommates who weren't actively a threat to everyone around them.
You didn’t want to see Gojo but the clinic doctor saw right through your lies about being sick and wouldn't let you into the infirmary. Upon arriving to the base you had feigned being sick quite often to get out of missions and more arduous training sessions so by now the doctor was more likely to believe Pinocchio with an actively elongating nose than you.
You couldn't avoid seeing Gojo but that didn't mean you couldn't ignore him. You walked right past him at shooting practice. Joining Lieutenant Hiroshi's group instead and avoided his gaze at dinner, choosing to sit next to Kaido instead. Feeling the full force of those otherworldly blues on you all throughout the rest of the day but refusing to look back at him.
Kaido however was having more trouble ignoring Gojo than you.
"He looks like he wants to kill us. Wait - actually he was only looking at me like that. He looks like he wants to kill me and looks like he's going to eat you as usual." Kaido said.
"Ignore him." You responded, angrily shoving another piece of broccoli in your mouth.
"Easy for you to say, he doesn't look like he wants to kill you. What happened between the two of you anyway?"
"Nothing." You barked, the word muffled and unintelligible due to the very undercooked broccoli still filling your mouth.
"Muppet?" Kaido asked in confusion making you huff in annoyance.
"I said nothing and I'm sleeping in your dorm tonight." You said after forcefully swallowing the unchewable broccoli down.
"What, why? There's no space in our dorm." Kaido whined.
"Because you stole my bed."
"I didn't steal shit, you transferred to Lieutenant Gojo's room so they gave me yours."
"I didn't transfer. That rat filled out the paperwork himself. You know what - it doesn't matter. Here, I'll give you my chocolate pudding if you let me stay." You said, pushing your tray towards Kaido.
"I don't like choc- oh it's blueberry. Fine, you can stay." Kaido said and you swore out loud when you looked down at the pudding. Being a pain in the ass clearly ran in the family.
You heard a bang across the dining hall and glanced up only to see a fuming Gojo up on his feet. His tray of food now spread all over the ground next to his table. He glared at you and Kaido as he made his way across the dining hall. Grabbing your tray from in front of Kaido and throwing it to the floor with a loud clattering sound that made you flinch.
"Stop testing my patience unless you want to see what happens when it runs out." Gojo warned, but you were too stunned by the commotion to think of anything to say. He turned to stalk out of the dining hall when you didn't respond.
"What a fucking nutter." You muttered under your breath once you were quite sure Gojo was out of earshot, glancing over at Kaido to see he was still frozen.
"Hey, you okay?" You asked, nudging him with your elbow.
"I don't know if that's spilt juice or if I pissed my pants." Kaido said making you grimace in disgust as you looked down at his pants to see that they were indeed soaked.
"Looks a little orange so unless you're very sick it's got to be the juice." You said, hoping you were right.
After clearing up the tray and giving Kaido the chance to shower and change out of the juice/sickly urine-soaked pants you two made your way back to your old dorm to retire for the night.
"What are you doing back here?" One of your old roommates asked the moment you walked in.
"I'm sleeping here tonight."
"Did Gojo get sick of his little lapdog?"
"Should we go ask him that together?" You asked, making the smirk fall right off the ugly mug of your most obnoxious old roommate.
"Whatever." He responded, going back to the stupid card game he had been playing with the others.
You and Kaido stood staring at the twin bed that looked even smaller than you remembered it. It really wasn't built for two adults to share.
"We can just lay in opposite directions." You suggested.
"Gross, I'm not laying with your feet in my face." Kaido said.
"Okay then orange-piss boy, what do you suggest?" You asked, earning yourself a dirty look from Kaido and confused glances from the others.
"Why don't you just take the floor?"
"Because the floor is hard and cold and there's creepy crawlies everywhere."
"Fine, we'll just share the bed. It's really no different than standing side by side." Kaido said.
It was very different. The bed was so cramped you couldn't even build a pillow wall without compromising the little space you had and of course Kaido had the pointiest elbows known to mankind. He wouldn't stop shuffling around to get comfortable and one of his elbows from hell would dig into your vulnerable midsection.
After the fourth time you elbowed him back which started a war you were bound to lose with your regular human elbows. You both eventually fell asleep bruised and cramped.
You were woken far too soon for it to be morning by a hand desperately slapping at you and then gripping into your pajama shirt as though about to tear it off. You slapped at the hand, trying to get back to sleep but were forced awake when you heard an odd, muffled gurgling sound followed by the voice of the last person you expected to hear.
"Keep your fucking hands to yourself." You heard Gojo say making your eyes fly open, struggling to adjust in the dark room only to see him forcing Kaido's hand backwards until you heard a sharp snapping sound as his wrist broke.
Your scrambled upwards on the bed, struggling to make sense of what you were seeing. Gojo sat straddling Kaido's chest, chocking him with one hand. The other still holding the wrist he had broken. Kaido let out a muffled scream, turning to look at you and reaching out towards you with his other hand making you flinch back but Gojo caught that hand before it could reach you.
"What did I just fucking say? Why can't people just listen while I'm asking nicely. Everyone's always trying to get their paws on what's mine." Gojo said, tossing Kaido's hand back down to his side. Increasing the force with which he was choking Kaido, pushing his head further down into the bed.
"G-Gojo what the fuck?" You asked, shakily reaching for the hand that was choking Kaido but seeing that manic blue gaze turn on you in the darkness had your blood freezing in your veins.
The predatory look he had while hunting curses back on his face but this time there was no joy accompanying it. Just a single-minded determination to take out what he saw as a rival for his chosen prey.
"Oh darling, did we wake you? I'm sorry, I was just teaching this fucker what happens when he puts his hands on what's mine. Why don't you go sleep in our room? I'll be there in a minute."
Kaido let out a muffled whimper, his flailing growing weak as he began turning purple with the blood rushing to his head. His teary eyes met yours, forcing you into action. As much as you wanted it to be, this wasn't a nightmare. Gojo had really somehow found you here and was about to kill Kaido if you didn't do something.
"Get off of him Gojo." You cried, shoving at his chest with all your might but it wasn't enough to move him.
You glanced back, about to yell to wake the others. Only to see them already awake, sitting up in their beds. Watching the scene with wide, horrified eyes.
"Fucking help me." You yelled at them, pushing and clawing at Gojo who didn't even bother to swat at you. Instead wrapping his free arm around your waist and pinning you to his side.
You thrashed against him, pulling and scratching at his arm as Kaido's eyes bulged.
"You're gonna kill him." You screamed, near feral now in your attempts to get Gojo off but it was like trying to move a rock.
"This is what happens when you befriend someone else. Look closely darling." Gojo mumbled, resting his forehead against your head. Completely relaxed as though he weren't actively choking the life out of someone.
"You fucking cowards." You screamed at the others, looking around desperately for something to help you get Gojo off. Your gaze landed on Kaido's alarm clock and you grasped at it desperately, turning in Gojo's hold and slamming it down into his temple with all your strength.
He reared back, finally releasing Kaido and you shoved him back off of him. Watching, with your hands hovering helplessly as Kaido coughed weakly, tears still streaming down his eyes and broken wrist held against his chest as tremors shook through him.
You heard that bark-like laughter and turned to see Gojo clutching his bleeding head. Streaks of blood running down the left side of his face, over his eye making the mania of his unnaturally blue gaze all the more terrifying to witness. Blood seeping through the hand he held to his head yet he was laughing.
"Only you, darling, would dare to do such a thing. Only you could get away with it." He said, pulling you in by the wrist back towards him.
"Let go, you fucking psycho." You yelled, hitting your fists against his chest but he swept both your wrists up in his hand. Palm sticky with blood that rubbed off onto your skin as he brought your conjoined hands up to his mouth to press a kiss to them.
"Never, I'm never going to let you go." He muttered, lips still against your hands. Darting his head back with a laugh as you tried to swipe at his face.
"You're not going to have a choice. When everyone finds out what you've done you're going to end up rotting in prison."
"Whose gonna put me there?" He asked, smiling indulgently as though speaking to a child.
"Me, I'm going to report you for what you've done to Kaido and I'll tell them about Tomoya too." You threatened.
"But you covered for me, you're my little accomplice. Won't that get you in trouble too?" Gojo asked, voice still light and teasing but his words made you blanche.
He let out another one of his bark-like laughs at the look on your face, darting forward and pressing a kiss to your cheek as though unable to help himself. You flinched back in disgust.
"Oh darling, I'm just teasing. I'd never let you get in any trouble and neither will I. You don't have to worry your pretty little head over things like that when you're with me. I take care of what's mine."
"There's four witnesses to you attacking Kaido. There's no way you'll get away with this." You said.
"What witnesses? Did you guys see me here tonight?" Gojo asked the others without even bothering to take his eyes off of you. He always thought you looked so cute while angry, turning as red as a tomato and glaring as though you could ever hope to intimidate anyone.
"No, sir." Came three responses making your eyes widen and you turned to look at your old roommates.
"Are you fucking kidding me? You all called me a coward but really you're the cowards." You spat, and not one of them could meet your gaze.
"It doesn't matter. I witnessed it, I'll help Kaido report you." You said, turning back to Gojo.
"My poor darling, you really don't know who I am, do you? I could kill Kaido at breakfast and no one would even dare complain about the mess."
"What do you mean? Who cares if you're a lieutenant, you can't go attacking soldiers."
"Poor, sweet thing, you don't even know who you decided to befriend. You don't even know who it is you belong to." Gojo tsked as though truly sympathetic at your naivety.
"I'm Gojo Satoru, darling. This place is only running because my family wants it to, because I want it to. I can do whatever I want here, but lucky for you, so can you. So long as you have my approval of course. Sleepovers with other soldiers are not allowed." Gojo said and suddenly everything he got away with doing began to make sense.
How he had gotten away with nearly killing a fellow soldier with as poor an alibi as yourself. Why he had a room nicer than the Commander and wasn't questioned for any of his insane antics. Where he got all that audacity from.
"I get you were upset with me so I'll let this one slide, but if you ever do something like this again, I'll have no choice but to punish you. You're mine, don't ever let anyone else get so close, let alone touch you." Gojo said, reaching for your face. Face dropping and eyes growing cold as you flinched back from his touch.
"Enough. I told you not to test my patience. Don't push me so far that I have to get strict with you. Now come on, let's go to our room." Gojo said, getting up off the bed and holding his hand out to you.
"You're fucking insane if you think I'm going anywhere with you." You said, turning back to Kaido and ignoring his hand but it was a mistake to turn your back to Gojo.
You were yanked back around by your arm making you cry out, Gojo ducking down and tossing you over his shoulder like you weighed nothing before turning to stalk out of the room.
"I warned you." He said, swatting at your ass with one of those giant hands making you yelp.
"Put me down." You demanded, squirming and flailing to try to get out of his hold. A kick to his stomach only earned you another smack on your ass.
Your yelling must have attracted attention for you heard a door opening down the hall and the Commander's voice demanding which moron was up causing a commotion this early before he came into view wearing a sleep robe tied over pajamas.
"Help me." You called out, reaching out towards the Commander when he stood there staring as though frozen in shock. Heart sinking as Gojo got closer and the man merely stepped out of his way.
"Excuse us from training for the rest of the week, we've got a couple things to work through." Gojo said as he passed the Commander.
"Yes, of course. Let me know if you need to leave the base, I'll have a car arranged."
"That won't be necessary." Gojo responded, turning the corner so you could no longer see the man who you had expected to help you but had only stood with his head bowed down to the monster carrying you off.
Gojo didn't so much as slow down until he had made it back to his room. Opening the door with you still hanging over his shoulder with ease and dropping you down onto the bed. You immediately got to your feet, eyeing him warily where he stood before you.
He raised his hand and you flinched back making him frown as he brought his hand to the still-bleeding wound on his head.
"Fuck, you got me good." He winced, prodding at the wound tenderly and going over to the mirror hung up on the wall to get a better look.
"I didn't think you were capable of that but it's good to see you're not completely defenseless. Though, next time, maybe try hitting someone else and not your friend." He said, wiping at the blood with his t-shirt gingerly.
"You're not my friend." You said, seeing him pause in the reflection of the mirror. Eyes flashing before he closed them and took a deep breath as though trying to restrain himself.
"You're angry." He sighed, turning back to face you.
"No, I'm not angry. I'm disgusted. I can't believe I ever called you a friend." You spat.
His jaw clenched but he shook his head as though the movement would help him shake off what you had said.
"I lost control and I hurt you. I get that you're mad and I'm sorry for hurting you, I really am, but don't go saying things you don't mean." He said.
"Oh I mean it. You mean nothing to me, I don't ever want to see your face again. In fact, I'm leaving. Fuck this whole force. That pension isn't worth this shit." You said, moving towards the closet intending to pack but before you could even round the bed Gojo had crossed the room and was turning you to face him by the arm.
Your protests died on your lips as you caught sight of his face. Blue eyes alight with rage, the veins running up his neck and into his jaw standing out grotesquely from how tightly he was clenching his teeth. He looked inhuman, like something animalistic and feral. For the first time you felt truly afraid of Gojo.
"Didn't I say not to push me too far?" He asked through gritted teeth.
"Didn't I?" He demanded loudly, gripping you by your upper arms and giving you a sound shake.
"Y-you did." You responded, arching up in his hold to try to get out of the painful grip he had on your arms.
"Who are you leaving?" He asked, bringing you in closer by the hold he had on you.
"Who said you could fucking leave me? Who even allowed you to think it?" He barked, giving you another shake.
"You're mine, you don't ever get to walk away from me. You're the one who barged into my life, you think you can just up and leave whenever you want?" He demanded, his grip growing steadily tighter on your arms.
"Gojo, please, you're hurting me." You said, eyes watering from the pain but you didn't dare try to pull away.
"And what about how much you're hurting me?" He asked.
"Does my pain mean fucking nothing to you? Saying shit like I mean nothing to you, that I'm not your friend. You know what, you're right. I'm not your friend. I'm so much fucking more than that. Friend doesn't begin to cover what we are to each other."
"W-what?" You asked. You knew he was weirdly possessive of you but you hadn't anticipated that he thought of you in that way.
"I'm your fucking everything. Your friend, your lover, your husband. It's all me, there is no space for anyone else. I won't let there be anyone else. I'll make you mine in every conceivable way. Put a ring on your finger, brand my name over your fucking heart and mark your pretty little neck with my teeth every damn day." He growled, and before you had a chance to react was leaning down and sinking his teeth into your neck making you scream as he tore through the flesh.
You flailed in his grasp, pushing and shoving at his chest but it was like trying to move stone. After what seemed like an eternity of agony he finally pulled away, teeth lined with your blood and lips crimson with it.
"All fucking mine." He declared, licking over his lips making your breath catch as the reality of your situation dawned on you.
You had walked right into the den of a monster, awakening the beast and now you were trapped in its grasp. You should never have befriended Gojo Satoru. Not when there was all those rumours about him. Shouldn't have thought yourself more clever than the rest, able to tame the infamous mad dog.
"Gojo I don't think of you that way." You said shakily, hoping you could at least get him to go back to wanting to be your friend, not whatever the hell this was.
"That's okay, you'll start. It's my fault, I should have been more clear. I know how oblivious you can be so I wanted to take things slow but clearly that was a mistake on my part."
"Y-you can't force someone to be with you. I don't want to be with you and I won't." You said, trying to sound firm.
"I know you're a little slow and normally I find that to be fucking adorable but I need you to get it through your head that you are mine. You belong to me." He repeated slowly as though trying to drill the words into you.
"You're the one who who forced your way into my life so really this is all on you. I would have left you alone had you not started following me around and then tried to cover for me, getting all worried about me getting into trouble." He said, going from enraged to getting a far-off look in his eye as though reminiscing. He was fucking insane, his moods changed faster than you could keep up with.
"I only approached you because I needed someone who'd have my back during missions. I didn't mean for any of this to go so far." You said.
"I'll always protect you, I'll always have your back. There's no curse, institution or person that can get to you while I'm around." He cooed, not seeming mad at all to find out about your ulterior motive for approaching him.
"I don't need that from you. I'm leaving the force, I never should have joined." You mumbled, filled with regret over your greed that had brought you into the predicament.
"You're not going anywhere. I'll tie you to the bed if that's what it takes. You'll stay where I am. If you don't want to be part of missions, good, I'd rather you not be but you're staying here."
"You can't watch over me every second of every day. I'd find a way to get away so why don't you just make this easy for both of us and let me go?" You asked, making his eyes darken and that bravado that had overcome your senses drained just as fast leaving only a hollow, cold sense of fear behind.
"I told you I'm never letting you go. I'll do whatever it takes to keep you with me. I don't want to tie you up but I'll do it if you make me and if you somehow manage to get out then I'll hunt you down and I'll break your fucking legs so you can't run." He growled making you flinch back.
"Now what's it going to be? Are you going to choose the easy route where you stay with me in our room and get to move about as you please or should I tie you up?" He asked.
"Better yet should I move right to breaking your legs so you don't get any funny ideas about running away? They'll even discharge you with pension if I break your legs, you'll still stay with me of course but it is what you always wanted." He said, grabbing your jaw in his hand and forcing you to look up at him.
His eyes softening when he saw the tears in yours.
"Fuck, I didn't mean to make you cry. Come here." He sighed, pulling you in to his chest and wrapping his arms around you.
Terrified as you were of him you couldn't help but sob into his chest. The dread of the horrible predicament you had gotten yourself into making you seek comfort from anywhere you could get it, even if it was the source of your misery. He hushed you, rubbing a hand up and down your back soothingly. Pressing apologetic kisses into your head.
"I told you not to push me. I fucking lose it when I even so much as think of you not being with me. Just promise me you'll stay with me. That you won't ever leave and we can forget all of this."
"I-I won't." You hiccuped, finally giving in to what had been inevitable since the moment you first approached Gojo.
"We're gonna be so happy together darling. I'll always protect you, all you have to do is stay with me." He cooed into your hair. Hushing you when his words only made you cry harder.
your campus crush wasn't who you expected him to be, and now it's too late to get rid of him.
cw: headcanons, angst, yandere/dark themes, implied captivity, mdni, preview to a series i'm making
𑣲⋆ you knew of gojo before he knew of you. how could you not when he was the golden boy of the campus?
𑣲⋆ your friends would groan and roll their eyes every time you’d begin to ramble about how cute he looked in his latest post, how funny a joke you overheard him tell was, how flattering the new shirt he always wore was.
𑣲⋆ although it seemed half the world was aware of how head over heels you were, gojo seemed to not know of your existence, and you honestly preferred that way.
𑣲⋆ admittedly, you were a bit nervous at the prospect of his attention, not knowing how you’d react if he even looked your way.
𑣲⋆ you couldn’t describe your shock, seeing him sit in a random chair in the middle of your lecture room for your first class of the semester.
𑣲⋆ sitting all the way in the back, you began to let yourself get carried away every time you’d watch him, swooning at the way he’d carelessly laugh and smile so brightly it could light up the room.
𑣲⋆ unbeknownst to you, gojo was actually more than aware of your adoration. it amused him if anything.
𑣲⋆ he’s the gojo satoru, it came as no shock that you looked like you were ready at your wedding altar every time he’d catch your sight.
𑣲⋆ honestly, it was entertaining to know how obsessed you were with a man you hadn’t even met. in his head, you were foolish if anything.
𑣲⋆ he’d joke about it with geto and shoko, hinting at the idea of playing a bit of a prank. just a small idea to get him through the semester without dying of boredom.
𑣲⋆ you swear you almost passed out the day gojo approached you, flashing you that familiar smile and mentioning how you two should hang out and study one day.
𑣲⋆ he had to physically hold himself back from laughing as you eagerly agreed, nodding frantically. it was a little cute, he had to admit. maybe the hard part of his plan wouldn’t be that hard.
𑣲⋆ one hang out led to another, and before you knew it, you were deluded enough to believe gojo seriously had feelings for you. every time he’d offer you his jacket when he’d see you shiver, every time he’d buy you a sweet treat without you asking, every time he’d gaze at you for a second too long.
𑣲⋆ while you were at your friend’s house, ranting about how you honestly think he’s the one and how you might have your first boyfriend soon, gojo was drunk next to geto, laughing himself to the death while telling both his friends about how clingy you were getting.
𑣲⋆ although, gojo wasn’t exactly sure when things started to change.
𑣲⋆ slowly but surely, your voice became familiar, your presence became warm, your little laugh when he’d joke around, it all became something he could no longer control.
𑣲⋆ it left him spiraling, not being used to possibly having less control over a situation than he wanted.
𑣲⋆ little by little, it felt less like a dumb joke to entertain himself, and instead became the reason why he’d stay awake at night, staring at his ceiling, thinking of the next time he’d get to see you.
𑣲⋆ he had never had a crush before, no, just simple flings here and there that were mostly physical rather than emotional. this is why he was so flustered at the idea that you were actually becoming more bearable.
𑣲⋆ as his feelings grew, so did his possession, an uncomfortable pit in his stomach forming every time he’d see you on campus speaking to another person. you should be with him, not them. don’t you love him? he knows you do, so why are you simply waving at him and looking back at the person next to you.
𑣲⋆ gojo couldn’t wait around, letting you slip past his fingers, which is why he invites you to a small picnic watching the sunset. something romantic that he would never envision himself doing in his life.
𑣲⋆ the moment was everything you wished for, as he threaded your fingers together, snuggling his head into your neck before pulling away to tell you the words — “i want to be with you, if you’d let me.”
𑣲⋆ as he suspected, you accepted immediately, body shaking as he engulfed you, pressing his lips into yours. the moment was sweet, soft, domestic. the same was true for your relationship.
𑣲⋆ he was a gentleman, bringing you flowers to your door, taking you to the most lavish restaurants in the city, cuddling with you on his couch while you watched a random movie you chose. he’d always let you choose.
𑣲⋆ the first time you made love felt like gojo found a missing piece of the puzzle that is his life. he was not new to sex, having had many previous encounters with other women, but something felt different about this. had you not been shutting your eyes closed as he gently thrusted into you, you would have noticed he was crying.
𑣲⋆ everything was perfect, until it wasn’t.
𑣲⋆ you weren’t answering his texts, a weird notion considering you normally would reply in five minutes. he tried not to think much of it, picking up some food on his way to your apartment. the light in your room was on, he could see from the street as he approached the lobby.
𑣲⋆ after a short elevator ride, he reached your door, knocking with a warm smile on his face. the smile slowly faded as you failed to answer his knocking for the fourth time. he knew you were home, why weren’t you answering?
𑣲⋆ he was worried, wondering if maybe something happened to you. he wouldn’t forgive himself if he let you into harm’s way, making him knock so hard your neighbors began to peak out of their windows in curiosity.
𑣲⋆ the door opened reluctantly, revealing your sad state. you were crying, it was clear, as your eyes were puffy and red.
𑣲⋆ gojo immediately dropped the food, rushing up to you with his arms already out. before he was even able to speak a word, you were stepping back to avoid his touch.
𑣲⋆ “angel, what’s wrong?” he sounded frantic, taking one more step. “did you think i wouldn’t find out?”
𑣲⋆ your question made him stop, eyes squinting in confusion at what you were talking about. you sighed, unlocking your phone and facing it in his direction. you looked away as he read the text on your screen, unable to hold eye contact because you know you’d cry even harder.
𑣲⋆ gojo’s heart dropped fully as he read.
𑣲⋆ hey, ur with gojo right? sorry, im in ur class and overheard him talking to his friends about a bet like two months ago, something about him winning u over. just wanted to let u know.
𑣲⋆ he didn’t know what to do. it felt like he died, he wanted to die. how did he let himself hurt you this badly? his head was shaking, tears already lining up in his eyes. “baby, you have to believe me. i… i love you, i- i’m so sorry.”
𑣲⋆ his breath was heavy, breaking as he saw you retract yourself even further from his body, “so it’s true?”
𑣲⋆ gojo doesn't recall much else of that night specifically, only small memories of him falling to his knees, begging you to talk it out, to let him explain how it wasn’t what it seemed like. he was unsuccessful if it was clear in the way you refused to look at him before asking him to leave.
𑣲⋆ he couldn’t function without you, not understanding how there was ever a time where he could. not understanding how there was a time where he was only with you to entertain himself.
𑣲⋆ he felt like he was going insane truly, knowing that he needed you back immediately. he sent you several bouquets, several letters, several texts before you blocked him. it was all unsuccessful.
𑣲⋆ after a month of agony, gojo realized he couldn’t let you slip through his fingers no matter how hard you seemed to want to forget of his existence.
𑣲⋆ he began to show up at your door, crying and whispering begs for you to let him back in. you never did, so he started to approach you on campus.
𑣲⋆ having already learnt your schedule when you were together, he would show up after each of your classes, trying to walk you home although you refused to acknowledge him.
𑣲⋆ you felt disconnected from him the second he confirmed it was true. in a way, part of you knew it wasn’t his fault that he wasn’t what you had expected him to be, but you never imagined gojo would be the type of person to hurt you so badly.
𑣲⋆ you would walk past him, rushing through the hallways full of students so he would lose track of you.
𑣲⋆ random texts began to infiltrate your phone, all from different numbers, all clearly the same person.
𑣲⋆ it started off as mild as it could coming from gojo, ‘i love you so much. please just let me explain.’ then, after your lack of response, the intensity would increase. ‘i can’t live without you. i miss everything about you. i won’t let you leave me, angel.’
𑣲⋆ you blocked each and every new number, and the amount of texts you’d receive finally started to dwindle down until you thought you were free of his possessive antics.
𑣲⋆ slowly, you were able to heal, moving on and realizing that maybe a relationship isn’t what you needed at the moment.
𑣲⋆ at the same time, gojo was thinking the exact opposite.
𑣲⋆ it was a thursday night, you were passed out in your bed, exhausted from your three hour lecture earlier in the day. your apartment was quiet, save for the sound of your door slowly creaking open as a tall figure slipped inside, standing still as he took you in for the first time in weeks.
𑣲⋆ you looked so peaceful, and part of it calmed him down, but it wasn’t enough. he wanted you to be happy, but happy with him.
𑣲⋆ your rest was interrupted as you felt warm hands engulf your body, freezing up as you realized someone had broken in and was currently manhandling you into a hug.
𑣲⋆ you couldn’t even let out a yell as he picked you up swiftly, carrying you close to his chest, face nuzzling into your head.
“i told you i wouldn’t let you leave me, let’s get home now, 'kay? your room is finally ready.”
Thinking about Yandere Lieutenant Gojo known as the mad dog amongst his troop. Born to a long line of military commanders and with a reputation for being more fearsome than any of those that preceded him. Entirely too unpredictable and with that sort of backing, no one dared question the things he did.
All you had wanted was protection. The military was not the place for the likes of you but now that you were there you just wanted to ride the coattails of better and more powerful men until you got discharged and a fat pension to accompany your trauma. It was supposed to be simple but you chose the wrong man to kiss up to. They had warned you about the mad dog and you really should have listened. Nothing comes for free.
Wordcount: 14k+
Notes: Not canon-compliant, alternate universe where curses are widely known and everyone can see and fight them. Yandere behaviour, non-con touching, violence and threats of violence. Crack-like until things get serious. Loosely inspired by the manwha Passion.
You bit nervously at your nails, watching all the others gear up as though they were going to play laser tag and not be exposed to real bloodthirsty curses. You hadn't thought this far when you signed up for the Special Force Against Curses. All you knew was your old neighbour who had retired from SFAC now stayed at home all day eating snacks and yelling at his television. That was all you wanted from life.
The brutal 9-5 for decades would wear you out too fast. You couldn't spend the majority of your life waiting desperately for the weekend. It would be easier to enlist, tough it out until you found a way to be discharged with pension.
You hadn't really considered all the danger you'd be exposed to. Suddenly that fat pension made sense. They could afford to dangle it over your heads knowing most of you would not make it to the finish line.
The others began retreating from the weaponry breaking you out of your thoughts and making you wonder if you had taken too long dallying. Now only the stuff no one wanted would be left but then you saw the tall figure make their way through the parted crowd. Not only taller than all the other men but that shock of white hair made him stand out all the more. The one everyone called the mad dog. Though to you he looked more like an extraterrestrial being with those freakish blue eyes of his.
You had heard the rumours. He was as strong as ten men, so fast he could take out a whole gang of curses before they even realized they were under attack. Thought of strategy and planned attacks out in ways others couldn't even perceive of. It sounded like the winning recipe for a soldier but apparently, and according to the more envious men, he was barking mad. You thought it was just jealousy of his skill.
You weren't the jealous type. No, you were the type to recognize that there were others in this world who had advantages and skills you didn't possess but just because you didn't have them, didn't mean you couldn't make use of them. The mad dog, or Gojo Satoru as you would respectfully address him, was exactly the kind of friend you needed to make it out of here alive and get to use the pension you had signed up for.
That day as you cowered behind a wall while the others attacked, you kept an eye out for that shock of white hair. Watching as the man disappeared from your line of sight and reappeared at intervals almost always brutally finishing off a curse and it became quite clear as you watched why he was called the mad dog. He had a smile on his face more frightening than the creatures as he disemboweled them, those freakish eyes of his glowing in the darkness like that of a predator.
That was a man you could hide behind and one clearly capable of protecting you from any and all threats. That evening at dinner when you had gotten your tray of food you marched it over right to Gojo Satoru’s table.
"Can I sit?" You asked before you could think better of it.
Those blue eyes gazing out the window slowly trailed over to you. Not even the slightest shift in his expression as he stared at you as blankly as he had been looking at the scenery out the window beside the table he always sat at, alone.
"No." He said, making your stomach drop. You had been planning how to approach him but you hadn't really considered the possibility he might turn you down.
"I'll give you my dessert." You bartered, his eyes flicked down to your tray.
"Blech, I don't like raspberry pudding." He said making you glance down to your tray too.
"I asked for chocolate." You exclaimed.
You had asked for the chocolate pudding but clearly the blind bat serving had given you the raspberry instead.
"That blind bat." You muttered lowly under your breath, glaring back over your shoulder at the old lady serving. Nearly jumping out of your skin in fright when a bark like laugh erupted from the man sitting before you. Eyes now sparkling when just before he had been looking at you like he wouldn't bat an eye if you dropped dead.
"That's my great aunt." He said, making your heart drop. You had really ruined all chances of friendship.
"She lost her eye sight in one eye while serving and then majority of her sight in the other in a curse attack." He continued. Not only had you ruined chances of friendship you'd gone and made an enemy of the strongest man in the troop, not to mention that he was your superior.
"I'm so-" You started but were cutoff by him speaking again.
"She's got a nose like a hound though so she definitely gave you the raspberry on purpose. Nasty old bat." Gojo said and you nearly went boneless in relief.
"I knew it couldn't always be a mistake." You said swinging one leg over the bench but a tutting sound made you freeze.
"I didn't say you could sit." Gojo said and you blinked at him like a deer in headlights before awkwardly pulling your leg back.
"Find another table, this one's mine." He said, glancing away from you in clear dismissal.
You joined one of the many other tables where the soldiers, clearly still sour that you had hid during the attack, gave you dirty looks which you ignored. Too busy trying to figure out what had happened because there had been a moment when you thought you'd found your in with Gojo Satoru.
You retreated that day but that didn't mean you stopped trying. From then on where Gojo Satoru went, you followed. If he was heading to meals then you were right behind him, tray in hand and getting the exact same foods he chose. You woke when he did and retired to sleep when he did. At first it was just to align your routine but the madman was an early riser so soon you needed to go to bed early if you were going to survive waking at dawn like him.
The only time you weren't dutifully following him around was when you all ran laps. He outpaced you several times and would eventually make it back into your blurred line of sight as you gasped and panted for air while being heckled by your commander for being a disgrace.
He mostly acted like you didn't exist. He would respond when spoken to but still made it abundantly clear you weren't welcome in his space. He had yet to allow you to sit at his table. The only time he had any sort of positive reaction to you was when he would hear something you muttered to yourself and would let out that bark-like laughter that nearly pierced your eardrums.
It was one of those mornings where you were dragging yourself to the training room. Knowing Gojo was already there and cursing him for being such an early riser when you finally saw what made the others avoid the man and speak of him as though he were the legend of a spooky ghost story and not their fellow comrade in arms.
You opened the door to the gym, still a bit bleary eyed but the fog of exhaustion disappeared the moment you took in the scene in front of you. Gojo Satoru was straddling a man on the ground beneath him, pummeling fist after fist into his face. The man's face, now a swollen, bloody mess, was completely unrecognizable even though you had been spending every waking moment surrounded by your fellow soldiers.
You couldn't help the gasp that escaped you when the next punch resulted in a spray of blood splattering up from the man's nose that had been reduced to a mangled mess of bloodied cartilage. Drops of crimson spraying out onto Gojo's pristine, marble-like pale skin. The sight made more unsettling by how other than that splatter of blood across his jaw and neck, there was not even so much as a scratch on him. Not even his hair was mussed.
At the sound, Gojo glanced up making you freeze in place. Those manic blue eyes now on you, glowing just the way they did when he was hunting curses.
"Good morning." Gojo huffed, sitting back on the man as though it were not the body of a person he'd beaten into unconsciousness but a bench.
"Good morning." You breathed, whirling around when you heard footsteps coming down the hall. Your heart nearly fell through your stomach as you made eye contact with the beady pair of your commander.
Violence against fellow soldiers was strictly prohibited. If the commander saw Gojo now he would expel him and all your efforts in fraying him down would have been for naught. The others didn't particularly like you for being weak and hiding during attacks. You had spent all your time following around Gojo and the others had already formed their little cliques. There was no hope of finding another protector.
"Commander, sir, Lieutenant Hiroshi was looking for you in the weaponry. Something about needing help with a holster." You said, making the man pause. It was common knowledge the commander had the biggest crush on Hiroshi.
"A holster?"
"Yes sir, his thigh holster has come loose I believe." You said and the man didn't even bother responding. Turning right back around the way he had come.
"Lieutenant Hiroshi wasn't in the weaponry." A voice said from behind you and you nearly jumped out of your skin. Whirling back around to see Gojo stood behind you with an amused glint in his eyes and more concerningly the blood still splattered across his face.
"I know that but I had to get the commander out of here. If he saw this you would have been discharged from the military and that too disgracefully. You know you don't get pension if you get discharged disgracefully right?" You asked, unthinkingly licking your thumb and swiping at the blood on his jaw.
He flinched back, catching your wrist but you wriggled your hand out. Pushing against his chest so he was forced back into the gym and out of anyone who may be passing's line of sight. You leaned out, scanning the hall before turning back to look at the man whose large chest muscles you only now noticed your hands were still on considering he was looking down at them like he didn't understand what they were.
"Okay, now listen, you head back to your room and if anyone asks you were feeling sick so you didn't come to work out today. If you weren't at the scene of the crime, then you couldn't have committed it. I'll say I found him here like this. Just help me drag him over to the showers so I can say I only saw him after my workout."
Gojo was still watching you in complete silence as though you were speaking another language he didn't speak.
"Come on, get moving. If anyone sees you we're done for." You said.
"We?" He asked, reassuring you that he had in fact not forgotten his mother tongue out of shock. Though he didn't look the least bit flustered or shocked, only slightly perplexed but not at the situation, at you.
"Yes, we. If I get caught covering for your ass then I'll also be discharged dishonorably, completely defeating the purpose of why I enlisted in the first place so you better start putting that brain and those muscles to use." You said, walking over to the man and grimacing at the mess Gojo Satoru had made of his face. You had been about to grab his shoulders but that was too close to the mangled face so instead you moved to grab his legs which were more in tact.
"Why would you cover for me?" Gojo asked suspiciously and you huffed at seeing he still wasn't making any effort to help you. While he'd been enthusiastic about causing the mess, he was quite reluctant to join in on the necessary clean up.
His question registered and you were glad that you had been stooped down to try to lift the unconscious man's legs so Gojo couldn't see the momentary panic on your face. It probably wouldn't do to tell him that it was because you wanted to be brought under his wing until you found a way to be discharged early.
"Because we're friends." You responded, sounding a little unsure even to yourself but a quick glance up at Gojo told you he hadn't quite noticed.
His otherwordly eyes had a far off look and you wondered if he had now gone into shock before he met your eye and you watched as his gaze narrowed in on you reminding you eerily of a hawk zeroing in on their prey, sending a shiver down your spine. You really should have paid more attention to that uneasy sense of foreboding.
Instead of responding, Gojo stooped down to lift the man up by the shoulders and carried the heft of him over to the showers without taking his eyes off you but you were a bit too busy struggling to carry the man's legs to notice.
After you had both dropped the man in the showers you again told Gojo to go back to his room. Catching his wrist just as he was about to leave. He glanced back, looking at your little hand on his wrist and then up to you. Brows creased in worry for him.
"Did anyone see you on your way here?" You asked and when he took a moment too long to answer rushed to clarify.
"Besides the unconscious man."
He shook his head in negative, something about that worried expression rendering him speechless when so many horrors and wonders he'd faced hadn't been able to.
"Good, go." You said releasing his wrist and turning to fret over the unconscious man again.
Gojo walked back to his room in a daze. You didn't know who he was. He had assumed you had been following him around like a shadow because you wanted to be affiliated with the Gojo heir. Set to inherit all the wealth, influence and glory of all the Gojo clan before him but your actions today made it clear you had no idea about his family background.
It wasn't often that people tried to get close to him. Not since what used to be rumours had become so undeniably backed by proof he had provided at nearly every turn in his life that even his parents couldn't refute them without risking looking like fools. And no member of the Gojo clan would ever risk being made a fool.
He had never had a friend. At first it was because his parents simply didn't think anyone worthy of standing beside him as an equal when he so clearly surpassed all the children his age in every conceivable way. That made him used to being alone and not at all used to sharing.
Gojo knew what the others called him - the mad dog for his territorial ways. Gojo didn't take kindly to anyone trying to take what was his. He didn't go around attacking people for no reason but when they tried to use or take his things that set him off. Admittedly he had a tendency to go a bit overboard when set off.
Like this morning when he'd gotten to the gym and seen one of the others using the weight machine he woke up so damn early to be able to use without others pawing all over it. He had asked politely for the man to find another machine because that one was his but the man hadn't listened and Gojo only asked politely once.
When he'd first enlisted these sort of misunderstandings happened fairly often. People mistook living in a shared space to mean Gojo would be sharing what was his. After that misunderstanding had been clarified with some of his fellow comrades in arms, word spread and they learned to stay away from Gojo's things.
He had broken limbs and beat people to unconsciousness in front of their commander and no one had ever dared to so much as write him up. It was real cute though to see you fretting and scheming for him. No one had ever worried over him like this. People had worried because of him. Worried over the damage he could do to them, their reputations in his parent's case or other such nonsensical things.
He found he quite liked your worrying. If this was what being your friend meant then he was quite ready to have you as his first and only friend.
After that morning incident it was like a flip had switched. Suddenly you didn't need to follow Gojo around anymore because he always managed to find you first.
In the morning he was at your door, knocking to be let in and dragging you along to the gym barely awake. If you got to meals later than he did then he'd have a tray of food waiting for you identical to his and if you went together then there was no question you'd be sitting right next to him.
Somehow no one had bothered to question what you had said about finding the man Gojo had beaten into an actual coma on the shower floors. You had been terrified a full investigation would be done and in your nerves suggested that maybe he had just tripped in the showers when your commander had been questioning you about the incident.
At the time he had made it seem like he would be digging into the matter and you were going to be in a lot of trouble if caught lying but then he'd never brought it up again. Perhaps you were a better liar than you thought.
What you couldn't deceive anyone about though was your lack of physical prowess and were currently feeling the full weight of your commander's disdain as everyone running laps circled you for a fourth time while you struggled to complete your second. Gojo had ran past you six times already. Giving you an encouraging thump on the back the first time that nearly laid you out on the ground had he not caught you, and then with an encouraging cheer and laugh as though he were having the time of his life every time since.
"Having to watch you run is the only time I regret enlisting." Your commander was saying when you felt someone run up next to you. You glanced over, seeing double from exhaustion before your sight settled somewhat and you realized it was just one very pissed off Gojo glaring at the commander.
"Would you like me to give you a couple other reasons?" He asked and the commander seemed to turn as green as you probably were with how nauseous you were feeling.
"I-uh have to go check on the others." The commander said, breaking out into a full sprint across the field. Apparently not even the commander was above being intimidated by Gojo.
To not have to hear the commander's disparaging while you endured having to do the activity you hated more than anything felt like a blessing and out of happiness you flung yourself at Gojo. Clinging to your saviour with all your might.
Had it been anyone else you both would have gone sprawling onto the field with the way you practically tackled him into a hug but Gojo had just gone very still, staring down at you in shock. He couldn't remember the last time someone had hugged him.
You were so soft and warm against him. So much smaller than him you barely reached his chest. Burying your face into him like he was your only hope.
Before he could think of how to react you were glancing up at him beaming. Your face pink from the exertion, the afternoon sun making it glow and bringing out the flecks of gold in your eyes. He hadn't so much as broken a sweat while running those laps but now all he could hear was the blood rushing through his ears and his heart thudding against his ribcage.
Never before had he so desired for something to be his. And you were his, weren't you? It had been your idea all along to become his friend. You were the one to force yourself into his orbit and now that you had he had no intention of ever letting you out.
He allowed his arms to wrap around you, chest clenching at how right that felt. This was where you belonged, within his grasp.
You released him as abruptly as you had embraced him leaving him feeling cold and bereft. But there was still the lingering warmth of your touch and the heat that bloomed within his chest as you smiled at him in that way. Challenging him to a race you both knew there was no way you would win.
The effort however of trying to out run the Gojo Satoru had you so belligerent with thirst you couldn't be bothered to try to find your own water bottle amongst the many at the finish line. Swiping his from his hand and holding it up above your mouth so you could gulp it down.
A hush fell over the others, silence so pronounced that it made it through your haze of exhaustion. Every one of the others was looking at you, or actually upon closer inspection, not at you but behind you at Gojo.
Gojo waited for the familiar rage to rise up within his chest as he watched you gulp down his water from his water bottle. That feeling of wrongness and outrage but there was nothing. No rage, just that weird tightness he'd gotten in his chest earlier while looking at you.
It had been amusing to see you trying to beat him with your much shorter legs and how incredibly out of shape you were compared to him. He probably could have run that lap faster if he were carrying you than you had managed to on your own.
He had always liked running. It cleared his head and let out some of that pent up energy always buzzing in his veins but running with you panting next to him, gasping for air and asking if he was even human was the first time he had found running fun.
You made everything fun, life had been so dull before you. He couldn't imagine going back to that. He found everything you did entertaining. Your little habit of muttering to yourself. It was always rude or bitter comments said under your breath but he found them hilarious.
The way you made no attempt to hide that you had no interest in defending people by eradicating curses but were just here for the pension. Hiding away every time you were all sent out on a mission. Your honesty was a breath of fresh air amongst all the false bravado and nobility he had grown up surrounded by.
He threw an arm around your shoulders, feeling a strange urge to have you close that he'd never felt for anyone before.
"Let's get you out of the sun. You look like a tomato." He said and you scoffed through your panting.
"Sorry we're not all godly beings that can run laps in the sun and still look like we're filming an athletic wear commercial. Did you even sweat, you freak?" You asked, hearing a gasp from amongst the others but not paying any attention as you got up on the very tips of your toes to try to prove your point.
Gojo froze as he felt you nose into his neck and take a quick inhale. Feeling the blood rushing down south as your body pressed against his side, letting him feel the shape of you and the heat emanating off your skin. Your warm breath against his throat and the scent of you, clean sweat and soap filling his senses and making his head spin.
Suddenly he was the one that was breathless.
"How do you still smell good?" You muttered against his neck.
He couldn't help himself and pushed you away, only remembering at the last minute to not use his full force but still sending you stumbling back a couple steps.
"Oh can you not sweat? Are you like those animals that don't have sweat glands?"
You took his silence for affirmation and grimaced sympathetically.
"My bad, that's probably a touchy topic for you. It must be tough being unable to control your temperature and just overheating like a reptile in the desert. I won't bring it up again." You said, giving him a sympathetic pat on the shoulder as you passed him.
Letting you think he was missing sweat glands was better than trying to explain that he was actually sporting a raging boner because you had sniffed him. He let you walk away with his water bottle still held in your hand, turning to watch the commander a moment. That sight had his hard-on dying down fast enough and he scooped up your water bottle and chased after you just as you made it to the doors leading inside.
"Should we hit the showers?" He asked as he made it to your side.
It was strange that after a training session like that you and Gojo somehow had the showers all to yourselves. Usually this place was packed to the brim after a brutal training session with sweaty men all wanting to quickly shower so they could get to the dining hall as fast as possible.
"Can I borrow your shampoo? I'm all out." Gojo said and you quickly squirted some into your hand before turning to pass the bottle to him but froze at the sight that awaited you.
It wasn't unexpected. At that height and stature and with hands that were more like giant paws you couldn't have expected anything else, but this was nearly inhuman. It twitched as you continued to stare and you couldn't help the startled scream that escaped you at the sight of a monstrosity like that having any life in it.
You flung the shampoo at the man next to you and quickly turned to face forward again, hearing him chuckle.
"What, are you really acting like you've never seen a naked man before?"
"I've seen naked men but I haven't seen a weapon of mass destruction swinging between their legs before." You muttered furiously, chancing a glance at the man when you didn't get a response to see his face had gone completely blank.
"Which man have you seen naked? Was it one of those bastards?" He asked advancing on you completely ignoring the rules of the communal shower. You had assumed everyone knew that in the showers you always kept your eyes focused straight on the tiles in front of you and you never got too close to anyone else while your privates were swinging about.
"Woah, woah you stay over there and keep that thing away from me." You said, holding your hands out ahead of you in defense.
"Tell. Me. Who." He demanded.
"I've been sharing a shower with all those duds for months, of course I've seen them naked though none of them have been as shameless as you." You said, finishing up your shower and hurriedly wrapping your towel around yourself.
He grabbed your arm as you made your way past him.
"I've got clean clothes in my bag, wear those. Don't go out there like that." He ordered, eyes roaming down your body.
"Do you have a problem with the way I wrap my towel?" You asked.
Back when you were in school the other kids had given you shit for that though you never quite understood what you were doing so differently than the others.
"No, I have a problem with how small it is and how little it covers."
"It's the standard size they give everyone. Are you body shaming me right now? I'm sorry I don't have a six pack like you." You huffed.
"8." He said, a smirk twisting up his lips making you furrow your brows in confusion.
"Here, see -" He said having grabbed your hand, forcing your fingers to trail down what really was an 8 pack and counting out each row.
As he got to the bottom row and your palm brushed against the trail of hair that led to the image you were afraid was seared into your brain forever, you couldn't help but let out a yelp and snatch back your hand. Instinctively slapping him before your brain could catch up with what you had done.
Your eyes went wide as you saw his head turn. The pale skin of his cheek sporting a faintly pink handprint that perfectly aligned with the hand you would probably be losing in just a moment.
"Oh my god, I'm so sorry. Gojo, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to. I don't know why I did-"
He turned his head back to look at you making your mouth clamp shut. He took a step forward and you mirrored it by taking a step back. He took another and you did the same, both of you playing this game until your back hit the shower wall.
He placed his palm next to your head making you jump as he leaned in. Bringing his face level to yours as you cringed back into the wall, feeling like your heart was caught in your throat. All the rumours you had heard about his temper returning to you now.
"Kiss it better." He muttered.
"W-what?" You asked hesitantly, almost entirely sure you had misheard him. Perhaps he had said something about his intentions to kill and you had heard kiss.
"Kiss it better." He repeated, turning his pinkened cheek towards you and tapping his finger against it pointedly.
"Oh, uh okay." You said, you didn't quite want to kiss your naked comrade in arms on the cheek but it was better than being disemboweled in the communal showers so you leaned up and pressed a quick kiss to his cheek.
He grinned as though you had done something particularly pleasing and his nickname began to make more sense than ever. The man really was barking mad.
"Now grab something from my bag to wear. I'll rip out the eyes of anyone who sees you like this." Gojo said, turning to saunter back to his shower.
You watched him go, wondering what sort of lunatic you had gotten yourself acquainted with. In the coming days you'd have that thought more often than anticipated.
Gojo Satoru wasn't just a powerful man, but an odd one too and for some reason everyone else just made allowances for it. Now that you were under his wing, that meant they made the same allowances for you.
The taunting by the others and dirty looks they had given you since your first mission when you hid instead of fighting had stopped. So had the very vocal disapproval of your superiors for your lack of strength and endurance.
Hanging out with Gojo also meant getting the gym to yourself, which was a great place to take a nap while the lunatic spent hours on various weight machines building muscles in places you didn't know people had them. It also meant never having to share the showers with anyone but Gojo though you didn't know if that was an upgrade considering he seemed to have no idea how to act in communal showers.
He was always chatting away and staring right at you as he did. The others may have hogged the hot water and been more unsightly in their nude form but at least they didn't stare. That was a small price to pay for all the perks though.
Being his friend wasn't hard. When you had first approached him you'd expected to be something of a lackey, imagining fetching his meal trays and egging him on when he got into a fight with someone. Truth was he did more for you than you did for him.
He got your meals for you because his great aunt actually gave him what he asked for and he would refill your water and even buy you snacks. It was unfortunate he didn't use his power to excuse you from training entirely but you tried not to get too greedy.
Eccentric as he was, beneath the aristocratic features and muscled physique that would imply an empty mind, he was actually quite smart. Seemed to be well-educated too so why he was so intrigued by you was genuinely a bit confusing. You didn't know what it was about you that made him seem to hang onto every word.
Those intense eyes of his bore into you while you spoke, though you were starting to get used to the other-worldly blue of them. He would burst into laughter at the oddest of times, particularly when you weren't intending to be funny. Though he'd always crack at least a smile at even your bad jokes. Grabbing you by the scruff and hauling you in when you truly made him laugh, resting his forehead against yours in a gesture you'd normally think too affectionate for friends but perhaps that's how comrades were.
The sound of the pulldown machine he was currently using was faintly registering as your mind began to wake but you refused to let yourself fully rouse to consciousness. When the sound of the machine struggling against the maniac who had had dragged you here this early finally seized, you had just begun to sink back into sleep when you heard the murmur of your name.
You groaned, turning over and clenching your eyes shut. Trying to escape into dreamland so you wouldn't have to face another day of arduous training and the resulting cloud of body odor that lingered in every room of the building because of it.
"Come on, wake up." Gojo said, poking your cheek but you batted at his hand.
“You’ve been napping for two hours. Do you not sleep at night?” He asked, which were long sentences and if you were understanding them then that meant the fall back asleep ship had sailed without you on board.
“No Gojo, I don’t sleep at night.” You sighed, sitting up and rubbing at your eyes.
“Why?” He asked, passing you his water bottle and smoothing your mussed hair as you took a long drink from it. Making you choke on the water as you dodged his hand irritably.
“Because the rats I’m roomed with stay up till ungodly hours playing games and drinking.” You said, once you’d finally managed to clear the water in your airways, helped by Gojo’s thumping of your back.
“Do they make you play with them?” He asked, returning to his patting of your hair.
“No, as if I’d ever do something so childish.” You scoffed, batting at his hand.
Truth was they didn’t let you play nor did they share their booze. Apparently rewards were for “soldiers not cowards” according to those jerks.
“Then why can’t you sleep?”
“Because they’re loud and stop touching my hair or I swear to god.” You growled, slapping at his hand.
“Swear to god to what?” He asked, though his gaze was a bit far away. Staring at the wall across from you both as though lost in thought about something. Probably trying to mentally tally the reps he had done, the meathead.
“I’ll - I’ll bite you.” You said, floundering for a threat when the man was double your size.
He smirked, amused. Holding up his giant claw of a hand before you like an offering.
“Well, as long as you’ve learned your lesson I'll let it pass this time.” You said, going to get up but that offending appendage forced you down by your shoulder. One of his claws keeping you seated and the other mussing up your hair until you really were livid enough to risk it all.
You caught his hand, bringing it to your mouth not paying any attention to how deceptively easy that was to do. Sinking your teeth into the soft flesh between his pointer finger and thumb like a feral pest.
Missing entirely the way those blue eyes darkened as he watched you, pupils blown wide. The hand forcing you down now cupping your shoulder and guiding you closer.
You pulled away, worried if you continued you might actually draw blood.
“My turn.” He said and you only had enough time to feel your stomach drop as he leaned in and then his teeth were sinking down into the conjecture between your neck and shoulder and you were screaming.
Pain wasn't familiar to you and to feel the teeth of a brute sinking into your sensitive flesh wasn’t something you could withstand with the grace of a soldier.
You slapped and batted at him but your hands were caught in his and easily restrained. Finally after what felt like an eternity of agony, he pulled back. Staring down at the mark he’d left in your soft flesh with a satisfied gleam in those freakish eyes of his.
He leant back in making you scream again but it broke off into an exclamation of “ew what the fuck man” as you felt something warm and wet drag over the bite mark.
You pushed vindictively at his chest when he pulled back and released your hands. Running over to the closest mirror to inspect the wound.
“You’re a fucking freak.” You called over your shoulder as you looked at the clear indents of his goddamn molars in your flesh.
“Be glad I didn’t break skin.” He said, making you yelp as he seemed to materialize right behind you like some sort of fucking ghost. Staring at your reflection with his mark on your soft skin with so much satisfaction and intrigue it turned your stomach.
You moved back intending to stomp his foot but froze as you felt something hard and large poking into your lower back.
“Please tell me that’s your water bottle in your pants.” You muttered.
“Nope.” He whispered back, popping the p in a way that had you jumping away.
“You’re a real freak. You better stay at least 6 feet away from me from now on.” You warmed.
He grabbed your wrist, hauling you in to his chest. You screamed again as the monstrosity in his gym shorts pressed into your stomach. Pushing against his chest but he kept you pinned with an arm around your waist.
“Nothing can make me stay away from you. You’re mine, I do what I want with you.” He said as easily as one tells the time and you scoffed.
“Like hell you do. Bit me like I’m a goddamn prime cut steak and then popped a boner. What a- oh my god are you a cannibal?” You asked, eyes wide in terror as you looked up at him. Mind jumping to the only conclusion you could think of in which a fellow soldier would be turned on by biting you.
“I wasn’t before but I might just become one because of you.” He muttered lowly, leaning down towards your neck as he spoke and snapping his teeth at you making you yelp again.
“6 feet, you rat.” You warned, somehow getting lucky and managing to shove him off as you accidentally brushed the beast pressing against your stomach in a way that had him going a little weak in the knees.
You watched him warily, a hand held out before you which you pulled back to your chest when his gaze dropped to it. He took a step forward and you took one back to maintain the distance.
“I-I’m warning you.” You said shakily which he ignored completely. Stalking forward until you were pressed up against the mirror with him hovering over you. That offending snake between his legs pressing against your stomach again.
“Warning me of what? Are you gonna bite me again?” He asked, tone light with amusement but those freaky blues still darkened in a devious way that didn’t sit well with you.
“I might if you force my hand.” You said, sounding uncertain even to your own ears.
The last bite had resulted in you nearly getting a chunk torn out of your neck and then getting harassed by a thing that should only exist in those bad romance novels you sometimes liked to read. You weren't really itching to repeat that episode.
“Do it here, please.” He breathed, and just for a second you could see why all the other soldiers complained he had it all.
So mesmerizingly pretty as he titled his head up, exposing the long column of his strong neck to you. Long lashes that nearly touched the apples of his cheeks when he blinked, pointed little nose and lush pink lips but then the words they uttered registered and the trance was broken.
“You’re completely fucking nuts” You mumbled, almost to yourself but he heard anyway.
“Too bad you’re stuck with me.” He said, backing off and finally you could breathe without the oppressive hulk of him looming over you. The monstrosity between his legs and the fangs in his mouth a safe distance away from you.
“We’ll see about that.” You mumbled, missing the way his eyes narrowed at your comment. No longer amused or playful.
You had known Gojo was weird but not threatening cannibalism or popping boners at his fellow comrades weird. It was making you reevaluate your chosen survival strategy.
Unfortunately while you were pondering whether it would be in your best interest to distance yourself from him, he was thinking the exact opposite. Planning how to get you more securely into his clutches.
He hated the thought of others around you. Not to mention others sharing a room with you. He couldn’t believe he hadn’t thought about it sooner. People other than him around you while you were at your most vulnerable, asleep or changing.
That had to change immediately.
He wiped at your mouth with his thumb, swiping off the bit of sauce on the edge of your mouth. Bringing it to his own and licking it off. You hadn’t reacted to him wiping your face since he did it so often but your eyes went wide as saucers as you saw him lick the sauce off his thumb.
“You really have got to stop doing shit like that.” You said when you got your bearings back after staring at him blankly for another minute.
“Here you can have my karaage too.” He said, pushing his tray forward which was enough to distract you.
“Your roommates really bother you, don’t they?” He asked, watching you stuff your face with the karaage from his tray.
“Yeah, they’re complete assholes. Childish too, did I tell you they play games all night? Like talk about lack of maturity.”
“You should change rooms.”
“I tried, not allowed. Apparently we need to man up and learn to deal with each other’s shit.” You said, quoting the Commander.
“You can if there’s a vacancy in one of the other rooms.”
“Is there? Oh yeah the guy you put in the- I mean the guy who took a bad fall’s bed is probably empty but he’s roommates with that guy who smells like blue cheese. I’d rather not.” You said.
“My room has a vacancy.” He said.
“I thought lieutenants got their own rooms.” You said suspiciously.
“Yeah exactly, there’s an empty spot for you to take.”
You blinked at him, trying to mentally calculate if lack of sleep or risking being eaten by the snake swinging potential-cannibal was worse.
“The Commander doesn’t do his morning wake-up calls in the lieutenant’s rooms.” He said and you were sold. To not be forcefully woken to the unfortunate sight of your Commander screaming in your face that you were a waste of space and would regret not waking up sounded like a dream.
“Rooming together would be cool.” You said, already fantasizing about getting to sleep-in.
“Great, finish eating. Then we’ll go pack your stuff.” Gojo said, only then picking up his own chopsticks and beginning to eat his food.
Packing was quick when you had superhuman strength on your side. Your roommates cleared out in a matter of seconds when they saw Gojo follow you in, not that they would have tried to stop you either way.
You walked alongside Gojo who was carrying both your bags in one hand swung over his shoulder, following him to the lieutenants’ quarters where his room was.
You waited behind as he unlocked his door and then stepped in after him. Scanning the room that was surprisingly neat. You’d only ever gotten glimpses over his shoulder as he locked the door after himself.
The detail that stood out to you most though was the count of beds in the room which stood at a steady and alarming one.
“Where’s the empty bed?” You asked. Watching as Gojo set down your stuff and then sat down on the bed.
“I said empty spot, and here it is.” He said, to your utter horror patting the spot next to him on the solitary bed in the room.
“Oh no. That's not gonna work. Thanks but hard pass.” You said stepping forward and grabbing your bags. The larger one of which you were quite unsuccessful in lifting and resolved to drag towards the door instead.
Before you could even make it more than a step away while dragging the bag that probably weighed more than you considering you were never a light packer, Gojo was in front of the door. Blocking the only exit.
“The change is processed. You can’t go back now.” He said.
“Processed where?” You cried. You had this discussion less than an hour ago and certainly hadn’t put in any requests.
“In the system. Your bed’s being given to the new arrival and you’re rooming with me.”
“I didn’t submit anything, how’s that possible?”
“I did it for you.”
“The office closes at 4.”
“I processed it this morning.” He said making your jaw drop at the sheer audacity of the extraterrestrial being before you.
“What do you mean you did it this morning? I didn’t even know this was happening till an hour ago.”
“I knew you’d agree.” He shrugged.
“Well I don’t, so kindly please go tell them they can’t give away my bed and help me carry this back. I know it's mine but I don't understand what I put in here to make it weigh a ton.”
“Not happening, darling. I told you you’re stuck with me, so you might as well settle in. Feel free to shower first.” He said and it was all too much for your brain to process but one particular detail stuck out.
“Wait, you’re telling me you have a shower in your room?
“Yeah, convenient isn’t it?”
“So why the fuck have you been using the communal showers?” You asked.
“Because that’s where you shower.” He answered as though that was a completely reasonable thing to say.
“Yeah like I said, hard pass on this whole situation. I’ll drag that newbie out by his toe hair if I have to. That bed’s mine.” You said, starting for the door, intending to somehow push past him while you dragged your overly large bag.
Perhaps you could somehow use the weight of it to your advantage. You remembered them teaching you all something about throwing off your opponent using their weight so this had to be similar. Not that you ever mastered that maneuver either.
"Darling, you have two options. Be good and listen to me, start unpacking your stuff, take a shower and then come to bed or I tie you to the bed. I unpack your stuff and then shower you myself. Either way you're staying in this room." He said making you pause in your very unsuccessful dragging of the bag sent from hell.
You stared at him, trying to discern if he was quite serious and would really follow through on his threat. Nothing about those blue eyes of his was giving you any confidence that he had a single rational or normal bone in his oversized body and so you gave up.
"I'm building a pillow wall between us." You huffed.
Your pillow wall lasted about 0.3 seconds before being quite unceremoniously, and unnecessarily violently, tossed to the floor. Then you were pulled back into the chest of the lunatic who had tricked you into his den and were used like a teddy bear.
There was no dignity in any of this. That pension could not begin to cover the damages that you had incurred here in this hellhole.
It was warm though, and his bed was softer and blankets fuzzier than your own. The weight of his long limbs on you was making you drowsy even through the haze of anger that nearly blinded you.
"You're a bad man." Was all you could manage before sleep overcame you.
Gojo didn't sleep though. He couldn't believe how good it felt to have you in his arms. So soft, so warm against him. If he wanted, and god how he wanted, he could completely envelope you in his arms so none of you was left exposed to the rest of the world. Take all of you for himself.
You moaned in your sleep, arching up slightly and he loosened his hold just enough to let you turn once he realized that was what you wanted and then on top of being sleepless, he was also rendered breathless. You turned, resting your head on his shoulder easily as though even in your sleep you could tell you two fit like puzzle pieces.
His heart clenched as he stared down at you. Watched your parted lips, still not knowing what they tasted like. Gojo wasn't ignorant to the effect he had on people and yet somehow the only one he had ever wanted was entirely immune.
He pulled you in closer, lowering his head to press his lips to your forehead. Feeling a warmth bloom in the core of his being that he had never felt before. This had to be what others called being at peace. So fulfilled, like there was nothing else he wanted, nowhere else he would rather be. This was addicting.
You woke enveloped in warmth, arching up and stretching in the little space you had between the awfully heavy covers pinning you to the bed. Finally opening your eyes and then screaming in horror when you were met with two blue lightbulb like objects floating in a blurry pale shape mere inches from your face.
"What is it?" The shape asked and as your vision focused you rest your hand over your racing heart. Trying to catch your breath from the insane jolt of adrenaline seeing something so unnatural that early had caused you.
"Don't do that. Why are you staring at me with your 500 megawatt bulbs at - god 7 in the morning." You said, turning to check the clock by his bedside.
"Wait isn't this actually late for you?" You asked, remembering he normally rose at 5.
"I didn't want to risk waking sleeping beauty." He said with a smirk.
"You could be doing laps around the bed with a lawn mower and I wouldn't wake up once I'm asleep. I just can't fall asleep in noise." You clarified.
"Lucky I'm quiet as a mouse at night." He said.
"It takes a big man to admit he's a rat." You said, going to scooch off the bed but Gojo tightened his arm around you.
"Where are you going?" He asked.
"To get changed for training, we're already late." You answered.
"They would understand if we skipped a day." He said.
"No, I want to see the thief that stole my bed."
You could never have anticipated that in that thief you would find a kindred spirit. A soldier who flinched when anyone came near them in combat practice or looked out at the field with utter dread painted on their face. Perhaps that bed was simply fated only to have rational heads rest on it, or cowards as the rest of the troop would put it.
It was inevitable that you two would begin to get close when you were always the last ones to finish a lap, dragging your feet and cursing having ever laid eyes on this place. Standing with your backs against the wall as the others went hand to hand as though fighting for their lives when it was just practice.
Of course there was someone who highly disproved of this camaraderie. Gojo hated the new guy. Would glare daggers into him whenever he saw you both together and was the only reason you weren't braiding each other's eyebrow hair and exchanging pension fantasies.
"Oh man if that weight had fallen on my foot I'd be lined up at admin with my direct deposit form in hand faster than Commander could call me an idiot." The new guy - Kaido said making you guffaw and nod in agreement.
"What a fucking dumbass, telling the Commander he's just fine. That was a golden ticket to pension land." You agreed.
"You're too young to be thinking about pension." A voice said from right behind you making you yelp and turn to see Gojo looming above you and Kaido.
"I think you just shaved ten years off my life. We really need to put a bell on you." You said, taking the offered water bottle from Gojo and letting him pull you back so you were stood by his side.
"Lieutenant Gojo, sir." Kaido greeted awkwardly making you laugh and elbow Gojo, glancing up expecting him to laugh too but rather seeing him looking down his nose at Kaido as though he were dirt on his shoe.
The Commander called you all in before you could say anything but it stayed on your mind the rest of the morning anyway.
"Do you not like Kaido?" You asked as you sat on the bed that day while Gojo was folding both your laundry making him pause.
"No, I don't." He said, looking up at you, taking you by surprise. You had at least expected him to deny it.
"Why?"
"Because he sticks too close to you."
"No, you stick too close to me. Kaido understands the concept of personal space." You said.
"He better. I don't like seeing you with him, stay away from him." He said making you frown.
"I like Kaido, Kaido's my friend." You defended, not noticing the way the way Gojo froze at your words.
"He's your friend?" He asked, voice deceptively level and calm.
"Yeah, unlike the rest of you try-hards he understands the appeal of the easy life. We get each other." You answered not even getting a moment to try to back away before Gojo had tossed aside the towel he was holding and was rounding the bed.
Grabbing you by the jaw, he pushed you down flat onto the bed. Knocking the wind out of you with the unexpectedness of the movement. He sat down straddling your hips, keeping you pinned in place.
"Tell me again who’s your friend." He said.
"What the fuck dude? What's wrong with y-" You asked, being cut off by your own gasp of pain as he tightened his hold around your jaw to the point where the bones creaked in protest.
"Who is your friend?" He asked again.
"K-Kaido." You answered, not quite understanding what his problem was.
His eyes darkened and grip got even tighter making you grab at his hand, afraid he really might break your jaw.
"G-Gojo please it hurts." You mumbled, words barely intelligible with the way he was holding your face.
"I'm your only friend. You don't need anyone else. Just me." He said, leaning down closer so your noses nearly brushed against each other. Enouncing each word clearly and calmly as though he weren't actively trying to crush your face between his hand.
"Fine, fine just you. Please let go, it hurts." You pleaded. Willing to say anything to make him release you in that moment.
He let go of your face, seemingly satisfied but didn't get off of you. Watching in silence as you rubbed at the clear imprints of his fingers on your face. The bruises darkening into your soft skin.
He felt a pang in his chest, he hadn't meant to hurt you. He had just lost his mind a little hearing you so casually give someone else the place he held in your life.
"Let me see." He said, reaching for your face but you slapped at his hands. Pushing him away and when he saw the way your eyes were watering with pain he backed off readily, heart sinking as he realized he had hurt you to the point of inducing tears.
"I'll get you some ice." He said.
"No need." You scoffed, wiping at your eyes with the back of your hand. Scooching off the bed and heading for the door.
He let you go, knowing you needed some time to cool off. He'd always gone too far when it came to protecting his things and keeping the paws of others off of them. He'd never meant to hurt you though.
You slammed the door behind you. Immediately headed to the admin office. In the past few weeks you had often wondered if choosing to befriend Gojo had been a mistake but today had proven it. He was a far bigger lunatic than you had initially known. Volatile in his unpredictability. You were better off without someone like him by your side, either he'd get you in trouble or he'd end up hurting you seriously in one of his fits.
"I'd like to change rooms." You said as soon as you made it to the admin office, approaching the man sitting behind the desk who you'd never bothered learning the name of.
"Why?" The man asked, looking like he'd rather be doing anything but his job.
"I'm rooming with Lieutenant Gojo right now-" You paused as you saw the man's eyes widen and him sit up straighter.
"But there's only one bed so I'd like to request to be switched into any room with a vacant bed." You continued, wondering why he looked so alarmed.
"There's no vacant beds." The man said making you scoff.
"I know there has to be at least one considering Tomoya is still in a coma and will probably be in no condition to continue in the force when he wakes." You said.
"His bed was sent to headquarters." The man answered and you stared at him blankly, making his ears turn red at how stupid of a lie he had just uttered.
"Okay, well I don't have a bed so can you request headquarters to send it back so I have a place to sleep?" You asked.
"I'll put in the request." The man said.
"And how long is that going to take?" You asked.
"I don't know but I'll let you know when it's processed." He said making your eye twitch.
"Fine, thanks." You relented, getting the feeling there was no reasoning with this soulless slave to bureaucracy.
You would check Tomoya's dorm yourself. If you found the empty bed then you'd come here and demand this lying rat to process the transfer right then.
You lurked in the corridor outside Tomoya's room, icing your bruised jaw until one of his roommates finally emerged. The door opened and the pungent smell of blue cheese wafted out, singing your nose hair but you still forced yourself forward to take a peek. Letting out a triumphant "ha" which had your future roommate flinching out of surprise.
"I knew that man was a liar." You said to the soldier currently staring at you like you had two heads before marching back to the admin office. Swearing out loud when you saw the door was now closed. It probably wasn't even 4 yet.
You would be back first thing tomorrow morning. Waiting outside before the office opened to force that stinking liar to process your transfer request. That meant you just needed to figure something out for tonight. Tomorrow by this time you would have roommates who weren't actively a threat to everyone around them.
You didn’t want to see Gojo but the clinic doctor saw right through your lies about being sick and wouldn't let you into the infirmary. Upon arriving to the base you had feigned being sick quite often to get out of missions and more arduous training sessions so by now the doctor was more likely to believe Pinocchio with an actively elongating nose than you.
You couldn't avoid seeing Gojo but that didn't mean you couldn't ignore him. You walked right past him at shooting practice. Joining Lieutenant Hiroshi's group instead and avoided his gaze at dinner, choosing to sit next to Kaido instead. Feeling the full force of those otherworldly blues on you all throughout the rest of the day but refusing to look back at him.
Kaido however was having more trouble ignoring Gojo than you.
"He looks like he wants to kill us. Wait - actually he was only looking at me like that. He looks like he wants to kill me and looks like he's going to eat you as usual." Kaido said.
"Ignore him." You responded, angrily shoving another piece of broccoli in your mouth.
"Easy for you to say, he doesn't look like he wants to kill you. What happened between the two of you anyway?"
"Nothing." You barked, the word muffled and unintelligible due to the very undercooked broccoli still filling your mouth.
"Muppet?" Kaido asked in confusion making you huff in annoyance.
"I said nothing and I'm sleeping in your dorm tonight." You said after forcefully swallowing the unchewable broccoli down.
"What, why? There's no space in our dorm." Kaido whined.
"Because you stole my bed."
"I didn't steal shit, you transferred to Lieutenant Gojo's room so they gave me yours."
"I didn't transfer. That rat filled out the paperwork himself. You know what - it doesn't matter. Here, I'll give you my chocolate pudding if you let me stay." You said, pushing your tray towards Kaido.
"I don't like choc- oh it's blueberry. Fine, you can stay." Kaido said and you swore out loud when you looked down at the pudding. Being a pain in the ass clearly ran in the family.
You heard a bang across the dining hall and glanced up only to see a fuming Gojo up on his feet. His tray of food now spread all over the ground next to his table. He glared at you and Kaido as he made his way across the dining hall. Grabbing your tray from in front of Kaido and throwing it to the floor with a loud clattering sound that made you flinch.
"Stop testing my patience unless you want to see what happens when it runs out." Gojo warned, but you were too stunned by the commotion to think of anything to say. He turned to stalk out of the dining hall when you didn't respond.
"What a fucking nutter." You muttered under your breath once you were quite sure Gojo was out of earshot, glancing over at Kaido to see he was still frozen.
"Hey, you okay?" You asked, nudging him with your elbow.
"I don't know if that's spilt juice or if I pissed my pants." Kaido said making you grimace in disgust as you looked down at his pants to see that they were indeed soaked.
"Looks a little orange so unless you're very sick it's got to be the juice." You said, hoping you were right.
After clearing up the tray and giving Kaido the chance to shower and change out of the juice/sickly urine-soaked pants you two made your way back to your old dorm to retire for the night.
"What are you doing back here?" One of your old roommates asked the moment you walked in.
"I'm sleeping here tonight."
"Did Gojo get sick of his little lapdog?"
"Should we go ask him that together?" You asked, making the smirk fall right off the ugly mug of your most obnoxious old roommate.
"Whatever." He responded, going back to the stupid card game he had been playing with the others.
You and Kaido stood staring at the twin bed that looked even smaller than you remembered it. It really wasn't built for two adults to share.
"We can just lay in opposite directions." You suggested.
"Gross, I'm not laying with your feet in my face." Kaido said.
"Okay then orange-piss boy, what do you suggest?" You asked, earning yourself a dirty look from Kaido and confused glances from the others.
"Why don't you just take the floor?"
"Because the floor is hard and cold and there's creepy crawlies everywhere."
"Fine, we'll just share the bed. It's really no different than standing side by side." Kaido said.
It was very different. The bed was so cramped you couldn't even build a pillow wall without compromising the little space you had and of course Kaido had the pointiest elbows known to mankind. He wouldn't stop shuffling around to get comfortable and one of his elbows from hell would dig into your vulnerable midsection.
After the fourth time you elbowed him back which started a war you were bound to lose with your regular human elbows. You both eventually fell asleep bruised and cramped.
You were woken far too soon for it to be morning by a hand desperately slapping at you and then gripping into your pajama shirt as though about to tear it off. You slapped at the hand, trying to get back to sleep but were forced awake when you heard an odd, muffled gurgling sound followed by the voice of the last person you expected to hear.
"Keep your fucking hands to yourself." You heard Gojo say making your eyes fly open, struggling to adjust in the dark room only to see him forcing Kaido's hand backwards until you heard a sharp snapping sound as his wrist broke.
Your scrambled upwards on the bed, struggling to make sense of what you were seeing. Gojo sat straddling Kaido's chest, chocking him with one hand. The other still holding the wrist he had broken. Kaido let out a muffled scream, turning to look at you and reaching out towards you with his other hand making you flinch back but Gojo caught that hand before it could reach you.
"What did I just fucking say? Why can't people just listen while I'm asking nicely. Everyone's always trying to get their paws on what's mine." Gojo said, tossing Kaido's hand back down to his side. Increasing the force with which he was choking Kaido, pushing his head further down into the bed.
"G-Gojo what the fuck?" You asked, shakily reaching for the hand that was choking Kaido but seeing that manic blue gaze turn on you in the darkness had your blood freezing in your veins.
The predatory look he had while hunting curses back on his face but this time there was no joy accompanying it. Just a single-minded determination to take out what he saw as a rival for his chosen prey.
"Oh darling, did we wake you? I'm sorry, I was just teaching this fucker what happens when he puts his hands on what's mine. Why don't you go sleep in our room? I'll be there in a minute."
Kaido let out a muffled whimper, his flailing growing weak as he began turning purple with the blood rushing to his head. His teary eyes met yours, forcing you into action. As much as you wanted it to be, this wasn't a nightmare. Gojo had really somehow found you here and was about to kill Kaido if you didn't do something.
"Get off of him Gojo." You cried, shoving at his chest with all your might but it wasn't enough to move him.
You glanced back, about to yell to wake the others. Only to see them already awake, sitting up in their beds. Watching the scene with wide, horrified eyes.
"Fucking help me." You yelled at them, pushing and clawing at Gojo who didn't even bother to swat at you. Instead wrapping his free arm around your waist and pinning you to his side.
You thrashed against him, pulling and scratching at his arm as Kaido's eyes bulged.
"You're gonna kill him." You screamed, near feral now in your attempts to get Gojo off but it was like trying to move a rock.
"This is what happens when you befriend someone else. Look closely darling." Gojo mumbled, resting his forehead against your head. Completely relaxed as though he weren't actively choking the life out of someone.
"You fucking cowards." You screamed at the others, looking around desperately for something to help you get Gojo off. Your gaze landed on Kaido's alarm clock and you grasped at it desperately, turning in Gojo's hold and slamming it down into his temple with all your strength.
He reared back, finally releasing Kaido and you shoved him back off of him. Watching, with your hands hovering helplessly as Kaido coughed weakly, tears still streaming down his eyes and broken wrist held against his chest as tremors shook through him.
You heard that bark-like laughter and turned to see Gojo clutching his bleeding head. Streaks of blood running down the left side of his face, over his eye making the mania of his unnaturally blue gaze all the more terrifying to witness. Blood seeping through the hand he held to his head yet he was laughing.
"Only you, darling, would dare to do such a thing. Only you could get away with it." He said, pulling you in by the wrist back towards him.
"Let go, you fucking psycho." You yelled, hitting your fists against his chest but he swept both your wrists up in his hand. Palm sticky with blood that rubbed off onto your skin as he brought your conjoined hands up to his mouth to press a kiss to them.
"Never, I'm never going to let you go." He muttered, lips still against your hands. Darting his head back with a laugh as you tried to swipe at his face.
"You're not going to have a choice. When everyone finds out what you've done you're going to end up rotting in prison."
"Whose gonna put me there?" He asked, smiling indulgently as though speaking to a child.
"Me, I'm going to report you for what you've done to Kaido and I'll tell them about Tomoya too." You threatened.
"But you covered for me, you're my little accomplice. Won't that get you in trouble too?" Gojo asked, voice still light and teasing but his words made you blanche.
He let out another one of his bark-like laughs at the look on your face, darting forward and pressing a kiss to your cheek as though unable to help himself. You flinched back in disgust.
"Oh darling, I'm just teasing. I'd never let you get in any trouble and neither will I. You don't have to worry your pretty little head over things like that when you're with me. I take care of what's mine."
"There's four witnesses to you attacking Kaido. There's no way you'll get away with this." You said.
"What witnesses? Did you guys see me here tonight?" Gojo asked the others without even bothering to take his eyes off of you. He always thought you looked so cute while angry, turning as red as a tomato and glaring as though you could ever hope to intimidate anyone.
"No, sir." Came three responses making your eyes widen and you turned to look at your old roommates.
"Are you fucking kidding me? You all called me a coward but really you're the cowards." You spat, and not one of them could meet your gaze.
"It doesn't matter. I witnessed it, I'll help Kaido report you." You said, turning back to Gojo.
"My poor darling, you really don't know who I am, do you? I could kill Kaido at breakfast and no one would even dare complain about the mess."
"What do you mean? Who cares if you're a lieutenant, you can't go attacking soldiers."
"Poor, sweet thing, you don't even know who you decided to befriend. You don't even know who it is you belong to." Gojo tsked as though truly sympathetic at your naivety.
"I'm Gojo Satoru, darling. This place is only running because my family wants it to, because I want it to. I can do whatever I want here, but lucky for you, so can you. So long as you have my approval of course. Sleepovers with other soldiers are not allowed." Gojo said and suddenly everything he got away with doing began to make sense.
How he had gotten away with nearly killing a fellow soldier with as poor an alibi as yourself. Why he had a room nicer than the Commander and wasn't questioned for any of his insane antics. Where he got all that audacity from.
"I get you were upset with me so I'll let this one slide, but if you ever do something like this again, I'll have no choice but to punish you. You're mine, don't ever let anyone else get so close, let alone touch you." Gojo said, reaching for your face. Face dropping and eyes growing cold as you flinched back from his touch.
"Enough. I told you not to test my patience. Don't push me so far that I have to get strict with you. Now come on, let's go to our room." Gojo said, getting up off the bed and holding his hand out to you.
"You're fucking insane if you think I'm going anywhere with you." You said, turning back to Kaido and ignoring his hand but it was a mistake to turn your back to Gojo.
You were yanked back around by your arm making you cry out, Gojo ducking down and tossing you over his shoulder like you weighed nothing before turning to stalk out of the room.
"I warned you." He said, swatting at your ass with one of those giant hands making you yelp.
"Put me down." You demanded, squirming and flailing to try to get out of his hold. A kick to his stomach only earned you another smack on your ass.
Your yelling must have attracted attention for you heard a door opening down the hall and the Commander's voice demanding which moron was up causing a commotion this early before he came into view wearing a sleep robe tied over pajamas.
"Help me." You called out, reaching out towards the Commander when he stood there staring as though frozen in shock. Heart sinking as Gojo got closer and the man merely stepped out of his way.
"Excuse us from training for the rest of the week, we've got a couple things to work through." Gojo said as he passed the Commander.
"Yes, of course. Let me know if you need to leave the base, I'll have a car arranged."
"That won't be necessary." Gojo responded, turning the corner so you could no longer see the man who you had expected to help you but had only stood with his head bowed down to the monster carrying you off.
Gojo didn't so much as slow down until he had made it back to his room. Opening the door with you still hanging over his shoulder with ease and dropping you down onto the bed. You immediately got to your feet, eyeing him warily where he stood before you.
He raised his hand and you flinched back making him frown as he brought his hand to the still-bleeding wound on his head.
"Fuck, you got me good." He winced, prodding at the wound tenderly and going over to the mirror hung up on the wall to get a better look.
"I didn't think you were capable of that but it's good to see you're not completely defenseless. Though, next time, maybe try hitting someone else and not your friend." He said, wiping at the blood with his t-shirt gingerly.
"You're not my friend." You said, seeing him pause in the reflection of the mirror. Eyes flashing before he closed them and took a deep breath as though trying to restrain himself.
"You're angry." He sighed, turning back to face you.
"No, I'm not angry. I'm disgusted. I can't believe I ever called you a friend." You spat.
His jaw clenched but he shook his head as though the movement would help him shake off what you had said.
"I lost control and I hurt you. I get that you're mad and I'm sorry for hurting you, I really am, but don't go saying things you don't mean." He said.
"Oh I mean it. You mean nothing to me, I don't ever want to see your face again. In fact, I'm leaving. Fuck this whole force. That pension isn't worth this shit." You said, moving towards the closet intending to pack but before you could even round the bed Gojo had crossed the room and was turning you to face him by the arm.
Your protests died on your lips as you caught sight of his face. Blue eyes alight with rage, the veins running up his neck and into his jaw standing out grotesquely from how tightly he was clenching his teeth. He looked inhuman, like something animalistic and feral. For the first time you felt truly afraid of Gojo.
"Didn't I say not to push me too far?" He asked through gritted teeth.
"Didn't I?" He demanded loudly, gripping you by your upper arms and giving you a sound shake.
"Y-you did." You responded, arching up in his hold to try to get out of the painful grip he had on your arms.
"Who are you leaving?" He asked, bringing you in closer by the hold he had on you.
"Who said you could fucking leave me? Who even allowed you to think it?" He barked, giving you another shake.
"You're mine, you don't ever get to walk away from me. You're the one who barged into my life, you think you can just up and leave whenever you want?" He demanded, his grip growing steadily tighter on your arms.
"Gojo, please, you're hurting me." You said, eyes watering from the pain but you didn't dare try to pull away.
"And what about how much you're hurting me?" He asked.
"Does my pain mean fucking nothing to you? Saying shit like I mean nothing to you, that I'm not your friend. You know what, you're right. I'm not your friend. I'm so much fucking more than that. Friend doesn't begin to cover what we are to each other."
"W-what?" You asked. You knew he was weirdly possessive of you but you hadn't anticipated that he thought of you in that way.
"I'm your fucking everything. Your friend, your lover, your husband. It's all me, there is no space for anyone else. I won't let there be anyone else. I'll make you mine in every conceivable way. Put a ring on your finger, brand my name over your fucking heart and mark your pretty little neck with my teeth every damn day." He growled, and before you had a chance to react was leaning down and sinking his teeth into your neck making you scream as he tore through the flesh.
You flailed in his grasp, pushing and shoving at his chest but it was like trying to move stone. After what seemed like an eternity of agony he finally pulled away, teeth lined with your blood and lips crimson with it.
"All fucking mine." He declared, licking over his lips making your breath catch as the reality of your situation dawned on you.
You had walked right into the den of a monster, awakening the beast and now you were trapped in its grasp. You should never have befriended Gojo Satoru. Not when there was all those rumours about him. Shouldn't have thought yourself more clever than the rest, able to tame the infamous mad dog.
"Gojo I don't think of you that way." You said shakily, hoping you could at least get him to go back to wanting to be your friend, not whatever the hell this was.
"That's okay, you'll start. It's my fault, I should have been more clear. I know how oblivious you can be so I wanted to take things slow but clearly that was a mistake on my part."
"Y-you can't force someone to be with you. I don't want to be with you and I won't." You said, trying to sound firm.
"I know you're a little slow and normally I find that to be fucking adorable but I need you to get it through your head that you are mine. You belong to me." He repeated slowly as though trying to drill the words into you.
"You're the one who who forced your way into my life so really this is all on you. I would have left you alone had you not started following me around and then tried to cover for me, getting all worried about me getting into trouble." He said, going from enraged to getting a far-off look in his eye as though reminiscing. He was fucking insane, his moods changed faster than you could keep up with.
"I only approached you because I needed someone who'd have my back during missions. I didn't mean for any of this to go so far." You said.
"I'll always protect you, I'll always have your back. There's no curse, institution or person that can get to you while I'm around." He cooed, not seeming mad at all to find out about your ulterior motive for approaching him.
"I don't need that from you. I'm leaving the force, I never should have joined." You mumbled, filled with regret over your greed that had brought you into the predicament.
"You're not going anywhere. I'll tie you to the bed if that's what it takes. You'll stay where I am. If you don't want to be part of missions, good, I'd rather you not be but you're staying here."
"You can't watch over me every second of every day. I'd find a way to get away so why don't you just make this easy for both of us and let me go?" You asked, making his eyes darken and that bravado that had overcome your senses drained just as fast leaving only a hollow, cold sense of fear behind.
"I told you I'm never letting you go. I'll do whatever it takes to keep you with me. I don't want to tie you up but I'll do it if you make me and if you somehow manage to get out then I'll hunt you down and I'll break your fucking legs so you can't run." He growled making you flinch back.
"Now what's it going to be? Are you going to choose the easy route where you stay with me in our room and get to move about as you please or should I tie you up?" He asked.
"Better yet should I move right to breaking your legs so you don't get any funny ideas about running away? They'll even discharge you with pension if I break your legs, you'll still stay with me of course but it is what you always wanted." He said, grabbing your jaw in his hand and forcing you to look up at him.
His eyes softening when he saw the tears in yours.
"Fuck, I didn't mean to make you cry. Come here." He sighed, pulling you in to his chest and wrapping his arms around you.
Terrified as you were of him you couldn't help but sob into his chest. The dread of the horrible predicament you had gotten yourself into making you seek comfort from anywhere you could get it, even if it was the source of your misery. He hushed you, rubbing a hand up and down your back soothingly. Pressing apologetic kisses into your head.
"I told you not to push me. I fucking lose it when I even so much as think of you not being with me. Just promise me you'll stay with me. That you won't ever leave and we can forget all of this."
"I-I won't." You hiccuped, finally giving in to what had been inevitable since the moment you first approached Gojo.
"We're gonna be so happy together darling. I'll always protect you, all you have to do is stay with me." He cooed into your hair. Hushing you when his words only made you cry harder.
Thinking about Yandere Lieutenant Gojo known as the mad dog amongst his troop. Born to a long line of military commanders and with a reputation for being more fearsome than any of those that preceded him. Entirely too unpredictable and with that sort of backing, no one dared question the things he did.
All you had wanted was protection. The military was not the place for the likes of you but now that you were there you just wanted to ride the coattails of better and more powerful men until you got discharged and a fat pension to accompany your trauma. It was supposed to be simple but you chose the wrong man to kiss up to. They had warned you about the mad dog and you really should have listened. Nothing comes for free.
Wordcount: 14k+
Notes: Not canon-compliant, alternate universe where curses are widely known and everyone can see and fight them. Yandere behaviour, non-con touching, violence and threats of violence. Crack-like until things get serious. Loosely inspired by the manwha Passion.
You bit nervously at your nails, watching all the others gear up as though they were going to play laser tag and not be exposed to real bloodthirsty curses. You hadn't thought this far when you signed up for the Special Force Against Curses. All you knew was your old neighbour who had retired from SFAC now stayed at home all day eating snacks and yelling at his television. That was all you wanted from life.
The brutal 9-5 for decades would wear you out too fast. You couldn't spend the majority of your life waiting desperately for the weekend. It would be easier to enlist, tough it out until you found a way to be discharged with pension.
You hadn't really considered all the danger you'd be exposed to. Suddenly that fat pension made sense. They could afford to dangle it over your heads knowing most of you would not make it to the finish line.
The others began retreating from the weaponry breaking you out of your thoughts and making you wonder if you had taken too long dallying. Now only the stuff no one wanted would be left but then you saw the tall figure make their way through the parted crowd. Not only taller than all the other men but that shock of white hair made him stand out all the more. The one everyone called the mad dog. Though to you he looked more like an extraterrestrial being with those freakish blue eyes of his.
You had heard the rumours. He was as strong as ten men, so fast he could take out a whole gang of curses before they even realized they were under attack. Thought of strategy and planned attacks out in ways others couldn't even perceive of. It sounded like the winning recipe for a soldier but apparently, and according to the more envious men, he was barking mad. You thought it was just jealousy of his skill.
You weren't the jealous type. No, you were the type to recognize that there were others in this world who had advantages and skills you didn't possess but just because you didn't have them, didn't mean you couldn't make use of them. The mad dog, or Gojo Satoru as you would respectfully address him, was exactly the kind of friend you needed to make it out of here alive and get to use the pension you had signed up for.
That day as you cowered behind a wall while the others attacked, you kept an eye out for that shock of white hair. Watching as the man disappeared from your line of sight and reappeared at intervals almost always brutally finishing off a curse and it became quite clear as you watched why he was called the mad dog. He had a smile on his face more frightening than the creatures as he disemboweled them, those freakish eyes of his glowing in the darkness like that of a predator.
That was a man you could hide behind and one clearly capable of protecting you from any and all threats. That evening at dinner when you had gotten your tray of food you marched it over right to Gojo Satoru’s table.
"Can I sit?" You asked before you could think better of it.
Those blue eyes gazing out the window slowly trailed over to you. Not even the slightest shift in his expression as he stared at you as blankly as he had been looking at the scenery out the window beside the table he always sat at, alone.
"No." He said, making your stomach drop. You had been planning how to approach him but you hadn't really considered the possibility he might turn you down.
"I'll give you my dessert." You bartered, his eyes flicked down to your tray.
"Blech, I don't like raspberry pudding." He said making you glance down to your tray too.
"I asked for chocolate." You exclaimed.
You had asked for the chocolate pudding but clearly the blind bat serving had given you the raspberry instead.
"That blind bat." You muttered lowly under your breath, glaring back over your shoulder at the old lady serving. Nearly jumping out of your skin in fright when a bark like laugh erupted from the man sitting before you. Eyes now sparkling when just before he had been looking at you like he wouldn't bat an eye if you dropped dead.
"That's my great aunt." He said, making your heart drop. You had really ruined all chances of friendship.
"She lost her eye sight in one eye while serving and then majority of her sight in the other in a curse attack." He continued. Not only had you ruined chances of friendship you'd gone and made an enemy of the strongest man in the troop, not to mention that he was your superior.
"I'm so-" You started but were cutoff by him speaking again.
"She's got a nose like a hound though so she definitely gave you the raspberry on purpose. Nasty old bat." Gojo said and you nearly went boneless in relief.
"I knew it couldn't always be a mistake." You said swinging one leg over the bench but a tutting sound made you freeze.
"I didn't say you could sit." Gojo said and you blinked at him like a deer in headlights before awkwardly pulling your leg back.
"Find another table, this one's mine." He said, glancing away from you in clear dismissal.
You joined one of the many other tables where the soldiers, clearly still sour that you had hid during the attack, gave you dirty looks which you ignored. Too busy trying to figure out what had happened because there had been a moment when you thought you'd found your in with Gojo Satoru.
You retreated that day but that didn't mean you stopped trying. From then on where Gojo Satoru went, you followed. If he was heading to meals then you were right behind him, tray in hand and getting the exact same foods he chose. You woke when he did and retired to sleep when he did. At first it was just to align your routine but the madman was an early riser so soon you needed to go to bed early if you were going to survive waking at dawn like him.
The only time you weren't dutifully following him around was when you all ran laps. He outpaced you several times and would eventually make it back into your blurred line of sight as you gasped and panted for air while being heckled by your commander for being a disgrace.
He mostly acted like you didn't exist. He would respond when spoken to but still made it abundantly clear you weren't welcome in his space. He had yet to allow you to sit at his table. The only time he had any sort of positive reaction to you was when he would hear something you muttered to yourself and would let out that bark-like laughter that nearly pierced your eardrums.
It was one of those mornings where you were dragging yourself to the training room. Knowing Gojo was already there and cursing him for being such an early riser when you finally saw what made the others avoid the man and speak of him as though he were the legend of a spooky ghost story and not their fellow comrade in arms.
You opened the door to the gym, still a bit bleary eyed but the fog of exhaustion disappeared the moment you took in the scene in front of you. Gojo Satoru was straddling a man on the ground beneath him, pummeling fist after fist into his face. The man's face, now a swollen, bloody mess, was completely unrecognizable even though you had been spending every waking moment surrounded by your fellow soldiers.
You couldn't help the gasp that escaped you when the next punch resulted in a spray of blood splattering up from the man's nose that had been reduced to a mangled mess of bloodied cartilage. Drops of crimson spraying out onto Gojo's pristine, marble-like pale skin. The sight made more unsettling by how other than that splatter of blood across his jaw and neck, there was not even so much as a scratch on him. Not even his hair was mussed.
At the sound, Gojo glanced up making you freeze in place. Those manic blue eyes now on you, glowing just the way they did when he was hunting curses.
"Good morning." Gojo huffed, sitting back on the man as though it were not the body of a person he'd beaten into unconsciousness but a bench.
"Good morning." You breathed, whirling around when you heard footsteps coming down the hall. Your heart nearly fell through your stomach as you made eye contact with the beady pair of your commander.
Violence against fellow soldiers was strictly prohibited. If the commander saw Gojo now he would expel him and all your efforts in fraying him down would have been for naught. The others didn't particularly like you for being weak and hiding during attacks. You had spent all your time following around Gojo and the others had already formed their little cliques. There was no hope of finding another protector.
"Commander, sir, Lieutenant Hiroshi was looking for you in the weaponry. Something about needing help with a holster." You said, making the man pause. It was common knowledge the commander had the biggest crush on Hiroshi.
"A holster?"
"Yes sir, his thigh holster has come loose I believe." You said and the man didn't even bother responding. Turning right back around the way he had come.
"Lieutenant Hiroshi wasn't in the weaponry." A voice said from behind you and you nearly jumped out of your skin. Whirling back around to see Gojo stood behind you with an amused glint in his eyes and more concerningly the blood still splattered across his face.
"I know that but I had to get the commander out of here. If he saw this you would have been discharged from the military and that too disgracefully. You know you don't get pension if you get discharged disgracefully right?" You asked, unthinkingly licking your thumb and swiping at the blood on his jaw.
He flinched back, catching your wrist but you wriggled your hand out. Pushing against his chest so he was forced back into the gym and out of anyone who may be passing's line of sight. You leaned out, scanning the hall before turning back to look at the man whose large chest muscles you only now noticed your hands were still on considering he was looking down at them like he didn't understand what they were.
"Okay, now listen, you head back to your room and if anyone asks you were feeling sick so you didn't come to work out today. If you weren't at the scene of the crime, then you couldn't have committed it. I'll say I found him here like this. Just help me drag him over to the showers so I can say I only saw him after my workout."
Gojo was still watching you in complete silence as though you were speaking another language he didn't speak.
"Come on, get moving. If anyone sees you we're done for." You said.
"We?" He asked, reassuring you that he had in fact not forgotten his mother tongue out of shock. Though he didn't look the least bit flustered or shocked, only slightly perplexed but not at the situation, at you.
"Yes, we. If I get caught covering for your ass then I'll also be discharged dishonorably, completely defeating the purpose of why I enlisted in the first place so you better start putting that brain and those muscles to use." You said, walking over to the man and grimacing at the mess Gojo Satoru had made of his face. You had been about to grab his shoulders but that was too close to the mangled face so instead you moved to grab his legs which were more in tact.
"Why would you cover for me?" Gojo asked suspiciously and you huffed at seeing he still wasn't making any effort to help you. While he'd been enthusiastic about causing the mess, he was quite reluctant to join in on the necessary clean up.
His question registered and you were glad that you had been stooped down to try to lift the unconscious man's legs so Gojo couldn't see the momentary panic on your face. It probably wouldn't do to tell him that it was because you wanted to be brought under his wing until you found a way to be discharged early.
"Because we're friends." You responded, sounding a little unsure even to yourself but a quick glance up at Gojo told you he hadn't quite noticed.
His otherwordly eyes had a far off look and you wondered if he had now gone into shock before he met your eye and you watched as his gaze narrowed in on you reminding you eerily of a hawk zeroing in on their prey, sending a shiver down your spine. You really should have paid more attention to that uneasy sense of foreboding.
Instead of responding, Gojo stooped down to lift the man up by the shoulders and carried the heft of him over to the showers without taking his eyes off you but you were a bit too busy struggling to carry the man's legs to notice.
After you had both dropped the man in the showers you again told Gojo to go back to his room. Catching his wrist just as he was about to leave. He glanced back, looking at your little hand on his wrist and then up to you. Brows creased in worry for him.
"Did anyone see you on your way here?" You asked and when he took a moment too long to answer rushed to clarify.
"Besides the unconscious man."
He shook his head in negative, something about that worried expression rendering him speechless when so many horrors and wonders he'd faced hadn't been able to.
"Good, go." You said releasing his wrist and turning to fret over the unconscious man again.
Gojo walked back to his room in a daze. You didn't know who he was. He had assumed you had been following him around like a shadow because you wanted to be affiliated with the Gojo heir. Set to inherit all the wealth, influence and glory of all the Gojo clan before him but your actions today made it clear you had no idea about his family background.
It wasn't often that people tried to get close to him. Not since what used to be rumours had become so undeniably backed by proof he had provided at nearly every turn in his life that even his parents couldn't refute them without risking looking like fools. And no member of the Gojo clan would ever risk being made a fool.
He had never had a friend. At first it was because his parents simply didn't think anyone worthy of standing beside him as an equal when he so clearly surpassed all the children his age in every conceivable way. That made him used to being alone and not at all used to sharing.
Gojo knew what the others called him - the mad dog for his territorial ways. Gojo didn't take kindly to anyone trying to take what was his. He didn't go around attacking people for no reason but when they tried to use or take his things that set him off. Admittedly he had a tendency to go a bit overboard when set off.
Like this morning when he'd gotten to the gym and seen one of the others using the weight machine he woke up so damn early to be able to use without others pawing all over it. He had asked politely for the man to find another machine because that one was his but the man hadn't listened and Gojo only asked politely once.
When he'd first enlisted these sort of misunderstandings happened fairly often. People mistook living in a shared space to mean Gojo would be sharing what was his. After that misunderstanding had been clarified with some of his fellow comrades in arms, word spread and they learned to stay away from Gojo's things.
He had broken limbs and beat people to unconsciousness in front of their commander and no one had ever dared to so much as write him up. It was real cute though to see you fretting and scheming for him. No one had ever worried over him like this. People had worried because of him. Worried over the damage he could do to them, their reputations in his parent's case or other such nonsensical things.
He found he quite liked your worrying. If this was what being your friend meant then he was quite ready to have you as his first and only friend.
After that morning incident it was like a flip had switched. Suddenly you didn't need to follow Gojo around anymore because he always managed to find you first.
In the morning he was at your door, knocking to be let in and dragging you along to the gym barely awake. If you got to meals later than he did then he'd have a tray of food waiting for you identical to his and if you went together then there was no question you'd be sitting right next to him.
Somehow no one had bothered to question what you had said about finding the man Gojo had beaten into an actual coma on the shower floors. You had been terrified a full investigation would be done and in your nerves suggested that maybe he had just tripped in the showers when your commander had been questioning you about the incident.
At the time he had made it seem like he would be digging into the matter and you were going to be in a lot of trouble if caught lying but then he'd never brought it up again. Perhaps you were a better liar than you thought.
What you couldn't deceive anyone about though was your lack of physical prowess and were currently feeling the full weight of your commander's disdain as everyone running laps circled you for a fourth time while you struggled to complete your second. Gojo had ran past you six times already. Giving you an encouraging thump on the back the first time that nearly laid you out on the ground had he not caught you, and then with an encouraging cheer and laugh as though he were having the time of his life every time since.
"Having to watch you run is the only time I regret enlisting." Your commander was saying when you felt someone run up next to you. You glanced over, seeing double from exhaustion before your sight settled somewhat and you realized it was just one very pissed off Gojo glaring at the commander.
"Would you like me to give you a couple other reasons?" He asked and the commander seemed to turn as green as you probably were with how nauseous you were feeling.
"I-uh have to go check on the others." The commander said, breaking out into a full sprint across the field. Apparently not even the commander was above being intimidated by Gojo.
To not have to hear the commander's disparaging while you endured having to do the activity you hated more than anything felt like a blessing and out of happiness you flung yourself at Gojo. Clinging to your saviour with all your might.
Had it been anyone else you both would have gone sprawling onto the field with the way you practically tackled him into a hug but Gojo had just gone very still, staring down at you in shock. He couldn't remember the last time someone had hugged him.
You were so soft and warm against him. So much smaller than him you barely reached his chest. Burying your face into him like he was your only hope.
Before he could think of how to react you were glancing up at him beaming. Your face pink from the exertion, the afternoon sun making it glow and bringing out the flecks of gold in your eyes. He hadn't so much as broken a sweat while running those laps but now all he could hear was the blood rushing through his ears and his heart thudding against his ribcage.
Never before had he so desired for something to be his. And you were his, weren't you? It had been your idea all along to become his friend. You were the one to force yourself into his orbit and now that you had he had no intention of ever letting you out.
He allowed his arms to wrap around you, chest clenching at how right that felt. This was where you belonged, within his grasp.
You released him as abruptly as you had embraced him leaving him feeling cold and bereft. But there was still the lingering warmth of your touch and the heat that bloomed within his chest as you smiled at him in that way. Challenging him to a race you both knew there was no way you would win.
The effort however of trying to out run the Gojo Satoru had you so belligerent with thirst you couldn't be bothered to try to find your own water bottle amongst the many at the finish line. Swiping his from his hand and holding it up above your mouth so you could gulp it down.
A hush fell over the others, silence so pronounced that it made it through your haze of exhaustion. Every one of the others was looking at you, or actually upon closer inspection, not at you but behind you at Gojo.
Gojo waited for the familiar rage to rise up within his chest as he watched you gulp down his water from his water bottle. That feeling of wrongness and outrage but there was nothing. No rage, just that weird tightness he'd gotten in his chest earlier while looking at you.
It had been amusing to see you trying to beat him with your much shorter legs and how incredibly out of shape you were compared to him. He probably could have run that lap faster if he were carrying you than you had managed to on your own.
He had always liked running. It cleared his head and let out some of that pent up energy always buzzing in his veins but running with you panting next to him, gasping for air and asking if he was even human was the first time he had found running fun.
You made everything fun, life had been so dull before you. He couldn't imagine going back to that. He found everything you did entertaining. Your little habit of muttering to yourself. It was always rude or bitter comments said under your breath but he found them hilarious.
The way you made no attempt to hide that you had no interest in defending people by eradicating curses but were just here for the pension. Hiding away every time you were all sent out on a mission. Your honesty was a breath of fresh air amongst all the false bravado and nobility he had grown up surrounded by.
He threw an arm around your shoulders, feeling a strange urge to have you close that he'd never felt for anyone before.
"Let's get you out of the sun. You look like a tomato." He said and you scoffed through your panting.
"Sorry we're not all godly beings that can run laps in the sun and still look like we're filming an athletic wear commercial. Did you even sweat, you freak?" You asked, hearing a gasp from amongst the others but not paying any attention as you got up on the very tips of your toes to try to prove your point.
Gojo froze as he felt you nose into his neck and take a quick inhale. Feeling the blood rushing down south as your body pressed against his side, letting him feel the shape of you and the heat emanating off your skin. Your warm breath against his throat and the scent of you, clean sweat and soap filling his senses and making his head spin.
Suddenly he was the one that was breathless.
"How do you still smell good?" You muttered against his neck.
He couldn't help himself and pushed you away, only remembering at the last minute to not use his full force but still sending you stumbling back a couple steps.
"Oh can you not sweat? Are you like those animals that don't have sweat glands?"
You took his silence for affirmation and grimaced sympathetically.
"My bad, that's probably a touchy topic for you. It must be tough being unable to control your temperature and just overheating like a reptile in the desert. I won't bring it up again." You said, giving him a sympathetic pat on the shoulder as you passed him.
Letting you think he was missing sweat glands was better than trying to explain that he was actually sporting a raging boner because you had sniffed him. He let you walk away with his water bottle still held in your hand, turning to watch the commander a moment. That sight had his hard-on dying down fast enough and he scooped up your water bottle and chased after you just as you made it to the doors leading inside.
"Should we hit the showers?" He asked as he made it to your side.
It was strange that after a training session like that you and Gojo somehow had the showers all to yourselves. Usually this place was packed to the brim after a brutal training session with sweaty men all wanting to quickly shower so they could get to the dining hall as fast as possible.
"Can I borrow your shampoo? I'm all out." Gojo said and you quickly squirted some into your hand before turning to pass the bottle to him but froze at the sight that awaited you.
It wasn't unexpected. At that height and stature and with hands that were more like giant paws you couldn't have expected anything else, but this was nearly inhuman. It twitched as you continued to stare and you couldn't help the startled scream that escaped you at the sight of a monstrosity like that having any life in it.
You flung the shampoo at the man next to you and quickly turned to face forward again, hearing him chuckle.
"What, are you really acting like you've never seen a naked man before?"
"I've seen naked men but I haven't seen a weapon of mass destruction swinging between their legs before." You muttered furiously, chancing a glance at the man when you didn't get a response to see his face had gone completely blank.
"Which man have you seen naked? Was it one of those bastards?" He asked advancing on you completely ignoring the rules of the communal shower. You had assumed everyone knew that in the showers you always kept your eyes focused straight on the tiles in front of you and you never got too close to anyone else while your privates were swinging about.
"Woah, woah you stay over there and keep that thing away from me." You said, holding your hands out ahead of you in defense.
"Tell. Me. Who." He demanded.
"I've been sharing a shower with all those duds for months, of course I've seen them naked though none of them have been as shameless as you." You said, finishing up your shower and hurriedly wrapping your towel around yourself.
He grabbed your arm as you made your way past him.
"I've got clean clothes in my bag, wear those. Don't go out there like that." He ordered, eyes roaming down your body.
"Do you have a problem with the way I wrap my towel?" You asked.
Back when you were in school the other kids had given you shit for that though you never quite understood what you were doing so differently than the others.
"No, I have a problem with how small it is and how little it covers."
"It's the standard size they give everyone. Are you body shaming me right now? I'm sorry I don't have a six pack like you." You huffed.
"8." He said, a smirk twisting up his lips making you furrow your brows in confusion.
"Here, see -" He said having grabbed your hand, forcing your fingers to trail down what really was an 8 pack and counting out each row.
As he got to the bottom row and your palm brushed against the trail of hair that led to the image you were afraid was seared into your brain forever, you couldn't help but let out a yelp and snatch back your hand. Instinctively slapping him before your brain could catch up with what you had done.
Your eyes went wide as you saw his head turn. The pale skin of his cheek sporting a faintly pink handprint that perfectly aligned with the hand you would probably be losing in just a moment.
"Oh my god, I'm so sorry. Gojo, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to. I don't know why I did-"
He turned his head back to look at you making your mouth clamp shut. He took a step forward and you mirrored it by taking a step back. He took another and you did the same, both of you playing this game until your back hit the shower wall.
He placed his palm next to your head making you jump as he leaned in. Bringing his face level to yours as you cringed back into the wall, feeling like your heart was caught in your throat. All the rumours you had heard about his temper returning to you now.
"Kiss it better." He muttered.
"W-what?" You asked hesitantly, almost entirely sure you had misheard him. Perhaps he had said something about his intentions to kill and you had heard kiss.
"Kiss it better." He repeated, turning his pinkened cheek towards you and tapping his finger against it pointedly.
"Oh, uh okay." You said, you didn't quite want to kiss your naked comrade in arms on the cheek but it was better than being disemboweled in the communal showers so you leaned up and pressed a quick kiss to his cheek.
He grinned as though you had done something particularly pleasing and his nickname began to make more sense than ever. The man really was barking mad.
"Now grab something from my bag to wear. I'll rip out the eyes of anyone who sees you like this." Gojo said, turning to saunter back to his shower.
You watched him go, wondering what sort of lunatic you had gotten yourself acquainted with. In the coming days you'd have that thought more often than anticipated.
Gojo Satoru wasn't just a powerful man, but an odd one too and for some reason everyone else just made allowances for it. Now that you were under his wing, that meant they made the same allowances for you.
The taunting by the others and dirty looks they had given you since your first mission when you hid instead of fighting had stopped. So had the very vocal disapproval of your superiors for your lack of strength and endurance.
Hanging out with Gojo also meant getting the gym to yourself, which was a great place to take a nap while the lunatic spent hours on various weight machines building muscles in places you didn't know people had them. It also meant never having to share the showers with anyone but Gojo though you didn't know if that was an upgrade considering he seemed to have no idea how to act in communal showers.
He was always chatting away and staring right at you as he did. The others may have hogged the hot water and been more unsightly in their nude form but at least they didn't stare. That was a small price to pay for all the perks though.
Being his friend wasn't hard. When you had first approached him you'd expected to be something of a lackey, imagining fetching his meal trays and egging him on when he got into a fight with someone. Truth was he did more for you than you did for him.
He got your meals for you because his great aunt actually gave him what he asked for and he would refill your water and even buy you snacks. It was unfortunate he didn't use his power to excuse you from training entirely but you tried not to get too greedy.
Eccentric as he was, beneath the aristocratic features and muscled physique that would imply an empty mind, he was actually quite smart. Seemed to be well-educated too so why he was so intrigued by you was genuinely a bit confusing. You didn't know what it was about you that made him seem to hang onto every word.
Those intense eyes of his bore into you while you spoke, though you were starting to get used to the other-worldly blue of them. He would burst into laughter at the oddest of times, particularly when you weren't intending to be funny. Though he'd always crack at least a smile at even your bad jokes. Grabbing you by the scruff and hauling you in when you truly made him laugh, resting his forehead against yours in a gesture you'd normally think too affectionate for friends but perhaps that's how comrades were.
The sound of the pulldown machine he was currently using was faintly registering as your mind began to wake but you refused to let yourself fully rouse to consciousness. When the sound of the machine struggling against the maniac who had had dragged you here this early finally seized, you had just begun to sink back into sleep when you heard the murmur of your name.
You groaned, turning over and clenching your eyes shut. Trying to escape into dreamland so you wouldn't have to face another day of arduous training and the resulting cloud of body odor that lingered in every room of the building because of it.
"Come on, wake up." Gojo said, poking your cheek but you batted at his hand.
“You’ve been napping for two hours. Do you not sleep at night?” He asked, which were long sentences and if you were understanding them then that meant the fall back asleep ship had sailed without you on board.
“No Gojo, I don’t sleep at night.” You sighed, sitting up and rubbing at your eyes.
“Why?” He asked, passing you his water bottle and smoothing your mussed hair as you took a long drink from it. Making you choke on the water as you dodged his hand irritably.
“Because the rats I’m roomed with stay up till ungodly hours playing games and drinking.” You said, once you’d finally managed to clear the water in your airways, helped by Gojo’s thumping of your back.
“Do they make you play with them?” He asked, returning to his patting of your hair.
“No, as if I’d ever do something so childish.” You scoffed, batting at his hand.
Truth was they didn’t let you play nor did they share their booze. Apparently rewards were for “soldiers not cowards” according to those jerks.
“Then why can’t you sleep?”
“Because they’re loud and stop touching my hair or I swear to god.” You growled, slapping at his hand.
“Swear to god to what?” He asked, though his gaze was a bit far away. Staring at the wall across from you both as though lost in thought about something. Probably trying to mentally tally the reps he had done, the meathead.
“I’ll - I’ll bite you.” You said, floundering for a threat when the man was double your size.
He smirked, amused. Holding up his giant claw of a hand before you like an offering.
“Well, as long as you’ve learned your lesson I'll let it pass this time.” You said, going to get up but that offending appendage forced you down by your shoulder. One of his claws keeping you seated and the other mussing up your hair until you really were livid enough to risk it all.
You caught his hand, bringing it to your mouth not paying any attention to how deceptively easy that was to do. Sinking your teeth into the soft flesh between his pointer finger and thumb like a feral pest.
Missing entirely the way those blue eyes darkened as he watched you, pupils blown wide. The hand forcing you down now cupping your shoulder and guiding you closer.
You pulled away, worried if you continued you might actually draw blood.
“My turn.” He said and you only had enough time to feel your stomach drop as he leaned in and then his teeth were sinking down into the conjecture between your neck and shoulder and you were screaming.
Pain wasn't familiar to you and to feel the teeth of a brute sinking into your sensitive flesh wasn’t something you could withstand with the grace of a soldier.
You slapped and batted at him but your hands were caught in his and easily restrained. Finally after what felt like an eternity of agony, he pulled back. Staring down at the mark he’d left in your soft flesh with a satisfied gleam in those freakish eyes of his.
He leant back in making you scream again but it broke off into an exclamation of “ew what the fuck man” as you felt something warm and wet drag over the bite mark.
You pushed vindictively at his chest when he pulled back and released your hands. Running over to the closest mirror to inspect the wound.
“You’re a fucking freak.” You called over your shoulder as you looked at the clear indents of his goddamn molars in your flesh.
“Be glad I didn’t break skin.” He said, making you yelp as he seemed to materialize right behind you like some sort of fucking ghost. Staring at your reflection with his mark on your soft skin with so much satisfaction and intrigue it turned your stomach.
You moved back intending to stomp his foot but froze as you felt something hard and large poking into your lower back.
“Please tell me that’s your water bottle in your pants.” You muttered.
“Nope.” He whispered back, popping the p in a way that had you jumping away.
“You’re a real freak. You better stay at least 6 feet away from me from now on.” You warmed.
He grabbed your wrist, hauling you in to his chest. You screamed again as the monstrosity in his gym shorts pressed into your stomach. Pushing against his chest but he kept you pinned with an arm around your waist.
“Nothing can make me stay away from you. You’re mine, I do what I want with you.” He said as easily as one tells the time and you scoffed.
“Like hell you do. Bit me like I’m a goddamn prime cut steak and then popped a boner. What a- oh my god are you a cannibal?” You asked, eyes wide in terror as you looked up at him. Mind jumping to the only conclusion you could think of in which a fellow soldier would be turned on by biting you.
“I wasn’t before but I might just become one because of you.” He muttered lowly, leaning down towards your neck as he spoke and snapping his teeth at you making you yelp again.
“6 feet, you rat.” You warned, somehow getting lucky and managing to shove him off as you accidentally brushed the beast pressing against your stomach in a way that had him going a little weak in the knees.
You watched him warily, a hand held out before you which you pulled back to your chest when his gaze dropped to it. He took a step forward and you took one back to maintain the distance.
“I-I’m warning you.” You said shakily which he ignored completely. Stalking forward until you were pressed up against the mirror with him hovering over you. That offending snake between his legs pressing against your stomach again.
“Warning me of what? Are you gonna bite me again?” He asked, tone light with amusement but those freaky blues still darkened in a devious way that didn’t sit well with you.
“I might if you force my hand.” You said, sounding uncertain even to your own ears.
The last bite had resulted in you nearly getting a chunk torn out of your neck and then getting harassed by a thing that should only exist in those bad romance novels you sometimes liked to read. You weren't really itching to repeat that episode.
“Do it here, please.” He breathed, and just for a second you could see why all the other soldiers complained he had it all.
So mesmerizingly pretty as he titled his head up, exposing the long column of his strong neck to you. Long lashes that nearly touched the apples of his cheeks when he blinked, pointed little nose and lush pink lips but then the words they uttered registered and the trance was broken.
“You’re completely fucking nuts” You mumbled, almost to yourself but he heard anyway.
“Too bad you’re stuck with me.” He said, backing off and finally you could breathe without the oppressive hulk of him looming over you. The monstrosity between his legs and the fangs in his mouth a safe distance away from you.
“We’ll see about that.” You mumbled, missing the way his eyes narrowed at your comment. No longer amused or playful.
You had known Gojo was weird but not threatening cannibalism or popping boners at his fellow comrades weird. It was making you reevaluate your chosen survival strategy.
Unfortunately while you were pondering whether it would be in your best interest to distance yourself from him, he was thinking the exact opposite. Planning how to get you more securely into his clutches.
He hated the thought of others around you. Not to mention others sharing a room with you. He couldn’t believe he hadn’t thought about it sooner. People other than him around you while you were at your most vulnerable, asleep or changing.
That had to change immediately.
He wiped at your mouth with his thumb, swiping off the bit of sauce on the edge of your mouth. Bringing it to his own and licking it off. You hadn’t reacted to him wiping your face since he did it so often but your eyes went wide as saucers as you saw him lick the sauce off his thumb.
“You really have got to stop doing shit like that.” You said when you got your bearings back after staring at him blankly for another minute.
“Here you can have my karaage too.” He said, pushing his tray forward which was enough to distract you.
“Your roommates really bother you, don’t they?” He asked, watching you stuff your face with the karaage from his tray.
“Yeah, they’re complete assholes. Childish too, did I tell you they play games all night? Like talk about lack of maturity.”
“You should change rooms.”
“I tried, not allowed. Apparently we need to man up and learn to deal with each other’s shit.” You said, quoting the Commander.
“You can if there’s a vacancy in one of the other rooms.”
“Is there? Oh yeah the guy you put in the- I mean the guy who took a bad fall’s bed is probably empty but he’s roommates with that guy who smells like blue cheese. I’d rather not.” You said.
“My room has a vacancy.” He said.
“I thought lieutenants got their own rooms.” You said suspiciously.
“Yeah exactly, there’s an empty spot for you to take.”
You blinked at him, trying to mentally calculate if lack of sleep or risking being eaten by the snake swinging potential-cannibal was worse.
“The Commander doesn’t do his morning wake-up calls in the lieutenant’s rooms.” He said and you were sold. To not be forcefully woken to the unfortunate sight of your Commander screaming in your face that you were a waste of space and would regret not waking up sounded like a dream.
“Rooming together would be cool.” You said, already fantasizing about getting to sleep-in.
“Great, finish eating. Then we’ll go pack your stuff.” Gojo said, only then picking up his own chopsticks and beginning to eat his food.
Packing was quick when you had superhuman strength on your side. Your roommates cleared out in a matter of seconds when they saw Gojo follow you in, not that they would have tried to stop you either way.
You walked alongside Gojo who was carrying both your bags in one hand swung over his shoulder, following him to the lieutenants’ quarters where his room was.
You waited behind as he unlocked his door and then stepped in after him. Scanning the room that was surprisingly neat. You’d only ever gotten glimpses over his shoulder as he locked the door after himself.
The detail that stood out to you most though was the count of beds in the room which stood at a steady and alarming one.
“Where’s the empty bed?” You asked. Watching as Gojo set down your stuff and then sat down on the bed.
“I said empty spot, and here it is.” He said, to your utter horror patting the spot next to him on the solitary bed in the room.
“Oh no. That's not gonna work. Thanks but hard pass.” You said stepping forward and grabbing your bags. The larger one of which you were quite unsuccessful in lifting and resolved to drag towards the door instead.
Before you could even make it more than a step away while dragging the bag that probably weighed more than you considering you were never a light packer, Gojo was in front of the door. Blocking the only exit.
“The change is processed. You can’t go back now.” He said.
“Processed where?” You cried. You had this discussion less than an hour ago and certainly hadn’t put in any requests.
“In the system. Your bed’s being given to the new arrival and you’re rooming with me.”
“I didn’t submit anything, how’s that possible?”
“I did it for you.”
“The office closes at 4.”
“I processed it this morning.” He said making your jaw drop at the sheer audacity of the extraterrestrial being before you.
“What do you mean you did it this morning? I didn’t even know this was happening till an hour ago.”
“I knew you’d agree.” He shrugged.
“Well I don’t, so kindly please go tell them they can’t give away my bed and help me carry this back. I know it's mine but I don't understand what I put in here to make it weigh a ton.”
“Not happening, darling. I told you you’re stuck with me, so you might as well settle in. Feel free to shower first.” He said and it was all too much for your brain to process but one particular detail stuck out.
“Wait, you’re telling me you have a shower in your room?
“Yeah, convenient isn’t it?”
“So why the fuck have you been using the communal showers?” You asked.
“Because that’s where you shower.” He answered as though that was a completely reasonable thing to say.
“Yeah like I said, hard pass on this whole situation. I’ll drag that newbie out by his toe hair if I have to. That bed’s mine.” You said, starting for the door, intending to somehow push past him while you dragged your overly large bag.
Perhaps you could somehow use the weight of it to your advantage. You remembered them teaching you all something about throwing off your opponent using their weight so this had to be similar. Not that you ever mastered that maneuver either.
"Darling, you have two options. Be good and listen to me, start unpacking your stuff, take a shower and then come to bed or I tie you to the bed. I unpack your stuff and then shower you myself. Either way you're staying in this room." He said making you pause in your very unsuccessful dragging of the bag sent from hell.
You stared at him, trying to discern if he was quite serious and would really follow through on his threat. Nothing about those blue eyes of his was giving you any confidence that he had a single rational or normal bone in his oversized body and so you gave up.
"I'm building a pillow wall between us." You huffed.
Your pillow wall lasted about 0.3 seconds before being quite unceremoniously, and unnecessarily violently, tossed to the floor. Then you were pulled back into the chest of the lunatic who had tricked you into his den and were used like a teddy bear.
There was no dignity in any of this. That pension could not begin to cover the damages that you had incurred here in this hellhole.
It was warm though, and his bed was softer and blankets fuzzier than your own. The weight of his long limbs on you was making you drowsy even through the haze of anger that nearly blinded you.
"You're a bad man." Was all you could manage before sleep overcame you.
Gojo didn't sleep though. He couldn't believe how good it felt to have you in his arms. So soft, so warm against him. If he wanted, and god how he wanted, he could completely envelope you in his arms so none of you was left exposed to the rest of the world. Take all of you for himself.
You moaned in your sleep, arching up slightly and he loosened his hold just enough to let you turn once he realized that was what you wanted and then on top of being sleepless, he was also rendered breathless. You turned, resting your head on his shoulder easily as though even in your sleep you could tell you two fit like puzzle pieces.
His heart clenched as he stared down at you. Watched your parted lips, still not knowing what they tasted like. Gojo wasn't ignorant to the effect he had on people and yet somehow the only one he had ever wanted was entirely immune.
He pulled you in closer, lowering his head to press his lips to your forehead. Feeling a warmth bloom in the core of his being that he had never felt before. This had to be what others called being at peace. So fulfilled, like there was nothing else he wanted, nowhere else he would rather be. This was addicting.
You woke enveloped in warmth, arching up and stretching in the little space you had between the awfully heavy covers pinning you to the bed. Finally opening your eyes and then screaming in horror when you were met with two blue lightbulb like objects floating in a blurry pale shape mere inches from your face.
"What is it?" The shape asked and as your vision focused you rest your hand over your racing heart. Trying to catch your breath from the insane jolt of adrenaline seeing something so unnatural that early had caused you.
"Don't do that. Why are you staring at me with your 500 megawatt bulbs at - god 7 in the morning." You said, turning to check the clock by his bedside.
"Wait isn't this actually late for you?" You asked, remembering he normally rose at 5.
"I didn't want to risk waking sleeping beauty." He said with a smirk.
"You could be doing laps around the bed with a lawn mower and I wouldn't wake up once I'm asleep. I just can't fall asleep in noise." You clarified.
"Lucky I'm quiet as a mouse at night." He said.
"It takes a big man to admit he's a rat." You said, going to scooch off the bed but Gojo tightened his arm around you.
"Where are you going?" He asked.
"To get changed for training, we're already late." You answered.
"They would understand if we skipped a day." He said.
"No, I want to see the thief that stole my bed."
You could never have anticipated that in that thief you would find a kindred spirit. A soldier who flinched when anyone came near them in combat practice or looked out at the field with utter dread painted on their face. Perhaps that bed was simply fated only to have rational heads rest on it, or cowards as the rest of the troop would put it.
It was inevitable that you two would begin to get close when you were always the last ones to finish a lap, dragging your feet and cursing having ever laid eyes on this place. Standing with your backs against the wall as the others went hand to hand as though fighting for their lives when it was just practice.
Of course there was someone who highly disproved of this camaraderie. Gojo hated the new guy. Would glare daggers into him whenever he saw you both together and was the only reason you weren't braiding each other's eyebrow hair and exchanging pension fantasies.
"Oh man if that weight had fallen on my foot I'd be lined up at admin with my direct deposit form in hand faster than Commander could call me an idiot." The new guy - Kaido said making you guffaw and nod in agreement.
"What a fucking dumbass, telling the Commander he's just fine. That was a golden ticket to pension land." You agreed.
"You're too young to be thinking about pension." A voice said from right behind you making you yelp and turn to see Gojo looming above you and Kaido.
"I think you just shaved ten years off my life. We really need to put a bell on you." You said, taking the offered water bottle from Gojo and letting him pull you back so you were stood by his side.
"Lieutenant Gojo, sir." Kaido greeted awkwardly making you laugh and elbow Gojo, glancing up expecting him to laugh too but rather seeing him looking down his nose at Kaido as though he were dirt on his shoe.
The Commander called you all in before you could say anything but it stayed on your mind the rest of the morning anyway.
"Do you not like Kaido?" You asked as you sat on the bed that day while Gojo was folding both your laundry making him pause.
"No, I don't." He said, looking up at you, taking you by surprise. You had at least expected him to deny it.
"Why?"
"Because he sticks too close to you."
"No, you stick too close to me. Kaido understands the concept of personal space." You said.
"He better. I don't like seeing you with him, stay away from him." He said making you frown.
"I like Kaido, Kaido's my friend." You defended, not noticing the way the way Gojo froze at your words.
"He's your friend?" He asked, voice deceptively level and calm.
"Yeah, unlike the rest of you try-hards he understands the appeal of the easy life. We get each other." You answered not even getting a moment to try to back away before Gojo had tossed aside the towel he was holding and was rounding the bed.
Grabbing you by the jaw, he pushed you down flat onto the bed. Knocking the wind out of you with the unexpectedness of the movement. He sat down straddling your hips, keeping you pinned in place.
"Tell me again who’s your friend." He said.
"What the fuck dude? What's wrong with y-" You asked, being cut off by your own gasp of pain as he tightened his hold around your jaw to the point where the bones creaked in protest.
"Who is your friend?" He asked again.
"K-Kaido." You answered, not quite understanding what his problem was.
His eyes darkened and grip got even tighter making you grab at his hand, afraid he really might break your jaw.
"G-Gojo please it hurts." You mumbled, words barely intelligible with the way he was holding your face.
"I'm your only friend. You don't need anyone else. Just me." He said, leaning down closer so your noses nearly brushed against each other. Enouncing each word clearly and calmly as though he weren't actively trying to crush your face between his hand.
"Fine, fine just you. Please let go, it hurts." You pleaded. Willing to say anything to make him release you in that moment.
He let go of your face, seemingly satisfied but didn't get off of you. Watching in silence as you rubbed at the clear imprints of his fingers on your face. The bruises darkening into your soft skin.
He felt a pang in his chest, he hadn't meant to hurt you. He had just lost his mind a little hearing you so casually give someone else the place he held in your life.
"Let me see." He said, reaching for your face but you slapped at his hands. Pushing him away and when he saw the way your eyes were watering with pain he backed off readily, heart sinking as he realized he had hurt you to the point of inducing tears.
"I'll get you some ice." He said.
"No need." You scoffed, wiping at your eyes with the back of your hand. Scooching off the bed and heading for the door.
He let you go, knowing you needed some time to cool off. He'd always gone too far when it came to protecting his things and keeping the paws of others off of them. He'd never meant to hurt you though.
You slammed the door behind you. Immediately headed to the admin office. In the past few weeks you had often wondered if choosing to befriend Gojo had been a mistake but today had proven it. He was a far bigger lunatic than you had initially known. Volatile in his unpredictability. You were better off without someone like him by your side, either he'd get you in trouble or he'd end up hurting you seriously in one of his fits.
"I'd like to change rooms." You said as soon as you made it to the admin office, approaching the man sitting behind the desk who you'd never bothered learning the name of.
"Why?" The man asked, looking like he'd rather be doing anything but his job.
"I'm rooming with Lieutenant Gojo right now-" You paused as you saw the man's eyes widen and him sit up straighter.
"But there's only one bed so I'd like to request to be switched into any room with a vacant bed." You continued, wondering why he looked so alarmed.
"There's no vacant beds." The man said making you scoff.
"I know there has to be at least one considering Tomoya is still in a coma and will probably be in no condition to continue in the force when he wakes." You said.
"His bed was sent to headquarters." The man answered and you stared at him blankly, making his ears turn red at how stupid of a lie he had just uttered.
"Okay, well I don't have a bed so can you request headquarters to send it back so I have a place to sleep?" You asked.
"I'll put in the request." The man said.
"And how long is that going to take?" You asked.
"I don't know but I'll let you know when it's processed." He said making your eye twitch.
"Fine, thanks." You relented, getting the feeling there was no reasoning with this soulless slave to bureaucracy.
You would check Tomoya's dorm yourself. If you found the empty bed then you'd come here and demand this lying rat to process the transfer right then.
You lurked in the corridor outside Tomoya's room, icing your bruised jaw until one of his roommates finally emerged. The door opened and the pungent smell of blue cheese wafted out, singing your nose hair but you still forced yourself forward to take a peek. Letting out a triumphant "ha" which had your future roommate flinching out of surprise.
"I knew that man was a liar." You said to the soldier currently staring at you like you had two heads before marching back to the admin office. Swearing out loud when you saw the door was now closed. It probably wasn't even 4 yet.
You would be back first thing tomorrow morning. Waiting outside before the office opened to force that stinking liar to process your transfer request. That meant you just needed to figure something out for tonight. Tomorrow by this time you would have roommates who weren't actively a threat to everyone around them.
You didn’t want to see Gojo but the clinic doctor saw right through your lies about being sick and wouldn't let you into the infirmary. Upon arriving to the base you had feigned being sick quite often to get out of missions and more arduous training sessions so by now the doctor was more likely to believe Pinocchio with an actively elongating nose than you.
You couldn't avoid seeing Gojo but that didn't mean you couldn't ignore him. You walked right past him at shooting practice. Joining Lieutenant Hiroshi's group instead and avoided his gaze at dinner, choosing to sit next to Kaido instead. Feeling the full force of those otherworldly blues on you all throughout the rest of the day but refusing to look back at him.
Kaido however was having more trouble ignoring Gojo than you.
"He looks like he wants to kill us. Wait - actually he was only looking at me like that. He looks like he wants to kill me and looks like he's going to eat you as usual." Kaido said.
"Ignore him." You responded, angrily shoving another piece of broccoli in your mouth.
"Easy for you to say, he doesn't look like he wants to kill you. What happened between the two of you anyway?"
"Nothing." You barked, the word muffled and unintelligible due to the very undercooked broccoli still filling your mouth.
"Muppet?" Kaido asked in confusion making you huff in annoyance.
"I said nothing and I'm sleeping in your dorm tonight." You said after forcefully swallowing the unchewable broccoli down.
"What, why? There's no space in our dorm." Kaido whined.
"Because you stole my bed."
"I didn't steal shit, you transferred to Lieutenant Gojo's room so they gave me yours."
"I didn't transfer. That rat filled out the paperwork himself. You know what - it doesn't matter. Here, I'll give you my chocolate pudding if you let me stay." You said, pushing your tray towards Kaido.
"I don't like choc- oh it's blueberry. Fine, you can stay." Kaido said and you swore out loud when you looked down at the pudding. Being a pain in the ass clearly ran in the family.
You heard a bang across the dining hall and glanced up only to see a fuming Gojo up on his feet. His tray of food now spread all over the ground next to his table. He glared at you and Kaido as he made his way across the dining hall. Grabbing your tray from in front of Kaido and throwing it to the floor with a loud clattering sound that made you flinch.
"Stop testing my patience unless you want to see what happens when it runs out." Gojo warned, but you were too stunned by the commotion to think of anything to say. He turned to stalk out of the dining hall when you didn't respond.
"What a fucking nutter." You muttered under your breath once you were quite sure Gojo was out of earshot, glancing over at Kaido to see he was still frozen.
"Hey, you okay?" You asked, nudging him with your elbow.
"I don't know if that's spilt juice or if I pissed my pants." Kaido said making you grimace in disgust as you looked down at his pants to see that they were indeed soaked.
"Looks a little orange so unless you're very sick it's got to be the juice." You said, hoping you were right.
After clearing up the tray and giving Kaido the chance to shower and change out of the juice/sickly urine-soaked pants you two made your way back to your old dorm to retire for the night.
"What are you doing back here?" One of your old roommates asked the moment you walked in.
"I'm sleeping here tonight."
"Did Gojo get sick of his little lapdog?"
"Should we go ask him that together?" You asked, making the smirk fall right off the ugly mug of your most obnoxious old roommate.
"Whatever." He responded, going back to the stupid card game he had been playing with the others.
You and Kaido stood staring at the twin bed that looked even smaller than you remembered it. It really wasn't built for two adults to share.
"We can just lay in opposite directions." You suggested.
"Gross, I'm not laying with your feet in my face." Kaido said.
"Okay then orange-piss boy, what do you suggest?" You asked, earning yourself a dirty look from Kaido and confused glances from the others.
"Why don't you just take the floor?"
"Because the floor is hard and cold and there's creepy crawlies everywhere."
"Fine, we'll just share the bed. It's really no different than standing side by side." Kaido said.
It was very different. The bed was so cramped you couldn't even build a pillow wall without compromising the little space you had and of course Kaido had the pointiest elbows known to mankind. He wouldn't stop shuffling around to get comfortable and one of his elbows from hell would dig into your vulnerable midsection.
After the fourth time you elbowed him back which started a war you were bound to lose with your regular human elbows. You both eventually fell asleep bruised and cramped.
You were woken far too soon for it to be morning by a hand desperately slapping at you and then gripping into your pajama shirt as though about to tear it off. You slapped at the hand, trying to get back to sleep but were forced awake when you heard an odd, muffled gurgling sound followed by the voice of the last person you expected to hear.
"Keep your fucking hands to yourself." You heard Gojo say making your eyes fly open, struggling to adjust in the dark room only to see him forcing Kaido's hand backwards until you heard a sharp snapping sound as his wrist broke.
Your scrambled upwards on the bed, struggling to make sense of what you were seeing. Gojo sat straddling Kaido's chest, chocking him with one hand. The other still holding the wrist he had broken. Kaido let out a muffled scream, turning to look at you and reaching out towards you with his other hand making you flinch back but Gojo caught that hand before it could reach you.
"What did I just fucking say? Why can't people just listen while I'm asking nicely. Everyone's always trying to get their paws on what's mine." Gojo said, tossing Kaido's hand back down to his side. Increasing the force with which he was choking Kaido, pushing his head further down into the bed.
"G-Gojo what the fuck?" You asked, shakily reaching for the hand that was choking Kaido but seeing that manic blue gaze turn on you in the darkness had your blood freezing in your veins.
The predatory look he had while hunting curses back on his face but this time there was no joy accompanying it. Just a single-minded determination to take out what he saw as a rival for his chosen prey.
"Oh darling, did we wake you? I'm sorry, I was just teaching this fucker what happens when he puts his hands on what's mine. Why don't you go sleep in our room? I'll be there in a minute."
Kaido let out a muffled whimper, his flailing growing weak as he began turning purple with the blood rushing to his head. His teary eyes met yours, forcing you into action. As much as you wanted it to be, this wasn't a nightmare. Gojo had really somehow found you here and was about to kill Kaido if you didn't do something.
"Get off of him Gojo." You cried, shoving at his chest with all your might but it wasn't enough to move him.
You glanced back, about to yell to wake the others. Only to see them already awake, sitting up in their beds. Watching the scene with wide, horrified eyes.
"Fucking help me." You yelled at them, pushing and clawing at Gojo who didn't even bother to swat at you. Instead wrapping his free arm around your waist and pinning you to his side.
You thrashed against him, pulling and scratching at his arm as Kaido's eyes bulged.
"You're gonna kill him." You screamed, near feral now in your attempts to get Gojo off but it was like trying to move a rock.
"This is what happens when you befriend someone else. Look closely darling." Gojo mumbled, resting his forehead against your head. Completely relaxed as though he weren't actively choking the life out of someone.
"You fucking cowards." You screamed at the others, looking around desperately for something to help you get Gojo off. Your gaze landed on Kaido's alarm clock and you grasped at it desperately, turning in Gojo's hold and slamming it down into his temple with all your strength.
He reared back, finally releasing Kaido and you shoved him back off of him. Watching, with your hands hovering helplessly as Kaido coughed weakly, tears still streaming down his eyes and broken wrist held against his chest as tremors shook through him.
You heard that bark-like laughter and turned to see Gojo clutching his bleeding head. Streaks of blood running down the left side of his face, over his eye making the mania of his unnaturally blue gaze all the more terrifying to witness. Blood seeping through the hand he held to his head yet he was laughing.
"Only you, darling, would dare to do such a thing. Only you could get away with it." He said, pulling you in by the wrist back towards him.
"Let go, you fucking psycho." You yelled, hitting your fists against his chest but he swept both your wrists up in his hand. Palm sticky with blood that rubbed off onto your skin as he brought your conjoined hands up to his mouth to press a kiss to them.
"Never, I'm never going to let you go." He muttered, lips still against your hands. Darting his head back with a laugh as you tried to swipe at his face.
"You're not going to have a choice. When everyone finds out what you've done you're going to end up rotting in prison."
"Whose gonna put me there?" He asked, smiling indulgently as though speaking to a child.
"Me, I'm going to report you for what you've done to Kaido and I'll tell them about Tomoya too." You threatened.
"But you covered for me, you're my little accomplice. Won't that get you in trouble too?" Gojo asked, voice still light and teasing but his words made you blanche.
He let out another one of his bark-like laughs at the look on your face, darting forward and pressing a kiss to your cheek as though unable to help himself. You flinched back in disgust.
"Oh darling, I'm just teasing. I'd never let you get in any trouble and neither will I. You don't have to worry your pretty little head over things like that when you're with me. I take care of what's mine."
"There's four witnesses to you attacking Kaido. There's no way you'll get away with this." You said.
"What witnesses? Did you guys see me here tonight?" Gojo asked the others without even bothering to take his eyes off of you. He always thought you looked so cute while angry, turning as red as a tomato and glaring as though you could ever hope to intimidate anyone.
"No, sir." Came three responses making your eyes widen and you turned to look at your old roommates.
"Are you fucking kidding me? You all called me a coward but really you're the cowards." You spat, and not one of them could meet your gaze.
"It doesn't matter. I witnessed it, I'll help Kaido report you." You said, turning back to Gojo.
"My poor darling, you really don't know who I am, do you? I could kill Kaido at breakfast and no one would even dare complain about the mess."
"What do you mean? Who cares if you're a lieutenant, you can't go attacking soldiers."
"Poor, sweet thing, you don't even know who you decided to befriend. You don't even know who it is you belong to." Gojo tsked as though truly sympathetic at your naivety.
"I'm Gojo Satoru, darling. This place is only running because my family wants it to, because I want it to. I can do whatever I want here, but lucky for you, so can you. So long as you have my approval of course. Sleepovers with other soldiers are not allowed." Gojo said and suddenly everything he got away with doing began to make sense.
How he had gotten away with nearly killing a fellow soldier with as poor an alibi as yourself. Why he had a room nicer than the Commander and wasn't questioned for any of his insane antics. Where he got all that audacity from.
"I get you were upset with me so I'll let this one slide, but if you ever do something like this again, I'll have no choice but to punish you. You're mine, don't ever let anyone else get so close, let alone touch you." Gojo said, reaching for your face. Face dropping and eyes growing cold as you flinched back from his touch.
"Enough. I told you not to test my patience. Don't push me so far that I have to get strict with you. Now come on, let's go to our room." Gojo said, getting up off the bed and holding his hand out to you.
"You're fucking insane if you think I'm going anywhere with you." You said, turning back to Kaido and ignoring his hand but it was a mistake to turn your back to Gojo.
You were yanked back around by your arm making you cry out, Gojo ducking down and tossing you over his shoulder like you weighed nothing before turning to stalk out of the room.
"I warned you." He said, swatting at your ass with one of those giant hands making you yelp.
"Put me down." You demanded, squirming and flailing to try to get out of his hold. A kick to his stomach only earned you another smack on your ass.
Your yelling must have attracted attention for you heard a door opening down the hall and the Commander's voice demanding which moron was up causing a commotion this early before he came into view wearing a sleep robe tied over pajamas.
"Help me." You called out, reaching out towards the Commander when he stood there staring as though frozen in shock. Heart sinking as Gojo got closer and the man merely stepped out of his way.
"Excuse us from training for the rest of the week, we've got a couple things to work through." Gojo said as he passed the Commander.
"Yes, of course. Let me know if you need to leave the base, I'll have a car arranged."
"That won't be necessary." Gojo responded, turning the corner so you could no longer see the man who you had expected to help you but had only stood with his head bowed down to the monster carrying you off.
Gojo didn't so much as slow down until he had made it back to his room. Opening the door with you still hanging over his shoulder with ease and dropping you down onto the bed. You immediately got to your feet, eyeing him warily where he stood before you.
He raised his hand and you flinched back making him frown as he brought his hand to the still-bleeding wound on his head.
"Fuck, you got me good." He winced, prodding at the wound tenderly and going over to the mirror hung up on the wall to get a better look.
"I didn't think you were capable of that but it's good to see you're not completely defenseless. Though, next time, maybe try hitting someone else and not your friend." He said, wiping at the blood with his t-shirt gingerly.
"You're not my friend." You said, seeing him pause in the reflection of the mirror. Eyes flashing before he closed them and took a deep breath as though trying to restrain himself.
"You're angry." He sighed, turning back to face you.
"No, I'm not angry. I'm disgusted. I can't believe I ever called you a friend." You spat.
His jaw clenched but he shook his head as though the movement would help him shake off what you had said.
"I lost control and I hurt you. I get that you're mad and I'm sorry for hurting you, I really am, but don't go saying things you don't mean." He said.
"Oh I mean it. You mean nothing to me, I don't ever want to see your face again. In fact, I'm leaving. Fuck this whole force. That pension isn't worth this shit." You said, moving towards the closet intending to pack but before you could even round the bed Gojo had crossed the room and was turning you to face him by the arm.
Your protests died on your lips as you caught sight of his face. Blue eyes alight with rage, the veins running up his neck and into his jaw standing out grotesquely from how tightly he was clenching his teeth. He looked inhuman, like something animalistic and feral. For the first time you felt truly afraid of Gojo.
"Didn't I say not to push me too far?" He asked through gritted teeth.
"Didn't I?" He demanded loudly, gripping you by your upper arms and giving you a sound shake.
"Y-you did." You responded, arching up in his hold to try to get out of the painful grip he had on your arms.
"Who are you leaving?" He asked, bringing you in closer by the hold he had on you.
"Who said you could fucking leave me? Who even allowed you to think it?" He barked, giving you another shake.
"You're mine, you don't ever get to walk away from me. You're the one who barged into my life, you think you can just up and leave whenever you want?" He demanded, his grip growing steadily tighter on your arms.
"Gojo, please, you're hurting me." You said, eyes watering from the pain but you didn't dare try to pull away.
"And what about how much you're hurting me?" He asked.
"Does my pain mean fucking nothing to you? Saying shit like I mean nothing to you, that I'm not your friend. You know what, you're right. I'm not your friend. I'm so much fucking more than that. Friend doesn't begin to cover what we are to each other."
"W-what?" You asked. You knew he was weirdly possessive of you but you hadn't anticipated that he thought of you in that way.
"I'm your fucking everything. Your friend, your lover, your husband. It's all me, there is no space for anyone else. I won't let there be anyone else. I'll make you mine in every conceivable way. Put a ring on your finger, brand my name over your fucking heart and mark your pretty little neck with my teeth every damn day." He growled, and before you had a chance to react was leaning down and sinking his teeth into your neck making you scream as he tore through the flesh.
You flailed in his grasp, pushing and shoving at his chest but it was like trying to move stone. After what seemed like an eternity of agony he finally pulled away, teeth lined with your blood and lips crimson with it.
"All fucking mine." He declared, licking over his lips making your breath catch as the reality of your situation dawned on you.
You had walked right into the den of a monster, awakening the beast and now you were trapped in its grasp. You should never have befriended Gojo Satoru. Not when there was all those rumours about him. Shouldn't have thought yourself more clever than the rest, able to tame the infamous mad dog.
"Gojo I don't think of you that way." You said shakily, hoping you could at least get him to go back to wanting to be your friend, not whatever the hell this was.
"That's okay, you'll start. It's my fault, I should have been more clear. I know how oblivious you can be so I wanted to take things slow but clearly that was a mistake on my part."
"Y-you can't force someone to be with you. I don't want to be with you and I won't." You said, trying to sound firm.
"I know you're a little slow and normally I find that to be fucking adorable but I need you to get it through your head that you are mine. You belong to me." He repeated slowly as though trying to drill the words into you.
"You're the one who who forced your way into my life so really this is all on you. I would have left you alone had you not started following me around and then tried to cover for me, getting all worried about me getting into trouble." He said, going from enraged to getting a far-off look in his eye as though reminiscing. He was fucking insane, his moods changed faster than you could keep up with.
"I only approached you because I needed someone who'd have my back during missions. I didn't mean for any of this to go so far." You said.
"I'll always protect you, I'll always have your back. There's no curse, institution or person that can get to you while I'm around." He cooed, not seeming mad at all to find out about your ulterior motive for approaching him.
"I don't need that from you. I'm leaving the force, I never should have joined." You mumbled, filled with regret over your greed that had brought you into the predicament.
"You're not going anywhere. I'll tie you to the bed if that's what it takes. You'll stay where I am. If you don't want to be part of missions, good, I'd rather you not be but you're staying here."
"You can't watch over me every second of every day. I'd find a way to get away so why don't you just make this easy for both of us and let me go?" You asked, making his eyes darken and that bravado that had overcome your senses drained just as fast leaving only a hollow, cold sense of fear behind.
"I told you I'm never letting you go. I'll do whatever it takes to keep you with me. I don't want to tie you up but I'll do it if you make me and if you somehow manage to get out then I'll hunt you down and I'll break your fucking legs so you can't run." He growled making you flinch back.
"Now what's it going to be? Are you going to choose the easy route where you stay with me in our room and get to move about as you please or should I tie you up?" He asked.
"Better yet should I move right to breaking your legs so you don't get any funny ideas about running away? They'll even discharge you with pension if I break your legs, you'll still stay with me of course but it is what you always wanted." He said, grabbing your jaw in his hand and forcing you to look up at him.
His eyes softening when he saw the tears in yours.
"Fuck, I didn't mean to make you cry. Come here." He sighed, pulling you in to his chest and wrapping his arms around you.
Terrified as you were of him you couldn't help but sob into his chest. The dread of the horrible predicament you had gotten yourself into making you seek comfort from anywhere you could get it, even if it was the source of your misery. He hushed you, rubbing a hand up and down your back soothingly. Pressing apologetic kisses into your head.
"I told you not to push me. I fucking lose it when I even so much as think of you not being with me. Just promise me you'll stay with me. That you won't ever leave and we can forget all of this."
"I-I won't." You hiccuped, finally giving in to what had been inevitable since the moment you first approached Gojo.
"We're gonna be so happy together darling. I'll always protect you, all you have to do is stay with me." He cooed into your hair. Hushing you when his words only made you cry harder.
you’re well aware that your relationship with satoru isn’t exactly normal. people seem to think you have no clue, but you’ve never been ignorant. for all the casual jokes and whining clinginess, you can tell your boyfriend is deeply, possessively in love with you.
it shows in everything he does. satoru likes to hide it behind a veneer of playfulness. you don’t mind. in all reality, you find it pretty cute—the doting, the teasing, the silly jokes that all veil that intense want that lurks in him. he wants you so bad it’s impossible to ignore. no, more than that: he needs you so much it bleeds into everything he does.
he’s teasing when he winds an arm around your waist, joking when he drops his chin on your head and pulls you away from whoever you were talking to. there’s a casual, unspoken jealousy to the action, but he’s so good at pretending it’s just gojo being clingy. it’s just what everyone expects of him. you’re the only one that knows better. you can see the angry glint in his eye, hear the way satoru’s heart picks up in his chest every time you reciprocate. you’re the only one he lets past infinity, the reason he’s been working to make it cover you as well. he just can’t bear to see other people touching you—you don’t blame him, do you?
best of all, you’re the only one that sees him desperate, that gets to watch him unwind. he worships you. you don’t have sex as much as you make love, his hands roving your body and plucking sweet moans from between your lips. satoru will murmur as he takes you, voice unbearably vulnerable and unspeakably intimate. “no one else can make you feel like this, baby,” he says on a moan. on the next, quiet and sure, “even better, i’m the only one that gets to see you like this. they don’t even know what they’re missing out on. i won’t let them ever find out.” he holds you tightly, kisses you ardently, and if you let him, he’ll fuck you until his legs give out. until he has no more love left to give.
so maybe you’re a little too encouraging. so what? who cares if you let your gaze linger on another man just to watch satoru’s eyes sharpen? what does it matter if you’ll play ignorant to another man’s advances, just to revel in the way satoru steps in and stakes his territory?
sex like that is even better. satoru gets mad, possessive—not at you, never at you. but your entire body becomes a canvas for him to stake his claim on, and it makes him rough. he’ll grip you until you bruise, kiss you until your lip splits, fuck you deep and hard so that you wake up the next morning sore, just so he can dote on you all over again.
“he’s so needy,” utahime complains to you one day, after he’d dragged you home from an event. he’d claimed he just wanted you all to himself for a moment, to get away from such boring company. it’s more honest than everyone suspects. he really does hate to see you talking to other people. “he wants to leave, and you leave. he hates when you talk to other guys. i swear, whenever you’re not paying attention to him, it’s like the sun’s frozen over. and then he has to act up until you’re looking at him again. how can you handle a guy that clingy?”
“i think it’s cute,” you reply. “i like how much he likes me. makes me feel like i’m the only girl in the world, you know?”
utahime snorts. “he sure seems to think so. remember last week? it’s like he didn’t even realise that girl was flirting with him.”
he hadn’t. or maybe he had, and satoru simply revels in your jealousy as much as you do his. you’d attached yourself to him like a limpet, fingers curling around his bicep as your head leant against his shoulder. you were polite to a fault until you chased her off, so clingy that satoru couldn’t tear his eyes away. in the end, he’d barely said three words to the girl before you monopolised all of his attention. he’d grinned wide and proud, and been twice as clingy as you were thereafter.
(when you got home, well. you’d been on top, riding him to a slow climax while he stared up at you worshipfully. his thumbs rub circles into your thighs, and with every rock of your hips, he lets loose an unabashed groan. he’s so free in his pleasure, so open about how good you make him feel. satoru never lets you doubt how perfect you are for him.
he comes first, for once. heaves and whines into your mouth even as he tells you to keep going, tells you that i’m sorry i want you so bad, baby. that doesn’t mean you need to stop—take me for all i’ve got, kay? he whispers those promises until you follow him over the edge, curled on top of him and breathing deep against his collarbone.
“you’ll never leave me, will you?” he asks, except he doesn’t say it like a question. he says it like a vow.
“never,” you promise. “you’d be dead before i let you get rid of me.”)
one day you and toji got into a huge argument. of course, you decide to ignore him until he apologizes because he was wrong.
but he didn’t, and it’s been a week.
fine, if he didn’t want to talk with you, he doesn’t have to sleep with you either.
so before toji comes home from work, (as a mechanic) you picked up his favorite pillow and blanket and throw it sloppily on the couch not even bothering to fold it or anything.
a couple hours later, around 7pm, the door opens. you’re in the kitchen and you can hear him shuffling around, throwing his keys in the bowl, his jacket on the hanger and his incredibly loud footsteps then— a pause.
he saw it, you can almost hear his frustration from the living room behind you. mainly because the apartment is pretty small, but still he stomps around untill he finds you in the kitchen. you don’t even glance his way, not a small nod or a sound of acknowledgment you continue cooking(for the both of you of course, this man can’t cook to save his life).
he glares through you, like you can activitly feel his stare penetrating through your head.
he looks down the hallway with a small smirk and leaves you alone in the kitchen. you hear a thud in the bedroom and your eye twitches, you just know he did something petty to get back at you for making him sleep on the couch. you plate his food and leave it on the counter to get cold the you walk to the dinner table and sit down. you hear a grunt and him snatching the cold plate as he sits across from you at the same table, he eats quickly and so do you.
an hour later of cleaning the kitchen and toji purposefully watching his sports game loud you finally walk inside the bedroom to see the sheets, blanket and pillow thrown around the bed.
he knows you hate when the bed isn’t made up, your eye twitches from genuine anger. you slam the bedroom door open and stomp over to toji, “get up” toji raises his eyebrow with a smirk but stands up. “look at me” he’s already looking at you, but now into your eyes he could almost see the fire inside. “your sleeping on the couch”
he scoffs “no im not” you roll your eyes and walk back to the bedroom, fully expecting to sleep alone tonight.
until you settle into bed and you feel the weight of the other side shift. “night ma” your eye twitches and you open your mouth but he leans in and kisses you. “love you” your brain glitches and you stare at him as he turns his back to you already falling asleep.
could you perhaps do a aerion arranged marriage fic where he begins closed off but slowly warms up to reader 👀
♞ TO FORGE A FLAME / AERION TARGARYEN
aerion targaryen x peake!reader
SYNOPSIS: a disgraced lady of house peake is given to prince aerion targaryen as punishment for her family’s treason. forced into dragon colors and courtly captivity, she resists him quietly until cruelty, pride, and dangerous tenderness begin to blur...
WARNING: arranged marriage, power imbalance, aerion targaryen is his own warning...
WORD COUNT: 11k
NOTES: this story is canon divergent. i’m moving the peake rebellion/royal conflict earlier in the timeline so it happens while aerion targaryen is still alive!!!! i wanted to keep the political weight of house peake’s blackfyre history while giving aerion and lady peake their own very messy, dramatic version of events.
House Peake had once possessed three castles.
Starpike, Dunstonbury, and Whitegrove...three proud black towers upon a field of burning orange, three dark teeth set into the golden mouth of the Reach. In old songs, men said those castles had stood like clenched fists against storm and sword. In older tales still, Peake lords had ridden beneath their banner as though the sun itself had been cut into silk for them, bright and brazen and impossible to ignore.
But songs were kinder than history. History remembered treason. It remembered Daemon Blackfyre. It remembered banners raised for a dragon that had not sat the Iron Throne. It remembered the long red harvest of rebellion, the broken men, the pardons given like knives with velvet handles. It remembered how House Peake had lost Dunstonbury and Whitegrove, and how Starpike remained not as a triumph, but as a warning.
One castle left. One daughter left. One price left to pay.
You stood in your father’s solar while rain worried at the narrow windows and the orange banner of your house hung limp upon the wall. Three black castles stared down from the cloth, though two had long since been stripped from your blood. They had remained in the sigil because pride was a stubborn thing. Pride was sometimes all a disgraced house had left.
Your father, Lord Gormon Peake, would not look at you. That was how you knew the worst of it before any word was spoken. He stood with his hands braced on the carved back of his chair, shoulders broad beneath dark wool, his face stern as the stone walls that had raised you. Wax from the royal seal lay broken upon his table. Red wax. Dragon wax. A dead little pool of command.
“They will not burn Starpike,” he said at last.
His voice was quiet.
You should have been relieved. Instead, the room seemed to narrow around you until the air itself had teeth.
“No,” you said.
A single word. Barely breath.
Your father’s jaw moved once. “The crown is merciful.”
You looked at the letter. You did not need to read it again. The accusations had already carved themselves behind your eyes.
Renewed correspondence with Blackfyre loyalists.
Refusal of a royal command.
Quiet mustering of strength.
Treason, treason, treason...the old word dressed in fresh ink.
“The crown is not merciful,” you said, and your voice did not shake. That surprised you. It surprised your father too, for he lifted his eyes then. “The crown is elegant.”
His expression hardened. “You will guard your tongue.”
“Why?” Your hands were folded before you, white knuckled in the sleeves of your gown. “Will they take me twice?”
The silence that followed was so complete that even the rain seemed to hush.
You were beautiful. You had been told so since girlhood, first by nurses with warm hands, then by ladies with calculating eyes, then by men who praised beauty the way merchants praised horses before asking the price. You had the kind of loveliness that made people pause before they remembered themselves. The Reach had shaped you generously...skin like cream warmed by candlelight, a mouth made soft by courtesy and sharpened by restraint, eyes that seemed too watchful for so delicate a face. Your hair, dressed that morning with tiny black pins in honor of your house, gleamed like something poets would have wasted half a page naming.
Beauty had been meant to serve you. Now it had made you suitable for sacrifice.
Lord Gormon looked older than he had the day before.
“You will go to King’s Landing,” he said. “You will be received at court. You will be betrothed to Prince Aerion Targaryen.”
Prince Aerion.
Even in Starpike, his name had reached you before his person had. Names had a way of traveling when attached to cruelty. Aerion Brightflame, some called him, with admiration or fear or both. A prince with silver hair, violet eyes, and the temper of a dragon half starved. A prince who thought himself more fire than flesh. A prince whose laughter was said to come most easily when another man flinched.
“You are giving me to him,” you said.
Your father looked away again. That was answer enough. Not marrying. Not offering. Not arranging. Giving. As one gave coin, grain, land, hostages.
“You will save Starpike,” he said.
And there it was...the softest chain in the world, laid around your throat by a familiar hand.
You thought of the castle beneath your feet. The servants who had carried you as a child. The septa who had taught you your prayers. The kennel boy with the crooked smile. The old cook who still made honeyed oatcakes when grief sat too long at the table. You thought of the smallfolk clustered beneath Peake protection, of children who knew nothing of black dragons or red, nothing of treason written before their birth.
You thought of the banner above you. Orange. Black. Three castles. Soon, you would be dressed in red and black. Not your black. Not your old mourning black, not your proud castle black. Dragon black. Dragon red. Fire and blood laid over you until no one could see what had been there before.
“Did you agree before telling me?” you asked.
Your father said nothing.
You smiled then. It was a small, terrible thing.
“You did.”
“It was the only way.”
“No,” you said softly. “It was the way that cost you least.”
His hand struck the chair so hard the wood groaned. “You think I wanted this?”
“I think you wanted Starpike more than you wanted me.”
His face twisted. For one moment, he looked not like a lord but like a father wounded by his child. You might have pitied him, had pity not been too expensive a thing.
“You are my daughter,” he said.
“Yes,” you answered. “That is why you had something left to trade.”
He turned from you then, and perhaps it was mercy. Perhaps he did not wish you to see his shame. Perhaps he wished not to see yours. But shame was already in the room. It stood beside you like a fourth person. Shame wore your face. Shame wore your colors. Shame had your father’s seal beneath its nails.
You crossed to the banner and lifted the edge of it between your fingers. The orange cloth was old but well kept, bright despite the dimness, proud despite history. Three castles. Three losses. Three lies and one truth. You pressed the silk once to your mouth. Not a kiss. A farewell.
The court had received you as though you were honored.
That was the first cruelty.
King’s Landing rose before you in heat and stink and splendor, crowned by the Red Keep upon Aegon’s High Hill. Its walls were the color of old blood at sunset. Its towers stabbed the sky like spears thrust upward by dead conquerors. Dragons had made this city, and though dragons no longer darkened the heavens, their memory remained in stone, in banners, in the arrogance of every red clad guard who looked upon your escort and saw not guests, but spoils.
You arrived beneath Targaryen eyes.
There were no chains upon your wrists. There did not need to be. Your gown was fine. Your hair was arranged with care. A cloak of deep red had been placed around your shoulders before you crossed into the yard, its lining black as a raven’s wing. The ladies who came to receive you praised the richness of it.
“How splendidly the colors suit you, Lady Peake,” one said.
You lowered your eyes and curtsied.
“His Grace is generous,” you replied.
A lie, polished until it shone.
Whispers followed you through the Red Keep like little knives drawn from little sheaths.
There she is.
The Peake girl.
Starpike’s ransom.
A pretty price.
Does she look frightened?
Wouldn’t you?
Prince Aerion will tame that pride soon enough.
You had thought yourself prepared for fear. You had not prepared for being watched.
Fear in solitude was one thing. Fear beneath a hundred eyes was another. At court, even breathing became performance. You learned before the first evening bell that grief must be graceful to be forgiven. You must walk as though you had come willingly. Sit as though your chair were not a perch above a pit. Smile as though every courtesy did not have a hook beneath it.
You were placed among noblewomen whose hands glittered with rings and whose voices were soft enough to conceal malice. They asked after Starpike. They asked after your father. They asked whether the journey had been pleasant. One wondered aloud whether the Reach seemed smaller after one had been summoned to court.
You answered each question as you had been taught...gently, neatly, with no word loose enough to be used as rope. Inside, something in you paced. Anger, perhaps. Or terror. They felt much the same when caged.
You first saw Prince Aerion in the hall of the Iron Throne.
He did not enter loudly. Men like him did not need noise.
The court seemed to bend before awareness of him. Heads turned. Conversations thinned. A path opened with the obedience of grass before flame.
He was beautiful in the cruel manner of Targaryens, as though some ancient god had shaped him lovingly and forgotten to give him mercy. His hair was pale as moonlight, his eyes were a deep and venomous violet, and his mouth looked made for both poetry and ruin. He wore black chased with red, a dragon wrought in rubies at his throat. He was not broad like a warrior in old tapestries, nor plain like honest men in fields. He was slender, princely, bright as a blade drawn at dawn.
And he smiled when he saw you. Not warmly. Possessively. As if he had been shown a fine hawk, hooded and delivered.
“So,” he said, when you were brought before him. His voice was cultured, light, almost amused. “Starpike has a daughter.”
You curtsied. Low enough for obedience. Not low enough for surrender.
“My prince.”
His gaze moved over you with insulting leisure. Not the clumsy hunger of a drunken knight. Not even desire, precisely. Assessment. Appraisal. He looked at your face, your throat, the red cloak swallowing the last visible traces of your house, and understood at once what had been done. So did you.
To him, you were no bride. You were proof. House Peake made flesh. Treason dressed in silk. A living banner lowered before the dragon.
“How lovely,” Aerion murmured. “They told me you were fair, but men so often grow generous when describing hostages.”
The word landed softly. Hostage. No one gasped. No one corrected him. That was the second cruelty. You felt every eye in the hall turn sharper.
You lifted your chin by the width of a prayer.
“Then I am pleased not to disappoint, my prince.”
His smile deepened. There. Something kindled behind his eyes. Interest. Not affection. Not admiration. Interest, like a boy discovering an ant did not die when pressed beneath his thumb.
“Careful,” he said. “Courtesy becomes a dangerous weapon in the hands of traitors.”
“My hands are empty.”
“For now.”
A few courtiers laughed because he wished them to. You did not.
Aerion stepped closer, close enough that you could see the fine stitching at his collar, red thread biting through black.
“Little traitor,” he said, almost fondly.
The hall heard. It was meant to.
Your face did not change.
“My prince,” you answered again.
And for the first time, his smile flickered. A lesser man might have wanted tears. Aerion, you would learn, wanted the moment before them.
In the days that followed, he taught the court how to look at you.
That was his first art .
He did not rage. He did not shout. He did not drag you by the arm through corridors or break cups against walls. Such things were for coarse men, men ruled by appetite and weather. Aerion’s cruelty wore perfume and jewels. It came gloved. It sat beside you at supper and corrected your posture with a touch light enough to seem tender from afar.
When Lord Caswell asked whether you had found comfort in the Red Keep’s sept, you opened your mouth to answer.
Aerion spoke first.
“My lady-wife-to-be finds comfort wherever she is commanded to find it.”
Laughter, soft and obedient.
You lowered your gaze to your plate.
“His Grace’s sept is very fine,” you said.
Aerion leaned back, smiling. “See? She learns.”
When a lady of the Westerlands praised the embroidery at your sleeve and asked whether the pattern was of the Reach, Aerion lifted your wrist before you could move.
“Not the Reach,” he said. “Dragons. I had her old colors put away. Sentiment is how treason keeps its roots.”
His thumb pressed once against the delicate bones of your wrist.
Not enough to hurt. Enough to remind.
You smiled at the lady, “Prince Aerion has been most attentive.”
His eyes cut to you. You had made the words too sweet. Just enough sugar to curdle.
That night, your maid found you kneeling beside your chest with a strip of orange silk in your lap. Not much. A ribbon torn from the lining of an old gown, small enough to vanish beneath finery.
“My lady,” she whispered, frightened.
“Hush, Betha.”
“If he sees—”
“He sees everything,” you said.
Your fingers did not tremble as you stitched the orange and black beneath the inner seam of your sleeve, where it would rest against your skin and no courtier could praise or mock it.
“Then why risk it?”
You drew the thread through cloth.
“Because there must be some part of me he has not been handed.”
There were judgments twice that week. Aerion made you sit beside him for both.
The first was a knight accused of carrying letters westward to men who still drank to the Black Dragon when doors were barred. The second was a household steward from a minor Reach house whose cousin had served your father. The hall was cold despite summer heat. The accused men stood below the dais, pale and sweating, while courtiers craned for a better view.
Aerion offered you his arm before the court.
You took it because refusing would be spectacle, and spectacle was always his chosen ground.
“How fortunate you are here,” he murmured as he led you to the raised seats. “You may learn what becomes of men who mistake old loyalties for living ones.”
“I have learned many things at court, my prince.”
“Have you?”
“Yes.”
“Name one.”
You sat beside him, hands folded, face still.
“That mercy is loudest when it wishes to be admired.”
His eyes found yours. For a breath, the hall seemed to tilt. Then Aerion smiled.
“Charming,” he said. “You must say such things more often. I do enjoy wondering whether to be pleased or offended.”
“Whichever serves you best, my prince.”
His smile did not fade, but something sharpened beneath it.
During the judgments, he watched you more than the condemned.
He watched when the steward begged. He watched when the knight denied knowing any Blackfyre sympathizers, though his voice broke over the lie. He watched when punishment was pronounced. Not death. Not that day. Mutilation for one. The Wall for another.
Your stomach turned itself to ice. You did not look away. That, too, displeased him. Or pleased him. With Aerion, the two were often twins.
At feasts, he made you ask permission.
“To leave, my prince?”
His goblet paused near his mouth. “Already?”
“The hour is late.”
“Is it? I had not noticed.”
The table listened.
You stood beside his chair, every inch the graceful lady, every inch the captive thing.
“May I be excused?”
Aerion looked up at you with lazy delight. “You may.”
A murmur passed down the table. As you turned, his voice followed.
“Little traitors tire easily.”
You stopped. Only for a heartbeat. Then you looked back and smiled.
“Then your mercy in allowing me rest shall be praised all the more.”
His goblet touched his lips. His eyes burned over the rim.
You refused wine from his hand once. Only once, and before too many witnesses.
He offered it during a supper where singers played beneath the gallery and heat pooled under the high windows.
“Drink,” he said.
The cup was his own. Gold. Dragon handled. Red wine dark as blood. You looked at it. Then at him.
“I thank you, my prince, but I am not thirsty.”
The hall seemed not to notice. Aerion did.
His fingers tightened on the stem.
“Are you afraid I have poisoned it?”
“Of course not.”
“Then drink.”
You let the silence stretch just long enough to become visible. Then you took the cup. But you did not drink. You lifted it, bowed your head slightly, and set it untouched beside your plate.
Aerion laughed. It was a beautiful sound. That was perhaps the worst of it. The court laughed with him, relieved to discover they were allowed. But after that, he watched your mouth whenever you drank from anything else.
You had not won. There was no winning in a cage. But you had denied him something small, and the denial lived between you like a candle refusing to go out.
Then came the dancing.
The court loved dancing because it could pretend cruelty was ceremony if music played beneath it.
Aerion chose you before the hall had grown warm. He crossed the floor with all the ease of a prince born beneath chandeliers, and every lady near you lowered her eyes in envy or pity. Perhaps both.
“My lady Peake,” he said, extending his hand. “You will dance.”
Not would you. Not may I.
You placed your hand in his.
“My prince.”
His fingers closed around yours and the music began.
He danced as he did all things...beautifully, precisely, with a violence hidden so deep in grace that only the person held by him could feel it. He guided you through each turn as though displaying a conquered banner. His hand at your waist did not bruise. It did not need to. Every watching eye understood the claim.
“You are very quiet tonight,” he said.
“I feared I might interrupt myself.”
His mouth curved. “Was that wit?”
“Only obedience, my prince. You so often speak for me that I presumed I should leave room for you.”
His grip tightened. There it was again, not anger, not quite. Interest, irritation, appetite.
“You dislike being looked at,” he said.
You turned beneath his arm, red skirts sweeping the floor like spilled flame.
“I dislike being mistaken for an object.”
“How unfortunate.”
“Yes,” you said. “For the object, especially.”
He drew you closer on the next step, too close for propriety, not close enough for scandal.
“You think yourself brave.”
“No.”
“No?”
“I think myself watched. There is a difference.”
Aerion stared at you. For one strange moment, his face altered. Not softened. Never softened. But sharpened inward, as though you had placed before him a puzzle he resented wanting to solve.
Then the music ended. He bowed over your hand and kissed the air above your knuckles.
“To be watched,” he said, low enough that only you heard, “is the first lesson of belonging to me.”
You wanted to say you did not belong to him. You wanted to say no vow had been spoken, no cloak placed, no bedding witnessed, no gods called down to bind you.
Instead, you curtsied.
“My prince.”
The tourney was held three days before the wedding. The court called it celebration. You knew better. It was rehearsal.
You were seated among noble ladies beneath a canopy of red and black silk, your gown chosen by Aerion himself. Black velvet, red sleeves, rubies at your throat like drops of conquered blood. Beneath the left sleeve, hidden against your skin, the little seam of Peake orange scratched softly whenever you moved.
A secret. A wound. A prayer.
“You look splendid,” Lady Mooton said beside you.
“Dragon colors do wonders for her,” another replied.
You smiled.
The stands were crowded bright with banners. Gold lions, green towers, purple grapes, silver trout, crimson dragons. Knights rode below in painted armor, lances raised, horses tossing plumed heads. Trumpets split the air. Sunlight glanced off helms and made every man seem briefly holy.
Aerion shone most of all...
He entered the lists in armor dark as polished night, chased with red and gold flame. His helm bore the three headed dragon. The crowd loved him because beauty and danger were easy to adore from a safe distance. He raised his lance, and applause moved through the stands like wind through wheat.
You clapped when the ladies clapped. You smiled when eyes turned toward you. You performed loyalty with hands that felt far away from your body.
Then Ser Duncan the Tall entered the lists. The laughter began almost at once. He was enormous, awkwardly noble in a way the court did not know how to forgive. His armor was plain and ill matched. His horse lacked ornament. No great house colors streamed behind him, no ancient blood announced him before his name could. He looked like a man who had walked out of the earth itself and been told, too late, that the sky belonged to princes.
“A hedge knight,” someone behind you whispered.
“Seven save him. Does he know who he faces?”
“Look at his shield.”
“Look at his boots.”
A lady near you laughed behind her fan. The sound scraped against your nerves.
You looked toward Aerion. You tried to keep your gaze there, where duty had placed it. He sat straight in the saddle, radiant, careless, adored. Born to be watched. Born to be praised. Born to turn the world’s gaze into a mirror and find himself glorious in it.
Below, Dunk adjusted his grip on his lance. Men laughed louder. And he did not answer to it. That was the first thing you noticed. Not his height. Not his plainness. Not the absurd courage of standing where everyone expected him to fall. His restraint.
The herald called and then the horses charged.
Aerion rode like a song of war. Swift, bright, terrible. His lance struck cleanly, and the crowd roared. Dunk swayed but did not fall. When he returned for the next pass, dust clung to him. Someone shouted that hedge knights were harder to knock down because mud loved its own.
The ladies laughed again. Your hands tightened in your lap. Another pass. Then another.
Dunk fought plainly, without flourish. There was no cruelty in him. No hunger to humiliate. When Aerion pressed him hard, sharper than sport required, Dunk did not answer with spite. When the crowd mocked him, he did not spend his strength hating them. He endured.
That was what undid you. Not admiration. Recognition.
You knew what it was to stand dressed for judgment before people waiting to see how well you would bleed. You knew what it was to be laughed at softly because open laughter would be indecorous. You knew what it was to be outnumbered by eyes.
Then came the moment. Aerion’s horse turned too sharply after a pass. Perhaps the ground betrayed him. Perhaps pride did. He slipped in the saddle, only slightly, but enough. Dunk had the angle. He could have taken advantage. He did not.
Instead, he checked his horse. A murmur passed through the crowd. It was nothing, perhaps. A small mercy. A little courtesy in a world that hoarded them. But to you, it seemed enormous.
Before thought could become caution, before fear could clap a hand over your mouth, you leaned forward.
“Well struck!” you said.
You did not shout it loud but clear enough. The ladies around you went still. One fan snapped shut. Someone gave a small, delighted laugh. You realized what you had done before the words had finished dying. The red and black on your body seemed suddenly brighter than flame. Every ruby at your throat became an accusation. You could feel the women near you looking from your gown to the field, from the field to your face.
Then you looked at Aerion.
He had heard.
His horse stood motionless beneath him. His helm was lifted. Across the lists, across banners and dust and sunlight, his face had gone completely still. No anger. No yelling. No visible wound. Only stillness. It was worse than wrath. Wrath had shape. Wrath could be prepared for. This was a door closing in a room you had not known you stood inside.
For one moment, Aerion looked not like a man, nor even a prince, but like the carved image of some beautiful god to whom a village had forgotten a sacrifice.
Then he forced a smiled. And you knew, with a coldness that began in your bones, that he had not forgiven you.
To you, the words had been pity. No. Not pity. Something cleaner than that. You had seen a man mocked and alone, and for one unguarded heartbeat, you had reached toward him with the only mercy available to you.
To Aerion, it was humiliation.
His betrothed, dressed in his colors, seated before the court as proof of his claim, had praised a hedge knight. A lowborn man. A man with no old blood, no dragon, no splendor, no fear coiled like incense around his name. Worse than praise, it was judgment. As though you had looked upon Aerion’s brilliance and Dunk’s plain honor and found the prince wanting.
You knew this before he spoke to you. You knew because he did not speak to you for the rest of the day.
After the tourney, Aerion grew cold. Not absent. Absence would have been easier. He remained everywhere...at meals , in corridors, in the breath held conversations of courtiers who waited for punishment like boys waiting for war. But he withdrew the sharp warmth of his cruelty and left you with courtesy polished to ice.
He sent notes instead of coming himself.
Lady Peake will attend supper at the hour of the bat.
Lady Peake will wear black tomorrow.
Lady Peake is excused from the gardens.
Lady Peake.
Not little traitor.
Not hostage.
Not even my lady.
It should have been relief. It was not.
His cruelty had frightened you, humiliated you, angered you until you lay awake with your hands clenched beneath the coverlets. But cruelty, at least, had seen you. His coldness passed over you like light over glass. You became an object again, but no longer an interesting one. That hurt. You hated that it hurt.
At dinner, he sat beside you and did not look at you once. When Lord Rowan asked whether the wedding preparations pleased you, Aerion replied before you could.
“Lady Peake is grateful for whatever she is given.”
His tone was mild. Perfect. Not a single person could call it cruel.
You folded your hands beneath the table.
“I am instructed daily in gratitude,” you said.
Aerion lifted his cup. His eyes did not move to yours.
“Not well enough, it seems.”
The words were soft. They cut anyway.
You tried to apologize the next evening.
Not because you believed yourself guilty of desiring another man. Not because you had meant insult. But because the court had sharpened your small mercy into a blade and placed it between you.
You found Aerion in a gallery where the sunset poured blood red through narrow windows. For a moment, with the light behind him, he looked winged.
“My prince.”
He did not turn.
“I wished to speak about the tourney.”
“How tiresome.”
You swallowed. “I did not mean to shame you.”
At that, he looked back. The beauty of him struck you again, as it always did, with unwilling force. He was almost too finely made for decency. Men should not be so lovely and so cruel. It confused the soul.
“No?” he asked.
“No.”
“You praised him by accident, then?”
“I spoke without thought.”
“A dangerous habit for a traitor.”
Your throat tightened.
“I was not cheering against you.”
Aerion crossed the space between you slowly. That was his way. He never rushed toward cruelty. He let dread arrive first and open the door for him.
“No,” he said. “Of course not. You were merely moved by the sight of your hedge knight.”
“He is not mine.”
His eyes flashed then, at last. There was the wound. There and gone again.
“Save your pity,” he said, voice low enough that no servant beyond the archway could hear. “You spent enough of it on your hedge knight.”
The words struck harder than they should have. Because they were wrong. Because they were almost right. Because how could you explain that it had not been Dunk himself, but the loneliness around him? How could you say, Everyone was laughing, and it was cruel, without naming Aerion chief among the cruel? How could you tell a dragon that you had flinched from fire?
“I meant no insult,” you said again, but the words were pale little things.
Aerion leaned close.
“I know what you meant,” he said.
But he did not. That was the tragedy. He did not.
The days before the wedding folded themselves into silence.
You continued as court required. You dressed. You sat. You smiled. You answered when spoken to and held your tongue when Aerion chose to speak over you. But something in you had gone quieter. Not broken. No, never that. Your pride remained, cold and bright, hidden like orange thread beneath dragon cloth. Yet the court had become heavier. The whispers more piercing. The future nearer.
Betha wept one morning while lacing your gown.
“Stop,” you said gently.
“I am sorry, my lady.”
“Do not give them tears on my behalf. They are greedy enough.”
She laughed once, miserably, and wiped her face.
You touched her hand. “I am not dead.”
“No,” she whispered. “But they are burying you.”
You had no answer.
That evening, Aerion noticed. Of course he noticed. He noticed everything and pretended not to. He noticed when your replies shortened by a word. When you ate less fish than before. When you turned your wrist inward to hide the seam where orange silk laid beneath your sleeve. When your smile remained perfect but ceased to reach the place beneath your eyes where real feeling sometimes betrayed itself.
It irritated him. That was what he told himself.
Lady Peake was dull when subdued. Lady Peake’s quiet defiance had been more diverting than this careful, bloodless courtesy. Lady Peake had no right to change in any manner he had not commanded.
So he cornered Betha outside your chamber.
The girl nearly dropped the folded linens in her arms when she saw him.
“My prince.”
“Is your lady ill?”
Betha stared. “Ill?”
Aerion’s gaze was sharp enough to skin. “Do not repeat me like a trained bird.”
“No, my prince. She is not ill.”
“Then why does she wander about like a ghost in borrowed colors?”
Betha went very still. A wiser servant would have lowered her eyes and lied. Betha was frightened. But she loved you.
“She meant no insult, my prince.”
Aerion’s expression hardened at once.
“Did she send you to plead for her?”
“No.” Betha shook her head quickly. “No, my prince. She would be angry if she knew I spoke.”
“Then do not.”
The girl should have obeyed. She did not.
“She did not cheer because she favored Ser Duncan.”
Aerion’s mouth curved without mirth. “How loyal of you to explain your lady’s heart to me.”
“She cheered because everyone was laughing at him,” Betha said, voice trembling now. “Because he was alone, and they wanted him shamed, and still he tried to stand with honor.”
Aerion said nothing.
Betha clutched the linens tighter.
“My lady said she knew how that felt.”
There are some silences that fall. This one opened.
Aerion remained very still. He had remembered your voice as betrayal. Your praise as desire. Your pity as judgment. He had held the moment like a coal and fed it his pride until it burned hot enough to warm his anger. But now the memory altered. The stands. The laughter. Your face turned toward the field, unguarded for once. Not admiring. Not yearning. Stricken.
You had not looked at Dunk and chosen him. You had looked at him and seen yourself. And afterward, Aerion had punished you by making you lonelier.
His anger did not vanish.
Aerion’s pride was not a candle to be blown out by one servant’s trembling confession. The humiliation remained. The court had still heard you. The ladies had still laughed behind their fans. The wound still knew its own shape. But beneath it, something unfamiliar moved. Not remorse. Not yet. Something sharper because it had no name yet.
The wedding came beneath a sky white with heat.
The Sept of Baelor rang with bells and you thought they sounded like iron.
They dressed you in Targaryen colors. Red silk fell over your body in gleaming folds, black lace webbed your sleeves, rubies flashed at your throat and ears and wrists. Your beauty became a weapon in other hands. The ladies praised you until praise itself felt like mockery.
“No bride in the realm could rival you,” one sighed.
“How fortunate Prince Aerion is.”
“How fortunate Lady Peake is.”
That last one nearly made you laugh. Instead, you looked into the polished silver mirror and saw a stranger conquered in red.
Betha stood behind you, pale and silent.
“Inside the left sleeve,” she whispered.
You lowered your gaze. There, hidden where no court could see, she had sewn the smallest strip of orange cloth, crossed by black thread in the shape of a tower. It rested near your wrist. Near your pulse.
Starpike. Dunstonbury. Whitegrove.
One living. Two lost. All remembered.
“Thank you,” you said.
Betha bowed her head, and you pretended not to see her tears.
When you entered the sept, every face turned.
The walk to the altar was not long. It felt endless. Lords and ladies filled the sacred space in jeweled rows, their eyes bright with hunger for beauty, scandal, surrender. Your father stood among them, dressed in Peake orange darkened almost to rust. His face was carved from stone. You wondered whether he saw you as daughter or bargain fulfilled.
Aerion waited beneath the gaze of the Seven. He wore black. Of course he did. Black, slashed with red, a dragon brooch burning at his shoulder. His silver hair caught the light and made of him something unearthly, something too bright for human tenderness. When his eyes found you, they moved at once to your sleeve.
A flicker. He saw. Of course he saw. Your hidden colors might as well have been a banner unfurled from the sept roof.
For one moment, you feared he would expose you. That he would take your wrist before all the court and turn the seam outward, laughing as he stripped even that last private rebellion from you.
Instead, he smiled.
He leaned close when you reached him, his breath stirring the veil beside your cheek.
“Do try not to cheer for another man today.”
The words entered you like a needle. You looked ahead, face still.
“I shall endeavor to remember the occasion, my prince.”
“Not prince,” he murmured. “Not for much longer.”
The septon began. You heard very little. Words rose and fell above you like birds crossing a battlefield. Duty. Union. Loyalty. The eyes of gods and men. Cloaks. Houses. Peace.
Peace.
What a strange name men gave to a woman’s surrender.
Aerion placed the cloak around your shoulders. Targaryen red and black covered you completely. The court watched House Peake disappear.
When it came time for vows, your mouth obeyed because your body had been trained for obedience long before this day. The words tasted of ash.
“With this kiss, I pledge my love.”
Love.
The sept did not crack open. The gods did not strike anyone down.
Aerion’s hands were cool when they took yours. His face was close. Too close. Beautiful enough to grieve over, cruel enough to fear.
When you had to say the word husband, it caught. Only slightly. Only enough for him. His eyes sharpened. Then he kissed you. Not roughly. Not tenderly. Publicly.
The kiss was brief and exact and devastating because all kisses before witnesses belonged partly to the crowd. The court sighed as though they had seen romance. They had seen conquest and called it holy.
When Aerion drew back, his gaze remained on your mouth. For one moment, something passed through his expression that was not mockery. Then applause filled the sept like wings beating in a cage.
The feast was a mercy performed by executioners. Everyone toasted peace. Everyone toasted loyalty. Everyone toasted the wisdom of the crown, the humility of House Peake, the generosity of House Targaryen, the radiant beauty of the bride, the splendor of the groom.
No one toasted the truth.
You sat beside Aerion beneath a canopy of red and black. Your hidden orange thread scratched your wrist whenever you moved. You were grateful for the pain. It reminded you that you were still inside your own skin.
“Starpike has given its fairest jewel to purchase forgiveness,” Lord Costayne said, raising his cup.
A murmur of approval.
You smiled.
“Then may the jewel prove worth more than the debt, my lord.”
He blinked, uncertain whether he had been honored or rebuked. Aerion laughed softly beside you.
Later, a lady with pearls netted through her hair leaned forward.
“You truly do look better in dragon colors, my dear. Orange is such a difficult shade. So loud.”
You touched the stem of your goblet.
“Loud colors are useful, my lady. They make it difficult for history to pretend one vanished quietly.”
The lady’s smile thinned.
Aerion turned his head toward you and you felt his attention like heat. Then a young knight, too drunk on wine and his own courage, called from lower at the table, “How quickly traitor houses learn gratitude!”
Silence trembled.
Your father’s face darkened. You did not look at him. You looked at the knight.
“How fortunate, then,” you said, voice gentle, “that loyal houses are born knowing courtesy, lest they be forced to learn it from traitors.”
A few people coughed. Someone laughed before disguising it badly. The knight flushed scarlet.
Aerion’s fingers rested beside his cup. He tapped once against the table.
“You are bold tonight,” he said.
You turned to him.
“I am married now, husband. Surely I am permitted one virtue.”
The word husband landed between you. Not soft. Not at all willing. A blade wrapped in silk.
Aerion’s eyes darkened.
“Careful,” he murmured.
“Always,” you replied.
He watched you for a long while after that. Not with anger alone. Never that simple. Fascination had begun to eat at him, little by little. You were not what he had expected. You did not break loudly enough to satisfy. You did not plead prettily enough to amuse. You answered cruelty with such perfect grace that the cruel began, by comparison, to look vulgar.
Aerion hated vulgarity. He hated, too, that you could make him feel crude without once disobeying him.
The bedding was called for near midnight.
Voices rose, wine thick and eager. Men laughed too loudly. Women smiled with that peculiar cruelty women were taught to hide beneath custom. Someone shouted that dragons need no encouragement. Someone else called for the bride’s cloak to be taken.
Your whole body went cold. You had known it might come. Knowing did not lessen the horror. All day, you had been watched. Measured. Claimed. Now they wanted to turn even your fear into entertainment.
Aerion stood. The hall quieted by degrees. At first, a few men laughed, thinking him ready to play his part. Then they saw his face.
“No,” he said
One word. Flat as a drawn blade.
“My prince?” a lord ventured, smiling uncertainly.
Aerion looked at him. The smile died.
“No man here touches my wife.”
My wife.
You hated the claim. You hated the relief that followed it. It washed through you so swiftly you nearly swayed. You despised yourself for that, too. That mercy could come dressed as ownership. That protection could sound so like possession. That a cage door could remain locked and still keep wolves out.
Aerion offered you his hand. This time, you took it without delay. His fingers closed over yours. He led you from the hall through a silence richer than music. Only when the doors shut behind you did you breathe.
The wedding chamber was dark except for the hearth. Servants had filled it with flowers, as if sweetness could disguise fear. Roses, myrtle, lilies. Their perfume lay heavy in the air, too lush, too living. The marriage bed stood draped in red.
You looked at it once. Then away.
Aerion dismissed the attendants. Betha looked at you before she left. You gave the smallest nod you could manage.
Then the door closed. No court. No ladies. No father. No one to watch how well you endured. Only Aerion. Only your husband.
He stood by the hearth, removing his gloves finger by finger. The ordinary motion felt unbearable.
“You are trembling,” he said.
You clasped your hands before you.
“The room is cold.”
“No, it is not.”
You said nothing. He came toward you. Slowly. Always slowly. Your body remembered every public humiliation, every soft insult, every command dressed as courtesy. It remembered the wedding cloak. The feast. The laughter. The men calling for the bedding.
Aerion stopped close enough to touch you. He did not.
His gaze moved over your face. Whatever he saw there displeased him. Or perhaps it pleased him too much.
“I do not take trembling things to bed,” he said.
Cruel words. Merciful meaning.
Your breath caught. He saw that too.
His mouth twisted. “Do not look grateful. It makes you dull.”
“I would not dream of boring you, husband.”
The word came bitter this time. His eyes narrowed. Then, to your astonishment, he turned away.
“Sleep.”
You stared.
Aerion crossed to a chair near the fire and sat as though the matter were settled.
“My prince—”
He looked back sharply.
“Husband,” he corrected.
The word burned. You lowered your eyes.
“Husband,” you said, and hated the tremor in it.
Something moved across his face. Not triumph, though he might have made it so. Not tenderness. Something uncertain.
“Sleep,” he said again, quieter.
You did not understand him. That frightened you almost more than cruelty. Cruelty had rules. Terrible rules, but rules. Aerion’s restraint was a door opened onto darkness. You did not know what waited beyond it.
Still, you slept. Poorly. In your wedding gown. With orange thread hidden against your skin and a dragon seated awake beside the fire.
Marriage did not soften Aerion. Not in the way songs might have begged it to. He remained cruel.
He still called you little traitor when the mood took him, though less often before those whose laughter displeased him. He still corrected you in public when he wished to feel the shape of his power. He still made you wear red and black to court, still watched every room understand that you had been claimed.
But the cruelty changed. It turned inward. Grew intimate. Complicated itself.
He sent gifts. A necklace of garnets dark as old wine. Gloves stitched with silver thread. A comb of carved ivory. A gown so fine the fabric seemed made from midnight poured over flame. No notes came with them. No tenderness. Only objects laid before you like offerings from a god too proud to kneel.
“What does he expect me to say?” you asked Betha one morning, looking down at a pair of earrings shaped like dragons biting their own tails.
Betha hesitated. “Thank you? ”
“I have thanked executioners for cleaner cuts.”
Yet you wore the earrings and Aerion noticed.
At supper, he looked at your ears once and said nothing. But for the rest of the evening, his mood sharpened into something dangerously bright, as though your obedience had pleased him and his pleasure offended him.
He protected you, too, though never sweetly.
When a lord who had drunk too much leaned close enough for his breath to touch your cheek, Aerion appeared at your shoulder.
“Step back,” he said.
The lord laughed nervously. “My prince, I meant only—”
“I did not ask what you meant.”
The man stepped back.
Later, you had said, “I did not need rescuing.”
“No. You needed better enemies. That one was beneath you.”
You looked at him, startled. Aerion’s face closed at once.
“Do not preen. It was not praise.”
“Of course not, my prince.”
“Husband.”
You turned away.
“My prince.”
His silence followed you for the rest of the corridor.
You continued your small rebellions.
You called him my prince when no ceremony forced otherwise. You kept Peake colors hidden in seams, ribbons, underthings, once even a black thread braided through an orange ribbon tied beneath your hair where only Betha could see. You refused to cry where Aerion might witness it. You answered insults with courtesy so fine it cut the hand that received it.
And Aerion continued to notice contradictions in himself with mounting disgust.
He noticed when you were tired and ordered you to bed as though annoyance, not concern, moved him. He noticed you preferred pears to figs and had them placed near your plate, then mocked you for looking surprised. He noticed you lingered near windows facing west. He noticed you did not sing, though once, passing your chamber, he heard you humming very softly through the door. He stood outside for longer than he should have. When he realized it, he left angry. Not at you.
That was new and intolerable.
Something had begun in him, something he had no language for except possession. He wanted your attention and called it obedience. He wanted your smiles and called it vanity. He wanted your trust and had no idea what name to give such a foolish, defenseless thing.
Aerion knew fear. He knew how to summon it. How to feed it. How to wear it in another’s eyes like a jewel. He did not know how to be wanted without command. So he tried to purchase softness. Jewels. Silks. Protection. Power displayed at your feet like severed heads. You accepted none of it the way he wished. That made him want more.
The first time you realized he cared, he did not say it.
Aerion was not a man made for confession.
It happened at a feast held for visiting lords from the Reach, where every cup was filled too often and every courtesy had a second meaning. You sat beside Aerion in black velvet, a red girdle at your waist. Beneath it, hidden against your ribs, lay a scrap of orange silk.
Lord Ambrose, a cousin to some house that had never risked enough to be punished for anything, raised his cup with a smile too broad to be kind.
“To Lady Peake,” he called. “Who has traded orange and black for worthier colors. A wise exchange. Some houses must lose honor before they learn taste.”
Laughter pricked the hall.
Your face remained still. Inside, something old and tired folded around itself. You had answered such insults before. You could answer this one. A graceful phrase. A little blade. A pretty smile over a bleeding thing.
But before you spoke, Aerion stood. The laughter thinned and you turned to him. At first you saw only his face, pale and remote, terrible in its calm. Then you saw his sleeve. At the cuff of his black doublet, worked so finely one might miss it until the light found the thread, was a line of orange embroidery.
Your breath stopped.
A black castle pin rested near his heart. Not a dragon. A castle.
The lining of his cloak shifted as he moved, and there, unmistakable, hidden until he chose to reveal it, burned orange silk. Peake colors. On Aerion Targaryen.
The hall understood by degrees. Silence spread outward, table by table, lord by lady, smile by dying smile.
Aerion lifted his cup.
“An odd thing, Lord Ambrose,” he said, voice silken, “to speak of honor while displaying so little of it.”
The lord went pale.
Aerion continued, almost lazily, “My wife’s colors are not yours to mock.”
My wife.
This time the words did not sound only like a cage. They sounded like a shield. A dangerous shield. A possessive shield. A shield with a blade on its rim. But a shield still.
You stared at the orange thread at his cuff.
He sat again as though he had not just overturned the hall. You could barely speak.
“You should not have done that.”
Aerion looked at you. “Do not look so stricken. They are only colors.”
“No,” you said softly. “They are not.”
His face changed then. Only a little. Enough.
“No,” he said. “They are not.”
An almost confession. No sweeter words could have undone you so thoroughly.
After that, wanting became a thing with weight. It entered rooms before you did. It stood between you at windows. It sat beside you at feasts. It found you in silences when Aerion looked at your mouth too long and you forgot, for one dangerous breath, every reason to hate him.
You did not forgive him. Not then.
Memory remained. The sept. The cloak. Little traitor. The feast where he made you ask permission to leave. The tourney wound. The wedding night fear. The many small humiliations he had offered the court like entertainment.
But beside memory, another truth had taken root. Aerion could choose restraint. Not easily. Not naturally. Not always. But he could. And sometimes, for you, he did. That frightened you more than cruelty because it asked something of your heart.
Then Starpike rebelled.
The raven came before dawn.
By noon, the Red Keep rang with it.
House Peake had broken faith. Men loyal to your father had stirred in the Reach. Letters had been intercepted, bearing promises to those who still dreamed of a Blackfyre return. Riders had been sent toward Starpike. There were whispers of men mustering beneath old banners, of lords who spoke of rescue, of stolen daughters and dragon tyranny.
Rescue.
The word made you ill.
They had given you away. Now they named the taking theft because rebellion required prettier language than regret.
Your father’s message reached you by secret hand, hidden in the binding of a prayer book.
Daughter,
You were taken from us under threat. Blood remembers blood. Starpike has not forgotten you. Endure a little longer. You will be brought home.
Home...
You read it three times. Then once more. Each time, it grew colder. Not one line asked what you wanted. Not one.
You sat by the window until the light faded, the letter open in your lap.
Aerion found you there.
“Is it true?” you asked before he could speak.
He did not pretend confusion. “Yes.”
“My father?”
“Yes.”
“And they claim it is for me?”
Aerion’s mouth curled. “Men love noble motives. They dress treason in them whenever possible.”
You looked down at the letter.
“They gave me to you.”
Aerion went still. You had never said it so plainly before.
You lifted your eyes to him.
“They gave me to you when it saved them. Now they want me back because it serves them. They call that love.”
His expression was unreadable. Perhaps because he heard the accusation beneath it. You too...you also treated me as something to be possessed.
Aerion crossed the room. “I will burn their rebellion to ash.”
“No.”
His eyes flashed. “No?”
“Punish the guilty. Not Starpike.”
“Starpike raised banners against my house.”
“Starpike has children in its walls. Servants. Smallfolk. Stable boys and washerwomen and cooks who have never written to a Blackfyre in their lives.”
His voice cooled. “You ask mercy for traitors.”
“I ask justice for the innocent.”
“You ask me to spare those who would take you from me.”
You rose then. Fear moved through you, but pride moved with it.
“I ask you not to become the monster they call you.”
The room darkened around his face. For a moment, you thought you had gone too far. Perhaps you had.
Aerion stepped close, violet eyes bright and terrible.
“You think I fear that word?”
“No,” you whispered. “I think you have worn it so long you no longer know where it ends and you begin.”
Silence.
His hand lifted. Not to strike. You knew that before it reached you. Yet your body flinched from old expectation, from court, from marriage, from men and power and rooms without witnesses.
Aerion saw.
His hand stopped in the air.
Something broke across his face so swiftly you might have missed it if you had not been watching him for weeks, learning the language of his smallest cruelties and rarer restraints.
He lowered his hand.
“I will punish the guilty,” he said.
Each word seemed dragged from him by iron hooks.
“Starpike will stand if it yields.”
Relief nearly took your knees.
“Thank you.”
His laugh was harsh. “Do not thank me. Mercy tastes foul enough without gratitude.”
But he had listened. That was the beginning of the end of one thing, and the beginning of something far more dangerous.
Prince Maekar summoned him two days later.
You were not meant to attend. You went anyway.
Perhaps you should not have. Perhaps a wiser woman would have remained behind tapestry and rumor, waiting for men to decide the shape of her life as they always had. But you were tired of being absent from rooms where your fate was discussed.
You entered quietly enough to hear Maekar’s voice before either man saw you.
“She has made you weak.”
Aerion stood before his father in the solar, spine straight, face pale with fury held on a leash. Maekar was hard where Aerion was bright, iron where his son was flame. A prince made of discipline and expectation, with a soldier’s contempt for softness.
“The Peakes defied the crown,” Maekar said. “Your wife was meant to remind them of obedience, not teach you hesitation.”
“My wife asked that Starpike be spared if it yields.”
“Your wife,” Maekar repeated, and the word was scorn. “A traitor’s daughter.”
Aerion smiled. It was the kind of smile you had once feared most.
“Choose your next words carefully.”
Maekar stepped closer.
“You dare warn me? You wear her colors before court. You let lords see you marked by a disgraced house. You speak of restraint while rebels gather courage from the thought that Aerion Targaryen can be softened by a pretty face.”
Your breath caught.
Aerion’s head tilted.
“Do you imagine beauty is all she has?”
Maekar’s hand twitched.
“You were always vain enough to mistake possession for strength.”
The words struck Aerion. You saw it, though he hid it well.
Maekar saw it too.
“That is what this is,” his father said. “Not love. Do not flatter yourself with songs. You have found a toy that resists you, and because it does not break when pressed, you have mistaken frustration for feeling.”
Aerion said nothing. His silence was terrible.
Maekar’s gaze moved to the orange thread at his cuff.
“Take those colors off.”
“No.”
The word was quiet. The room seemed to draw breath.
Maekar struck him. Or would have.
You moved before thought.
There was no courage in it. Not the kind songs praise. No shining calculation. No noble speech. Only the sight of his father’s hand rising, and the sudden unbearable knowledge that you did not want the blow to land.
You stepped between them and the slap caught you across the face.
Sound vanished. Everything vanished in that room.
Your head turned with the force of it. Pain bloomed hot along your cheek, bright and humiliating. For a moment you saw nothing but white light and the edge of the table and your own hand gripping it to remain upright.
Then stillness.
Maekar stared at you.
Aerion did not move and you looked at him.
Whatever had been in his face before was gone. He was utterly silent. Shattered into stillness. You had seen Aerion angry. You had seen him amused. You had seen him wounded, proud, vicious, fascinated. You had never seen him afraid. Not for himself. For you.
His hand rose, slowly this time, as if approaching some wounded bird that might die of fright. He did not touch your cheek. Not at first. His fingers hovered near the mark his father had made.
His voice, when it came, was almost unrecognizable.
“Leave us.”
Maekar’s face darkened. “Aerion—”
“Leave.”
There was dragonfire in that word.
Maekar looked from his son to you, then back again. Something like understanding passed over his face, grim and displeased. Then he left and the door closed.
Aerion turned to you. For a long time, he said nothing. Then, with care so fierce it looked almost painful, he took your wrist and led you from the room.
His chambers were quiet.
He sat you before the hearth and stood over you as though guarding a battlefield after the slaughter had ended. His fingers flexed once at his side. Then again.
“Let me see,” he said.
You lifted your face. The mark had risen red across your cheek.
Aerion stared at it. Violence meant for him, written upon you. That was the thing he could not bear. Not because you belonged to him. Because you had chosen it.
You had stepped between pain and him with nothing to gain. No court had watched to praise you. No father had commanded it. No vow had required it. You had protected him not because he was gentle, not because he deserved it, not because you had forgotten what he had done.
You had done it because somewhere in the ruin between you, he had become yours too.
Aerion understood fear. He understood obedience. He understood taking, breaking, possessing, punishing. He did not understand this. So it broke him open.
“Why?” he asked.
A prince, a dragon, a cruel and beautiful creature of fire and pride, reduced to one bare word.
You could have lied. You did not.
“Because I did not want him to hurt you.”
His throat moved.
“He has struck me before.”
“I know.”
“Then why would you put yourself in the path of it?”
You looked at him, cheek burning, heart worse.
“Because knowing does not make it right.”
He laughed once, but it was not laughter. It was a broken exhale.
“I am not good.”
“No.”
“I have been cruel to you.”
“Yes.”
“I frightened you.”
“Yes.”
His face twisted. Perhaps he had expected denial. A mercy he had not earned. You gave him truth instead.
“You humiliated me,” you said softly. “You made my wedding feel like a sentence. You called me traitor until the word followed me into sleep. You made me wear your colors so everyone would know I had been conquered.”
Aerion closed his eyes, only briefly. When he opened them, they were bright with something more dangerous than tears because he did not know how to shed them.
“And yet?” he asked, bitterly.
“And yet,” you said, “you wore mine.”
The silence after that was not empty. It was full of every unsaid thing pressing its hands against the walls.
Aerion knelt before you. The sight of it startled you so deeply you forgot to breathe.
He did not seem to know what to do once there. Gentleness was foreign country to him. His hand lifted again, and this time, with terrible care, his fingertips touched the unmarked edge of your jaw.
“I will kill him for this,” he said.
“My father?”
“My father. Yours. Anyone who places a mark on you and calls it duty.”
“You cannot kill every man who has hurt me.”
His mouth curved, humorless. “I can try.”
Despite yourself, you almost smiled. Almost.
“Aerion.”
His name changed the room. You had not used it often. Names were intimate things. Dangerous things.
He looked at you as though you had touched him.
“Punish the guilty,” you said. “Spare Starpike.”
His jaw tightened.
“You ask again.”
“Yes.”
“You know what they did.”
“I know what they did to the crown. I know what they did to me. I know my father traded me, then called for my return when I became useful again.” Your voice trembled, but did not break. “I am not asking because they are innocent. I am asking because I will not let the innocent burn for their pride.”
Aerion looked at the mark on your face. Then at your eyes.
“My mercy will not be gentle,” he said.
“I did not expect it to be.”
“No. You never make that mistake.”
He rose.
When judgment came, it came with teeth. The men who had plotted rebellion were seized. Lords who had written treason in careful hands found those hands bound. Ravens flew. Riders rode. Starpike’s gates opened before dragon banners, and because they opened, the castle did not burn.
Lord Gormon Peake was brought to heel. Not slain, for you had asked that much with a face still marked by another prince’s hand. But stripped of command. Sentenced before witnesses. His lands watched, his household divided, his pride cut down to a stump.
Aerion stood before court in black and red, with orange at his cuff and a black castle near his heart.
“Starpike stands,” he declared, “because my wife asked it of me.”
The hall listened, breathless.
“If House Peake mistakes her mercy for weakness, I will correct them. If any man claims her name as excuse for treason again, I will teach him the difference between a woman’s compassion and a dragon’s patience.”
No one laughed. No one whispered this time.
You stood beside him, still in Targaryen colors, but not swallowed by them now. Beneath your sleeve, Peake orange rested against your skin. At Aerion’s wrist, it burned where all could see.
For the first time since leaving Starpike, you felt not displayed, but witnessed.
That night, he found you in the garden.
Moonlight silvered the leaves and turned the fountains pale. The city below muttered in its sleep. For once, there were no courtiers. No ladies with fans. No fathers. No banners raised like accusations.
Only you and him him.
Aerion wore no crown, no courtly smile, no easy cruelty. His black cloak was lined in orange. You saw it at once. He saw you see it. This time, he did not mock you.
“Your city wanted you back badly,” he said.
There it was...the cruelty he reached for when fear came too near.
His voice was light. His eyes were not.
“Go, then,” he said. “If that is what you want. Starpike stands. Your father lives. The bargain has been remade prettily enough for singers to choke on. Go home.”
You looked at him for a long moment.
“You do not mean that.”
His smile cut. “Do I not ?”
“No.”
“How fortunate that you know my mind so well.”
“I know when you are trying to bleed before you can be wounded.”
The smile vanished.
A breeze moved through the garden, stirring the orange lining of his cloak like a small, secret flame.
“I frightened you,” he said.
“Yes.”
“I humiliated you.”
“Yes.”
“You hate me.”
You could have said yes. Once, it would have been simple. Now truth had become harder.
“I hated what you did to me,” you said. “I hated the way you made me small. I hated that everyone watched and you let them. I hated that my wedding felt like the end of myself.”
Aerion stood very still.
“But House Peake made me small too,” you continued. “They gave me away when it saved them. Then they tried to reclaim me when it served them. They called both duty. They called both love. Neither time did they ask what I wanted.”
“And what do you want?”
No command or mockery.
You stepped closer.
“I want to choose.”
His face changed.
You wondered whether anyone had ever offered Aerion a choice that was not also a test, a weapon, or a trap.
“Then choose,” he said.
His voice was rough.
You looked at him...beautiful, cruel, wounded, dangerous. A dragon who had burned you and shielded you with the same fire. He was not redeemed. Not purified. Not made gentle by the shape of your hand. Some part of you would always remember the girl in the sept beneath the red cloak, the hostage in silk, the bride led to the dragon’s mouth.
But you remembered other things too. A bedding refused. A cup left untouched. A black castle near his heart. A prince kneeling before you, undone by the sight of your pain.
You chose yourself first. That was the vow no septon had given you. Then you chose him.
You touched the orange lining of his cloak.
“These are my colors,” you said.
“Yes.”
“You should not wear them.”
“No,” Aerion said. “I should not.”
“You do anyway.”
His gaze dropped to your mouth.
“Yes.”
You kissed him first.
It was not like the kiss in the sept. That had belonged to gods and lords and hungry witnesses. This belonged to no one but you. Aerion went still beneath it, as though struck not by force but by wonder. Then his hand rose to your face, careful of the fading mark on your cheek, and he kissed you back with a restraint so fierce it trembled.
He wanted. You felt that. But more than wanting, he waited. That was what broke your heart open.
When you drew away, his forehead nearly touched yours.
The garden was quiet around you.
“My prince,” you whispered.
His mouth tightened.
Then you corrected yourself.
“My husband.”
Aerion stopped breathing. The word hung between you, no longer sentence, no longer surrender.
Choice.
He looked at you as if the whole court, the crown, the war, the old stains of blood and treason had fallen away, leaving only one impossible mercy he had not known how to ask for.
“Say it again,” he said.
Not as an order. Almost as a plea.
You touched the orange thread at his cuff.
“Husband.”
And this time, when Aerion closed his eyes, he looked not conquered, but saved from conquest. Only a little and only with you.
aerion making out with his shy girl in the castle halls so much that the guards start subtlety complaining to maekar while trying so hard to avoid being accused of treason !! #ineedtgatcookiesobaf
aerion loves to make out in semi-public ⊹ ࣪ ˖
the corridors were not, by any stretch of the imagination, a place for trysts. they are cold, drafty, and perpetually echoing with the footsteps of guards and servants. yet, it had become aerion's favorite place in the red keep.
at any moment, at any time, he had you pressed against the stone wall, his body a warm, solid shield from the castle's chill. his lips were soft, his tongue coaxing, and he tasted of the lemon cake you had shared at supper.
your hands, which had been nervously twisting in the fabric of your gown, now rested tentatively on his chest.
you were melting into him, your shyness burning away under the intensity of his affection. a soft sigh escaped your lips, and he swallowed it with a gentle hum of approval.
"you taste sweeter than the wine," he murmured against your mouth, pulling back just enough to look at you. his eyes, usually so sharp and arrogant, were soft and hazy in the torchlight. "i could taste you forever."
you buried your face in the crook of his neck. "aerion, someone will see."
"that is no concern of mine, nor should it be yours," he whispered, his hand moving to the small of your back, pressing you even closer. "let them see how much i adore my wife."
down the hall, two kingsguard stood as still as the stone statues they guarded. this was the fourth time this week they had been forced to witness their prince's...devotion.
ser gerold cleared his throat, a low, discreet sound. "my prince," he said, his voice carefully neutral. "the hour grows late. your father requested your presence after supper."
aerion didn't even turn his head. "he can wait," he said, his voice muffled by your hair as he pressed a kiss to your temple. "i am occupied with matters of state."
the other guard shifted his weight, the leather of his boots groaning softly. he caught gerold's eye and gave a minuscule, almost imperceptible shake of his head. don't push it. they both remembered what happened to the last guard who had complained too loudly about the prince's "distractions." a reassignment to the night's watch was a fate worse than death for most.
later that night, when the castle was finally quiet, ser gerold found himself standing before prince maekar in his solar. the prince was poring over maps, his brow furrowed in concentration.
"your grace," gerold began, choosing his words with the care of a man walking on eggshells. "i bring a report. a... logistical concern, regarding the prince's... security detail."
maekar didn't look up. "spit it out, ser gerold. i haven't got all night for you to dance around the issue."
"it is... well, it is the corridors, your grace. prince aerion has developed a fondness for... lingering. in the halls. with the princess." gerold paused, sweating under his armor. "it makes it difficult to maintain a secure perimeter. the constant... stopping. it creates blind spots. and the guards, they do not wish to witness such... private moments, for fear of disrespecting the princess, or... of being accused of treasonous thoughts."
maekar finally lifted his head, a flicker of something- amusement? annoyance?- in his dark eyes. he stared at the knight for a long moment.
"so my son is so besotted with his wife that he forgets his duty, and your men are so flustered by a kiss that they fear for their heads?" maekar's voice was dry. "gods save us all from love and fools." he waved a dismissive hand. "tell your men to look at the floor. and tell my son that if he must behave like a love-struck squire, to do it behind a closed door. now get out."
hi lala! i love your works and i was wondering if you could maybe write a drabble or a short one-shot of aerion getting jealous of reader and a lord? thankyou!!
✦ ݁˖ — JEALOUSLY, JEALOUSLY ..!
synopsis 𓂃 ໒꒱ during a feast, a moment of harmless conversation between you and a visiting lord is all it takes for aerion targaryen to start unraveling. what should’ve meant nothing becomes something he can’t ignore, and the longer it goes on, the more it begins to bother him in ways he refuses to admit. (2.2k+)
pairing 𓂃 ໒꒱ aerion targaryen x fem!reader
content 𓂃 ໒꒱ canon divergent, jealously, possessive behaviour, public humiliation (minor character), power imbalance.
Jealousy was not an emotion Aerion believed he should have to endure.
He was a prince of the blood. A dragon (in which he believed himself to be). The son of Maekar Targaryen. Men bowed when he entered a room. Women lowered their eyes when he looked their way. Entire families built their futures around earning the favour of House Targaryen.
And yet, somehow, you had made him jealous.
It was a feeling he despised.
Not because it wounded his pride.
Because it made him violent.
The feast had been held in honour of a visiting delegation from the Stormlands. The hall was crowded with lords, ladies, knights, and their endless entourages. Music drifted through the air, mingling with the scent of roasted meat and spiced wine. Servants wove between the tables carrying silver platters while nobles laughed loudly enough to make sure everyone knew exactly how important they were.
Aerion had tolerated the evening remarkably well.
For nearly two hours.
It wasn't your fault.
You were simply being polite, the same way you were with everyone unfortunate enough to find themselves in your company. You listened when people spoke. You smiled when it was appropriate. You laughed when a story was amusing. It was a quality that made people gravitate towards you without even realising they were doing it.
Most considered it one of your greatest virtues.
Aerion considered it one of your most troublesome.
Kindness invited familiarity, and familiarity bred confidence. Men who should have known better convinced themselves they were special because you remembered their names. They mistook your patience for affection and your attention for interest. Given enough time, they imagined significance where none existed.
The young lord appeared to be no exception.
Whatever story he was telling had clearly captured your attention because, each time Aerion looked across the hall, the fool seemed more increasingly comfortable in your presence. The distance between the two of you had gradually disappeared. His posture had relaxed. His smiles had become easier, more familiar.
As though he had forgotten who he was speaking to.
Or perhaps, more importantly, whose wife he was speaking to.
Aerion's jaw tightened.
Across the table, Daeron followed his brother's line of sight and immediately understood the source of the problem.
The realisation was followed by a long, suffering sigh as he set his cup down, as though preparing himself for the inevitable.
He didn't even need to ask.
"No."
Aerion didn't bother looking away from the hall when he answered, his voice flat with distraction.
"No what?"
Daeron tilted his head slightly, watching him now with the weary patience of someone who had survived this exact situation far too many times.
"Whatever it is you're thinking."
Aerion's gaze remained fixed across the hall, unblinking.
"I'm not thinking anything."
That earned him a quiet, humourless exhale.
"That's a lie, and a particularly poor one."
Only then did Aerion finally glance towards him, slow and disinterested, as though the interruption itself was an inconvenience.
Daeron met his stare without flinching, his expression entirely unimpressed.
"You've been staring at the same man for the better part of ten minutes," he said, taking another calm sip of wine as if discussing the weather rather than impending disaster. "If you focus any harder, I suspect you'll discover a way to kill people with your mind."
"One I hope you never acquire," Daeron replied immediately, cutting him off before he could entertain the idea.
Aerion made a faint sound of acknowledgement that wasn't quite agreement and wasn't quite dismissal, already losing interest in the conversation as his attention drifted back across the hall.
His fingers closed around his goblet again.
This time, the silver didn't just protest. It groaned under the pressure, a faint dent beginning to form where his grip tightened without him seeming to notice.
Daeron noticed.
Of course he did.
His eyes dropped to the cup, then to Aerion's hand, then back again in slow, disbelieving succession.
"Seven hells."
Aerion didn't look at him when he responded, though his grip loosened slightly.
"What now?"
Daeron exhaled through his nose, leaning back as though physically bracing himself.
"You've dented it."
Aerion finally glanced down, turning the goblet slightly as though inspecting a minor imperfection rather than evidence of strength he hadn't bothered to control.
There it was.
A visible impression in the silver.
He set it down with casual indifference, as though it had simply ceased to matter.
"Poor craftsmanship."
Daeron gave him a long, tired look. "Yes," he said flatly. "I'm certain the goblet is entirely at fault. Fragile thing, really. Practically begging to be crushed."
Aerion watched for a moment longer, his jaw tightening as the man laughed at something you'd said and leaned in just slightly too much. Not enough to be obvious to anyone else, but enough for someone like Aerion to notice exactly what it was.
Then he stood without warning or hesitation.
Just the scrape of his chair against the stone floor and the immediate shift in the room that followed.
Conversation dipped, then stopped altogether in scattered pockets as people noticed him moving.
Daeron didn't look up this time, only exhaling under his breath as though he already knew how this ended and had no interest in watching it unfold again.
"No," he muttered, like a man repeating something that had never worked in the first place.
Aerion didn't answer him.
By then, he was already walking.
The space around him changed the way it always did when he moved with purpose, not because he forced it, but because everyone else instinctively corrected their position before he ever reached them. Servants stepped aside without being told, lords fell quiet mid sentence, even the music seemed to lose its confidence as he passed through it.
He did not rush.
He never needed to.
And that, more than anything, was what made people notice him too late.
By the time he reached you, the lord still hadn't realised.
He was still talking and smiling, acting comfortable, as if he thought everything was going fine.
Aerion stopped just behind him, close enough that the air itself seemed to shift. Only then did the lord's voice falter as he finally became aware of who stood behind him, turning mid thought.
Whatever composure he had been holding collapsed instantly.
"My prince—"
It came out too quickly, the words stumbling into a bow that was equally rushed, as though speed might somehow compensate for poor judgement. Aerion didn't acknowledge it, not even with the courtesy of a glance.
His attention went to you first, just briefly.
Long enough to see that your expression had changed— not fearful, not startled, but resigned, in the way someone looked when they already knew a situation was about to become unnecessarily complicated.
Only then did his gaze return to the lord.
"You've been speaking to my wife," Aerion said, his voice even enough to pass for polite to anyone who didn't know him well.
The lord swallowed, straightening too quickly. "Yes, Your Grace. Only conversation. I meant no disrespect—"
Aerion tilted his head slightly, as though considering whether the phrase meant anything at all when repeated so often by men in situations exactly like this. "No disrespect," he repeated slowly, testing the words.
The lord nodded again, faster this time, as though agreement might somehow smooth over what instinct was already telling him had gone terribly wrong.
Aerion stepped forward, close enough that the space between them stopped feeling accidental and started feeling claimed. The confidence that had settled so comfortably in the lord's posture only moments before quickly faded, and Aerion noticed every bit of it.
"I was only telling the princess about the tourney," the lord said quickly. "I didn't mean to take her time."
"You didn't take my—"
"I'm speaking." The words were quiet, but the look Aerion shot you was enough to stop you before you could finish. His eyes met yours for only a moment, cold and unwavering, making it perfectly clear he had no intention of letting you interrupt him again.
His attention returned to the lord.
"You did take her time," Aerion said, his voice calm enough to make the words sting even more. "Do you not have somewhere else to be?"
The lord's face flushed almost instantly, "yes, Prince Aerion." He bowed so quickly it bordered on clumsy before muttering another apology and disappearing back into the crowd without another glance.
Almost as if nothing had happened, the hall went back to normal. The musicians started playing again, servants moved between tables with full platters, and conversation slowly picked up, as if everyone had agreed to ignore what they’d just seen.
You couldn't.
Not after the way Aerion had spoken to you.
Not after the way everyone had watched.
Aerion turned towards you then, a pleasant smile appearing on his face so suddenly that anyone watching would've believed the entire interaction had been nothing more than a minor inconvenience. If they looked closely enough, however, they would've noticed the tightness in his jaw and the way his hand settled against the small of your back with just a little too much firmness.
"Come," he said smoothly, and you knew it wasn't a request, it was one an order in which he expected you to obey to.
He guided you from the Great Hall without another word, smiling politely at the nobles who greeted him along the way as though nothing at all had happened.
The moment the doors closed behind you, the noise of the feast faded until the corridors were left in near silence. No servants wandered the passage at such a late hour, and even the guards stationed nearby had long since moved on with their rounds.
The instant you were alone, Aerion's patience disappeared.
His hand tightened around your waist before he turned you sharply, backing you against the cold stone wall of the keep, leaving little room for escape as he stood over you, his expression stripped of the smile he had worn only moments before.
There was nothing pleasant left about him now.
"Do you take me for some sort of fool?" Aerion asked, his voice deceptively calm. There was no shouting, no raised voice, only the cold certainty of a man who expected an answer he already believed he knew.
"No, I—"
"Don't." The single word stopped you where you stood. "You've spent enough of this evening speaking. Now you'll listen."
You held his stare, refusing to look away even as his hand came to rest against the wall beside your head.
"You stood there laughing with him," he continued, his gaze never leaving yours. "You smiled at him. Listened to him. Gave him far more of your attention than he had any right to receive, and all the while he stood there looking at you as though he'd forgotten exactly whose wife you are."
You frowned, brows pinching together in confusion at his wordss. "He was only being polite."
Aerion gave a quiet, humourless laugh, “polite?” He repeated your word back to you. “Is that what we're calling it now?”
“That’s exactly what it was.”
“No,” he said, shaking his head once. “That fool wasn’t speaking to you because he wished to discuss a tourney. He was speaking to you because he believed he could. Because every smile you offered him convinced him he'd been invited to stay a little longer.”
“You're making this into something it wasn't.”
“Am I?” His voice remained level, but there was something far more dangerous beneath it, and you didn’t want it to be another reason it lashes out.
“Then tell me why he thought he could stand so close to you. Tell me why he touched your arm as though it belonged to him. Tell me why he was comfortable enough to forget I was sitting less than twenty feet away.”
You opened your mouth to try and get him to understand the fact that he mistook friendly chatter for something completely different, “Aerion—”
“Don't defend him. I have no interest in hearing excuses for a man who couldn't keep his eyes where they belonged.”
You folded your arms across your chest, frustration beginning to outweigh your patience. “You're jealous.” The words lingered between you.
For the first time since leaving the hall, Aerion smiled. It wasn't a pleasant smile, it was quite the opposite one.
“Jealous?” he echoed quietly. “No.”
He stepped closer until there was barely any space left between you. “I simply dislike people forgetting their place.”
“That’s not what this is.”
“Isn’t it?”
His eyes searched yours for a long moment before he spoke again.
“Every man in that hall was watching you. I saw it before he ever walked over. Then he had the audacity to think he could keep your attention for half the evening while I sat there expected to tolerate it.”
His jaw tightened. “I don't tolerate insolence well.”
You let out a slow breath. “You embarrassed him.”
“Good.” There wasn't the slightest hint of regret in his voice.
“Perhaps next time he'll remember that approaching another man's wife so comfortably has consequences.”
“You're impossible.”
“Perhaps.”
His expression softened only slightly as he looked at you, though possession still burned plainly in his eyes, “but you're mine.”
Before you could answer, he closed the remaining distance between you, one hand settling at your waist and the other gently cupping your jaw. He kissed you with an intensity that left no room for misunderstanding, lingering just long enough to steal the words from your lips before finally pulling back.
His forehead rested briefly against yours.
“Let them wonder,” he murmured, his voice quieter now but no less certain. “Let every lord in this keep see exactly where you belong.”
His thumb brushed lightly along your cheek.
“After tonight,” he said, a faint, satisfied smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, “no one will be foolish enough to mistake your kindness for an invitation again.”
The air in the private academy’s library tasted of old paper, expensive leather, and the suffocating arrogance of generational wealth.
To Rican, the world had never been a complex web of human emotion or shared struggle. It was a ladder where everything and everyone was either beneath his feet or hoisted above his head.
He, naturally, existed on the highest of the high.
Born with what he fondly referred to as the holy trinity of existence—attractiveness, charisma that border-lined on hypnotic, and an amount of money that could buy a small nation—he had never once encountered the concept of difficulty.
The word "struggle" was a foreign sequence of vowels that simply did not apply to his universe.
And it definitely didn't apply for school either, not when it was like his personal playground.
His father had personally financed entire sports complexes and academic clubs just to ensure Rican’s boredom was kept at bay.
Life was flawless, a golden path laid out before him, except for one tiny thing.
Romantic interest.
Women flung themselves at his feet daily, but a quick, meaningless hookup was all he could muster.
And of course Rican took it upon himself to make it a mission to find someone who could be more than a hookup. (someone who could MAYBE give him a high-five trust)
His first attempt at finding love had been an utter disaster. It ending within thirty seconds when the girl’s voice proved to be a fraction too shrill for his ears, causing him to walk away mid-sentence without a backward glance.
The second target had shown promise until he cast his eyes downward and noticed the scuffed, criminanal sight of her off-brand loafers.
The mere sight of such poverty had induced a physical wave of nausea, forcing him to cross her off his list immediately.
But of course Rican was nothing if not persistent. Third time's the charm, right?
That was when his gaze had drifted to the back of your head.
You were cute, undeniable, but Rican didn't just want a doll—he wanted a prize that felt worthy of his high status.
To test the waters, he had casually slipped a crisp bill into the teacher's palm, ensuring that the seating chart for the semester's most intensive research project was altered.
The investment paid off instantly. Over the first few days, he discovered you were genuinely funny, easy to talk to, and possessed a face that perfectly aligned with his exact aesthetic preferences.
You, however, viewed the entire arrangement through a lens of profound skepticism.
You weren't naive. You knew how wealthy boys functioned.
So of course, you expected him to be arrogant, you expected him to be detached, and you fully expected him to eventually try and pawn all the project's actual research off on you.
What you did not expect, under any circumstances, was the warp-speed at which his brain apparently operated.
By the third day of the project, the casual banter had completely vanished, replaced by an intense, suffocating focus that made your skin prickle.
He could scoot closer to you, and stare at you even when you weren't speaking. It was becoming to the point where you were more shocked if he wasn't staring into your soul.
It was all little things just added up to eachother, like him cleaning the eraser dust off your lap faster than you could or him paying for your bus ride home and even more money so you could buy some food. (You never mentioned how you take the bus)
Then came the fourth day, and with it, the absolute pinnacle of his delusion.
He slid a gourmet bento box across the table toward you—a daily ritual he had aggressively started since the first day of pairing up—before leaning forward on his elbows.
His face was a picture of serene, absolute certainty as he uttered the words that made your entire brain grind to a screeching halt.
"How much for you to date me?"
You immediately froze.
"What?"
You weren't opposed to the concept of financial security, and like anyone else, you enjoyed the idea of having money. But just the sheer audacity of someone trying to buy you like a piece of livestock was completely uncalled for.
He didn't even look ashamed. He just sat there in his expensive chair, a massive, triumphant grin spreading across his face as if he had just offered you the deal of a lifetime, entirely blind to the look of sheer confusion freezing your features.
"Yes, like to have you," Rican clarified effortlessly, his voice dripping with a casual nonchalance that only made the situation a hundred times worse.
He leaned in a bit closer, his eyes bright with a terrifyingly possessive spark. "Preferably forever, and chained wrist to wrist to me."
"What the hell are you talking about?" You looked around frantically, half-expecting a hidden camera crew to jump out from behind the fiction section, but there was nobody—just Rican and his completely unhinged, romantic delusions.
His smile only widened at your reaction, his head tilting to the side as he analyzed your expression with a creepy, clinical fascination.
"Your eyes look pretty, they're big right now," he mused, his voice dropping to a soft, delighted purr. "Is it because you're scared, or maybe excited? I really hope it's the second option."
"Rican, we've literally only known each other for like four days!" you hissed, leaning across the table to whisper-yell, desperately trying to keep your voice down so the librarian wouldn't wander over.
"What are you talking about? Dating? Where did that even come from?" You were genuinely baffled by the absolute lack of self-awareness.
How did rich people navigate the world so completely blind to the discomfort of others? How could he look at your pale, horrified face and see a green light for marriage proposals?
"Yeah, dating then marriage," he replied instantly, nodding his head as if he were explaining a very simple, chronological timeline to a child.
"Or we could just go straight to marriage and babies. But my tutor said it's more normal to become boyfriend and girlfriend first, so I'm trying to do it the traditional way."
You just stared at him. The sheer gravity of his insanity left you entirely speechless.
"I'll give you a weekly salary," he blurted out, misinterpreting your stunned silence as dissatisfaction with the terms.
You stared even more, your mouth slightly open, completely incapable of processing the words coming out of his mouth.
"Daily! Daily, instead?" he corrected frantically, his composure fracturing just a fraction as he leaned further over the table, his hands gripping the wood, desperate to seal the deal.
Your continued silence seemed to throw him into a spiral of panic, his mind incapable of understanding why a human being wouldn't immediately capitulate to the power of his wallet.
"Hourly?" he offered, his breath hitching.
"Every minute?" Rican pleaded, his voice dropping to a desperate, pathetic whine as he reached out, his fingers twitching with the urge to grab your hands.
"Please, I just need you."
eisnewisnshe any new requests yall omg this has been laying in my drafts for like more than 5 months
and also guys I'm kinda in writer's block idk so I'm sorry if this is bad !! I tried my best and hopefully next post is better !! <33
Synopsis: In hopes of paying off your debt, you start working for two dangerous men. Soon, you realize they want more than money.
Word count: 9.2k
(Warnings: dark content, sexual coercion, dubcon, noncon, oral sex, piv sex, threesomes, gun, blood, violence) Ageless blogs will be blocked. Minors DNI
In this job, you quickly learned that it's better to just keep your head down.
Do what you were called for and leave. Do nothing but sit on your computer and look at numbers. Stepping out of your makeshift boundaries led to nothing but trouble.
It worked perfectly like that for the first few weeks you were brought here. The other workers never bothered you, and it took you a moment to realize they were in the same boat as you were: owing a debt. You wouldn’t quite say things were peaceful; every so often, one of Geto’s men would hurl someone through a table, but things were manageable.
And then Gojo came back.
You hadn’t met Gojo, yet. He was overseas on a business trip when Geto brought you in. You hadn’t met him, but you’d heard enough to make you want to stay away from him. Ijichi had told you enough stories to make you want to sink into the floor altogether. You just had until the end of the year until your debt was paid. It was the beginning of September, right now. Surely, you could avoid him until then, right?
“Ah, you’re the one Suguru was talking about.”
It was your fault. It was entirely your fault. Ijichi had begged you to stay after work for a bit longer and desperate to pay the debt off, you had agreed. No one else was supposed to be in the office besides you and him.
But Gojo didn’t follow other people’s rules. It'd take you a while before you fully understand that.
You could do nothing but stand there, wobbling in your heels as Gojo loomed over you. His sunglasses were tilted, cresting over his nose as he scrutinized you. You clutched the laptop closer to your chest, as though it’d save you somehow.
Gojo didn’t look dangerous. If you had seen him on the street, you would have assumed he was a model. Tall, long hands, pretty features. Gojo doesn’t look dangerous. Gojo is dangerous. He doesn’t need the gun (casually on his side, right in your line of sight) to prove it.
You say nothing. You don’t know what to say. So far, you’ve only dealt with Geto. Geto with his fake smiles and soft words of thinly veiled threats. As intimidating as Geto was, you felt safe enough with him to answer his questions. Speak when spoken to.
Gojo was uncharted territory. Should you speak? Should you greet him? Should you get on your hands and knees? Gojo was new. You had to deal with something new, alone.
You opt to stay silent, hoping that’s the best move. It’s not. Above you, Gojo’s clicking his tongue. He leans down, stooping his head low to get a better view of your face. You stare at him until it gets too much and you’re turning away. He likes that even less, grabbing you by the chin so you’re facing him again.
“You mute or somethin’?” He asks, tilting your head like he’s assessing you.
“No,” you finally murmur. It was a question, correct? He won’t get mad if you answer his questions.
He doesn’t seem mad. But he doesn’t seem happy, either. If anything, he looks a little disappointed.
“I really don’t get it,” he’s talking, but it’s more like he’s saying his thoughts out loud, “Suguru would not shut up about you. Thought I was gonna see something more exciting. You’re so...”
He trails off as though even describing you would be a waste. The thought that Geto speaks about you to his partners scares you, but you’re wise enough not to pry. Instead, you wait. Waiting often works. You’ve been cornered by Geto’s men (before they knew he was the one who brought you), most just want to intimidate you, they get a kick out of fear. When you give them what they want, they usually leave you alone.
Gojo doesn’t leave, even when you’re sure your horror is printed on your face. Obvious to even the blind. Instead, he leans back, eyes trailing down your outfit. Despite how most of the stuff done here was off the record, Geto still prioritized a professional workplace. You were expected to put on a clean blouse and skirt every day.
You yelp when Gojo tugs on the fabric of your skirt, bunching the material on your thighs. Forgetting where you are, who you’re with, you grab his wrist.
“Don’t be like that,” Gojo chides as though you were being the unreasonable one, “I just wanna look. Seriously, what was that guy going on and on about—”
“Satoru.”
Geto’s voice stops the both of you. He’s leaning against the wall, watching the two of you with a less than impressed look. You’re relieved when he’s more focused on Gojo than you.
“Sugu!” Gojo cheers, a complete 180 from his past demeanor. He lets you go and you sink against the wall in relief. “I’m home!”
“I can see that,” Geto retorts, but there’s an odd fondness laced in his tone that you’d never heard before.
The kiss they shared was violent. Tongue and teeth and messy. Gojo reached up, scrunching Geto’s hair, dragging him closer. Respectfully, you glanced away. You don’t yet leave. You know better than that, especially now that Geto is here.
“How many times have I told you to stop harassing our employees?” Geto sighs, once he’s pulled away. His tone is filled with exasperation, as though he were talking to a child.
“I didn’t do anythin’,” Gojo responds. When you finally turn back, Geto is shaking his head.
He smiles at you.
“Apologies, my dear,” he states, “you can leave. Remember to tell Ijichi you’re going.”
You eagerly nod before scurrying away. You can hear Gojo scoff, another murmur from Geto. You couldn’t care less what they’re saying, more than happy to grab your things, bid Ijichi goodbye, and leave.
Keep your head down, and don’t ever bother with what they are doing.
⟡
Technically, you weren’t in debt, your father was.
He had close ties to the underground. You weren’t sure of the details, you were so young when your mother left with you in tow. She was always stingy with the details, but she never failed to remind you that your father was a stupid man who worked with dangerous ones. She passed away right after you graduated from college. You’d mourned her.
Now, a part of you felt grateful she passed just before she saw your life fall apart.
They came in the middle of April. You remember that day purely because of the flower blossoms littering the sidewalk, the first sign of blooming spring.
There were three other men besides Geto that day, and you hadn’t known his name back then—just the man with long, pretty hair. They were all waiting for you, loitering right beside your home. When you hesitated, slowed to a stop, the man with long hair smiled at you. Geto calls your name. When you don’t respond, his smile widened.
“That is who you are, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” you nervously said, “sorry, but—but who are you all?”
He introduces himself. The other three don’t bother. You don’t yet realize that they’re only henchmen, mere puppets for Geto.
“Apologies, but this is a rather sensitive subject. Can we talk someplace private?”
You don’t want to let these men into your home, but his soft words and intimidating company coax you into agreeing. You lead them up the steps, praying to God that you were wrong about this—whoever they were. When you unlock the door, only Geto follows you. The rest wait outside. You don’t know if that’s better or worse.
He seats himself right on the sofa. It’s your apartment, and yet his mere presence makes you feel like he’s the owner. You loiter next to the door, twiddling your thumbs.
“Would you like tea?”
He tilts his head. “Aren’t you a polite one?”
It was more for you than for him—scurrying to the kitchen, away from his searing purple eyes. It’s a reprieve to start the burner, pour water into the pot. You take as much time as you can, but eventually, you have to come out.
Geto says nothing when you place the cups down. He takes it, humming at the taste. You don’t touch your cup.
His tone is soft. His words aren’t.
Your father did far worse than work with dangerous men. He’d stolen from them. He was already dealt with, his punishment had sent him careening off the Earth far sooner than your mother. Still, the topic of the missing money was still there.
Something that had fallen onto you, his next of kin.
You were already crying once Geto finished. Your body is wracked with sobs. You can barely suck in a breath.
“Please—please,” you’re already saying, “he—we—I swear we never received any sort of money from him.”
He takes your hand within his own, curling his fingers around them. Coming from anyone else, it would have been a nice gesture.
“I’m aware,” Geto comforts, “we know you haven’t been in contact with your father for more than a decade.”
His fingers are warm. They trace your cheek as he gently wipes away your tears.
“But in this line of business, family matters, no matter how estranged, my Dear.”
You look at him through your tears. He’s beautiful. Long black hair. If you touched it, you bet it would feel like silk within your fingers.
It’s his eyes that truly suck you in. Purple. It’s a rare eye color, you’ve never seen someone with purple eyes until now. They resemble amethyst, unpolished, but still just as beautiful.
“My partner would have much less...humane ways of dealing with this situation,” Geto continues, “but I think you could be far more useful warm rather than cold, do you agree?” You shrivel in your spot, already having an inkling to what he’s saying. It’s not like you haven’t already figured out where this was going. You’ve heard the stories of what dangerous men do to those who’ve wronged them—to the vulnerable girls who accidentally trip and fall into their trap, forced to work in brothels and debase themselves all for the sake of keeping them rich.
He laughs right then. It’s rich, deep, startling you out of your misery.
"Come now, it's the 21st century."
Geto smiles. Fake. Unsafe.
"Women are worth far more than just their bodies."
It turns out that even the Yakuza had paperwork.
It was a menial deskjob, on the surface, at least. If you don’t think too hard about who you’re working for, it could be a regular office. It’s not like any of the work you are provided with is illegal, but you doubt you’d put it down on your resume.
Your education had saved you. Ironic that it was your father who instilled your desire to learn.
If you don’t think too hard about it, your new ‘job’ wasn’t horrible. As notorious as they were, your new employers weren’t downright cruel. You still got paid. You had a contract. Things could honestly be a whole lot worse.
It was still very hard to get used to, especially in the beginning.
Something you learned very quickly was that the men around here did not like it when women had an attitude. You were far too meek to have one, but the other few women who worked with you became your teachers, showing you exactly what the men would do if you didn’t stay in line. You were more than happy to listen, and even then, your eagerness to learn didn’t help. In order for the lesson to truly sink in, you needed trial and error.
You stepped out of line exactly once. And then you never did it again.
It had been an accident. You’d forgotten that Geto had an important meeting that day. You knocked on his door, shuffling some documents in your hand. It was muscle memory to just go in because he’s never said anything but come in before.
They’d all stared at you, eyes lingering up and down your body. One of them grins. Immediately, you look at Geto. Horrified. Ready to grovel at his feet if need be.
His eyes flashed dangerously. Purple turned into sharp magenta knives. Geto tilted his head.
“Come here, dear.”
You take one step. Another. Then another. The way they look at you makes your stomach twist and sink but Geto only looks at you expectantly. When you linger at his side, his lips quirk.
His grip on your waist is gentle as he guides you into his lap. Your cheeks burn, but you don’t dare move, not even when the men start laughing at the free show. Geto only curls a hand on your waist, keeping you in place as he leans back again.
“Continue, gentlemen.”
The rest of the meeting continues with you on Geto’s lap. You don’t look at any of them, hands balled into fists at your sides. You feel naked. The air within the room is stifling. You refuse to look anywhere else but the floor.
The conversation goes back to business. Despite the compromising situation, he put you in, Geto’s hands don’t wander. He's content to keep his fingers on your waist until the room filters out and everyone leaves.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Geto.” You murmur, your voice barely louder than a whisper.
He doesn’t answer, at least not to that. He just sighs, sinking into his seat. Still, Geto doesn’t let you get up. Not yet. He waits until you’re looking at him, still smiling that fake smile.
This had been a punishment. The next time you made a mistake, you doubt you’d be let off so easily.
“Learn quickly, my dear.”
You nod. You apologize again. When Geto finally lets you go, you are quick to stumble away, pushing your way out the door. Purple eyes follow you out. You don’t think they stop looking until you’re out of the room, curled into your desk, steadying your heartbeat.
You stepped out of line exactly once. You never did it again.
Despite being under Geto, technically, Ijichi is your direct superior. You thanked the Gods for it. Ijichi was the only person here you were certain didn’t have blood on his hands. He was in a similar situation as you were; stuck working off a debt that he didn’t owe. You two bonded on your shared misery. He was the one reprieve you had in your new life.
Unfortunately, now that Gojo was back, Ijichi was far busier. It gave you little time with him. You suppose you were always welcome to join them, but considering your first encounter with Gojo, you’d much rather not.
It’s not like you hadn’t had similar encounters before Gojo's arrival. In the very beginning, one of Geto’s men tried something remarkably similar. You can still remember his hand on your hip, his other hand slowly unbuttoning your shirt while other men stood to the side laughing.
It hadn’t lasted long.
You didn’t realize he was shot until he was already on the ground, twitching in pure agony. He screamed and cried louder than you had. Blood was already dripping to the floor.
Geto had already tucked away the gun, striding away as though nothing happened. He didn’t say anything, the incident was never mentioned. Even to you, his statement rang loud and clear.
You were off-limits.
Clearly, Gojo didn’t care about the unspoken rule.
So far, Ijichi hasn’t acknowledged him. If anything, your superior is hunched behind his computer, typing away, rarely taking his eyes off-screen. You admired his concentration, but it was hard for you to follow suit, considering that Gojo had taken a seat right next to you.
His stare is impossible to ignore. You can feel it even as you desperately try to focus on the screen in front of you. As if he can tell you’re intimidated by his mere presence, he leans over, shoulder pressing against your own. You could practically hear the grin in his voice.
“Watcha’ workin’ on?” He asks as though he can’t already see.
Still, you falter. “Um—”
“Um’” he repeats, “that’s all you’ve been sayin’. Hey, Ijichi—” The man in question jolts up, eyes already panicked.
“Your assistant always this jumpy, or is your personality just that infectious?”
“Sir, uh—” Ijichi starts before getting cut off by a tsk.
“See? Again,” Gojo sighs, “I see why you two get along so well.”
You and Ijichi exchange glances, unsure what to do. When Gojo says nothing more, you decide it’s okay to resume work again, typing away.
Childhood friends, Ijichi told you back when you were still morbidly curious. Gojo had come from a lineage of powerful businessmen. Geto had more or less worked his way up. They became partners somewhere along that time.
It’s hard to imagine them as friends or as anything more. They’re so different. Geto is so controlled, measured with every response he takes. Gojo is more like dynamite, ready to go off at any moment.
You suppose the only similarity is how unreadable they are. To this day, you can’t tell whether Gojo dislikes you or not. Every action you take seems only to disappoint him, yet he constantly hovers around you.
It takes another minute for you to be on the keyboard before Gojo decides he doesn’t like you working peacefully. The chair creaks under his weight as he shifts closer. His head rests against your shoulder. With his new position, you can feel his breath on your collarbone as an arm casually wraps around your shoulders. You don’t dare react, but you send Ijichi a panicked look. He looks sympathetic, but he doesn’t move to help you. You can’t find it in yourself to fault him for his inactions.
“You never answered me, by the way.” He murmurs, quiet enough that only you can hear.
You respond as diligently as you can, making sure you use as few word fillers as possible. It’s clear Gojo doesn’t like that. Or rather, he doesn’t like the nervousness your voice exudes but you doubt you could fix it, especially with his presence around.
“Sounds boring.” Gojo interrupts your rambles. “You don’t do anything else more entertaining?”
“No, sir,” you reply, “I’m only in charge of paperwork.”
Despite the other co-workers you have, you are still an anomaly. Everyone here has had an experience holding a gun—even Ijichi. It’s clear Geto ‘hiring’ you was a change in pattern, something you would always be grateful for. If he hadn't, you wouldn’t want to know what was in store for you.
That’s probably why Gojo was so curious about you. However, considering how close they were, you were now wondering why Geto hadn’t explained it.
“How long have you been working here—hey,look at me when you’re talking.”
You turn, and for the first time, you willingly face Gojo Satoru. His sunglasses are tilted down, and you can see his eyes now. They are blue, so painfully blue, like an ocean, curled up tightly within his eyes. Glittering tanzanite stares back at you—beautiful gemstones that glisten beneath the fluorescent light.
Gojo tilts his head, and you remember that he asked you a question.
“Three weeks, Sir.”
He doesn’t seem all that pleased with your answer. You wonder if you should have lied instead. He’s embarrassingly close, and the position he’s forced you into doesn’t help.
“That quick, huh?” Gojo murmurs, and he sounds a little impressed, “how many times have you and Suguru fucked?”
You gape at him, horrified at even the insinuation. It takes a while for you to even find your voice.
“I—we’ve never. Never.”
Gojo narrows his eyes. “You don’t have to lie to me. C’mon, I'm just curious.”
It feels even worse that Gojo's question isn't even unreasonable. Geto has always treated you differently. Softer. Kinder, if you wanted to be charitable. It isn't a stretch to assume you've been doing favors for the man, in this line of work, it must be a normal occurrence. Yet, you haven't. Apart from that one blunder weeks ago, Geto has never touched you inappropriately.
Still, you shake your head rapidly, feeling heat flush in your cheeks. Being cornered and interrogated like this is humiliating, especially in front of everyone. Ijichi is nice enough to look away while you’re being humiliated, but you know he’s listening. You know everyone’s listening.
Thankfully, Geto intervenes.
“You.” A sigh of exasperation. “Get off.”
Gojo rolls his eyes, but you almost cry in relief when he pushes away and stands up.
“We were bonding,” Gojo argues, though, like everything he says, it sounds like a tease.
Geto’s murmuring something else, and it’s clear that this interaction between them is normal. It's almost a repetition of what happened last time. Both times, you’d been the commonality.
Gojo leaves eventually, shooed away by his partner. The office finally grows quiet when the white-haired man disappears to God knows where. You feel like you can breathe again, but Geto still has not left.
When you look, he’s pinching the bridge of his nose, and you’re strangely reminded of a stressed mother. Finally, he lets out a breath, opening his eyes and staring down at you.
“I apologize for his behavior, my dear,” he says. There’s a hand on your shoulder, mirroring the touch Gojo gave you.
“He’s excitable, like a dog.” You don’t think that part was for you, though you don’t think you could ever even fathom comparing the terrifying anomaly that is Gojo to a mutt. You don’t respond. Geto squeezes your shoulder.
“Come to me if Satoru goes too far. I always take care of my people, don't I?”
He doesn’t leave until you give a nod. His hand finally retracts, allowing you to sink into your seat. You watch him until his figure disappears from view.
“I’m taking a break,” you say, not even a minute later.
Ijichi gives a nod as you push yourself up away from the computer. You spend your break the way you usually do: tucked inside the bathroom, trying to wonder how your life turned out this way.
⟡
Sometimes, you accompany Geto on his trips.
You don’t want to, but it’s not like you can reject his ‘requests.’ It’s part of the job, whether or not you can refuse is up to Geto’s whims.
The trips aren’t too bad. Most of the time, it’s a meeting with other dangerous men. You mainly just sit in a corner, peering down at the ground, trying your best not to be noticed. It works, most of the time. The few perks of this new life is how seldom the people of the underground want to associate with you, especially when you're with Geto. His presence is everywhere, a blanket of protection bestowed only to you. These days, you feel safe even when walking home alone at night.
The trips aren't too bad, but Gojo's insistence on tagging along changed even that.
You should be sitting up front. There's a perfectly vacate passenger seat, right beside Ijichi, the least dangerous man in the vehicle. Gojo had practically dragged you into the car with him, holding you hostage. Geto slid into the seat beside you, effectively trapping you between the two men.
Despite your attempts to keep your body to yourself, every other minute, your thighs brush against theirs. It's a miserable affair, but neither comment on your breach of personal space. They're both too invested in their own little worlds. Geto peers peacefully out the window, enjoying the city life pass by. Gojo is glued to his phone, tapping away every so often.
It's tempting to sneak a peek at them in their natural states, relaxed, unbothered. You don't stare for too long.
Every so often, their worlds will collide. Geto will point out a cat. Gojo would reach over you, showing Geto something funny on his phone. Unfortunately, Gojo catches your lingering eyes.
"Wanna see?" He doesn't bother to hear your response, shoving his phone in your face.
It's a cat video, of all things. You almost wanted to laugh at how normal it is, but you're too intimidated to do anything but give a strained smile, more designed to please. You expected something darker. More blood. More screams. On the screen, the orange kitten lightly bats at a ball of yarn.
"Got a cat?" Gojo asks, tucking away his phone.
"No, Mr. Gojo."
He tsks, but before your blood can freeze, he says, "I told you: It's Satoru."
He's been insistent about it these past few days: Satoru. Satoru. Call me Satoru, as though you'd even dare. Beside you, Geto rumbles out his disapproval.
"Don't be childish, Satoru." He chides.
The car rolls to a stop eventually. The relief in your lungs expands. Ijichi gets out first, followed by Geto. Before you can move, a hand grabs you by the chin, halting your movements.
"You're not leaving this car until you say it, pretty thing," Gojo tells you. "C'mon. Sa-to-ru."
Behind you, Geto sighs, but he doesn't move to stop him. Right, Geto promised he'd step in only when Gojo goes too far. Clearly, this is within his bounds.
You wilt under the hardened tanzanite.
"Satoru." You mutter.
Satisfied, Gojo releases his hold on you, hopping out the car, humming a happy tune.
Geto holds his hand out to you. You'd be an idiot not to take it.
"Bear with him today, dear," he tells you when you step out in the pavement, "he's in a mood."
Amythyst sears into you. You can only nod.
Even then, Geto doesn't release you. He gently maneuvers your arm until your elbow is interlocked with his. He takes his time, walking into the building, mindful of your heels. Ijichi and Gojo are already ahead. Gojo takes a look behind him, spots the two of you, scoffs, but doesn't do much more.
It's another thing you don't know how to feel about. The two have always instigated less than friendly gestures toward you. Yet, neither of the two have expressed any kind of jealousy. You know they are clearly lovers, yet the way they allow their significant other to behave with you makes you feel a bit nauseous.
Most likely, they see you as a pet. Not even a threat to their relationship. It makes sense. In their eyes, you're probably a scared gazelle in the middle of a lion's den. Cute. Something to play with.
There's another theory in your head that you're pushing away.
You follow the same procedure you've always followed. You stay still and silent, like a doll, right beside Geto. Strange men come up to him, greeting him with smug smiles. They barely give you a glance. That's good. It means they know you're one of Geto's.
Gojo being there changes the dynamic. He's more serious, in this setting. You sit right next to Geto's side, listening as Gojo talks. They both do that a lot. Talking. Negotiating. Scheming. You're a bit disappointed in yourself at how easy it is to let the words swirl around until there's nothing left to understand. It's easy to ignore them now. The horrors they partake in. The horrors you are indirectly part of.
Are you allowed to be innocent now that you work under these people? You've never pulled the trigger yourself, but is that an excuse? Morally speaking, you're the same as the men you are terrified of.
How laughable. You came to that conclusion right when they were discussing the price of narcotics.
Sometime later, you find yourself alone, roaming down an unfamiliar hall. It's foolish to be out without Geto or Gojo or even Ijichi, but Geto had an errand he wanted you to run. Now that it was complete, you needed to return back to him.
Except, you had no clue where he was.
You were lost. You should have known this would happen. Why didn't you pay more attention to where you were going? This wasn't any old building. Dangerous men lurked around, even the weaker ones carried guns and weapons.
It was only a matter of time before one of them caught you.
"Hey. You."
You were considered one of Geto's, but without him in sight, you were nothing. You knew that. It's why you cower immediately.
"I'm busy," you speak quickly, "My boss, Mr. Geto, he's—"
His hand is rough and scared and filthy on your skin. You are basically thrown against the wall, cornered against this stranger. He smiles. His teeth are yellowed and filled with tarter and plaque.
"C'mon, there's no need to rush. 'Just wanna have some fun. How much?" Disgust rolls off your tongue, but you don't have the courage to reveal it.
"I'm not like that," you mutter, "I'm not for sale."
But, aren't you? You've sold yourself to Geto, haven't you? Underneath his thumb, his whims. What makes you so much different from a hooker?
"Sure." And then there's a shift in his eyes. His face scrunches up, like he's just tasted something sour.
"Hold on...you're—you're that bastard's kid, aren't you?"
He says your last name, the name your father gave you with so much spite that you nearly flinch. In that moment, you realized that your father had messed with a lot more people than just Geto.
"Yeah yeah, you're a spitting fucking image!" He gripes you harsher. "Your daddy fucked me over while you're sitting over here nice and pretty? What the fuck?"
He's dead. He's dead and you hadn't spoken to him in over a decade, but his ghost still wants to punish you for being his kin. And this man is his executioner.
You're expecting something violent. Something that hurt more than his hand's squeezing your bicep. Perhaps he was, perhaps he would. Unfortunately, for him, Gojo interupted his plans.
You didn't even know that it was him, at first, on the floor, on top of the man. Gojo, despite his hungry smile, eager eyes, was always so angelic. He isn't supposed to be using his hands. He isn't supposed to inflict violence, not by himself.
He's punching him. The man isn't a man anymore, reduced to a mere punching back. Gojo doesn't stop until he breaks skin. He doesn't stop until you can hear a distinct crack.
Satoru doesn't stop until Suguru tells him to.
"Don't kill him." Geto warns. "It'd breach the agreement."
You can feel his presence, always silent, never revealing himself until he wants to be known. So unlike Gojo, who is hungry for even a second of attention. More than happy to spill blood over it.
Gojo grits his teeth, as though he's debating to even listen. He stands up eventually, chest heaving. His knuckles are caked in blood. It's not his. His glasses are off. His eyes are blown wide open like he's just hit the greatest high of his life. Geto calmly hands him a clean towel. You don’t want to know how many times this situation has repeated.
"Who gives a shit." Gojo bites out, his eyes , trailing to you, and you flinch away. He looks like a wild animal, growling and spitting. You don’t want to be next on his plate. Geto steps in front of you, barricading you from his sight.
The man on the ground had recovered enough to pathetically crawl away. It such a stark change to how he was just a few minutes ago, when he was lording over you, drunk off of his power.
Gojo steps on his calf. The broken thing gives a strangled scream. It only makes Gojo’s manic grin wider.
"Let him go. You made your point," Geto says, "calm down."
Firey blue eyes. Bright and violent. You don’t know how Suguru is able to withstand the intensity. Even you’re wilting when it’s not even directed towards you.
"Calm down?” Satoru asks. “You want me to calm down? Did you see what that bastard was gonna do to our—"
"Satoru." You've never heard Geto use this tone before. "Not here. Not now."
A silent battle warred between them. Tanzanite bore into amethyst. Which gem would rupture first, splinter into defeat?
Eventually, Gojo looks away, cursing. He glares down at you, as though he were blaming your weakness of all things. In a way, he’s not wrong to.
"I'll wait outside."
And then he's gone, striding down the corridor. Geto watches him go, before glancing down at you.
"Did he hurt you?" He asks.
You're not supposed to lie to him. You nod.
Geto pulls on your sleeves until he can see the imprints. Light bruising, nothing too horrible. You'll survive. Geto looks less than pleased. He glances down at the remnants of the man, the imprints of blood on the floor. You pitied the person who'd have to clean it up.
"I apologize, dear." He sighs. "I should have kept an eye on you."
He stares at the blood some more. Then, he smiles.
"Perhaps, it's better if I just let things run its course, this time."
You blink at him. He ignores your silent question. Instead, he wraps his arm around your shoulders, gently leading you outside. The car is already running. This time, Geto silently ushers you into the passenger seat. You take it immediately. Gojo hadn't taken his eyes off of you. You're grateful for any barrier.
This time, the car ride was silent. You don't relish in it. If anything, it just feels like the calm before the storm.
⟡
Soon, what Geto was talking about became apparent.
The man who had nearly been killed by Gojo had talked. You don't know what your father did to these men, perhaps you never will, but they didn't let you forget his crimes. If they couldn't get to him, then clearly, his kid was the next best option. You know it was them. It would be no one else.
Someone broke into your apartment one weekend. Everything was ruined. The TV was shattered and broken. Your mattress was tossed onto the floor. Every plate, cup, and bowl was smashed onto the floor. They took nothing, but they broke everything.
You hadn't been home that night. Ijichi needed more work from you. If you had, if you had come home that night, alone, locked the door, slept in that bed, then what would have—
Geto finds you on the stairs of your apartment, curled into a ball. You watch with bloodshot eyes as he observes the damage, clicking his tongue. He doesn't look particularly shocked.
You do nothing when you feel his hand on your shoulder, brushing against the sleeves, a feign of sympathy. You don't even care to ask how he came even though you never called him. Geto has a keen sense for you.
"It'll get worse." His voice comes. Soft, and sure.
Yeah, you knew that. You'd been naive, following after Geto with wide eyes. You thought that if he was untouchable, then so were you.
He speaks about an enemy group, people with debts with your father, just as he did. Of course, he knows who did this to you. You’d be more surprised if he didn’t.
You don’t care. His words go in one ear and out the other. The reasons don’t matter. Your home is still destroyed. It’s no longer yours.
"They got my phone, too," you mention to your discarded cell phone. "My emails, messages."
You're trapped, with nowhere else to turn. All the doors are shut and bolted, and only one remains open.
You turn to the devil.
"Can you...help?"
The angler fish uses its darkened habitat to its advantage. Hundreds of miles beneath the water's surface, it produces its own light as an olfactory bulb. It's an excellent predator, swinging its bio lantern around in the dark sea, the only light around for miles.
Geto tilts his head, a smile on perfect pink lips.
"You want my protection? It's a steep price, darling."
You feel like an empty well, forced to give and give until you're all dried up. Who could be so greedy? Who could be so willing to take?
"I've given you everything." It's barely a whisper. "What else do I have left to offer?"
He doesn't say anything to that, not at first. Geto kneels in front of you, a slender hand lifting your head up by the chin. Fingers trail down to your neck. Not choking, just holding. His thumb lightly presses into your throat.
"Not everything," Suguru says quietly.
He's right. You hadn't given him everything. So far, you have always been one of Geto's people. You were Geto's employee. You were indebted to him, but you weren't conquered by him.
Not yet.
He's kneeling in front of you, holding your soul in his hands and demanding for your heart. In a way, you find it a bit funny. You just don’t have the will to laugh anymore.
He's smiling again when he can tell you're finally starting to understand. "We couldn't have been that subtle, were we? Satoru never failed to express, at the very least."
No, they never tried to hide it. Even in the beginning, when you first met Suguru, you saw the hunger. You just tried to ignore it. You tried to keep your head in the sand, hoping it would pass. It makes you wonder if you had just agreed on that very night, led him into your bed, and bared it, would things have been different?
"I can leave. We can pretend this never happened," he coos, "it's all up to you, sweetheart."
He's making it seem like you had a choice. In a way, you did. You're choosing between two monsters. A known and an unknown. It takes longer than you'd like to figure out which one scares you more.
You take the bait. The angler fish siezes its prey.
"One night?" You're trying not to beg but it's coming out anyway. "Just—just one night?"
Geto leans forward, pressing a kiss on your forehead. It’s not an answer.
⟡
Despite the many months you've worked with him, you've never been to his home before.
It's not a house. A villa maybe. The property stretches itself stretches for miles. Filthy rich. Bleeding gold.
Geto—
("Suguru," he corrected you in the car, "considering this isn't really business, anymore.")
—had ushered you throw a double-door entrance. You couldn't even admire the architecture. Not when Gojo was already standing there. His eyes were hidden away, tucked underneath his glasses, but you still felt his stare. And all too wide smile stretched on his lips. He greeted Suguru with a kiss. For the first time, you looked down at their hands.
Matching rings.
You felt sick.
'It's all up to you, sweetheart' Suguru's voice rings through your head all through a dinner that's really nothing but a flimsy padding for the rest of the night. Food was served, wine was poured, all in a bid to ease you into it. As of right now, it's still your 'choice'. You know, without a doubt, if you backed out now, they'd let you go without a fuss. Suguru or Satoru themselves might drive you home. You'd crawl into bed without a scratch.
But you don't. You stare at your plate, picking at it when they ask questions. Satoru's in such a good mood he offers to feed you.
It's mostly because it doesn't feel real yet. You feel like you're watching yourself go through the movements. Eat. Speak when spoken to. Smile when prompted. Empty.
You only come back when you're standing in their room, and the door locks with a click.
The window blinds are drawn, but there's no light to seep in. The moon is already out. You wonder how many hours you've already spent here.
You take another step towards the bed. Then, you turn around.
Satoru and Suguru stare right back. You feel their heavy gazes immediately, flicking your eyes down to your feet, playing with your sleeves.
Satoru laughs, perceiving the terror as shyness, or maybe he doesn't care. He steps forward first.
"Don't be like that." He lightly chastises you, tucking one arm around your waist. "We'll be nice. Promise, baby. We're gonna be so so good for you."
He finds your lips, then. Satoru kisses like the sun, all fire and passion. Sinking into you, wanting to melt. It's impossible to turn away and ignore his presence. He gropes at your chest, your waist, trying to feel all of you at once. When he finally lets go, you feel dizzy.
Suguru's kisses ground you, makes remember where you are, who you're with. He's like the Earth you're crashing back into from your high. You hurdle through the atmosphere as his hands grasp at your throat. He never squeezes, but it's more than enough to sober you.
"You smell so nice, baby," Satoru says from his place at your neck. You flinch when teeth sink into your sink, but you don't complain.
"That's creepy, Satoru." Suguru chastizes him.
Serpentine eyes stare into yours. You don’t get the chance to hide before you feel his breath on your cheek. Suguru tugs at the hem of your dress.
“Take this off.” He whispers into your skin. “And get on the bed for us, sweetheart.”
This is the lesser monster. It’s a mantra you repeat in your head as you pliantly nod, hesitantly gripping the fabric of your dress. It’s horrifically easy to take it off and let it drop by your feet. You can’t bear to look at them anymore.
The soft duvet sinks under your weight. It looks expensive. Silky pillows. On either side is a nightstand covered with trinkets and personal items. You spot one of Suguru’s shirts on the floor, and it takes you a second to realize this is their room, not an impersonal guest room they use to fuck the less fortunate.
They stop paying attention to you. Satoru moans loudly into Suguru’s mouth. Suguru fiddles with the buttons on Satoru’s shirt, close to ripping it off entirely. Satoru palms at the tent in his pants as he unbuckles his pants. Suguru loosens his tie. They’re so violent with each other. Dread soaks through your palms, and you curl even further within yourself. You prayed this was all they wanted from you—someone to just watch, someone less interactive.
It’s not. When they pull away, their lips are swollen. Satoru leers at you, licking at his busted lip. You can’t seem to cry anymore.
They’re both half-naked. You can see the tattoos spread on Suguru’s hand, crawling up to his shoulder. Another peeks just behind Satoru’s neck. You only get a glimpse before he’s on top of you, eager for a continuation.
“Shit, you’re so soft.” He hisses as he squeezes your bra-covered breast. It doesn’t stay on for long. You wince when his fingers trace over your sensitive tits.
Your hands squeeze into fists, because you choose this, choose them. Satoru’s more than happy to sink into your breasts. His warm tongue swirls around a nipple before fully taking it in his mouth.
“Like a baby,” Suguru says. Satoru scoffs, tossing him an impressed look.
“Shut up.” Satoru releases your breast with a wet-sounding pop. They’ll be marks there tomorrow.
His fingers trail down your breasts, your ribs, your stomach. They linger on the band of your panties.
You can’t help it. It’s instinct.
He freezes when your fingers snap around his wrist. There’s no strength behind your grip, he pauses more out of surprise than anything.
His eyes, filled with hardened tanzanite, shoot up to yours. You think, if they’d be anyone else’s, you would have envied them.
He doesn’t say anything. Neither does Suguru. The silence is crushing.
“Sorry.” You feel pathetic apologizing, but it’s outweighed by the fear. “I—I’m sorry. I was just—”
“It’s okay, dear,” Suguru coos. “Satoru just scared you, hm? He’s such an idiot, isn’t he?” He violently smacks Satoru on the head. You flinch at the sound. Satoru just whines, rubbing at his temple.
“Mean.” Satoru childishly says, but he’s slower now, rolling down the hem of your panties.
Suguru is quick to distract you. He’s busy with his own bottoms before he’s taking you by the chin.
His cock is already leaking precum. He’s big, and you don’t think you’ll be able to do want he wants. Suguru smiles down at you, he doesn’t need to say anything. You’re swallowing down your self-hatred before opening your mouth.
You take him in just when Satoru buries his face between your thighs. The two of you have very different reacts. Satoru just hums, finding your clit to lick. You gasp, your legs jolting as you accidentally take Suguru even deeper.
He’s nice enough to let you go at your own pace. There’s a hand on your head, petting you, easing you through the process. Even then, your mouth is stretched uncomfortably wide. Tears prick at your eyes. Suguru’s face gets blurry. You don’t think you want to look anymore.
Below you, Satoru is enjoying his meal. He’s slobbering on your pussy, eating you out like it’s his last meal. His hot tongue finds his way into your sopping hole. You squeeze your eyes, a muffled whine comes from your mouth. The only loss of control Suguru shows was how he ever-so-slightly gripped your head.
By then, you’re unintentionally squeezing Satoru’s head in between your thighs. It’s so much. Pleasure tingles up your spine as Satoru continues to worship your pussy. His nose grinds into your clit and, for a moment, you’re wondering how he’s even breathing.
Suguru’s close. You can feel it every time his balls slap your chin. He’s speaking now, words stilted and heavy. It’s the only hint you get that he’s only holding his control by his teeth. That thought scares you. At any moment he’d snap, choking you with his cock, let you suffocate while he fills your dying mouth with his cum.
“Good,” he’s hissing out, “so good—good for me. C’mon, baby, take it.”
Satoru’s hand squeezes your ass, urging you to arch off the bed. You come like that, pressing your thighs around Satoru’s head, moaning around Suguru’s dick.
Suguru barely gives a grunt before something salty fills your mouth. You have to swallow it down. It burns your throat.
The air tastes sweet by the time Suguru’s cock leaves your mouth. You’re sucking in deep breaths, breasts heaving. Incidentally, you hadn’t suffocated Satoru. He’s kissing his way up your body. A trickle of Suguru’s cum had escaped your lips. His tongue presses against your chin before he pushes it back into your mouth. You can taste your tangy essence on his lips.
“Gotta’ swallow it all,” Satoru says with a teasing lilt, “he gets mad when it’s wasted.”
You can only nod. He gives you another wet kiss before he pulls away.
They switch places, Suguru moving over until he’s between your thighs. His large cock lays on your cunt. He’s still hard, his cock twitches when he angles his hips down, letting the head run over your leaking slit.
“The only reason he's going first is ‘cuz he’s been pining for you for months.” Satoru murmurs into your ear. Strangely enough, Suguru doesn’t comment. Your brain can’t work fast enough to comprehend what that means.
You hold your breath just as he presses himself inside. You’re almost grateful Satoru took the time to prepare you. His salivia, and your stretched walls make it easier for Suguru to bury his length inside you.
It doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt. You hiss. Satoru feels enough sympathy to coo at you, kissing your neck, trying to distract you from the pain. It doesn't help, not even when Suguru presses light circles into your clit, easing his way through.
Suguru’s giving a harsh laugh when he’s fully seated inside, his hips meeting yours.
“Feel good, hm?” Satoru goads, reaching up to nibble on Suguru’s ear.
“Shit, so tight—fuck.”
Your hips twitch and you’re clenching down on him. Suguru doubles over, gritting his teeth.
“Oh, darling.” Scarred hands grasp your neck. “I’m going to ruin you, aren’t I?”
Your bottom lip wobbles. He’s eyeing you like a piece of meat. A gazelle in the lion’s den. To them, to men like them, you suppose you’re nothing more.
“Suguru.” You whisper because your voice is failing you. “You-you promised you’d be nice.”
Silence. And he’s laughing so hard his shoulders shake. They both are.
“We did promise that, didn’t we?” Suguru glances at Satoru. “Next time, then.”
He pulls his cock out of you slowly, dragging his head through your cunt. He’s so slow and deliberate that you think it’d feel better if he just went ahead and fucked you already.
And he was, technically. His hips rolled back into you, his cock disappearing inside your wet pussy with each thrust. It’s so much that you’re willingly arching your back, trying to do anything to alleviate the intensity.
Beside you, Satoru is pulling out his cock, his eyes never leaving the lewd sight of Suguru fucking himself into you.
“Fuck fuck fuck,” he’s cursing under his breath, fisting his cocl in one hand, “so fuckin’ hot.”
Suguru growls, grabbing Satoru’s stiff cock, crudely pumping his hand up and down. His movement are getting more erratic losing his pace, his patience. You’re at your end too, almost crying when someone squeezes your sensitive tits.
“How does it feel, darling?” Suguru asks with a ragged breath. His eyes are blown, you don’t even think he’s looking at you, anymore.
When you don't give an answer fast enough, Suguru snaps his hips punishingly in response. You give a sharp wail.
“I said.” Suguru hisses through his teeth. “Tell me how it feels.”
You can barely suck in a breath. You’re losing oxygen too fast.
But you’ll die if he keeps doing this.
“Good.” You tell the truth. “It—it feels good, Suguru.”
He grins, serpentine. You’ve lost a game you didn’t even know you were playing. His fingers descend on your clit.
“That’s my perfect darling.”
You sob when your walls clench around his cock, milking him dry. Your orgasm triggers his own. He curses, and something is spilled into your used cunt. Out the corner of your eye, Suguru and Satoru are kissing, going together like rabid dogs. Satoru shudders, and then all three of you are a panting mess.
You take in deep breaths, barely caring when Suguru lets out an exhausted laugh, collapsing into your chest. He licks at your sweaty skin. You just sink your head further into the pillows
It was over. It was finally over.
“You got it everywhere.” Suguru suddenly says, disgusted. He wipes Satoru’s cum off your stomach.
Satoru just snorts.
“I didn’t have a hole to dump it all in.” He snarks back. “Twice, by the way. So selfish, Sugu.”
“Quit whining.” Suguru groans. “You have your chance now, don’t you?”
What? Exhaustion blinks away.
Suguru stays by your side. Gojo is the one moving, rising from the blankets. He places his hands on either side of your hips, spreading your legs.
Geto catches your panic, easily catching you before you can even do anything. He hushes you while Satoru settles himself between your thighs, his cock pressing right at your slit.
“The night’s still young, dear.” He sounds almost sympathetic. “Be good for just a bit longer.”
By the time they’re finally done with you, it’d been hours. You can’t count how many positions they put you in, how many times your holes were filled by their cocks or their fingers or their mouths. You’re barely coherent by the time Suguru is tucking you under the soft duvet.
You feel sore and used and dirty. His soft words, filled with praises, just make you feel worse. Despite how exhausted you feel, you’re just waiting until they finally get bored of seeing your body and kick you out.
You’ll call a cab home. You’ll cry yourself to sleep. You’ll be okay.
They’re taking a while to get to that part. They’re mumbling soft words too each other, it sounds too intimate to be something you should be overhearing. Satoru’s at your back, hands curling around your waist, another brushing Suguru’s mussed hair. You can feel his soft breath at the nape of your neck.
Suguru’s eyes are on you. Amethyst watches you intently.
"Satoru,” he finally says, “go uphold our end of the deal."
Gojo groans, annoyed. He snuggles closer to you. "Why me? You go do it."
An adoring smile crinkles on Suguru’s lips. It makes him look younger.
"Because I don't trust you alone with this one for the night. Go."
“Ass.”
He sighs, but Gojo sits up, letting the covers shift off his naked body.
"Stay right here for me, baby, 'kay?" He leans over, pressing a delicate kiss on your hairline. Despite everything that happened tonight, this was the most intimate thing he'd done to you. It's too...loving.
When Satoru leaves, you wait for a few moments. Suguru had yet to tell you to go. It probably meant that he didn’t want to waste his breath dismissing you. You take the hint, rising from the bed.
His fingers snap around you wrist just as your feet touch the floor.
“Where are you going?” His voice doesn’t sound accusatory, but you flinch anyway.
A wobbly smile makes its way across your face, you hope it comes across as submissive. Weren’t you done? The deal was made, that meant you could leave now, right?
"I—I need to go home?" Suguru gives a doting smile, as though you said something adoringly naive. He barely pulls on your hand, gently leading you back under the covers.
You follow because the gun glints by the nightstand.
“Is that the best idea right now, dear?” He asks, “Who knows if those men have come back? I’d hate to see them find their target, wouldn’t you?”
He draws you into his chest. Your head is tucked underneath his chin.
“And besides, Satoru will be disappointed if you left without saying goodbye. It’d be horrible to deal with one of his tantrums so late at night.”
He buries his face into your hair, inhaling your scent.
“Why don’t you leave in the morning? I’ll be sure to drive you back myself. By then, I’m sure Satoru will have made the proper arrangements. Don’t tell him I told you this, but—” Suguru drops his voice as though he’s scared someone might overhear”—he tends to be more efficient when you’re in the picture.”
You don’t know what he means by that, and you don’t think you want to know. Still, you lift your head, finding the courage to stare at him.
His eyes are such a beautiful color. Glittering purple in the moonlight. You’d stare at them all night if you could.
୨୧ You tried to sneak out after a one-night stand. Gojo wakes up — calm, shirtless, and not okay with being left behind. What follows is possessive touches, quiet threats, and a reminder of who you belong to.
I wanted to write something that felt like a slow unravel — soft words, sharp intentions, and Gojo being terrifyingly calm in the way only he can be.
just a lil treat for the yandere girlies ♡ hope it ruins you in the best way. mlist
PART 2 and PART 3
gojo satoru x reader
minors do not interact. this piece is intended for 18+ audiences.
The floor was cold beneath your bare feet as you tiptoed across the suite.
Gojo’s apartment was too clean — pristine white walls, muted city lights pouring through wide windows, and expensive silence that made your breath feel too loud. Your dress from the night before was clutched in one hand, wrinkled and still smelling faintly like sweat and cologne. You hadn’t even put your shoes back on yet.
He was still in bed, you were sure of it. He’d been wrapped in those dark gray sheets when you slid out, dead silent. You hadn’t dared to glance back.
Until now.
“Y’know,” a voice drawled behind you — slow, amused, terrifyingly awake. “If you really wanted to leave quietly, you probably shouldn’t have stolen my shirt.”
You froze mid-step, breath caught like prey in a trap.
He was sitting up now. Hair messier than before. One long arm braced behind him, the other pushing the sheets off his bare torso. His blindfold was gone, tossed somewhere on the nightstand, and his icy blue eyes caught the dim light like sharpened crystal.
You swallowed.
“It was cold,” you offered, lamely.
“Oh, totally,” he said, voice light and sarcastic. “That’s why you’re sneaking out like you killed somebody.”
You turned slowly. “I didn’t think you'd care—”
Gojo laughed. Not loud — just sharp, like a knife sliding across glass.
“You didn’t think I’d care?” he repeated. “Sweetheart… I’ve had your name circling my brain since the second you touched me.”
He stood, bare feet whispering across the hardwood as he stalked toward you — tall, loose-limbed, terrifyingly calm.
You backed up.
Bad idea.
He moved faster, one hand pressing against the wall just beside your head, caging you without even touching you.
“That’s mine,” he said softly, flicking the hem of the shirt you were wearing. His shirt — white, oversized, the one that hung just a little too low on you and hit just high enough on your thighs to drive him insane.
“You mean the shirt?”
His head tilted. “I mean you.”
You went quiet, breath shaky. “We hooked up once.”
“So?” Gojo smiled, slow and bright — but his eyes didn’t match. They burned. “You don’t do that with someone like me and leave. That’s not how this works.”
You opened your mouth, maybe to argue. But the words died on your tongue the second his fingers hooked under the shirt’s hem and pushed up — slow, deliberate, warm palms skating along the skin of your thighs.
“W-Wait—” You shifted, but he just stepped closer, pressing the full heat of his body into yours.
“Don’t run,” he whispered, lips brushing your ear now. “You’ll only make me chase you. And you won’t like how that ends.”
Your breath hitched. His fingers kept moving — slipping higher, thumbs brushing over the crease of your hips, teeth grazing the shell of your ear.
“I liked seeing you in my shirt,” he said softly. “But I like you better out of it.”
You shivered.
Then he tugged — not gently. The shirt lifted over your head, arms caught for a moment before he pulled it free and tossed it aside. You were bare beneath, breathless and pressed against the wall like you didn’t know what to say.
“Pretty little thing,” Gojo murmured, fingers trailing over your bare stomach. “You really thought you could disappear from me? After the way you moaned my name last night?”
You blushed — visibly. It made his eyes darken.
He kissed you. Rough, breath-stealing, like he was trying to taste every sound you’d ever made. You clutched at his shoulders — and it hit you all over again just how strong he was. How fast he could crush you. But he didn’t.
Not yet.
“Bed,” he said. “Now.”
He didn’t yell — didn’t need to. You obeyed without thinking, legs shaky as you moved. He followed like a storm.
The sheets were still warm when he pushed you down, straddling you easily. His hands roamed — over your breasts, down your sides, fingers memorizing every inch like he’d been given a test on it.
“You looked so cute sneaking out,” he murmured, lips grazing your skin as he moved lower. “But you’re not going anywhere now. You hear me?”
You nodded — breathless, wrecked, unsure if it was fear or desire curling low in your stomach.
Maybe both.
He kissed the inside of your thigh, slow and lingering, before glancing up with those impossible blue eyes.
“I’m gonna remind you exactly who you belong to.”
And when he finally lowered his mouth to you — all heat, tongue, and expert cruelty — you forgot your own name.
SUMMARY: Sweet and unassuming Mina Thornton has harboured a hopeless crush on the charming and endlessly witty Lord Kim Seokjin ever since they were children. To her, he is as unattainable as the moon, a man destined for royalty while she is only the daughter of the royal physician. But beneath Seokjin’s teasing smiles and effortless charm lies a devotion far deeper than Mina could ever imagine. As feelings grow and the expectations of rank and duty close in around them, their love faces a future that seems impossible.
Warnings: Yandere themes, obsessive behaviour, unhealthy relationship dynamics, jealousy, manipulation, controlling behaviour, power imbalance due to differences in social status, political intrigue, social scandal, morally grey actions, references to suicidal ideation by a side character, intense romance, slight dub con (if you squint). Happy ending.
A/N- Dear readers, this is a 3 part mini series which was requested by my dear friend and patron m1n.ty. The next part of this fic would be uploaded here on Tumblr when this post receives 500+ likes and 25+ comments. However, all the three parts have been uploaded on my Patreon for my subscribers. They are also available for purchase under the Shop section. Please support my Patreon if you can! Many thanks and please enjoy 💗
MY PATREON
Taglist: @thebaratheonlion
The sun rose over London, the proud heart of an empire upon which it was so often boasted the light never faded. Its first rays slipped through a thin veil of morning mist, gilding the spires, terraces and cobbled streets in a quiet benediction. Servants stirred before their masters, shopkeepers lifted their shutters and the distant rumble of carriage wheels began its steady hymn.
Within the stately quarters of the affluent, the nobility resumed their rituals of refinement with practiced ease. Beyond these polished facades, the working populace moved with urgency, lending the city its lifeblood of motion and purpose. Thus, London breathed divided in station, yet united in rhythm.
Nestled within one of its more respectable districts stood the residence of Mr. James Thornton, Royal Physician to the Crown. Though modest in comparison to the grand estates of dukes and earls, the home bore an air of quiet distinction, its very walls steeped in legacy. For generations, the Thornton name had been spoken within palace corridors with trust and regard. Long ago, one of their forebears had been granted a minor title as a gesture of gratitude from a monarch whose life had rested in Thornton hands. Since then, each successive heir had upheld that solemn duty, tending to the health of royalty with unwavering devotion.
Yet the lineage, so long carried by sons, now found its future resting upon far more delicate shoulders.
Mina Thornton, the only child of James Thornton, was but eleven years of age. A thoughtful creature, she moved gently through the world, as though fearful of disturbing it, her soft gaze more often cast downward in quiet contemplation. Where other children chased laughter and games, Mina sought refuge in the written word, in the careful study of her lessons, in the silent companionship of ink and parchment.
There was, however, one indulgence she allowed herself: painting. In the solitude of her small chamber, she would coax life from blank canvases, capturing fleeting impressions of the world she observed but seldom joined. Yet even this passion she treated as secondary, a quiet luxury she scarcely believed herself entitled to. For above all else, Mina wished to make her father proud and to prove that though she was not the son tradition might have demanded, she could yet be worthy of the name she bore.
Her mother had departed this world not long after Mina’s arrival into it, leaving behind no memory but an absence that lingered in softened tones throughout the household. In her stead, Miss Eleanor Jones had assumed the role of guardian and guide. A woman of forty years, Miss Jones possessed both gentleness and discipline in equal measure. She had raised Mina with attentive care, nurturing her intellect while quietly fretting over her solitary inclinations. For Mina, though diligent and kind, remained painfully withdrawn.
It was a matter that weighed upon Miss Jones more with each passing season. A young lady, after all, could not exist solely among books and quiet corners. Society demanded presence. How, she often wondered, would the child one day preside over a household, entertain guests, or command respect, if she shrank so instinctively from the gaze of others? Thus, it was with quiet determination that Miss Jones began, in small ways, to coax Mina beyond the confines of her comfort.
On one such morning, beneath a sky of pale blue and drifting cloud, she proposed a walk.
Rothbard Park lay not far from their residence. It stood as a sprawling expanse of manicured lawns, winding paths and verdant groves, frequented by families of distinction. It was a place where children of the upper echelons were permitted a semblance of freedom, watched over by attentive governesses and indulgent parents alike.
Mina accepted the suggestion without protest, though her fingers tightened ever so slightly around the ribbon of her bonnet as she stepped into the carriage. The notion of encountering others stirred a quiet unease within her breast.
The park, when they arrived, was already alive with gentle activity. Laughter rang in soft bursts across the lawns, mingling with the rustle of leaves and the distant murmur of conversation. Children darted between the trees in games of chase, their bright attire flashing like petals in motion. Ladies reclined upon benches, their parasols tilted just so, while gentlemen strolled at a leisurely pace, discussing matters of mild importance. To Mina, it felt like stepping into a painting.
She lingered close to Miss Jones, her small gloved hands clasped neatly before her, eyes lowered as though the ground itself might offer refuge. And yet despite herself, she could not help but look.
The shifting light through the branches, the way the breeze stirred the hem of a gown, the delicate interplay of shadow and sun upon the gravel paths. It was beautiful.
At its heart lay a gentle pond, its surface dappled with sunlight and stirred by the languid movements of white-feathered geese. They drifted upon the water with an air of serene entitlement, as though the park itself had been fashioned for their leisure. A few had already waddled ashore, their curious eyes ever watchful for indulgent visitors. It was toward these creatures that Mina’s attention softened, her reserve easing in their presence.
From the small basket she carried, she withdrew a modest portion of feed including oats and softened grains, prepared earlier at Miss Jones’s insistence. Kneeling carefully at the edge of the grass, she extended her hand, scattering the offering with gentle precision.
The effect was immediate. The geese gathered about her with low, eager calls, their movements clumsy yet endearing. One, bolder than the rest, stretched its neck forward, pecking delicately from her palm. Mina could not help the quiet laugh that escaped her.
“There now” she murmured softly, her voice scarcely above the breeze. “You mustn’t quarrel so. There is quite enough for all of you.”
It was in that moment, as she glanced up from her feathery companions, that she noticed him.
A boy stood some distance away, near the low curve of the path. He appeared to be near her own age, perhaps a year older at most. His attire, though neat and finely made, bore none of the ostentation that might draw immediate attention yet there was a quiet refinement in his bearing. He watched the geese with open fondness, his posture betraying a desire to approach, though something kept him rooted where he stood.
Mina hesitated. It was not her habit to invite company. Indeed, she was far more accustomed to avoiding it. Yet there was a gentle longing not unlike her own on his face that stirred a small courage within her. Slowly, almost as though she feared to startle him, she lifted her hand and gave a tentative beckon.
The boy blinked, momentarily taken aback, before glancing behind him as if to ensure the gesture had indeed been meant for him. When he found no other claimant, he stepped forward, his approach measured but hopeful.
“You may come nearer, if you wish” Mina said, her voice soft but earnest. “They are quite friendly, once they have been fed.”
The boy paused a few steps from her, offering a polite inclination of his head.
“I thank you” he replied, his tone warm, if touched by shyness, “I had hoped to do so but feared they might not receive me kindly.”
“They will, I think,” Mina answered, allowing a small smile. “So long as you do not startle them.”
Encouraged, he knelt beside her, maintaining a respectful distance. For a brief moment, they worked in companionable silence, the gentle rustle of feathers filling the space between them.
“They are finer creatures than most suppose,” the boy remarked after a time. “My brother insists they are ill-tempered things but I believe they are merely particular.”
Mina glanced at him, surprise flickering softly in her eyes.
“I think so as well” she said. “Many creatures are misunderstood. They behave as they must, not as we would have them.”
The boy smiled at this, a genuine brightness settling upon his features.
“You speak very sensibly, Miss…?”
“Mina,” she replied, then, recalling her manners, added, “Mina Thornton, sir.”
“Miss Thornton” he echoed, with gentle formality. “I am called Jungkook.”
He hesitated, as though weighing something, then added with quiet candour “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
“And yours” Mina returned, her voice soft but sincere.
A brief silence followed, though it was not an uncomfortable one.
“Do you favour animals greatly, Miss Thornton?” Jungkook asked.
“I do” she admitted. “They are easier to understand, I think. They do not expect one to speak when one has nothing to say.”
At this, Jungkook let out a small, thoughtful laugh.
“I believe I should like them for that very reason.”
It was Miss Jones who approached shortly thereafter, her measured steps betraying both watchfulness and polite restraint. She inclined her head toward the boy, her expression composed.
“Good morning,” she said. “I trust you have not been inconvenienced by my charge.”
Jungkook rose at once, offering a bow that, though youthful, was executed with admirable propriety.
“Not in the least, madam. The pleasure has been entirely mine.”
Miss Jones regarded him more closely now, noting the quality of his attire, the refinement of his speech.
“And may I inquire,” she continued “with whom I have the honour of speaking?”
The boy did not hesitate.
“I am Jungkook, madam, Jungkook of House Kim.”
The effect was immediate. Miss Jones drew in a quiet breath, her composure momentarily faltering before she recovered herself with practiced grace.
“Of House Kim?” she repeated, her tone lowering ever so slightly. “The son of His Grace, the Duke?”
“Yes, madam.”
“Your Grace” she corrected gently, inclining her head with renewed respect. “Pray forgive my earlier familiarity. I had not known-”
“There is nothing to forgive” Jungkook interjected quickly, a faint flush rising to his cheeks. “I am not in any formal company at present.”
Mina, who had risen beside them, looked between the two with quiet confusion, the significance of the exchange eluding her entirely. Before Miss Jones might continue, however, she posed another question.
“And may I ask, Your Grace, where is your attendant? It is not customary to be without one.”
“Jungkook.”
The voice, though not raised, carried with it an authority that seemed to still the very air.
A young man approached along the path, his stride unhurried yet purposeful. There was an ease to his movement, a confidence that required no display. Sunlight caught upon the dark fall of his hair and though his expression bore the faintest suggestion of displeasure, it was tempered by something far more composed.
“I have been seeking you throughout the grounds” he continued, his gaze settling upon the boy. “Whyever did you disappear in such a fashion?”
Jungkook straightened at once.
“I beg your pardon, brother, I had only wished to see the pond.”
The elder’s eyes flickered then, briefly, toward Mina.
Mina, who had thus far only perceived an elder brother mildly inconvenienced by his charge’s wandering, stepped forward before Miss Jones might speak again. There was no artifice in her manner, only a gentle earnestness, as though she sought to soothe what she believed a needless concern.
“He has not been in any distress, sir” she said, her voice soft but clear. “Indeed, he has only been feeding the geese. You need not trouble yourself so greatly.”
The young man’s gaze settled fully upon her then.
“And yet,” he replied, a faint curve touching his lips “it is seldom wise to vanish without word. One might cause unnecessary alarm.”
Mina tilted her head ever so slightly, considering him with quiet seriousness.
“But is he not at liberty to go where he pleases?” she asked. “These grounds are open and he meant no harm. It seems to me that everyone ought to be afforded some measure of freedom.”
Her gaze drifted briefly toward the pond, where the geese continued their languid movements, unburdened by expectation.
“They go where they wish,” she continued, almost thoughtfully. “They are neither summoned nor restrained. I think it must be rather pleasant, to follow one’s heart in such a manner.”
For the briefest of moments, the young man said nothing. Then, slowly, something like amusement lit his expression.
“A most enviable philosophy” he said at last. “Though I suspect the world would find itself in considerable disarray were we all to adopt it without restraint.”
“Still” he added lightly, “it is a rare thing to hear such convictions spoken without fear.”
Mina, uncertain whether she had said something improper, lowered her gaze slightly.
“I did not mean to speak out of turn.”
“On the contrary,” he replied, almost too quickly, “I find it refreshing, Miss.”
He inclined his head then, the gesture elegant despite his youth.
“I am Seokjin,” he said “of the House of Kim.”
Miss Jones’s reaction was immediate and far more pronounced than before.
“Your Highness-” she faltered, correcting herself with visible care, “Your Grace, I am most deeply honoured. Pray forgive any earlier impropriety. Had I known, it was you-”
“There is no offense taken, madam” Seokjin returned smoothly, though his attention had not left Mina. “You have conducted yourself with admirable propriety.”
Miss Jones turned at once to Mina, her expression tightening ever so slightly.
“Mina,” she murmured, low but firm “you must show proper respect.”
Startled, Mina hastened to comply, gathering her skirts and lowering herself into a careful curtsy, her movements a touch uncertain in their haste.
“Your Grace” she said, her voice small with sudden awareness.
For a heartbeat, there was silence. Then Seokjin laughed. It was not unkind, on the contrary, it carried a warmth that might easily have been mistaken for simple amusement but there was something within it that lingered a moment too long, as though he found delight in more than the surface of the moment.
“How curious” he said, lightly. “A moment ago, you spoke so ardently of freedom and now you bow as though bound by the very constraints you questioned.”
Mina blinked, her cheeks warming.
“I did not mean to offend.”
“Pray, do not trouble yourself” he interrupted, his tone almost teasing. “I merely wonder, if you believe all creatures ought to follow their own will, why extend such deference to me?”
There was a glint in his eyes, unmistakably playful now.
“Or is it that your philosophy admits certain exceptions?”
Mina could not tell whether she was being gently mocked or invited into some manner of jest. Either way, the attention unsettled her and she lowered her gaze once more.
“I thought it only proper” she murmured.
Seokjin regarded her for a moment longer, the faintest smile lingering upon his lips as though her answer, in its simplicity, pleased him more than any clever retort might have done.
Before the exchange could continue, however, the quiet of the park was broken by the hurried approach of several attendants. Their expressions bore the unmistakable strain of alarm hastily subdued into decorum.
“Your Grace, Master Jungkook, ” one began, bowing deeply. “We have been searching everywhere.”
“Yes, I am aware,” Seokjin said, with easy composure. “You may spare yourselves further exertion. We are quite well.”
Jungkook, who had watched the exchange with growing hesitation, stepped forward then, his gaze turning to his brother with a tentative hope.
“Brother” he began, “might I inquire-”
Seokjin arched a brow slightly, though his expression remained indulgent.
“Yes?”
Jungkook glanced briefly at Mina before continuing.
“Miss Thornton has been most kind. I wondered whether she might be permitted to visit, at some time. I should like to show her the gardens at home.”
Miss Jones inhaled sharply, her composure nearly abandoning her altogether at the suggestion.
Seokjin’s gaze shifted once more to Mina.
“If my brother has taken such a liking” he said, “it would seem churlish of me to refuse.”
He inclined his head, the gesture carrying both courtesy and a certain unmistakable ease of authority, despite him being seemingly only a two or three years older than Mina and Jungkook.
“Miss Thornton, should it please your household, you would be most welcome at our residence. I trust the gardens shall prove sufficiently free for your tastes.”
There was mischief in the last remark, faint but deliberate.
Miss Jones, quite overcome now, responded at once.
“Your Grace is exceedingly generous. We are most honoured, truly, it is beyond expectation.”
Mina, still uncertain of the full weight of what had been offered, managed only a small, flustered nod.
“Thank you, Your Grace.”
Seokjin’s eyes lingered on her a moment longer.
Then, just as the attendants began to usher them away, he offered her a smile.
Jungkook waved lightly as he was led back.
“I shall hope to see you again, Miss Thornton!”
“And I you” Mina replied, her voice scarcely above a breath.
She remained where she stood until they had gone from sight, the air seeming oddly still in their absence. Only then did she lower her gaze, pressing her hands together in an effort to steady herself.
For reasons she could not quite name, her cheeks had grown warm. And though she told herself it must be from the morning sun, she found her thoughts lingering not upon the gentle boy who had shared her fondness for geese but upon the older one, whose smile had unsettled something quiet and unknown within her.
The following afternoon dawned with a quiet anticipation Mina could neither name nor entirely suppress.
The carriage that bore her through the city seemed to carry her not merely across distance but into a world set apart that she had glimpsed only in fragments before. Though she had, on rare occasion, accompanied her father to the royal palace and thus was not wholly unacquainted with grandeur, nothing had quite prepared her for the estate that now rose before her.
The residence of the House of Kim was less a home than a domain.
It stretched across an expanse of land so vast that its boundaries seemed to blur into the horizon itself. Manicured gardens unfurled in careful symmetry, its hedges trimmed to perfection, gravel paths winding through beds of early spring blossoms, fountains catching the light in crystalline arcs. Beyond them, the mansion stood in stately magnificence, its pale stone façade adorned with tall windows and intricate carvings that spoke not only of wealth but of lineage.
Mina stepped down from the carriage with measured care, her gloved hands clasped lightly before her as she took in the sight. It was overwhelming.
Servants moved with quiet efficiency, their presence constant yet unobtrusive. Every motion was governed by an order Mina could feel but not see.
And yet her apprehension softened the moment she was received within. The Duchess of Kim proved to be a lady of striking presence, though not in the austere manner Mina had half-expected. There was elegance in her bearing, certainly and a refinement that could not be mistaken but it was accompanied by a warmth that revealed itself almost at once.
“So this is Miss Thornton” she said, her voice touched with a gentle amusement as her gaze settled upon the girl. “I have heard you have already made quite an impression upon my youngest.”
Mina curtsied, careful and composed despite the quiet flutter in her chest.
“Your Grace is most kind.”
The Duchess smiled.
“I think not kindness but truth,” she replied lightly. “Jungkook is not so easily drawn into company. It pleases me greatly to see him so inclined.”
Jungkook himself stood nearby, offering Mina a small, pleased smile. In the familiarity of his own home, he seemed more at ease, though no less gentle.
From that day forward, Mina’s visits became frequent.
What began as an invitation extended in courtesy soon grew into something far more constant. At the Duchess’s suggestion, Mina was invited to join the small circle of children who received instruction within the Kim estate under the guidance of the most distinguished tutors in the realm.
Miss Jones, though momentarily taken aback by the generosity of such a proposal, wrote at once to Mr. Thornton. His reply, when it came, bore no hesitation, only gratitude and quiet pride. That his daughter might be educated among such company, under such tutelage, was an opportunity he could not refuse.
Thus, Mina’s days took on a new shape.
Each morning, she would arrive at the estate, her earlier awe gradually softening into familiarity. The halls remained vast, the furnishings exquisitely wrought, each chamber adorned with an attention to detail that spoke of both taste and means. Shelves lined with leather-bound volumes stretched toward high ceilings; polished floors reflected the soft glow of chandeliers, even the air itself seemed touched by refinement.
And yet, within this grandeur, Mina found something she had not expected. Peace. Her lessons became a source of quiet fulfilment. Where she had once studied alone, she now sat among peers though not all welcomed her presence with equal warmth. Some regarded her with thinly veiled curiosity, others with a distance that bordered upon dismissal. She was, after all, not of noble birth in the truest sense, despite her father’s respected standing.
There were whispers at times subtle but not beyond her notice. And yet, Mina endured them as she did most things, with silent resolve.
For where she lacked ease in society, she excelled in diligence. Her tutors soon took note of her attentiveness, her careful thought, the sincerity with which she approached her studies. Praise, when it came, was measured but genuine. And though Mina accepted it with quiet humility, it became a steady reassurance beneath the surface of her otherwise uncertain place among the others.
If the days belonged to study, they belonged equally to Jungkook. In one another, they found a companionship unburdened by expectation. Neither demanded what the other could not give and neither sought to draw the other into discomfort. They spoke when they wished, sat in silence when they did not, shared small observations that might have seemed inconsequential to others but felt, to them, entirely sufficient.
It was, in its own way, a deeply affectionate bond formed through the quiet constancy of presence.
And then there was Seokjin.
He did not belong to their lessons, nor to their carefully ordered routine. His world existed just beyond it, being older, louder, filled with companions who matched his ease and confidence. Yet he appeared, from time to time, as though by whim alone.
Most often, it was the library. The great doors would open with little warning and with them would come a shift. Voices would rise, attention would turn and the room itself seemed to stir into greater life. Seokjin would enter surrounded by his peers, their conversation lively and their laughter unrestrained.
He moved among them with effortless command, his wit drawing response as naturally as breath. Remarks would pass between them with quicksilver ease.
Mina never joined them. Indeed, she made every quiet effort not to. She kept her gaze upon her books, her posture composed, as though she might render herself invisible through sheer will. It was not fear, precisely, rather, a wish to avoid the particular attention she knew he would bestow upon her if given cause.
It was a wish that rarely succeeded. For Seokjin had an uncanny way of finding her.
“Miss Thornton” his voice would come, smooth with unmistakable amusement “I begin to suspect you intend to read the entire collection before the season is through.”
She would start, nearly always, her composure faltering as she looked up to find him far nearer than she had realised.
“I do not think that possible, Your Grace.”
“No?” he would reply, tilting his head slightly. “You appear to be making a most determined effort.”
There would be laughter then, from his companions, from the others who watched with interest and Mina would feel the warmth rise unbidden to her cheeks.
“I only wish to learn what I may.”
“A commendable ambition” he would concede, though never without that teasing lilt. “Though I wonder, do you ever tire of such earnest pursuits? Or have you made a solemn vow to deny yourself all lighter inclinations?”
Mina could seldom answer in kind. Partly because his wit moved too swiftly, partly because the attention itself unsettled her but more than either, because of something she did not at first understand.
As the seasons shifted and time carried them quietly forward, that something grew clearer. It was in the way her breath seemed to falter when he stood too near. In the curious quickening of her heart when his voice turned, even briefly, in her direction. In the warmth that lingered long after he had gone, stirred by nothing more than a passing remark or a fleeting smile.
Mina came, at last, to recognise it for what it was. And in doing so, she understood equally well what it was not.
Seokjin did not seek her company as he did that of his peers. He did not linger beyond his moment of amusement, nor look for her once his attention had moved on. To him, she was at most his brother’s quiet friend, a convenient subject for light teasing, nothing more.
She knew this. And yet it did nothing to still the way her heart tightened when he drew near, nor the way it seemed to follow after him when he left, as though some small, foolish part of her had forgotten to remain behind.
Time, which so often dulled the sharpness of childish fancies, seemed only to refine Mina’s. Her regard for Seokjin did not lessen with familiarity, rather, it deepened, taking on a quiet persistence she neither encouraged nor knew how to quell. It was not as though she sought him out. On the contrary, she grew almost artful in her avoidance. When he entered a room, she would retreat to its farthest edge, when his laughter rose among a gathering, she would lower her gaze and fix it resolutely upon her book and on the rare, ill-fated occasions she found herself alone in his path, she would contrive, however awkwardly, to turn aside before he might notice her.
And yet, for all her efforts, he always did. There was no escaping the peculiar certainty with which Seokjin’s attention found her. Whether by design or some instinct she could not name, his gaze would settle upon her with unfailing accuracy, as though the presence she wished most to conceal was, to him, the easiest to discern. If anything, her attempts at avoidance seemed only to amuse him further.
“Miss Thornton” he would call, his tone threaded with that familiar effortless mirth, “you move through these halls with such remarkable stealth that I begin to suspect you are practicing the art of vanishing altogether.”
“I assure you, Your Grace, I am doing no such thing” she would reply, though rarely with the composure she intended.
“Indeed? Then I must conclude it is mere coincidence that you are always just beyond reach.”
There would be laughter then, enough to send a flush to her cheeks and a flutter to her heart that lingered long after.
As the years advanced, so too did Seokjin. At fifteen, he bore little resemblance to the boy who had first stood at the park’s edge. His wit had sharpened into something finer, his presence carried a quiet authority that required no assertion. Where others sought attention, he commanded it without effort. Conversation seemed to gather around him, drawn by the ease with which he navigated it.
The young ladies of their circle, those of rank and expectation, were not blind to it. They watched him, angled themselves toward him, seized upon any opportunity for his notice. Their laughter was lighter in his presence, their words more carefully chosen.
And yet for all their efforts, there was a curious absence in the way he regarded them. He was courteous, certainly and no less charming but his attention never lingered. Not in the way it did when, unbidden and often to her dismay, it turned instead toward Mina.
It was not grand gestures that marked it, nor any overt preference that might invite comment. Rather, it lay in the smallest of observations.
“You favour that shade of ribbon, I think” he remarked once, passing behind her chair with a glance so fleeting it might have been imagined. “It appears with surprising regularity.”
“You tilt your head when you read a passage you do not agree with. I wonder, do you argue with the author in your thoughts, Miss Thornton?”
Such remarks, offered lightly, were enough to unsettle her entirely. For they revealed an attention she had never invited. To Mina, he became something distant and luminous all at once.
So it was with him.
And so it remained, until the afternoon that altered, in some small but indelible way, the shape of her memory.
She was thirteen. The hour for lessons had nearly struck and Mina, delayed by a misplaced volume, found herself hurrying along the corridor with more haste than was her custom. The polished floors offered little forgiveness to such urgency and as she reached the foot of the grand staircase, she gathered her skirts and began her ascent with careful speed.
It was upon the third step that it happened. Her foot turned beneath her and a sharp pain shot through her ankle, sudden and unrelenting. She caught herself against the railing with a soft gasp, her breath faltering as she steadied her weight.
For a moment, she remained where she was, willing the pain to subside. It did not. She attempted another step and a quiet hiss escaped her before she could suppress it.
“You persist in injuring yourself with admirable determination.”
Mina turned and found him already there. Seokjin stood a few steps below, his expression altered in a manner she had never seen before. The easy amusement was gone, replaced by something far more intent, his gaze fixed not upon her face but upon the slight, unsteady way she held herself.
“What has happened?”
“It is nothing, Your Grace” she managed, though the strain in her voice betrayed her. “I have only-”
She did not finish for in the space between one breath and the next, he had closed the distance between them. There was no preamble, no measured propriety. One moment she stood, uncertain and in pain and the next, she was lifted.
A soft exclamation escaped her as Seokjin gathered her into his arms with a decisiveness that left no room for protest. The world seemed to tilt, her hands instinctively finding purchase against his shoulders as he turned and ascended the remaining steps with swift, unhesitating strides.
“My lord!” she began, flustered beyond thought.
“You are in no condition to argue” he replied, his tone sharper than she had ever heard it.
Mina fell silent.
She became, all at once, acutely aware. Of the strength in his hold, no longer that of a boy but something steadier. The closeness she had never before known, the warmth of him impossibly near. Of the way her heart seemed to forget its proper rhythm entirely.
By the time they reached the upper landing, the quiet order of the household had been thoroughly disrupted.
“Attend here, at once” Seokjin called, his voice carrying with an authority that brooked no delay. “Send for a physician. Immediately.”
Servants appeared as if conjured, their composure shaken by the urgency in his tone. There were hurried bows, swift footsteps retreating down corridors, murmured exchanges barely contained.
Mina scarcely knew where to look.
She was borne into the adjoining salon and set carefully upon a sofa, the cushions yielding beneath her as she attempted to gather what remained of her composure.
“It is truly not so grave, sir” she began again, though her voice had grown faint.
Seokjin did not appear to hear her. He had already dropped to one knee before her.
Without hesitation and without thought for who might see, he reached for her injured foot, his hand closing gently yet firmly about her ankle as he examined it with focused attention.
The effect was immediate. A collective stillness seemed to fall upon the room. The servants who had lingered froze, their gazes averted yet unmistakably aware. Even the air itself felt altered, charged with something unspoken.
For though they were young, there remained lines that were not lightly crossed and he had crossed them without pause.
“My lord” Mina whispered, her face flushed with sudden heat. “You must not do this.”
“Does it pain you here?” he interrupted, his touch shifting slightly, careful but unyielding in its intent.
“Yes, but it is only a strain.”
“Only?” he repeated, his gaze lifting to hers at last.
There was something in it, sharp, almost disbelieving, as though her dismissal of her own pain were a matter he could not abide.
The sound of approaching footsteps broke the moment.
The Duchess of Kim entered with composed haste, a physician close behind. Her eyes took in the scene at once, the gathered servants, her son at Mina’s feet, the unmistakable breach of decorum and her expression hardened, if only slightly.
“Seokjin.”
Her voice, though not raised, carried unmistakable authority.
“You will release Miss Thornton at once.”
For a brief, suspended instant, he did not move. His gaze remained upon Mina fixed, intent, as though the presence of others had yet to fully register.
And Mina, caught beneath that look, found herself unable to turn away. It was a moment she would remember long after its impropriety had been forgotten by others.
Then, at last, he drew back.
“As you wish, Mother” he said, his tone returning, with visible effort, to its usual composure.
The physician stepped forward, the room resuming its motion as though released from a held breath.
But Mina, though she lowered her gaze and submitted quietly to examination, felt that something, however small, had shifted.
In the days that followed that afternoon, Mina found her thoughts straying. Sleep, once a refuge of quiet forgetfulness, became instead a place where memory softened into something more treacherous. She would see again the curve of his hand about her ankle. Even his laughter, so often the source of her fluster, returned altered in recollection, deeper, warmer, as though it lingered closer than it ought.
Such fancies she bore in silence as, even at thirteen, Mina was not so foolish as to mistake them for anything that might find form beyond her own imagining. Seokjin existed within a sphere far removed from her own. This was not merely a matter of temperament, nor even of rank, it was expectation, long understood and quietly accepted by all who moved within their world.
He was, after all, destined. The name most often spoken alongside his was that of Princess Evelyn, the Emperor’s only child. It was not an arrangement formally declared, yet it lived in the unspoken understanding of the court. Their stations aligned too perfectly, their families bound too closely for any other conclusion to be reasonably entertained. And though such matters were rarely addressed in the hearing of children, they were felt nonetheless in the subtle shaping of behaviour.
On the rare occasions the Princess visited the ducal estate, Mina learned, without being told, to excuse herself. And yet, even in absence, she understood. Princess Evelyn possessed a grace that seemed effortless, her manner poised without stiffness, her wit refined in a way that complemented rather than competed. Beside her, Seokjin appeared entirely at ease with his charm unforced, his attention measured yet warm. They suited one another.
This, Mina knew. And so she carried her small, secret regard as one might carry a fragile secret thing.
As the years turned, Seokjin changed as all young men do yet in him, the transformation seemed only to heighten what had always been present. His frame lengthened, his shoulders broadening into a strength no longer hinted at but plainly seen. The careless ease of boyhood settled into something more defined and more assured. There was a gravity to him now, beneath the ever-present wit, it pointed to a sense that his place in the world was not merely given but understood.
Mina noticed, despite herself. And if, on occasion, her thoughts wandered where they ought not, lingering upon the line of his shoulders, the quiet strength in his bearing, she chastised herself for it with all the earnestness she could muster.
Avoidance, she found, was the safer course. And for a time, it served her well. Until, as it so often happens, circumstance rendered it impossible.
The morning in question was still touched with the pale quiet of early day. A thin mist clung to the grounds, softening the edges of the world, while the first light of sun stretched languidly across the fields beyond the stables. It was an hour chosen with care.
Jungkook, in his gentle consideration, had promised to assist her in what Mina privately regarded as a most formidable undertaking: her first attempt at riding. Horses, though admired from a distance, inspired in her no small degree of apprehension. Their size, their strength, the unpredictable intelligence in their eyes, each lent itself to a caution she had not yet overcome.
And so it had been agreed: a quiet lesson, away from the gaze of others.
Mina stood near the edge of the paddock, her shawl drawn modestly about her shoulders against the lingering chill. Her hands were clasped before her, her posture composed though her gaze wandered now and again toward the path by which Jungkook was expected. He was late.
It was then she heard it, the steady rhythm of hooves against the earth. She turned.
Seokjin rode into view astride a black stallion of striking stature, its coat dark as polished obsidian, its movement fluid with restrained power. He sat the creature with effortless command, his posture straight, his bearing wholly at ease in the saddle. The morning light caught upon the fine lines of his riding attire, lending him an almost unreal clarity against the softened world.
His gaze found hers at once and a faint, unmistakable curve touched his lips as he drew the horse to a measured halt before her.
“Well” he said, inclining his head slightly, “this is an unexpected fortune. I had not been informed that the stables were to receive such company at so early an hour.”
Mina lowered her gaze at once, the familiar warmth rising unbidden to her cheeks.
“I beg your pardon, Your Grace. I did not intend to intrude.”
“On the contrary” he replied lightly, “you improve the scene considerably.”
There was a brief pause, his eyes flicking once toward the empty grounds before returning to her.
“Tell me, has your appointed companion abandoned you to your fate?”
Mina shook her head quickly.
“No, I am certain he has not. Jungkook would not, he must only be delayed.”
“Must he?” Seokjin mused, the hint of amusement deepening. “He chooses a poor morning for tardiness, if so.”
She said nothing, though her fingers tightened slightly upon the edge of her shawl.
For a moment, he seemed to consider her.
“Since we find ourselves thus” he continued, his tone shifting with an ease that suggested the decision had already been made “might I be permitted the honour of assisting you in his stead?”
Mina’s head lifted in quiet alarm.
“Oh no, Your Grace, I could not impose in such a manner.”
“You do not impose.”
“It would not be proper.”
“Proper?” he echoed, one brow lifting slightly. “We are alone, Miss Thornton and your lesson waits upon a boy who does not keep his word.”
“I would rather wait” she insisted, though without conviction.
Seokjin regarded her a moment longer then, with a movement both fluid and decisive, he guided the stallion a step closer.
“You may wait” he said, “or you may learn.”
There was a glint in his expression now - mischief, unmistakable and wholly deliberate.
“Come” he added, extending a gloved hand toward her. “I shall not have it said that the finest horse in our stables was denied the opportunity to demonstrate its virtues.”
Mina stared at him, uncertain.
“Would it not be preferable” she ventured hesitantly, “that I begin upon a gentler mount?”
Seokjin’s smile deepened.
“And deprive you of such distinction?” he said. “I think not.”
Her hesitation must have shown, for his tone softened though the resolve beneath it did not.
“You need not fear” he continued. “You shall not fall.”
There was something in the certainty of it that left little room for argument. And before she could gather another protest, he leaned down, his hand closing about hers and drew her upward with an ease that spoke of practiced strength.
In the next instant, Mina found herself seated before him. The height, the unfamiliar steadiness of the horse beneath her, the unmistakable presence of him at her back nearer than ever before was all too much at once. Her breath caught, her hands instinctively seeking balance as the stallion shifted beneath them.
“There now” Seokjin murmured, one hand steadying the reins, the other briefly settling at her waist to secure her position.
“You see? You have not fled, nor fainted. A most commendable beginning.”
Mina could scarcely find her voice.
The horse moved then at his command.
And Mina, caught between fear and something far more unsteady, could do nothing but hold fast and feel, with startling clarity, the nearness she had spent so long trying to avoid.
The grounds unfurled before them in a blur of soft greens and pale golds as the stallion moved from a measured trot into something swifter, more fluid. The early morning air, once gentle, now rushed past Mina in cool currents, tugging loose strands of her hair free from their careful arrangement. The world seemed to widen, to open itself in great sweeping stretches as they rode along the edges of the estate. It was exhilarating.
Mina had not expected the way the motion stirred something bright and unrestrained within her, the way her breath came quicker not from fear alone but from something dangerously akin to delight. And behind her, the warmth of him at her back was a steady presence, shielding her from the lingering chill of the morning. His arms, braced with practiced ease, formed an unspoken barrier around her. There was safety in it.
Mina knew it. Even in the midst of that fleeting, reckless joy, she knew that this closeness was not something the world would readily forgive but she found she could not bring herself to regret it. Would it truly be so grave, she wondered, to claim a moment that belonged only to herself?
“You are very quiet, Miss Thornton” Seokjin’s voice came, close enough that she felt the faint warmth of it near her ear. “I had thought you might protest more vigorously.”
“I am endeavouring not to distract you, Your Grace,” she replied, though her voice carried a breathless edge she could not entirely conceal.
“How considerate” he murmured. “Though I suspect that is not the true reason.”
She said nothing.
He guided the horse along a gentle curve, the pace steady but swift enough to keep her senses keenly engaged.
“I wonder” he continued, his tone light, “have you taken to avoiding me of late?”
Mina stiffened ever so slightly.
“I have not” she answered quickly. “I would not presume-”
“Would you not?” he interrupted, amusement threading through his voice. “It is a curious coincidence, then, that you are so seldom where I might expect to find you.”
“I am often engaged in my studies” she said, clinging to the safest explanation she could offer.
“Indeed” he replied. “And yet, I begin to suspect there may be, let us say, other engagements that occupy your time.”
Mina turned her head slightly, startled.
“I do not understand your meaning.”
“No?” he said, lightly. “I had wondered whether some new acquaintance might have claimed your attention. It would explain your sudden talent for disappearance.”
The implication struck her all at once. Her breath caught.
“I am only fifteen, my lord” she said, the words tumbling forth with a sincerity that bordered on alarm. “I would never indulge in such impropriety before marriage.”
For a brief moment, there was silence behind her. Then Seokjin laughed unhurried.
“How very principled you are” he said. “It is most admirable.”
Mina flushed. “I only speak what is proper.”
“Proper?” he echoed and there was something sharper now beneath the mirth. “You speak of propriety while seated thus with me atop a horse, unchaperoned, at an hour when even the household has not yet stirred.”
Her heart faltered.
“I… this was not my intention.”
“And what” he continued smoothly, “do you suppose would occur were we discovered?”
Mina felt the heat rise swiftly to her face.
“I do not know” she admitted.
“I do” he said, almost idly. “Your reputation would suffer, most assuredly. And I, being a gentleman of some obligation, would be compelled to remedy the matter.”
There was a pause just long enough for the weight of his words to settle.
“I should, of course, be obliged to marry you.”
Mina turned, startled beyond measure, her eyes wide with disbelief.
“My lord, you must not speak so.”
“Why ever not?” he returned lightly. “It would be the most honourable course.”
“I would never place you in such a position” she said at once, her voice earnest.
She faltered but the meaning was clear enough. She would not presume to stand where she did not belong.
For the first time since the ride began, something shifted. The ease in Seokjin’s posture tightened, the lightness in his tone receding just slightly.
“Is that so” he said.
It was not quite a question.
Mina, unaware of the change she had wrought, lowered her gaze.
“It would not be fitting” she added softly.
The next moment, the horse surged forward. The change in pace was sudden enough to steal her breath entirely as the stallion broke into a faster stride, the rhythm of its movement sharpening beneath them.
“My lord!” she gasped, her hands tightening instinctively.
“Is this pace disagreeable to you?” Seokjin’s voice came, calm.
“Yes, please-” she managed, her composure slipping at last. “Pray, slow down!”
“I shall” he said.
But the speed did not lessen.
“Please” Mina repeated, her voice trembling now. “I fear I shall fall.”
“You will not fall.”
The certainty in his tone remained but there was something else beneath it now.
“I shall slow” he continued, “if you oblige me in one small matter.”
Mina swallowed.
“What… what must I do?”
“Call me by my name.”
The request struck her almost as sharply as the sudden speed.
“My lord, I cannot, that would be most improper.”
A soft sound touched her ear.
“And yet” he murmured, “we have already cast propriety aside, have we not?”
The horse did not slow. The ground passed in a blur, the wind pressing more insistently now against her, stealing what little composure remained.
“Please” she whispered, fear overtaking hesitation. “I beg of you.”
“Then say it.”
There was no raising of his voice, no overt command and yet it left no room for refusal.
Mina’s fingers tightened against the fabric of her skirts, her heart racing with more than fear alone.
“…Seokjin” she breathed.
At once, the reins shifted.
The horse slowed gradually until its pace returned to something manageable, its powerful strides easing into a controlled rhythm.
Mina drew in a shaky breath, relief washing through her. But before it could fully settle,
“Again” he said.
She hesitated.
“My lord-”
“Again.”
Softer this time but no less insistent.
“…Seokjin,” she repeated, her voice scarcely more than a whisper.
“Once more.”
Each repetition seemed to draw the moment tighter, more intimate and inescapable.
By the third, Mina could no longer bear it. Her face burned, her composure utterly undone as she turned slightly inward, seeking refuge in the only place she could, burying her face against the sleeve of his arm, as though she might hide herself from the sound of her own voice.
Seokjin did not laugh.
The horse moved on, steady now, the world returning gradually to its proper shape. But the air between them had changed.
And Mina, though she could not have said how, knew that something within that moment would not easily be forgotten.
Seokjin turned eighteen that year. And with it came expectation. As with all young men of rank and consequence within the Empire, his path was no longer his own to shape in leisure. Service called and he answered it.
The day he departed passed with all the ceremony befitting his station, Mina was not present.
She learned of it after, in the same manner she learned of most things concerning him, indirectly. And so began three years in which Seokjin existed only as report and reputation.
His name appeared in conversation with increasing frequency, always accompanied by some new distinction with commendations for strategic acumen and praise for diplomatic tact beyond his years.
Mina listened when such things were spoken, though she seldom contributed. It was not her place to do so, nor did she believe her thoughts upon the matter would hold weight among those who spoke with familiarity of rank and influence.
Her own days, in contrast, took on a quieter rhythm. Freed from the unpredictable interruptions his presence had once brought, Mina settled more deeply into her pursuits. Her studies in medicine advanced steadily under her father’s guidance, her aptitude earning quiet approval that meant more to her than any outward praise. Where once she had merely sought to follow in his footsteps, she now began, in small ways, to walk beside the path he had laid.
Her art, too, flourished. Encouraged by the Duchess’s continued patronage, she joined Jungkook in his lessons. Their hours were spent in shared concentration, brush to canvas, colour unfolding in careful strokes. In this, as in many things, they found a continued ease with one another.
And yet, time altered even the most steadfast bonds. As they grew older, the simple constancy of childhood gave way to the subtler constraints of youth. Their companionship did not diminish but it changed tempered by expectation, by the quiet awareness of difference that society imposed without ever needing to state it aloud.
They no longer wandered freely as they once had, nor spoke with quite the same unguarded simplicity.
But still they remained friends, in the truest sense. Bound not by obligation but by a shared understanding.
Of Seokjin, there was nothing.
Until one afternoon, when Jungkook approached her with an expression that carried both hesitation and something curious.
They had been seated beneath the shade of a broad elm within the gardens, their sketchbooks resting idle between them.
“Mina,” he began, his voice lower than usual “might I ask you something?”
She glanced up, setting aside her brush.
“Of course.”
He hesitated, as though weighing his words.
“A letter arrived this morning” he said. “From my brother.”
Mina felt something still within her but her expression did not change.
“I hope he is well.”
“He is” Jungkook replied. “More than well, it would seem.”
There was a pause.
“He mentioned you.”
Mina’s fingers tightened, almost imperceptibly, against the edge of her sketchbook.
“I see.”
“It was nothing of particular note” Jungkook added quickly. “Only, he wrote that should Father, Mother, or I wish to send him anything, we might do so with the next dispatch and that you might as well.”
He frowned slightly, confusion evident.
“I did not understand why he should include you so specifically.”
Mina lowered her gaze.
“It was likely said in courtesy” she replied after a moment. “Your brother is not unkind.”
Jungkook studied her, something thoughtful settling in his expression.
“Did something occur between you?” he asked, not boldly but with the quiet sincerity that had always marked his manner.
Mina’s head lifted at once.
“No” she said, perhaps a touch too quickly. “No, nothing of consequence. He has always regarded me as… he regards you, I think.”
There was a flicker of something in Jungkook’s eyes then that she could not quite name. But he did not press further.
“I thought perhaps you might wish to send a reply” he said instead.
Mina shook her head.
“I would not presume upon his time.”
And that was the end of it. And in the months that followed, no further mention of her came. If Seokjin noticed the absence, he gave no sign of it. And Mina, for her part, told herself it was as it ought to be.
Some things, she had learned, were never meant to extend beyond the moment in which they were born.
The day of his return was marked with a splendour that seemed to rival celebration itself.
The Kim estate, already a place of grandeur, had been transformed into something almost resplendent. Chandeliers cast warm, golden light across polished floors, their glow reflected in crystal and glass, music drifted through the halls in soft, measured strains. It all wove together into a tapestry of anticipation.
At one-and-twenty, Kim Seokjin stood no longer as the promising heir he had once been but as a man fully realised in the eyes of the Empire. His name, already spoken with expectation, was now accompanied by proof of honours earned, distinctions granted not merely for birth but for merit. He had left as a young lord and returned as something far more formidable.
Mina, newly eighteen, felt it at once.
She had been presented in society only months prior, her debut a quiet affair in comparison to the brilliance of others. These gatherings were still unfamiliar to her, the subtle choreography of conversation, the careful balance between presence and restraint. She moved through the evening as she had been taught, offering greetings where required, responding with measured courtesy, her composure intact though her heart felt curiously unsettled.
And then she saw him. Across the room, amidst a gathering of distinguished guests, Seokjin stood as though the space had been arranged around him rather than the reverse. His military uniform, cut with precision, lent a striking severity to his already commanding frame. The sharp line of his jaw, the clean discipline of his hair, the breadth of his shoulders all spoke of a man shaped by experience. There was no boy left in him.
Ladies gathered near, their attention thinly veiled behind polite discourse, their laughter perhaps a shade too bright. He answered them all with ease, his wit as effortless as it had ever been yet tempered now.
And beside him, as though the world had always intended it so, stood Princess Evelyn. Their conversation flowed with a natural warmth, unstrained and assured. She inclined her head, he answered with quiet amusement as the exchange between them carried the ease of long familiarity and equal standing.
Mina looked away.
She fulfilled her obligations by greeting those she must, offering polite conversation where required but never once did her path cross his. Whether by design or chance, she could not have said. Perhaps she did not wish to know.
As the evening wore on and the hour crept toward midnight, a gentle fatigue settled over her. The companion her father had appointed for the evening approached at last, her expression attentive.
“Miss Thornton,” she said softly, “shall we take our leave?”
Mina inclined her head.
“Yes, I believe I am quite ready. I shall only bid Master Jungkook good evening.”
“Very well. I shall wait by the carriage.”
Left to herself, Mina moved toward the edge of the hall, setting aside her glass of sherry upon a nearby table. A column of marble offered brief refuge as she glanced about, searching for a familiar face among the shifting crowd. She did not find Jungkook.
“Will you depart,” a voice murmured, low and close “without so much as a word to the man in whose honour the evening is held?”
Her breath caught. The sound was near enough to stir the faintest warmth against her ear and though she had not heard it in years, she knew it at once.
Mina turned.
Seokjin stood beside her.
No, too close to be merely beside.
She had not heard his approach. Had not seen him cross the room. One moment she had been alone and the next, he was there, his presence filling the small space between pillar and light.
She was forced to tilt her head upward to meet his gaze. For a moment, she could not speak.
He had changed and yet, he had not. The sharpness in his features was more pronounced now, his expression more controlled but his eyes held that same unsettling clarity she remembered.
Only now, there was something else beneath it.
His gaze moved over her with a deliberation that made her pulse falter. It lingered where it ought not - at the line of her collar, the fall of her hair, before returning, at last, to her face.
“Your Grace” she managed, her voice quieter than she intended.
A faint smile touched his lips.
“Miss Thornton,” he returned. “Or have you acquired some new title in my absence, of which I am yet unaware?”
“I have not” she said, steadying herself. “Only grown accustomed to attending such gatherings.”
“So I see.”
There was a lightness to his tone but it did not quite reach his eyes.
“You carry yourself differently” he added. “One might almost believe you belonged here.”
Mina lowered her gaze slightly.
“I am only fulfilling my duties.”
“How dutiful” he murmured.
For a moment, silence settled between them though it was not empty.
“Tell me” he said, his voice shifting, softer but edged with something less easily named, “have you grown so indifferent as to take no notice of me at all?”
Mina blinked, startled.
“I beg your pardon?”
“I had thought,” he continued, almost idly, “that after three years, one might merit at least a passing acknowledgement.”
“That is not so” she said quickly. “I did not wish to intrude upon your- your company.”
“Did you not?”
There it was again: that slight tightening beneath the words.
“I recall” he went on, “having extended to you a certain… consideration, before my departure.”
Her breath stilled.
“And yet, it seems, you found no occasion to return it.”
Understanding dawned all at once.
“My lord,” she said, the words faltering with quiet sincerity, “if I have caused you offense, I beg your forgiveness. I did not mean to disregard your kindness. I only feared it would be improper to presume anything.”
“Improper.”
He repeated the word softly, as though tasting it.
His hand moved then toward the table beside her. Before she could think to stop him, his fingers closed around the glass she had set aside.
He lifted it. Mina’s breath caught as, without hesitation, he brought it to his lips.
The crystal tilted and the remaining sherry touched his mouth at the very place hers had been moments before. His eyes closed, briefly, as though in quiet consideration or something far more deliberate.
The gesture was small. And yet, it sent a flush rising swiftly to her face, spreading down the line of her throat with a warmth she could neither hide nor explain.
He lowered the glass slowly, his gaze returning to her.
“You see,” he said, almost lightly, “I find myself wondering whether I have been so easily forgotten.”
“I could never-” she began, then faltered, uncertain how to complete the thought without revealing too much.
His eyes sharpened.
“Then perhaps” he said, his tone softening into something dangerously close to teasing, though the edge beneath remained “someone else has occupied your thoughts in my absence.”
Mina stared at him, confusion overtaking her.
“My lord, I do not understand why you should ask me such a thing.”
“No?”
“I have told you before” she continued, her voice steadier now, though still quiet, “I would never entertain such sentiments without the prospect of marriage.”
For a moment, he said nothing. But something in his expression belied irritation in the faint tightening of his jaw, the slight narrowing of his gaze.
“And yet” he said, after a pause, “you found it simple enough to forget me.”
“I did not forget you” she replied, more firmly than before. “I only thought it better not to presume upon your notice.”
The words hung between them.
Mina could not read his silence.
“I ought to take my leave” she said, gathering what composure she could. “My companion waits.”
She inclined her head, careful, proper.
“Welcome home, Your Grace.”
For a moment, she thought he might speak again but he did not.
And so she turned, her heart unsteady in a way she could not quite name, her thoughts in quiet disarray.
For she did not understand him. Did not understand why he spoke as he did, why his words seemed to press where they ought not, why his gaze lingered as though it sought something she could not give.
Yandere Bruce Wayne x Soulmate Reader (Smut warning: Masterbation)
The countdown had never meant much to Bruce Wayne.
As a child, it had simply existed.
A cluster of glowing numbers etched into the skin of his inner wrist, ticking steadily downward with each passing second.
It wasn’t unusual. Every person in the world was born with some form of soulmate bond. Some shared pain, some shared dreams, some found words appearing on their skin, written by hands they had never touched. Others heard thoughts not their own, glimpsed flashes of memories, or carried matching marks that mirrored one another across continents.
There were countless variations. Entire scientific fields had been built around studying them.
Bruce’s happened to be a countdown.
Nobody knew exactly why soulmate bonds manifested differently. Decades of research had produced theories but few answers. Genetics and geography didn’t determine it. Neither did bloodlines or upbringing. Soulmate bonds simply… were.
For Bruce, that meant a simple promise written beneath his skin.
When it reached zero, he would meet the person destined for him.
As a boy, he had imagined it the same way every child did.
His soulmate would appear one day. They would laugh together. Grow old together. Build a life together.
A future.
The sort of future his parents had possessed.
The sort of future that had died alongside them in an alley behind the Monarch Theater.
After that night, the timer became little more than background noise.
The glowing numbers continued their steady descent while Bruce attended funerals, inherited a fortune he never wanted, and watched Gotham consume itself one crime at a time. They ticked downward while Alfred patiently pieced together the shattered remains of a grieving child. They ticked downward while Bruce buried himself in studies, martial arts, criminology, forensics, and every discipline that might one day help him wage war against the city that had taken everything from him.
Years passed.
The timer remained a constant. Unchanging. Always moving. Always counting.
Sometimes he caught himself staring at it during long flights between countries. During sleepless nights spent training until his knuckles split. During lonely evenings in unfamiliar cities where he could almost pretend he was just another wealthy young man wandering the world in search of purpose.
The numbers never stopped.
And despite everything, a small part of him still wondered.
Who were they?
Who was waiting at the end of that countdown?
The thought felt dangerous.
Hope always did.
By the time he returned to Gotham and donned the cowl for the first time, Bruce had long since convinced himself that soulmates were a luxury he could not afford.
Batman had no place for dreams. No room for futures. And he certainly had no room for someone he might one day love.
The city came first.
It always would.
Gotham demanded sacrifice, and Bruce had made his choice years ago.
If his soulmate existed, then they deserved better than what remained of him.
So he stopped thinking about it.
Or at least he tried to.
The timer continued to count.
Days.
Months.
Years.
Seconds.
Its steady descent accompanied him through every chapter of his life.
It was there when Dick Grayson crashed into his world beneath a circus tent, a furious and heartbroken child whose pain mirrored Bruce’s own in ways neither of them fully understood. It remained when Dick became Robin, when he became family, and when Bruce made the selfish decision to love someone enough to let them stay.
The numbers continued falling.
They were there when Jason Todd stole the tires off the Batmobile, and somehow stole a place in Bruce’s heart soon afterward. They ticked downward through every argument, every proud moment, every hard-earned smile.
And they’d kept counting when Jason died.
Bruce remembered that night with painful clarity.
The rage. The guilt. Helplessness. The suffocating certainty that he had failed.
Even then, amidst grief so profound it threatened to hollow him out completely, the timer continued. As though fate cared little for the tragedies of ordinary men.
Years later came Tim.
Then Damian.
A family assembled from broken pieces and impossible odds. One that Bruce never intended to build and could not imagine living without.
The countdown remained through it all. A quiet presence beneath his skin. Easy to ignore, impossible to forget. Even whilst hidden from sight beneath the bulky steel of his jaeger-lecoultre reverso.
Sometimes, on particularly difficult nights, he found himself fiddling with the watch strap just enough to see the edges of it.
Not because he expected anything or believed he deserved whatever waited at the end, but because the idea lingered. A tiny, stubborn thing buried beneath decades of grief and responsibility.
The possibility that somewhere out there existed a person uniquely his.
Someone who might understand. Who might see every ugly, fractured piece of him and choose to stay.
Someone who might look beyond Batman.
Beyond the billionaire mask. Beyond the failures. And simply see Bruce.
It was a foolish thought. An indulgent one, really. The sort of fantasy he rarely allowed himself to entertain.
Yet it persisted all the same.
Perhaps because he had spent so much of his life alone. Not physically. Never physically. The Manor was full. The Batcave was full. His life overflowed with people he loved.
But loneliness and solitude were not the same thing.
Bruce had learned that lesson long ago.
For most of his life, every meaningful relationship had begun with loss.
Dick had lost his parents. Jason had lost everything. Tim had nearly lost himself trying to save Batman from his own grief. Damian had been raised as a weapon before he was ever allowed to be a child.
Every person Bruce ever loved carried scars.
All because they had stepped into his world.
And if fate truly intended to place another person in his life… What then? What kind of future could he possibly offer them?
Late nights spent waiting for him to return home alive? Hospital visits? Funerals? The constant threat of becoming a target simply because they mattered to Bruce Wayne?
No.
His soulmate deserved better.
Deserved normal.
Far away from Gotham and everything it touched.
A sensible conclusion. A logical conclusion. One he repeated to himself countless times.
The problem was that logic had never succeeded in silencing the small traitorous part of him that still watched the countdown.
Nobody truly knew him. Not completely. Not the way a soulmate supposedly could. The way destiny promised.
So the timer remained tucked away in the back of his mind.
A breath caught before it could fully form. A dream he never allowed himself to finish imagining.
And still it counted.
Drawing closer with every passing day to a future Bruce Wayne had stopped believing would ever matter.
Until the day it finally reached zero.
The countdown on your wrist had never inspired the same fascination it seemed to in everyone else.
As a child, you remembered classmates comparing bruises during recess, eagerly conspiring about how old they’d be when they finally met the person fate had chosen for them. Entire conversations revolved around it. Predictions. Theories. Daydreams.
You had participated, of course.
Mostly because everyone else did.
But even then, you never quite understood the obsession.
Perhaps it was because your bond felt so distant.
Unlike those who shared pain with their soulmates or dreamed through another person’s eyes, your countdown offered nothing tangible. No connection. No glimpses into another life. No indication of who your soulmate might be beyond the vague promise that one day, eventually, you would meet them.
It was difficult to become attached to someone who felt entirely theoretical.
The numbers counted downward. Life continued.
School became university. University became work. Friendships came and went. Apartments changed. Jobs changed. Entire years disappeared before you even noticed them passing.
The timer remained, steadily ticking away in the background.
Yet strangely unimportant.
Not because you disliked the idea of soulmates. Quite the opposite.
You supposed it was comforting to think there was someone out there destined specifically for you. Someone whose life would one day intersect with your own in a way no one else’s ever could.
But you had never been particularly fond of building your future around things you couldn’t control.
If your soulmate appeared tomorrow, wonderful. If they appeared twenty years from now, that was fine too.
Either way, life would continue.
You had plans. Goals. Responsibilities. A future that existed independently of whoever happened to be waiting at the end of that countdown.
Which was probably why you never developed the habit of checking it.
Weeks sometimes passed without you looking at the numbers.
Months, if life became particularly busy.
Your friends found that strange.
Most people tracked their bonds religiously.
You couldn’t remember the last time you had cared enough to calculate how much time remained.
Not that it mattered. Fate would arrive whether you watched the clock or not.
The thought made you smile slightly as you adjusted the sleeve of your outfit.
The invitation resting on your kitchen counter immediately drew your attention once more. Embossed gold lettering gleamed beneath the overhead light.
You had considered declining several times already.
Charity galas were not your thing.
Neither were crowds of wealthy socialites, politicians, celebrities, and Gotham’s elite pretending to enjoy one another’s company while discussing donations over champagne.
Unfortunately, declining wasn’t really an option. Your company had spent the past month preparing for the event.
Attendance was expected. Mandatory, according to your supervisor.
The memory earned a quiet sigh.
Tomorrow evening.
Wayne Foundation Annual Renewal Gala.
You stared at the familiar name printed across the card. Wayne.
One of the most recognisable names in the country. Perhaps even the world.
Bruce Wayne’s name seemed to exist everywhere in Gotham. On buildings, hospitals, scholarships, charities.
A billionaire philanthropist.
A notorious playboy.
A man whose face appeared so frequently in magazines that most of Gotham could probably identify him from memory.
You had never met him. Never expected to. Tomorrow would likely be no different.
You would attend the gala, smile politely, make small talk, and stay for the required amount of time.
Then return home and forget the entire evening ever happened.
The gala was exactly as exhausting as you had expected.
By the end of the first hour, your cheeks already ached from smiling.
The grand ballroom of Wayne Tower glittered beneath enormous crystal chandeliers, every surface polished to a shine so perfect it almost felt artificial. Waiters drifted through the crowd carrying silver trays loaded with champagne flutes and carefully arranged hors d’oeuvres. Laughter rose and fell throughout the room, blending into the soft music drifting from somewhere near the stage.
The entire event felt less like a fundraiser and more like a carefully choreographed performance.
Not that anyone seemed to mind.
Around you, Gotham’s elite mingled effortlessly. Politicians exchanged handshakes. Business executives traded stories. Reporters circulated like sharks scenting blood in the water.
You had spent most of the evening attached to a cluster of coworkers, nodding politely through conversations that ranged from quarterly profits to real estate investments and subjects you suspected nobody genuinely cared about.
You smiled. Shook hands. Made pleasant conversation. Repeated the process.
By the time you escaped toward the refreshment table, you were fairly certain your social battery had died an hour ago.
“Not enjoying yourself?”
You glanced toward the voice. One of your coworkers smirked knowingly.
You laughed. “I think I’ve had enough networking to last the rest of my life.”
“Careful. That’s practically blasphemy at events like this.”
“Then pretend I said something about synergy and market growth.”
The resulting laugh eased some of the tension in your shoulders.
Around you, the crowd continued to swell as more guests arrived. And inevitably, conversation shifted toward the man hosting the event.
Bruce Wayne.
The name surfaced repeatedly throughout the evening. Sometimes with admiration. Sometimes amusement. Occasionally frustration.
Everyone seemed to have a story.
A charitable donation. An embarrassing tabloid headline. A disastrous date. A surprise act of generosity.
The more stories you heard, the more curious you became. You had never met Bruce Wayne before.
Nobody in your social circles had.
People like him existed in an entirely different world.
The sort of world most people only glimpsed through magazine covers and news broadcasts.
Yet somehow, despite his wealth, despite his status, despite his reputation for arriving late and disappearing early, people genuinely seemed to like him.
It was strange. Most billionaires inspired resentment. Bruce Wayne inspired affection.
You found yourself wondering what he was actually like. The real version. Not the carefully polished public image. Not the headlines. Just the man.
Your gaze drifted toward the entrance more than once throughout the evening.
The subtle change spread through the crowd like a ripple through water. Conversations paused. Heads turned. Attention redirected.
You didn’t need anyone to tell you why.
Bruce Wayne had arrived.
The realisation swept through the ballroom almost instantly.
You found yourself looking too. Just like everyone else.
Oh. For a moment, you understood the fascination.
Photos had never quite captured him properly. Perhaps because photographs couldn’t capture presence.
Bruce moved through the crowd with effortless confidence, greeting donors and board members with easy smiles. Tall. Broad-shouldered. Impossibly handsome in a way that felt almost unfair.
The sort of face people built careers around. One that belonged on magazine covers. Yet none of that was what held your attention.
It was the way he carried himself. Comfortable. Natural. As though the attention of hundreds of people barely registered.
You felt oddly nervous.
Which was ridiculous. You weren’t even planning on speaking to him.
You simply found yourself watching from across the room.
Then your hand drifted unconsciously toward your wrist. Your thumb brushed the skin hidden beneath your sleeve. The countdown.
A habit more than anything.
You weren’t even sure why you checked.
Maybe because events like this always sparked conversations about soulmates. Or because seeing Gotham’s most famous bachelor had stirred old childhood fantasies you’d long since outgrown.
Whatever the reason, your fingers lingered there.
Tracing the familiar shape beneath the fabric. Feeling the steady pulse of your own heartbeat.
You smiled faintly to yourself. Foolish.
Then Bruce Wayne turned, and looked directly at you.
Everything stopped.
Your breath caught. Heart stumbled. Because beneath your fingertips.. The countdown had reached its end. 00:00:00:00.
The familiar sensation disappeared so suddenly that for a terrifying second you thought you had imagined it.
Your eyes widened.
Across the ballroom, Bruce Wayne was still looking in your direction.
No. Not your direction.
At you.
For a moment, neither of you moved.
The countdown had stopped.
Your fingers remained pressed against your wrist, your pulse hammering so violently that you could barely feel the skin beneath them.
And for one impossible, terrifying second, the rest of the gala disappeared.
The music faded. The conversations blurred. Everything narrowed to those blue eyes. To the man standing twenty feet away. To the realization crashing through your chest with enough force to steal the air from your lungs.
Him.
Every second. Every minute. Every year. All of it had led here.
You couldn’t stop smiling.
A laugh escaped before you could catch it.
You felt ridiculous.
You felt ecstatic.
You felt fourteen years old again, lying awake at night and wondering who waited at the end of your countdown.
Your soulmate.
Bruce Wayne was your soulmate.
The thought was absurd.
Wonderful.
Terrifying.
And before you could think better of it, your feet were already carrying you forward.
You barely remembered crossing the ballroom. Only that one moment he was across the room.
The next you were standing in front of him. Close enough to speak. Close enough to see the faint lines at the corners of his eyes. Close enough to finally meet the person fate had spent your entire life leading you toward.
“Mr Wayne-” You stopped yourself. God, that sounded stupid.
You laughed nervously. “Sorry. Bruce. I just-”
The words tangled together. There were too many of them. How exactly were you supposed to tell someone they’d just become the most important person in your life?
How did anyone start a conversation like this?
“Hi. We belong together.”
“Hi. Fate says you’re mine.”
“Hi. I’ve waited my entire life to meet you.”
The absurdity almost made you laugh again. Instead, you found yourself smiling. A genuine one. The kind that slipped free before you could stop it.
“I think-”
Bruce looked at you. His eyes flickering over your face, your clothes, the event badge hanging around your neck.
Recognition never appeared.
Nothing softened.
Nothing changed.
It was the look people gave strangers who had interrupted them in public. Nothing more.
His gaze shifted immediately beyond your shoulder. Toward someone else.
Someone important.
Someone he actually wanted to speak to.
“I’m sorry.” The words were automatic. Polite. The sort of apology people gave when they weren’t sorry at all.
“I don’t have time right now.”
For a second you simply stared.
Still smiling.
Still trying to catch up.
“Oh.”
Bruce nodded once. Already moving.
Already done.
“If you’ll excuse me.” And then he brushed past you.
There was no cruelty. No emotion whatsoever. You hadn’t mattered enough for that.
The crowd swallowed him almost immediately.
One moment he was there and the next he was gone. Laughing with donors. Shaking hands. Moving through the room as though nothing had happened.
As though you had never existed.
As though the most important moment of your life had been a forgettable inconvenience in his evening.
You remained where you were. Frozen. The smile slowly slipping from your face.
Around you, the gala continued.
A waiter passed carrying champagne. Someone laughed nearby. Music drifted through the ballroom. Normal. Everything was painfully, horribly normal.
Your stomach twisted.
The excitement that had filled your chest moments ago curdled into something ugly. Something embarrassing.
Heat crept up your neck.
God. How stupid. How unbelievably fucking stupid.
Your hand rose to your wrist again. To the skin where the countdown had sat for your entire life.
Where it no longer moved.
You stared at it, waiting for the joy to return. For the excitement. For the certainty that this meant something.
Instead you felt sick. Because for one awful moment, you’d believed it.
You had looked at Bruce Wayne and allowed yourself to hope. Allowed yourself to think fate had chosen you.
That maybe all those stories people told were true.
Instead you’d received the same polite dismissal he would have given any stranger who got in his way.
Your throat tightened. Fuck, you felt like you were about to cry.
The hurt wasn’t coming from Bruce. Not really.
It was coming from yourself.
From the realisation that some small part of you had still believed after all these years, after all your indifference, all your insistence that fate didn’t matter, a part of you had still secretly hoped there would be magic in this moment. Something special. Worth waiting for.
And now that part of you was dying. Right there in the middle of a crowded ballroom.
The countdown had reached zero.
And for the first time in your life, you wished it hadn’t.
Two and a half months later.
The night had offered nothing unusual.
The Batcave settled into its familiar rhythm as everyone returned. Dick had claimed a corner of Tim's workstation and was ignoring increasingly pointed requests to move. Jason, having appeared midway through patrol without warning or invitation, was drinking Alfred's coffee. Damian sat nearby with a stack of reports, making notes in the margins.
Bruce stood near the medical station, removing the Batsuit piece by piece. The cowl came first, then the cape. He set the gauntlets aside and reached for the fastening at his wrist.
"Father."
Bruce glanced up.
Damian was looking at him with a faint frown. “You never informed us that your countdown had ended.”
He’d barely reacted. “What are you talking about?”
Damian looked mildly annoyed, like Bruce had forgotten something obvious.
“Your soulmate.”
Dick straightened immediately. Tim turned away from his monitor. Jason gave a short laugh.
"Wait. Seriously? You found them?”
Their Dad frowned. “What?”
Damian pointed.
Bruce followed the gesture to the inside of his wrist. The timer had stopped.
For a second, he simply stared.
Beside him, Dick grinned. “So that’s why you’ve been weirdly private.”
Jason scoffed. “Please. Like he’d tell us.”
“I assumed you were waiting until the relationship became serious,” Damian said matter-of-factly.
Tim nodded. “I figured you already had a file on them.”
A few years ago, Bruce might have responded. Might have denied it. Instead, he continued staring at his wrist.
00:00:00:00
The timer wasn’t moving.
It should have been.
For as long as he could remember, it had always been moving. Always counting. Now it sat completely still.
A strange feeling settled low in his stomach.
“When did this happen?” The words escaped before he could stop them.
The cave went silent.
Bruce looked up. Every member of his family was staring at him.
Dick’s smile vanished first.
Tim slowly lowered his tablet.
Jason blinked.
Damian narrowed his eyes.
A long moment passed. Then, “what do you mean, when did it happen?”
Bruce’s jaw tightened. His gaze dropped back to the timer. “When did it reach zero?”
Nobody answered immediately. Because the question itself was wrong.
Dick stared at him blankly. “…You don’t know?”
Tim sat up, picking at the cuticles on his hands. “When was the last time you checked it?”
Bruce opened his mouth. The answer should have come easily.
Instead, nothing.
Weeks? Months? Years?
A knot formed in his stomach. He couldn’t remember. At some point, the countdown had become part of the scenery. Like a scar. Like an old piece of furniture. Something so familiar that he no longer saw it.
Damian rose from his chair. "How is that possible?"
There wasn’t accusation in the question. Only bewilderment.
Bruce understood it.
If anyone else had presented him with a mystery this significant and admitted they had ignored it for years, he would have found it equally incomprehensible.
A soulmate was information.
Information mattered.
Yet somehow he had allowed this particular fact to drift past unnoticed.
Dick dragged a hand through his hair. "Okay. So if it's been at zero for a while..." He trailed off.
Nobody finished the thought. Bruce didn't need them to.
The timer had stopped.
Which meant they had already met.
Somewhere, buried beneath years of galas, investigations, crime scenes, interviews, witnesses, victims, allies, and strangers, there was a person connected to him in a way he had never bothered to investigate.
The thought irritated him immediately. Annoyed by his own oversight.
Bruce Wayne missed very little. Batman missed even less.
And yet he had apparently overlooked something that had been written on his own skin.
His gaze returned to the frozen digits.
Who?
The question settled into place with uncomfortable ease.
Who had it been?
A civilian? A witness? Someone from a charity board? A doctor? A journalist? A stranger he had passed on the street and forgotten by the next morning?
His mind was already moving through possibilities, assembling timelines, searching for patterns.
The investigation had begun before he consciously decided to start it.
And long after the others had gone upstairs, long after the cave had emptied, he’d remained alone before the Batcomputer.
His wrist rested against the desk, the countdown sat motionless beneath the glow of the monitor.
For decades, he had convinced himself the timer didn’t matter. That soulmates were irrelevant. That whatever waited at the end of the countdown belonged to a future he would never allow himself to have.
Now, for the first time in his life, the future wasn’t theoretical. It was real. It had been real for years. And somehow, impossibly, he’d missed it.
He stared at the timer, jaw clenched. Then opened a new search window and began looking.
Bruce had always believed that every mystery possessed an answer.
The answer might be buried beneath layers of deception. It might require months of investigation, thousands of hours of work, or sacrifices most people would never willingly make. But it existed.
Every crime scene told a story.
Every missing person left traces.
Every lie fractured under enough pressure.
Answers existed. The challenge was finding them.
Which was why the frozen numbers on the inside of his wrist irritated him more than they should have.
A lifetime reduced to eight zeroes.
For decades it had been counting.
Now it wasn’t.
Entire criminal organisations had collapsed because of details other people overlooked. Murders had been solved because Bruce noticed a footprint half a millimeter deeper than it should have been. He built contingency plans for gods.
And yet somehow he had allowed this to happen.
Somewhere, at some point, his soulmate had entered his life. And he had failed to notice.
The oversight bothered him in a way he struggled to articulate. Not because he had spent years longing for his soulmate. He hadn’t. Or because he suddenly believed fate held some profound importance. He didn’t.
But because he had missed something.
Something connected to him. That should have been obvious.
His gaze drifted back toward the timer. A person.
For most of his life, the soulmate waiting at the end of the countdown had existed as an abstraction. A hypothetical future. A distant possibility.
Now they existed beyond the realm of his mind on particularly needy nights.
Living somewhere in Gotham. Or perhaps outside it. Going to work. Paying bills. Existing. Breathing.
Perhaps completely unaware that Bruce Wayne had finally noticed them.
The idea settled heavily in his chest.
Because that wasn’t entirely true, was it?
If the countdown had stopped, then they already knew.
The moment one timer reached zero, so did the other. Meaning somewhere out there was a person who had already experienced that moment. A person who had looked at their wrist and realised they had found the person fate intended for them.
Bruce’s fingers stilled against the keyboard. A strange feeling moved through him. Difficult to define.
Because unlike him, that person would have noticed.
Normal people would have probably watched their countdowns. Would have known exactly how much time remained. Anticipated the day it would finally happen.
He imagined someone checking their wrist. Watching the final seconds disappear. Feeling the weight of a lifetime’s anticipation finally come to an end. And then what?
Had they looked around for him?
Had they searched the crowd?
Had they recognised him immediately?
The questions arrived uninvited. More troublingly, they refused to leave.
Bruce leaned back in his chair. The cave hummed softly around him. Banks of monitors cast pale light across the stone walls.
Above him, thousands of tons of earth separated the cave from the sleeping Manor. None of it held his attention.
For perhaps the first time since Damian had pointed out the frozen timer, Bruce found himself thinking not about the investigation. But about the person.
Who were they? What kind of life did they live? What had they thought when they realised? Had they been happy? Afraid? Disappointed?
The last possibility lingered.
Bruce frowned. Disappointed. The word shouldn’t have bothered him. Yet it did.
Because he knew exactly what the public thought of Bruce Wayne. The billionaire. The celebrity. The perpetual tabloid fixture.
To some people, finding out Bruce was their soulmate would be exciting. To others it would be a nightmare.
A lifetime of reporters. Paparazzi. Public scrutiny. Danger. Every enemy Batman had ever made.
Bruce knew better than anyone that proximity to him carried consequences.
The evidence sat framed across the Manor.
The thought darkened his expression. Whoever they were, they deserved better than that.
And then Bruce paused. His eyes slowly narrowed. Because that thought implied something else. Something he hadn’t consciously acknowledged until now.
It didn't matter.
That lie was what kept you going after the gala. It wasn’t grief. Grief implied loss, implied that you had possessed something to begin with.
You hadn't. Bruce Wayne had never been yours.
And yet, something inside of you had still died that night.
You still went to work. Still paid your bills. Still answered texts. Still laughed when friends made jokes.
From the outside, nothing had changed.
Inside, however, there was a deep hole where something important used to live.
Hope, perhaps.
Or whatever foolish thing had survived all those years beneath your indifference.
You had spent your entire life insisting that the countdown didn't matter. That fate didn't matter. That your soulmate was merely a possibility waiting somewhere in the distance and not the center of your universe.
Then the timer reached zero.
And you discovered exactly how much you had been lying to yourself.
Because if it truly hadn't mattered, then seeing Bruce Wayne across that ballroom wouldn't have hurt the way it did.
If it truly hadn't mattered, then his face wouldn't still appear in your nightmares. The sight of his name wouldn't make your stomach twist like someone had reached into your chest and grabbed hold of your ribs.
Yet it did. Every time, without fail.
Three days after the gala, you stopped in front of a coffee shop on your way to work.
A newspaper sat in the display window.
BRUCE WAYNE ANNOUNCES THE EXPANSION OF FOUNDATION PROGRAMMES.
The headline wasn't even particularly large, just another article among dozens. A perfectly ordinary thing.
Yet the moment your eyes landed on it, nausea rolled through you so violently that you nearly turned aroun and walked home.
You stood frozen on the sidewalk, just staring blankly. You hated yourself for pausing.
Because there he was.
Photographed beneath bright camera flashes. Smiling. Beautiful.
Shit, he was beautiful.
It would have been easier if he wasn't. Easier if fate had chosen some ordinary man. Someone forgettable, whose face wouldn't follow you everywhere.
But Bruce looked like something sculpted rather than born.
Like whoever had created him had started with every impossible standard of beauty and decided they still weren't enough.
Even frozen in grainy newsprint, he seemed unreal.
Dark hair falling perfectly despite the cameras. Strong jaw, sharp cheekbones, those impossible blue eyes. The kind of watercolour people wrote poetry about. The kind that belonged to summer skies and oceans and things too beautiful to touch.
You remembered looking into those eyes across the ballroom. Remembered your heart stopping. Thinking, absurdly, that of course fate had chosen someone beautiful.
Soulmates were supposed to be extraordinary. And Bruce Wayne was sure as hell extraordinary.
Broad shoulders beneath perfectly tailored suits. Strong hands. Easy smiles. A laugh that seemed capable of convincing entire rooms to laugh with him. Not merely attractive. Handsome. Beautiful in the way ancient gods were described. The sort of beauty that made people stare before they realised they were staring.
He carried himself with the effortless confidence of someone who had spent his entire life being admired. Someone who had never needed to wonder if people found him desirable because the answer had always been obvious.
And somehow fate had looked at him, then looked at you, and declared that you belonged together.
You left the coffee shop without buying anything.
After that, you started noticing him everywhere.
It felt cruel. As though the universe had developed a sense of humor specifically to torment you.
Wayne Enterprises logos decorated entire buildings. Wayne Foundation advertisements appeared on buses. Charity campaigns featured his photograph. Magazine covers displayed his face near checkout counters. Televisions in waiting rooms played interviews. Articles appeared online. Photographs surfaced endlessly. Everywhere you looked, Bruce Wayne existed.
You couldn't escape him. Couldn't erase him.
The worst part was that everyone else saw those images and reacted normally.
Nobody understood what you saw. Nobody knew what it felt like.
Your coworkers saw Gotham's favourite billionaire. Your friends saw a celebrity. Strangers saw a philanthropist. You saw your soulmate.
You saw the man whose timer had stopped when yours did. The man who had looked directly at you, then dismissed you.
Sometimes you found yourself staring at the pics longer than you meant to.
Your eyes refused to look away. Despite everything, some awful traitorous primal part of you still recognise d him. Still instinctually saw him as yours.
The slight curve of his smile. The shadows beneath his eyes. The way his expensive suits felt designed to emphasise the width of his shoulders. The way his presence somehow dominated photographs even when surrounded by dozens of other people.
You hated that you noticed. Hated that your heart still reacted. That attraction remained long after hope had died.
Because Bruce Wayne was beautiful. Painfully, unfairly, devastatingly beautiful.
The kind that made the stinging rejection feel worse.
If he had been cruel, you could have hated him. If he had mocked you, anger could have replaced the hurt. But he hadn't done either.
He’d made living unbearable.
Bruce hadn't rejected you because he disliked you. He hadn't rejected you because you were unworthy. He hadn't even rejected you at all.
To reject someone required acknowledgment.
Bruce Wayne simply hadn't cared enough to notice. You had been forgettable. An interruption. A stranger in a crowded room.
It was fucking humiliating.
To everyone else, your countdown had finally reached zero. A happy occasion. A miracle. A dream-come-true.
People congratulated you. Asked questions. Smiled knowingly.
You learned to lie.
"Oh, I haven't met them yet." "Maybe we crossed paths without realizing." "I'm not really focused on it."
Easy answers. No one ever suspected the truth.
Didn’t know that every mention of soulmates felt like someone digging a knife into an already sore bruise.
That fate itself had started feeling so incredibly cruel.
No one knew that your countdown had ended beside crystal chandeliers and champagne glasses and the most beautiful man you'd ever seen.
Hw could you explain to anyone that he had walked away?
How could you describe the experience of finding the person the universe created specifically for you, only to discover that your existence wasn’t even important enough to remember?
There weren't words for that.
Every morning you woke up, and every day Bruce Wayne's name appeared somewhere.
On buildings. Headlines. TVscreens. Charity banners. A constant reminder. A monument to something you desperately wished you could forget.
You never admitted how much it affected you. Not even to yourself.
Instead you learned to look away. To change channels. To scroll past articles. To cross the street rather than walk beneath buildings bearing his name.
Small, pathetic things.
Yet necessary.
Because every glimpse felt like reopening a wound that refused to heal.
And somewhere deep down, beneath the humiliation and hurt and anger and disappointment, existed a truth you hated even more.
You still thought he was so disgustingly beautiful. Remembered the moment he looked at you. Could still feel the countdown reaching zero.
And no matter how hard you tried, some part of you still mourned the future that had died before it ever had the chance to begin.
Finding you should have taken longer.
Bruce expected months. Years, maybe. The list of possibilities was absurd.
A countdown bond narrowed the search considerably compared to shared pain or dreams, but it was still thousands of people. Tens of thousands, depending on the timeframe. Every person he'd spoken to. Every person he'd stood beside. Every handshake. Every conversation. Every fleeting interaction that had seemed insignificant at the time.
Ordinarily, that would have made the investigation difficult.
Instead, it became embarrassingly simple.
Because unlike other soul bonds, a countdown created a very specific moment. A beginning.
Bruce only needed to determine when his timer had stopped. Then identify everyone he'd interacted with during that period. The rest was elimination.
He discovered quickly that he had a significant advantage.
Over the past five months, Bruce had only personally interacted with nine people who possessed countdown bonds.
Nine.
One was a long-time business partner whose timer still had three years remaining.
Two were married.
Another had met their soulmate publicly several weeks prior.
The remaining names disappeared one by one beneath scrutiny.
Until only one remained.
You.
The file sat open on the Batcomputer. Bruce stared at it for a long time.
Name.
Age.
Employment history.
Education.
Address.
Nothing remarkable. Nothing that should have caused his pulse to stumble the way it did. Yet it did.
Because beside your photograph sat a timestamp. Wayne Foundation Annual Renewal Gala.
Two and a half months ago.
Bruce went still. The gala.
He couldn’t remember you at all.
He remembered the event. The schedule. The donor meetings. The practiced speeches. The endless boring conversations. The uncomfortable sensation that accompanied the recollection made his stomach tighten.
Because if the countdown had ended that night, then you had been there. Somewhere inside that ballroom.
His soulmate had stood within arm's reach, and he hadn't known.
Bruce leaned back slowly.
The photograph remained illuminated on the monitor.
You looked ordinary. Not in a bad way. Just real. A person.
His person.
The thought appeared uninvited.
His gaze lingered longer than necessary. Memorising details.
The shape of your smile in the employee photograph attached to the company website. The slight tilt of your head. The way your eyes seemed brighter in candid images than posed ones.
Ridiculous, meaningless observations.
Yet he continued looking.
Eventually, Bruce opened the gala guest registry. Cross-referenced attendance records.
Security footage. Photographs. Anything.
Everything.
He found you four hours later.
Camera seventeen. Ballroom east entrance. Timestamped twelve minutes before the countdown likely reached zero.
The footage was silent.
You stood speaking with coworkers. Laughing at something. So… bright.
Unaware that he even existed beyond headlines and magazine covers.
He watched the clip so many times that domething uncomfortable settled beneath his ribs.
He knew what was about to happen.
Your timer was about to reach zero. His timer was about to reach zero.
You found him.
You’d crossed the room.
And he walked away.
Hell, he hadn’t even properly looked at you.
Bruce stared at the paused frame.
For the first time since beginning the investigation, a deep nausea rolled through him.
He remembered that interaction vaguely now.
A stranger approaching. A voice trying to get his attention. A laugh. An interruption between meetings.
Nothing important or memorable. Nothing-
His jaw clenenched.
No.
Not nothing.
You.
It had been you.
His soulmate.
The person fate had spent decades leading toward him.
The person whose existence he had secretly imagined during sleepless nights and lonely flights and moments of weakness he never admitted to anyone.
Bruce rose from his chair.
The cave remained silent around him. Cold. Empty without his boys.
The monitor focused on your face. He couldn’t pull his eyes away.
For two and a half months, you had known.
You'd known exactly who he was.
And if Bruce understood people half as well as he believed he did, then you had probably interpreted that encounter exactly the way anyone would.
You thought he'd rejected you.
Bruce found himself imagining it despite having no desire to.
You walking across that ballroom. Excited. Hopeful. Nervous. Only to be brushed aside.
His stomach twisted.
You had spent your entire life moving toward him. And he'd made you feel unwanted.
A muscle jumped in his jaw. No. Unacceptable.
You belonged to him.
Bruce had spent most of his life convincing himself he could survive without a soulmate.
Now he found himself staring at your photograph at three in the morning, unable to look away. Unable to stop imagining your reaction when you learned the truth. To stop thinking about the hurt he had unknowingly caused. And most concerning of all, unable to stop wanting.
Not merely to meet you.
To keep you close.
Safe.
Where nothing could take you away before he had the chance to make this right.
You were halfway through answering emails when your manager appeared beside your desk.
"Got a minute?"
You looked up. "Sure."
"We've had a request come through."
That wasn't unusual. The company received requests constantly.
You nodded for them to continue.
"They specifically asked for you."
That was unusual.
Your brow furrowed. "Me?"
"Apparently." Your manager sounded just as confused.
You accepted the folder they handed over, then immediately wished you hadn't. The logo printed across the front was impossible to miss.
Wayne Foundation.
Your stomach dropped.
For a moment, neither of you spoke.
Your manager misread your expression immediately. "Good news, actually."
Good. Right.
You’d almost forgotten that normal people didn't feel like they were on the verge of breaking down every time they saw that name.
You forced a smile. "What's the project?"
"A community outreach initiative. They've been reviewing applicants from several companies."
It was like the name seemed determined to follow you everywhere.
"Apparently someone on their end requested you specifically."
The confusion in your manager's voice mirrored your own.
"Have you worked with them before?"
"No." The answer came too quickly. You cleared your throat. "Not personally."
Your manager nodded. "Well, whoever reviewed your profile liked something."
Maybe. Or maybe fate simply wasn't finished laughing at you yet.
You waited until they left before opening the folder.
The proposal itself looked normal. Professional. Routine. Yet a strange feeling settled low in your stomach.
Because your name appeared throughout the documentation.
You stared at the pages for several seconds then shook your head. Paranoia. Nothing more.
Bruce Wayne didn't know who you were. The Wayne Foundation employed thousands of people. This was coincidence. It had to be.
Yet later that evening, as you prepared to leave work, you found yourself looking at the folder again.
Reading your name.
And wondering why the uneasy feeling refused to disappear.
←↓→↑
The project itself was harmless. Boring, even.
Several meetings. A handful of planning sessions. Far too many emails. Just.. normal stuff.
And yet you found yourself running into the same problem repeatedly.
People always seemed to know who you were.
Not coworkers or clients, it would probably hurt your feelings if they didn’t know your name.
But Wayne employees.
The first time it happened, you ignored it. The second time, you thought about it for a bit before shaking it off. The third time, it became impossible not to think about.
A woman stood beside the refreshments table wearing a Wayne Foundation identification badge, smiling like she knew you as she called out your name.
You glanced up from your coffee, offering a polite smile. "Yeah?"
Her expression brightened immediately. "Oh good."
Good?
You waited.
Instead, she simply smiled. "Sorry. I've heard nice things."
Before you could ask from whom, someone called her name from across the room.
The conversation ended there. Leaving you standing alone holding a paper cup and feeling vaguely unsettled.
She'd heard nice things.
From who?
About what?
Then you’d received an email. Then another. And another.
Nothing inappropriate or personal. Just opportunities. Projects. Invitations. Networking events. Requests.
All connected to Wayne Enterprises or one of its countless subsidiaries.
The attention made no sense. You weren't exceptionally qualified. You weren't particularly influential. There were hundreds of people with better resumes. Thousands.
Yet somehow your name kept appearing.
Each coincidence felt harmless on its own.
Together, they felt deliberate.
There was only one explanation your brain kept returning to, and it was ridiculous.
Bruce Wayne didn't know who you were.
Bruce Wayne had never known who you were.
The memory still hurt. Less than before, but enough.
You shoved the thought away and focused on work. Unfortunately, work wasn't cooperating.
"There's a gala next month."
You nearly choked on your drink.
Your coworker blinked. "...You okay?"
"No."
You set the glass down.
"Sorry. What?"
"A gala."
Absolutely not.
The immediate response rose so quickly that you nearly said it aloud.
Your coworker laughed.
"That's about the reaction I expected."
"No."
"That's not even what I asked."
"No anyway."
The laugh grew louder. "It's mandatory."
Of course it was. You dropped your forehead onto the table.
Somewhere above you, your coworker continued speaking.
Words blurred together.
You caught Wayne Foundation. Charity initiative. Attendance expected.
Absolutely wonderful.
You closed your eyes. The universe hated you. That was the only reasonable explanation.
Because apparently surviving one Wayne gala hadn't been enough.
Now fate had scheduled a sequel.
That should have been funny. Instead, dread settled heavily in your chest.
Bruce Wayne probably wouldn't even be there.
And if he was?
He wouldn't recognise you. Wouldn't remember you. You would simply become another face in another crowd. Again.
The familiar ache returned. Duller now. Older, but still present.
You hated that even after everything, some pathetic part of you still cared.
Wondering about what could have happened if things had gone differently.
If he had looked at you. If he'd smiled. If he'd given fate even a single chance.
The thought followed you all the way home. Followed you into the shower. Followed you into bed.
And somewhere across Gotham, entirely unaware of the damage he was causing, Bruce Wayne was doing exactly the same thing.
Thinking about you.
Constantly.
Obsessively.
Unable to stop.
While you lay awake staring at the ceiling, Bruce sat alone in his study surrounded by photographs, reports, schedules, and information he absolutely should not possess.
The file on his desk had grown significantly over the past two weeks.
The silence of the study was suffocating, broken only by the rhythmic, heavy thrum of Bruce’s own heartbeat. It was a sound he usually controlled with meditative precision, but tonight, his pulse was erratic, driven by a hunger that felt less like desire and more like a fever.
His fingers, scarred and calloused from years of a life lived in the shadows, trembled slightly as they hovered over the glossy surface of the most recebt photograph.
In the light of the single desk lamp, your laughter looked almost tactile. He wanted to reach through the paper, to catch the warmth of your skin, to feel the vibration of that laugh against his own chest.
He didn't just want to see you. He wanted to own the air you breathed.
A low, jagged exhale escaped his throat as he reached for the fastening of his trousers. The silk of his shirt felt abrasive against his skin. He wasn't a man of whims, he was a man of purpose.
As he freed himself, his gaze never left your eyes in the photo.
He began to move, his hand wrapping around his length with a grip almost a little too tight, a little too desperate. He wasn't looking for a gentle release, he was looking for a way to drown out the ache of your absence. He hadn’t even met you properly yet.
Every slide of his palm was a silent prayer, a demand whispered into the empty room.
You, he thought, his eyes darkening until the blue was almost black. Only you.
He closed his eyes for a second, and the darkness behind his eyelids was filled with the phantom sensation of you. He imagined your hands replacing his own.
He imagined the way you would look at him if you knew. If you knew that he had mapped out your entire existence, that he knew the number of alarms you needed to wake up, the drinks you preferred, the way your eyes crinkled when you were truly happy.
A groan, deep and primal, tore from his throat as he increased the pace. The friction was intense, bordering on a delicious sort of pain. He pictured you in this very room, stripped of your defences, looking at him with that same devastating smile. He imagined pinning you to this very desk, marking you so thoroughly that the world would know you belonged to the Batman, to Bruce, to him.
"Mine," he rasped, the word a vow and a command. "You have to be mine."
He was spiraling, losing his composure to the sheer, unadulterated need to possess the person in the photograph.
As the tension coiled in his gut, he leaned forward, pressing his forehead against the edge of the desk, his breath coming in shallow, ragged hitches. He wasn't just chasing a climax, he was chasing the ghost of you. And as he finally broke, his body shuddering with a violent, lonely release, the only thing he could think about was how much longer he could stand being a stranger to the only person outside of his family who truly mattered.
He stared at the splotches of his own mess, his eyes settling back on your frozen, laughing face.
His patience was running out. And soon, he wouldn't just be looking at pictures. He would be looking at you.
The morning of the gala arrived faster than expected.
You spent most of it trying not to think about where you were going later. Work helped.
Emails needed answering. Reports needed reviewing. Deadlines continued existing regardless of personal problems.
By six o'clock, however, distractions became harder to find.
The Foundation building stood illuminated against Gotham's skyline when your taxi pulled up outside.
For a moment you remained seated. Watching people enter through the front doors. Watching security direct arrivals. Watching expensive cars arrive one after another.
The driver glanced at you through the mirror.
"You getting out?"
You sighed. "Unfortunately."
The lobby was already busy.
Employees moved through the space carrying folders, tablets, and the sort of purposeful expressions people adopted when responsible for coordinating large events.
You followed the signs toward registration.
The man at the desk smiled immediately.
"Good evening."
"Hi."
You offered your name.
Something flickered across his expression. "There you are." The words slipped out so naturally that he didn't seem to realise he'd said them.
Your brow furrowed. "What?"
His smile widened. "Nothing. Sorry."
He handed over your badge.
"Conference hall B. Someone will show you where to go."
The interaction lingered in your mind as you crossed the lobby.
There wasn't anything strange about it.
You reached the elevators just as a man wearing a Foundation lanyard stepped out.
His eyes landed on your badge. Muttering your name under his breath.
You stopped. "Yeah?"
His expression brightened. "Right this way."
You stared at him.
The conference hall was directly ahead. Visible from where you stood. So was the sign. So was every other person entering without assistance. Apparently, you were the only one receiving a personal escort. The thought made you irrationally suspicious.
"Thanks."
The man spent the walk making polite conversation.
The conference hall occupied most of the floor.
Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked downtown Gotham. Round tables filled the space beneath hanging lights. Staff moved between displays making final adjustments while attendees gradually filtered inside.
You recognise d a few people from previous meetings and wandered over.
Conversation came easily enough.
Work topics. Office gossip. Complaints about deadlines. The familiar rhythm settled some of your nerves.
Eventually, someone handed you a drink. Someone else told a story about the mate documentary they were watching the night before. Laughter spread around the table.
For the first time all evening, you found yourself relaxing.
Maybe this wouldn't be so bad.
You could survive a few hours, shake a few hands, then disappear before anything unpleasant happened.
A movement near the entrance drew your attention.
The change happened gradually. A few heads turned. Then a few more.
You knew who it was before you looked.
For a brief moment, you considered keeping your eyes fixed firmly on the table.
But curiosity won.
It always did.
Bruce Wayne stood near the entrance speaking with several board members.
The sight of him harder than expected.
Four months had passed, yet he remained exactly as you remembered.
Tall. Confident. Effortlessly composed. The kind of person who never seemed out of place regardless of where he happened to be standing.
You watched him laugh at something one of the board members said. Watched him rest a hand briefly against someone's shoulder. Watched him move through the crowd with practiced ease.
The memory arrived before you could stop it.
Crystal chandeliers. Champagne glasses. The countdown reaching zero beneath your fingertips.
Your gaze dropped immediately. Heat crawled uncomfortably up the back of your neck.
This had been a mistake.
All you could think about was how little had changed for him.
Somewhere between the gala and now, Bruce Wayne had probably attended dozens of events just like this one.
Met hundreds of people.
Forgotten hundreds more.
Meanwhile, you still couldn't walk into a Foundation building without remembering the worst conversation of your life.
The thought was embarrassing enough to make you take a long drink.
Across the room, entirely unaware that you had already looked away, Bruce Wayne finally spotted you.
↑→↓←
You forced yourself to look anywhere else.
The city beyond the windows. The drink in your hand. The conversation happening beside you. Anything except him.
It felt childish.
Embarrassing, honestly.
You were an adult. Bruce Wayne wasn't some ex you were desperately trying to avoid at a party. He was a stranger.
A stranger who happened to be your soulmate.
Someone who happened to have accidentally shattered every stupid childhood fantasy you'd ever had about fate.
"So then the guy spends hours explaining how the patterns along his wrist connected-"
"What?"
Your coworker laughed. "The documentary."
"Oh." You blinked.
Right. The documentary.
Apparently the conversation had continued without you.
You offered what you hoped looked like a convincing smile.
No one seemed to notice.
People drifted between groups. More guests arrived. Staff circulated carrying trays of drinks and appetizers.
The event settled into a comfortable rhythm.
Exactly the sort of evening you'd expected.
Which was probably why it took you a moment to notice something was wrong.
The conversation around your table had started stuttering. Small pauses appearing where they hadn't before. People glancing toward something behind you.
You ignored it initially.
Then someone stopped speaking halfway through a sentence.
"...Oh."
You frowned. "What?"
Nobody answered immediately. Slowly, unease crept up your spine.
You knew that feeling.
The awful certainty that something embarrassing was happening and you simply hadn't caught up yet.
Your grip tightened around the glass.
Please don't be me.
Please don't somehow be me.
Carefully, you turned. And nearly dropped your drink.
Bruce Wayne was walking toward your table.
The room seemed to tilt.
No. That wasn't right. There were other people here. Important people. Board members. Executives. Foundation staff.
Bruce Wayne had absolutely no reason to be approaching you.
Yet each step brought him closer, your pulse hammered painfully. Maybe he wasn't.. Maybe-
Then Bruce smiled. Carefully. Almost hesitant.
"Hi."
→←↑↓
Your pulse thundered traitorously.
After spotting him near the entrance, you had gone out of your way to avoid him. And apparently, he'd made no effort to stop you.
He talked briefly with the accountant at your table before passing.
You felt stupid all over again.
You knew better than to expect anything.
No shit he wasn’t coming over to talk to you.
By the time the evening finally began winding down, your social battery had been thoroughly exhausted. Guests filtered toward the exits in small groups while staff quietly began dismantling displays around the edges of the room.
You offered your goodbyes, accepted a few last-minute business cards you would probably never use, and escaped.
Or tried to.
Halfway down the hallway toward the elevators, you changed direction.
Bathroom first.
Then home.
The corridor was blissfully empty compared to the crowded ballroom behind you. Soft lighting reflected off polished marble floors. The distant murmur of conversation faded with every step.
You were almost done. Almost free.
"Leaving already?"
You stopped so abruptly your feet nearly slipped against the floor.
The voice came from behind you. Low and warm.
Dangerously familiar.
Your stomach dropped.
Slowly, you turned.
Bruce Wayne stood at the opposite end of the hallway. Alone.
For a second, neither of you moved.
Gone was the effortless social charm he'd worn all evening. Without the crowd surrounding him, he seemed larger somehow. Broader. More imposing.
His eyes were fixed entirely on you. Watching. Like he'd finally found something he'd been searching for.
A strange tension settled between your shoulders.
"Mr. Wayne."
His expression tightened immediately.
"Bruce," he corrected softly.
The familiarity felt inappropriate.
You swallowed. "Bruce."
Something in his gaze darkened at the sound of his name on your lips.
Satisfaction.
The hallway suddenly felt much smaller.
You forced a polite smile. "I didn't realise you were still here."
"I was looking for someone."
Your heart stumbled. The answer came too quickly. Too directly. And for one awful second, hope tried to rear its ugly head again.
You crushed it immediately. "You found them then?"
The words were meant as a joke.
Bruce didn't laugh. Instead, his gaze softened.
"Yes."
The answer landed with uncomfortable weight.
The air felt thick.
You shifted your weight, suddenly aware of every inch separating you. Or rather, how little distance there actually was.
"You wanted something?" you asked carefully.
Bruce stared at you.
It was unnerving. Most people glanced away eventually. They blinked. Looked around. Got distracted.
Bruce seemed incapable of doing any of those things.
His eyes moved slowly across your face as if committing every detail to memory.
Four months ago, he couldn't spare you two seconds. Now he was looking at you like he couldn't bear to look away. It didn't make sense.
Nothing about this made sense.
"I owe you an apology." The words caught you completely off guard.
You blinked. "What?"
"The first gala."
Your breath stopped. Every muscle in your body locked.
Bruce's jaw tightened. "You approached me."
The memory flashed through your mind with brutal clarity.
The countdown.
The humiliation.
"I remember." It was a lie.
You knew it was a lie. You could hear it. He hadn't remembered. You'd seen his face that night. Seen the complete absence of recognition.
But he looked genuinely upset now.
"I handled it badly."
A laugh escaped before you could stop it. Small. Bitter.
Bruce's eyes narrowed.
"You don't need to apologize."
"Yes." His answer was immediate. "I do."
Something sharp flickered across his expression. Self-directed anger. Regret. Maybe even guilt.
You didn't understand it at all.
"You didn't know me." Your voice came out quieter than intended. The admission hurt. Even now.
"You didn't owe me anything."
Bruce went completely still. The silence that followed felt wrong. Dangerous.
His gaze dropped briefly to your wrist before returning to your face. A muscle jumped in his jaw.
Then he took a step forward.
Yet your pulse reacted like he'd crossed the entire hallway.
"I should have known you." The words came out rough. Almost painful.
Something shifted beneath the surface of his composure. You could feel it. Like cracks forming beneath ice.
And for the first time all evening, genuine unease curled through your stomach.
Because suddenly it felt less like Bruce Wayne had happened to stop you in a hallway. And more like Bruce Wayne had been waiting there. Waiting specifically for you. Waiting for the moment you would be alone. When there would be no audience. No escape.
A shiver ran down your spine.
Bruce's eyes immediately tracked the movement.
His expression softened. Like even that tiny movement meant something precious to him.
And somehow that frightened you far more than if he'd looked angry.
"Can I walk you to your car?" he asked quietly.
The question sounded harmless. Polite.
But there was something underneath it. Something hungry. Something that made it feel less like a request and more like a man trying very, very hard not to demand.
When you hesitated, Bruce's gaze darkened harshly.
You got the overwhelming impression that Bruce Wayne was not accustomed to hearing no.
And that whatever was looking at you from behind those impossibly blue eyes had already decided how this interaction would end.
The silence stretched, thick and suffocating. You looked at him, searching for the playboy you had seen on the news, but he wasn't there. In his place stood a man whose very presence felt like a gravitational pull, heavy and inescapable.
Your heart was a frantic thing in your chest, caught between the instinct to run and the soulmate bond that hummed under your skin, screaming that this was where you were supposed to be.
"I... I can manage, Bruce," you said, trying to inject a note of independence into your voice. You didn't want to be another person he was simply 'handling' or 'managing.' You wanted to be seen as an equal, not a charity project or a fleeting interest.
"It’s a long walk to the valet, and you have guests to attend to."
You made a move to step around him, but you didn't get far.
Before you could even clear his shadow, Bruce’s hand shot out. He didn't grab you roughly, but his fingers curled around your upper arm with a terrifying, singular purpose. It wasn't a casual touch, it was a tether. His palm was hot, even through the fabric of your clothes, and the sheer strength in his grip made your breath hitch.
"The guests are gone," he said. His voice had lost its social lilt. It was now a low, gravelly command that seemed to vibrate in the very marrow of your bones.
"They don't matter. Nothing in that room matters but this."
He stepped into your space, forcing you to tilt your head to maintain eye contact. The hallway felt like it was shrinking, the walls closing in until the only thing left in the universe was the scent of him, like the coming of a storm.
"You think you can just walk away?" he murmured, his eyes searching yours with a desperation that bordered on the frantic.
You frowned, your confusion overriding your unease. "After everything? Bruce, we haven't even spoken for more than five minutes.”
You let out a quiet broken laugh. “You don't even know me."
A dark, humorless sound escaped his throat, one that sounded more like a growl. "That is where you are wrong."
His grip tightened, making it clear he wasn't letting go.
His gaze dropped to your lips, then back to your eyes, his pupils blown wide until the blue was just a thin, electric ring.
"I know the way you tilt your head when you're thinking," he whispered, leaning so his breath fanned across your cheek.
"I know the exact shade your eyes turn when you're startled. I know the schedule of your life better than you do. I have spent every waking moment since that night trying to find a way to apologise for a sin I didn't even know I had committed."
Your heart hammered against your ribs.
How? How could he know these things? The sheer impossibility of his words should have made you laugh, or call for security, but the soulmate bond was reacting to his intensity, pulling you toward him like a moth to a flame.
It was a terrifying, beautiful pull.
A part of you wanted to demand answers, to push him away for his madness, but another part, the part that had been lonely and aching for months, wanted to collapse into him and let him devour you.
"You... you're obsessed," you breathed, the words slipping out before you could think them through.
Bruce didn't flinch. He didn't deny it. Instead, he leaned closer, his forehead touching yours, his expression one of raw, unadulterated devotion.
"I am," he confessed, the admission sounding like a vow.
"I am completely, utterly undone by you. And if you walk out of this hallway tonight without letting me make it right, I think the world might actually end."
He looked at you then, not as a billionaire looking at a guest, but as a man looking at his entire world, his eyes burning with a terrifying, beautiful hunger.
"Please," he pleaded, the word a jagged edge of vulnerability.
"Don't make me watch you walk away again. Let me take you home. Let me show you that you were never just a face in a crowd. You are the only thing that has ever been real."
He wasn't asking anymore. He was begging, and as he stood there, looming against you with a possessiveness that felt like a honeyed trap, you realised with a jolt of both fear and exhilaration that you didn't want to say no.
In the months that followed that night at the gala, the "coincidences" had stopped being coincidences and had become a reality.
You no longer had to wonder why a certain restaurant always had your favourite table reserved, or why your career seemed to accelerate with a sudden, inexplicable momentum.
You knew. You knew that every promotion, every unexpected gift, and every "chance" encounter was a thread in the web Bruce had woven around you.
And the most frightening part was how easily you had let yourself be caught.
The initial shock of his obsession, the way he looked at you as if you were a miracle he was afraid might vanish if he blinked hard enough, had slowly melted into a deep, intoxicating security. You were no longer a face in the crowd. You were the center of his universe.
You sat on the edge of the massive, silk draped bed in the master suite of Wayne Manor, watching the moonlight spill across the floor.
The room was silent, save for the distant, rhythmic sound of the Gotham rain against the glass.
A door clicked shut. Heavy, purposeful footsteps crossed the rug.
You didn't need to turn around to know it was him. You could feel him. The soulmate bond, once a source of lonely longing, was now a constant, thrumming connection that acted like a second pulse.
Bruce stepped into the light. He had shed the armor of his tuxedo, wearing only a dark shirt left partially unbuttoned.
He looked less like a billionaire and more like the man you had met in the hallway.
He approached you, his presence filling the room until there was no air left that didn't belong to him.
He sank onto the bed behind you, his large, warm hands sliding around your waist to pull you back against his chest. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling deeply. A low, contented sound vibrating against your skin.
"You're thinking again," he murmured, his voice a deep, velvet caress. "I can feel it."
"Just thinking about how much has changed," you whispered, leaning your head back against his shoulder.
You reached up, lacing your fingers with his. "How much you've changed."
Bruce tightened his hold, his arms circling you like a fortress. "I haven't changed. I've simply finally found the right reason to exist."
He turned you in his arms, forcing you to face him. His eyes were dark, swirling with that familiar, beautiful madness. Devotion so absolute it felt like a physical weight.
"Do you still feel like you're in a trap?"
You looked up at him, searching the face of the man who had studied your every breath, the man who had turned his entire life into a pursuit of you.
You thought of the fear you had felt, the unease at his intensity, and the way he had practically begged for a chance to belong to you.
Then, you thought of the way he held you now as if you were the most precious thing in existence, as if your very survival depended on his touch.
A slow, knowing smile touched your lips. You reached up, cupping his jaw, your thumb tracing the line of his lip.
"No," you admitted softly, the truth settling comfortably in your chest. "It feels like home."
Bruce’s expression broke, a flash of pure, unadulterated relief crossing his features before it was replaced by a hunger that made your breath hitch.
He leaned in, his lips hovering just a fraction from yours.
"Good," he rasped, his gaze dropping to your mouth. "Because there is no going back. You are mine. And I am never, ever letting you go again."
As he pulled you into a kiss that tasted of desperation and promise, you realised that the universe hadn't hated you after all.
It had simply been waiting for the moment that you finally stopped running and let the storm claim you.
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11K+ Words, 69K+ Characters, 1K+ Sentences, 900+ Paragraphs, 42 Minute average reading time, 1 hour and 6 minute average speaking time.
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