Anyone from prince, except Luke and the foreign princes.
Vamp or Sengoku characters depending on what inspo strikes.
What I write:
Most things, really. Fluff, angst, reactions, smut about consenting adults. But I reserve the right not to write kinks I'm not comfortable with with no explanation.
What I don't write:
Things about having children/ pregnancy. Non-con, daddy kink, anything beyond mild degradation, princeXprince.
I wrote this specifically for my beautiful, wonderful, soul-friend @claviscollections! We share the beauty of the world and life with each other and spread just the joy of our souls. I am so grateful to have met her! She is just the most wonderful, kindred spirit! And deserves so so so so so much love!
*If you want to be tagged in future fics, please just comment and let me know!*
Fandom: Ikemen Prince
Word Count: ~9,070
One Bed Trope!
Summary: A diplomatic mission goes terribly, wonderfully wrong when Nokto and [Reader] are forced to share a room…and Nokto discovers that resisting someone is infinitely harder than seducing them. Full of slow-burn tension, yearning, awkward tenderness, and one very cursed inn.
Nokto Klein was going to kill someone.
Not metaphorically.
Not poetically.
Literally.
He stood in the threshold of the inn room assigned to them—them, as if the universe itself had leaned back in its rickety old chair to enjoy the spectacle—and stared at the bed.
The singular bed.
Narrow. Slightly crooked. Tucked beneath a slanted ceiling with the apologetic air of a dog that knew exactly what it had done wrong. If innkeepers possessed a sense of humor—and Nokto suspected they did—it was a cruel one, honed on the bones of Rhodolite’s unluckier princes.
One bed.
Diabolical.
He didn’t move. Simply regarded it, the way one regarded a viper coiled at the edge of the path: careful, affronted, and—despite himself—fascinated by the mechanics of betrayal.
“One bed,” he said flatly.
She rose on her tiptoes and peered around his shoulder, her satchel hugged to her chest like a talisman. “Oh! That’s…quaint.”
He turned his head slowly, the way one did when deciding whether something was a joke or an act of war.
“Quaint.”
“Yes,” she said, nodding with the earnest conviction of someone who had never once been betrayed by furniture. “Very rustic. It’s probably historical.”
Nokto closed his eyes, a flicker of exasperation threatening to break surface. When he opened them, the bed was still there. Unrepentant. Complicit.
“That bed,” he said mildly, “is a historical tragedy.”
She blinked at the offending artifact, then at him, blinking owlishly. “I’m sure they hear that a lot.”
He studied her then—this girl made of wonder and quiet calamity, entirely unfazed by fate’s small, deliberate cruelties.
“Is something wrong, Prince Nokto?”
“No,” he said, smoothly enough to pass for calm. “I’m simply appreciating the…intimacy of the accommodations.”
“Oh!” Her delight flared, sudden and luminous, catching the light and scattering it through the room. “It is rather cozy, isn’t it?”
Strike one.
And, regrettably, problem number one.
Problem number two was that she was his assigned partner on a delicate diplomatic mission, which meant he could not simply vanish into the night, set the inn ablaze, or fake his own death and start over somewhere quiet. All options he considered with alarming sincerity.
The assignment had sounded so civilized. Escort the kingdom’s historical scholar-envoy to a neutral border town. Assist with negotiations. Keep her safe.
Nokto had assumed—foolishly—that this would involve quiet libraries, long tables, predictable hours. Perhaps the occasional distraction, the kind that asked nothing of him beyond a warm body and a conveniently empty morning after. That was usually enough. Usually effective.
Not this.
Not her.
His attention snagged on her anyway, sharp and unwanted, like silk catching on a hidden nail.
She was a beautiful, soft disaster of a scholar—bright-eyed, earnest, carrying centuries in her head and none of the instincts that told a person when they were standing at the edge of trouble.
A vulnerability he hadn’t planned for. One he filed away, pointedly, with other thoughts he had no intention of examining.
What he had not anticipated was:
The scholar in question being her.
Her being…like this.
And the universe, apparently, possessing a very particular sense of humor.
One bed.
She crossed the room without hesitation, trailing her fingers over the desk, the chair, the narrow sill—not touching so much as sampling, as if the room’s secrets would simply yield to her. The grain of the wood. The wobble in the chair’s leg. The way the window light caught dust and turned it gold.
Already cataloguing.
Already thinking.
Nokto found himself watching.
Not the careful, fox-sharp sort of watching he used when hunting for advantage—no, this was watching that happened to him. Attention slipping its leash. Eyes following without permission. Thought lagging behind instinct.
This was…new.
He was not someone who went unnoticed. He made certain of that. A smile here, a glance there, a carefully timed presence—people noticed Nokto Klein. Women especially. He liked being seen by them. Liked the moment they realized he wanted them. Liked the alluring tilt of their mouths when they caught him looking and chose to lean into it.
But here—
She turned, and he almost startled.
Absurd. His shoulders barely twitched, but the jolt hit all the same—sharp, immediate, heat flashing up his neck like he’d been caught with his hand somewhere it didn’t belong.
Had she noticed?
His mind reached for charm, for something polished, but nothing surfaced—just static and the thud of his own pulse.
Nothing came.
What did it matter? He liked being caught. That was half the fun. If she thought he was looking—good. Let her. He wanted people to know when he wanted them.
Except, tonight, his cheeks burned.
And his tongue felt inconveniently thick.
She didn’t comment. Only offered a small, wry smile—as if his silence required no explanation—and turned back to the bed.
“You can take it,” she said, stepping closer, palm pressing into the coverlet to test its give. “I don’t mind the floor.”
Strike two.
Nokto straightened, spine snapping to attention, his coat whispering as he shifted—a man reclaiming space by sheer force of will.
“You will not.”
She glanced up, unfazed, and crouched—already loosening her satchel, already accepting inconvenience as if it were no more than a footnote.
“I’ve slept in worse places,” she said, extracting a book and cradling it absently against her knee. “Stacks of manuscripts are surprisingly supportive.”
The image struck him unbidden—her folded into some forgotten library alcove, spine curved over pages, ink-stained fingers, the hush of paper cocooning her from the world.
Something in his chest tightened, sharp and unwelcome.
No.
Absolutely not.
“That explains a great deal,” he muttered, fingers flexing at his side as the air seemed to thicken around them.
She tipped her head, a small, curious tilt, like a bird catching a sound it wasn’t sure it had heard. “About?”
“Your complete lack of self-preservation.”
She laughed—soft, startled, spilling between them like a secret. It lingered, featherlight and reckless, and brushed against him in places he’d thought were well-defended.
Strike three.
She turned away again, attention drifting back to the problem at hand, gaze moving with calm practicality between bed and floor. “No one mentioned we’d be sharing a room,” she said after a moment, “but I suppose it makes sense. Security-wise.”
The irritation sharpened then—clean, precise.
Not at the circumstances.
At her ease.
At the way she folded uncertainty into reason and set it neatly aside, danger reduced to a line on a checklist. As if he were nothing more than a variable to be accounted for.
So he reached for the familiar.
His shoulders settled. His expression smoothed. The practiced ease slid back into place, followed by the smile—lazy, polished, dangerous in its softness. The one that invited confidence. The one that loosened secrets over candlelight and wine. Women leaned into that smile. Trusted it. Told him things they hadn’t meant to, simply because it made them feel chosen.
Because he made them feel chosen.
“Oh, it makes perfect sense,” he replied, that lazy smile curling at the edge. “If you’re going to be in danger, it might as well be with someone who knows how to keep you…entertained.”
She considered this—not coy, not flustered, not playing the game. Actually considering it, gaze flicking toward the window as if weighing the clause of a treaty.
“I suppose that’s true,” she said. “Comfort can be a kind of protection. It keeps people from making reckless choices.”
His smile held.
Everything else slipped.
The words landed wrong. Not barbed. Not deflecting. Just earnest.
The line he’d tossed out—easy, indulgent—had nowhere to go. No laughter to catch it. No vanity to feed. Only her steady gaze, waiting, unguarded.
She stepped closer—not pressing, not crowding, simply near enough for the space between them to soften. Her hand brushed the edge of the desk as she spoke, fingers trailing along the worn wood. “And you do seem very composed,” she added, nodding once. “That’s reassuring.”
For a heartbeat, he lost the next step of the dance. His charm stalled out, gears catching.
Composed.
Heat crept up his throat, unwanted and undeniable.
He’d been called many things. Dangerous. Charming. Irresponsible. Difficult. Never composed.
He shifted his weight, boots whispering against the floor as if motion alone might shake the sensation loose. “Ah,” he said, lighter than he felt, “I do my best.”
She smiled—small, sincere, and devastatingly gentle.
He looked away first.
Ridiculous.
This was ridiculous.
Dinner. He needed noise. Distance. Witnesses.
“We should go,” he said too quickly, already reaching for the door. “The delegation will be waiting.”
“Oh—of course.” She rose, gathering her satchel with unhurried competence. “I was just thinking I’m hungry.”
Naturally.
Nokto opened the door and gestured her through, careful to keep his expression smooth, his stride measured. The corridor beyond felt blessedly neutral—stone, torchlight, nothing soft or thoughtful or quietly destabilizing.
But as she passed, her sleeve brushed his wrist.
He caught himself holding his breath.
Entertained, he’d said.
But he’d meant—
He followed her down the stairs, irritation humming beneath his skin—not sharp now, but unsettled.
Dinner, then.
They would return later.
And the bed would still be there.
Dinner was held downstairs, all low firelight and murmured voices, the kind of room that encouraged secrets to lean closer than they ought—elbows drifting, knees brushing, confidences loosening as wine warmed the blood.
Nokto took the seat beside her instead of across from her.
Habit. Instinct. Proximity was a language he spoke fluently. Close enough to be felt. Close enough to be chosen. By the time plates were cleared and candles burned low, most conversations ended exactly where he intended them to—somewhere quiet, somewhere private, somewhere with a locked door and a conveniently forgotten tomorrow.
She barely seemed to notice.
Parchment lay open beneath her hands, the table all but forgotten as she corrected a centuries-old translation error with quiet absorption. Her quill moved in short, decisive strokes—confident, unhurried. Not showy. As if unraveling dead languages were no more remarkable than buttering bread.
Nokto shifted closer.
Not abruptly—never abruptly. He let the motion unfurl like a practiced spell. His elbow settled near hers. His shoulder angled in, close enough to brush if she breathed wrong. His knee slid in, a familiar nudge against the side of her chair—deliberate, intimate as punctuation.
The kind of closeness that usually did the work for him.
He leaned in, mouth hovering near her ear, voice lowered into something warm and indolent. “You’re enjoying this far more than you should.”
The words were meant to skim.
To sink.
To invite.
She startled—not away from him, but upward, pulled out of her work. The quill stalled mid-stroke. Her lashes lifted, ink glinting in the firelight as she turned her head just enough that her breath brushed his jaw—warm, soft, entirely unguarded.
“The negotiations?” Her voice landed against him like a question asked too close.
Too close.
The reaction hit him at once.
Not the familiar slide into control. Not the easy, practiced awareness of being wanted. Instead, something restless stirred low in his gut—light, erratic, skittering like a winged thing trapped where it had no business being. His breath caught on the faint scent of parchment, ink, and her. On how near her mouth was. On the absurd fact that he could see the faint indent her teeth had left when she worried her lower lip.
His knee stayed where it was.
A mistake.
“No,” he said, steadier than he felt, his gaze betraying him as it dropped—not to the parchment, but to her mouth. To the shape of the word she’d just spoken. To the narrow space where a kiss could land if he leaned a fraction closer.
He didn’t.
Barely.
The fluttering worsened. Annoying. Unfamiliar. Like standing too near the edge of a height he hadn’t meant to approach.
“Proving them wrong.”
Her mouth curved, a smile caught halfway between restraint and satisfaction. “Maybe a little.”
It shouldn’t have mattered.
And yet—there it was again. That quiet competence. No flourish. No hunger for approval. Just the simple pleasure of accuracy, worn as naturally as breathing.
Nokto swallowed. The motion felt obvious. Loud.
The smile he’d meant to wear—waiting, polished, effortless—never quite arrived.
He was still watching her.
Not to charm.
Because he couldn’t quite stop.
He leaned away a fraction, just enough to draw breath again, eyes tracing the line of her concentration—the faint crease between her brows, the tug at the corner of her mouth when she caught an inconsistency, the way the world seemed to fold obediently around her focus.
“You don’t look nervous,” he said, voice dipping into velvet habit, the compliment shaped like an invitation. “Most people would be unraveling by now.”
Her quill resumed its quiet scratch. She shifted in her chair, rolling one shoulder as if easing a tension she’d declined to acknowledge. “I am nervous,” she said, without looking up. “But it doesn’t help, so I ignore it.”
Something in him slipped sideways.
He watched her fingers tighten briefly around the quill before loosening again. The measured exhale through her nose.The way she simply kept going, as if nerves were no more than another error to be edited out.
“You realize,” he said, leaning back just enough to take in the table—the delegates, the subtle ripple of unease threading through them—“you’re terrifying them.”
That earned him a glance. Quick. Bright with surprise. “I am?”
“Mm.” He leaned in again, slower this time, eyes half-lidded, voice lowered into something deliberately seductive. “You dismantled three of their arguments without raising your voice once.”
“Oh.” She glanced back down at the parchment, considering—then lifted her gaze to him again, head tilting slightly, curiosity warmed by something softer. “Should I apologize?”
The laugh slipped out of him before he could stop it.
Low. Warm. Real.
Her head snapped up, blue eyes wide and darker in the dim light. “Was that—did I say something funny?”
“No,” he said, still chuckling, the sound lingering between them longer than it had any right to. “You’re just very good at what you do.”
The words settled there—bare, unadorned. Honest.
She blinked once. Then smiled again, softer this time, and returned to her work as if compliments were merely another thing to be set aside.
Nokto leaned back in his chair at last, reclaiming space that no longer belonged to him.
Too late.
The damage had already been done.
They left the hush and golden flicker of the dining room together, the murmur of voices and clink of cutlery falling away behind them like the closing of a velvet curtain.
The corridor was narrower than he remembered—stone pressing in, torchlight striping the floor in uneven bands. The ceiling dipped, making taller men mind their steps. The staircase waited at the hall’s end, rising steeply into shadow.
She reached it first, hand gliding along the worn rail, fingers catching in grooves left by generations of travelers—some running from regret, some weighed down by hope. The stairwell was meant for solitude, not for two who had spent an evening learning the exact shape of one another’s presence. Her shoulder brushed the wall; his nearly brushed her.
Nearly.
Nokto let her ascend first—chivalry, he told himself, but truth pressed closer: it was the way the stairwell narrowed the world, made every step a negotiation of breath and nearness. Her shoulder grazed stone; his shadow slipped over hers. He kept just behind, close enough to feel the heat she left in the air, far enough for longing to remain unsaid. The distance between them was measured in heartbeats, not paces.
His hand lifted of its own accord toward her back—reflex, prince’s memory, or something lonelier. He stopped just shy, fingers hanging in the quiet between them. Her warmth was palpable, radiating through the thin, nervous air. Close enough to touch. Close enough to ache.
A particular kind of torment.
They climbed in silence, steps falling into rhythm as if rehearsed. Stone, wood, the soft hush of fabric. The gentle rise and fall of her breathing—the only proof the world beyond them had not disappeared entirely.
Halfway up, she slowed. Looked back, torchlight catching in her hair and turning it to fire. For a moment, words hovered on her lips—then she hesitated, measuring the question against the hush.
“Prince Nokto?” Her head tipped, voice low, half-conspiratorial.
“Yes?”
“Earlier—during the negotiations…” She shifted her satchel higher, fingers tightening on the strap. “When you said I was…terrifying them…”
He angled his head, studying her. Expression open, honest—no trap, just curiosity.
“You were,” he replied. “Efficiently.”
She smiled, a faint glint in the low light. “Is that a compliment?”
“Absolutely.”
She hummed, thoughtful, and resumed the climb. “I’m glad,” she said, after a moment’s quiet. “I worried I might have been too direct.”
A breath slid from him—maybe a laugh, maybe relief. “Trust me. They deserved it.”
She glanced back once more, eyes warm with understanding. The look lingered—a fraction too long, a fraction too close.
Dangerous.
The world had narrowed to the hush of their steps, the press of ancient stone, and the quiet pulse of her scent—ink and parchment, a sweetness folded like an unopened letter. Their footsteps faded into carpet’s hush; torchlight gilded the shadows beneath her eyes, the gold-lit hollow at her throat.
At the landing, she stopped abruptly, key dangling from her fingers. He nearly collided—his chest brushing the barest edge of her shoulder, an electric misstep that sparked through him. Close. Closer than a prince ought to be, unless danger were real and excuses more abundant.
He watched the key turn in her hand, watched her thumb worrying the worn brass. Her pulse fluttered at the base of her throat. His hand hovered, wanting to settle at the small of her back, wanting to guide, to steady—he did none of these things,tension held between want and restraint.
She glanced up at him, her mouth just shy of his—eyes searching, uncertain, suddenly brighter in the flicker of torchlight. “Did you mean it?” Her question barely carried—a whisper for him alone, breath warm against his lips. “About…keeping me entertained while we waited for danger?”
He let out a breath, low and genuine—felt rather than heard. He leaned in, his mouth curving close enough to tempt fate. “Are you hoping for danger, scholar?”he murmured, his voice slipping warm and velvet-smooth along her jaw. “Or just for a little…company?”
The space between them tightened—his mouth, hers, a promise in the slant of torchlight, the quiet almost-touch. If she turned her head, even slightly, they would be kissing.
She tried for a smile, but it wobbled, awkward and too honest. “I…don’t really know what to want,” she managed, her voice softer now. “I suppose…maybe just not to be left alone.”
For a beat, the air stilled—delicate, uncertain. Her reply was sweetly off the mark, missing the innuendo, or perhaps dodging it entirely. The admission hung between them, fragile as moth wings.
They walked the last stretch of hall together, silence stretched taut as a harp string. The door waited ahead—plain, unyielding, the final dare of the night.
She stopped suddenly, so abruptly his stride nearly tangled with hers, the heat of her breath grazing his cheek. This time she faced him, searching his face, eyes wide with something soft and serious all at once.
“Do you ever get nervous, Prince Nokto?”
His mouth curled, instinct ready with a clever dodge—but the words died in the hush. Her sincerity, her nearness, the hum of his own longing—he couldn’t do it. The question slipped into the small, electric space between their bodies and caught there, unguarded.
He met her gaze—and something in him misfired.
Not because she was inviting him closer, but because she wasn’t. There was no practiced spark in her eyes, no expectation he could step into with a smile and turn into something easy and forgettable by morning. Just openness. Just trust. And the sudden, brutal awareness that whatever she might want, it wasn’t a man who borrowed moments and gave nothing back.
The thought struck hard and unwelcome: She must want someone steadier than this. Someone who doesn’t make exits a habit.
His body reacted before he could dress the feeling in charm. Shoulders locking. Feet rooting to stone. The forward pull that usually carried him into smiles and mouths and heat simply…stopped. Every instinct that once urged him closer now warned him to hold—hold still, hold back, hold himself together before he reached for something he had no right to take.
So he froze.
Not from lack of desire.
From fear.
Because for the first time, wanting her felt less like a game he knew how to play—and more like standing at the edge of something he could ruin just by stepping wrong.
He found his voice only by accident, the words almost lost in the quiet. “Only,” he said, voice almost too soft, too real, “when the stakes are unusually high.”
She nodded—slow, thoughtful—and without a word, pressed the key into his hand.
The choice was his. Dangerous. Undeserved.
He stepped ahead, the metal cool and uncertain in his grip. The lock turned with a soft click—a sound that felt like a challenge, or the world holding its breath.
The door swung open, spilling old shadows across the floor. The room waited, unchanged; the bed waited—single, crooked, inescapable, the universe still laughing at his expense.
He stepped aside for her to enter first, holding the door as if unsure whether he was prince, bodyguard, or trespasser. The threshold was a line both crossed and not—nothing had changed, yet everything felt more dangerous.
Behind them, the corridor hushed itself; ahead, only the bed and the hush of lamplight awaited. The real threat had never been the room, nor the mission.
It was her, and his own unsteady want—the question of how close he was willing to stand before he lost his balance entirely.
The door closed behind them—soft as a confession.
She set her satchel on the desk, movements deliberate but unhurried, as if the day had offered only parchment and soft dust, not this wild, thundering shift in gravity. Lamplight painted a gold crescent on her cheek, caught at the hollow of her throat. She didn’t shrink from the nearness, didn’t avoid the walls or the quiet pulse of expectation. If anything, she seemed lighter, truer, here alone.
Or perhaps, she just trusts too easily, and I am the fool for trembling because of it.
Nokto pretended to busy himself with his coat, hanging it by the door, fingers moving too slowly, the action a thin disguise for how unmoored he felt.
When he finished and turned, the bed loomed. Smaller than memory, crooked and mocking, as if daring him to confess every fantasy he shouldn’t have.
He cleared his throat, finding the one safe thread left. “You should take the bed,” he offered, but the words stumbled—rough, too quick, not at all the man he meant to be. “I’ll manage with the floor.”
She reached for the blanket, soft laughter in her refusal. “Absolutely not.”
He arched a brow, dredging up the old lazy smile—a mask he hoped would buy him distance. “Please. I’ve survived worse. Lest you forget, princes are soldiers first. I’ve slept in puddles, in snow, in mud that would shame this floor. I’ll count myself lucky tonight.”
“Please.” She rolled her eyes, blanket clutched in both hands. “You’d be miserable, and I cannot stand that thought.”
He drifted to the window, flicking aside the curtain to watch torchlight bleed gold along the edge of the glass. “My reputation would never recover, you know.” His mouth curled—sly, self-mocking, desperate for levity. “I’m known for ensuring a woman’s…comfort. It would be tragic if word got out I let a beautiful woman freeze on the floor.”
That landed. She stilled, the blanket twisting between her fingers, a faint bloom of pink blooming across her cheeks before she turned away—too quickly, as if the lamplight might betray her. But he saw it.
Oh, he liked it. That flicker of vulnerability—so much rarer, so much more precious than all the practiced responses he usually drew from his compliments.
She snorted—a false bravado, a beat too late. “I’ve heard the rumors, Prince Nokto. And I suspect most of them are either wildly exaggerated or completely absurd.”
She turned to face him again, her mouth quirking in a reluctant smile, the kind that almost tripped over itself. And he forgot whatever retort he had meant to say.
For a moment neither moved, the air prickling with everything unsaid. Her thumb smoothed the blanket’s edge; his hand pressed white-knuckled to the sill, as if bracing for a storm that had not yet arrived.
The tension balanced between them, shimmering and uncertain. The room, the night, the single bed—all waiting, breathless, for what they’d choose next.
“I insist,” he tried again, gesturing to the narrow mattress. “I won’t sleep if I’m worrying you’re uncomfortable.”
She pursed her lips, tucking the blanket under her arm, feet planted like a soldier standing ground. “And I’ll get no sleep knowing you’re over there freezing, brooding, and making martyr faces at the ceiling.”
He almost laughed, but it tangled on the way out. “I don’t brood.”
She tilted her head, blue gaze steady, unblinking. “Prince Nokto, you’re brooding right now.”
He had no answer for that, except to watch the shadows climb the wall, trailing after the flicker of the lamp.
For a moment, the only sounds were fabric shifting, glass clinking, the wind writing secrets against the roof.
Finally, she exhaled—soft, decisive, the sound settling like the end of a stanza. “I suppose I should know better than to try to outmaneuver a prince whose business is foreign affairs.” Her lips curved, more amused than defeated. “Very well. We shall share.” She nodded once, as if sealing terms on parchment. “I promise not to invade your territory.”
Nokto nearly laughed. Territory. As if he had any claim to defend.
His body defaulted to old games—he let his voice drop, let an innuendo slip past the guard. “Are you sure? You know how dangerous it is, sharing territory with a notorious prince.”
“Yes,” she said simply, unaffected, her gaze gentle as a benediction. “I trust you.”
It didn’t feel like a victory. It felt like being handed something breakable, beautiful, and entirely undeserved.
A gift that cost him nothing—except every ounce of his restraint.
He busied himself with the logistics—the lamps, the blankets, the careful folding of his vest—because if he didn’t, he’d say something idiotic. Or worse, mean it.
He tried to make the boundaries clear. “I’ll keep to this side. I don’t move in my sleep. You won’t even know I’m here.”
A blatant lie, told for her comfort—because he wasn’t sure he could trust himself at all.
She gave him a look, dry as a page three centuries old. “You’re the only prince I know who could lie in bed like a bodyguard at the world’s dullest ball.”
He shrugged, a little helpless. “It’s a skill.”
They readied for bed in that unspoken choreography of people unused to sharing space—backs turned, sleeves tugged loose, bodies bending and stretching in quiet synchrony, careful but never awkward. He watched her loose her hair, red-gold in the lamplight, and for a moment the urge to run his fingers through those fiery strands ached through his hands. Instead, he watched, hands fisted tight against his own ribs.
She slipped a ring from her finger, set it by the lamp. He caught the ink-stain on her thumb, the faint crease pressed by a day’s worth of parchment. He wondered how her hand would feel in his—soft, ink-warmed, clever and unhurried—and held himself still, unwilling to let want give him away.
When she slid beneath the covers, she claimed less space than he’d guessed—just a sliver of warmth on the edge, curled inward as if apologizing for her presence.
He carefully joined her, settling on his back with the moon’s pale blade drawing a fragile border between them. For a long moment he stared at the ceiling, hands folded across his chest, the air prickling with a shared, unspoken awareness. Every shift of linen, every exhale, rang between them like a string plucked and left to shiver.
The silence stretched, long and strangely sweet.
She shifted, the bed groaning in protest, and her shoulder brushed his arm—a touch that lingered in the air, unclaimed and electric. She stilled instantly.
“Oh—sorry,” she breathed, so close he felt the apology drift across his skin. Her voice caught between embarrassment and a shy sort of wonder, as if she’d brushed the wing of something wild and didn’t dare move again.
He didn’t move. Didn’t let himself breathe, not for a fraction too long. “It’s fine,” he said at last, voice pitched low and careful, the words settling between them like a feather. “You’re not…crowding.”
She hesitated—he could feel it, the way her shoulder tensed, the way she weighed his words. Then, with the quiet faith of someone accustomed to solitude, she sank back into the pillow. The mattress yielded, a gentle slope drawing her nearer. Gravity, apparently, had chosen a side.
In the hush, the space between them grew vast—louder than any touch.
He knew the pattern intimately — the way shared beds dissolved into heat and hunger almost by reflex. A knee brushing—deliberate, practiced. A hand finding skin under the guise of accident. The ancient, wordless agreement that proximity was invitation, that silence was permission, that night was meant to be filled.
With any other woman, he would have turned onto his side by now. Let his arm rest heavy at her waist. Let his mouth find something warm and willing. He would have known the ending before the story began: breathless, satisfied, detached by morning.
Efficient. Clean. Forgettable.
Tonight, he lay beside her, rigid as a relic, hands folded tight, his body at war with itself—half-amused at his own discomfort, half-undone by it.
She spoke first, voice a small confession in the dark. “I don’t snore. At least, I don’t think I do.”
He huffed, laughter barely breathed. “I’ve survived worse.”
The pause that followed wasn’t empty; it was brimming—with what, he couldn’t say. Every breath a question, each shift of linen a plea for answer.
She rolled onto her side to face him, bedsprings sighing beneath her. Her hair spilled across the pillow, the color of the exotic sunsets in Benitoite, ridiculous and perfect.
“Does it ever get easier?” she whispered. “Sleeping in strange places?”
He let the question linger, feeling how the mattress warmed where she leaned, her voice an anchor in the dark. “It gets…familiar. Not easier. You learn what to expect from the dark, but it always feels a little like borrowing someone else’s life for a night.”
She made a thoughtful sound—a little hum, the kind a scholar makes when they were cataloguing a new fact. “I suppose I could get used to it. If the company’s right.”
He turned, slow and cautious, just enough to catch her silhouette in the faint spill of lamplight. Her hair flared halo-like, her face soft in the dim. “And am I?”
No hesitation. “Yes.”
The silence that settled then was not emptiness, but a hush—like the closing of a well-loved book, a story you want to linger on the last page.
He let himself drift—taking inventory of her breathing, the faint warmth where her knee hovered dangerously close to his, the stutter of his own heart giving him away. He wanted to reach for her—just to anchor himself, to prove she was real.
Instead, he shut his eyes and tried to summon sleep. It stayed out of reach.
Her voice found him again, low, drowsy, colored by exhaustion—almost intimate. “You’re very still.”
He didn’t answer at once; his body gave him away. “I’m…trying not to disturb you.”
A smile threaded through her words, soft and unguarded. “You don’t have to pretend I’ll shatter if you move, you know.”
He almost laughed—almost. If only that was his only concern.
Instead, he let his shoulder ease, shifting just enough that the movement sent a ripple through the mattress, a subtle invitation neither of them meant. It brought her closer, her arm a line of heat just shy of his own.
His body reacted instantly. Treacherously.
That fluttering was back: restless, winged, alive, as if something bright and fragile battered itself against his ribs. His breath shallowed; his jaw tightened.
Gods above, this is ridiculous.
He had shared beds with women whose names he never bothered to learn. Women who smelled of wine and perfume and intention. Women who had wanted him because he was seductive, because he was handsome, because he knew exactly how to pleasure them and make them feel chosen for one night and no longer.
He had never lain awake cataloguing another’s warmth, never counted the spaces between breaths, never wondered what a single touch might mean.
“You’re thinking very loudly,” she murmured, her voice thick with sleep, velvet-soft, almost like a caress—gods, it undid him. It did things to him.
He turned toward her, startled, nearly undone by the sight of her half-lit profile—bed-ruffled hair, lips parted as if she’d been about to say his name. “Am I?”
“Mmm.” She sounded dreamlike, the word sighing into the darkness. “It feels…busy.”
Busy. He almost laughed. What an understatement.
He exhaled, the truth tumbling out on a breath. “You make it difficult to relax.”
Silence, but not sharp—not wounded. Just curious.
“I’m sorry,” she said, voice small, genuine, her hand finding the blanket between them, fingers curling in the fabric like she needed something steady.
“That’s not what I meant.” The words escaped before he could shape them—unguarded, too honest. He closed his eyes, then opened them, staring at the ceiling beams as if they might offer absolution. “I mean…I’m not accustomed to this.”
“This?”
He gestured at the dark, the bed, at her—a sweep of his hand that gathered up all the things he couldn’t say. “Sharing space without…expectation.”
She shifted, slow and deliberate, turning onto her side to face him fully. The air changed—charged, attentive. Her face hovered so near that he could see the glint in her eyes, the delicate fringe of her lashes casting soft shadows. So close, if he raised his head mere inches he could—
“And what are you accustomed to?” she asked, her voice quieter now—careful, inviting, curious in a way that felt both perilous and safe.
There it was—the dangerous question.
He hesitated, then answered honestly, because something in her made honesty feel less like surrender and more like necessity. “Usually, sharing a bed means…sharing everything else.”
He heard her breath catch—no fear, no retreat, only surprise and the soft ache of something new.
“Oh.”
Such a small word. Curious. Open.
“With other women,” he continued, the confession leaving a bitter taste, “this would already be…solved.” He swallowed. “I’d know what to do, what was expected, what I was allowed to take.”
Her hand moved, slow and deliberate, but stopped short—fingers curling into the blanket like an anchor. Her voice was nearly a whisper. “Because you think you’d hurt me?”
Her hand moved then — slowly, deliberately — but instead of touching him, she curled her fingers into the blanket between them, gripping fabric like an anchor. “Because this isn’t like before?”
He swallowed, the words scraping through something tender. “No. It isn’t like before.” He let out a shaky breath, voice barely a whisper. “I’m afraid of ruining something.”
She considered that in silence. He watched the rise and fall of her breath, the way the lamplight caught the curve of her mouth.
“Well, you haven’t ruined anything tonight,” she said, as if the problem were practical, solvable—missing the fault line he’d just revealed. “I mean, we both survived dinner negotiations and the bed hasn’t collapsed yet. That must count for something, right?”
Not yet, his mind supplied cruelly.
Her hand fidgeted with the edge of the blanket. She glanced at him, quick and uncertain, mistaking the silence for shyness, not heartbreak.
“I promise to let you know if you start to crowd me,” she added, voice low, almost teasing.
She gave him a small, reassuring smile—as if what he’d said was simple, as if the ache in him could be set aside with a promise and a smile.
It left him aching, unseen. Wanting more—wanting her to see, to understand, to meet him in the dark place he’d just offered.
But she only waited, patient and open, not realizing he was on the edge of ruin.
She shifted again, her hand slipping across the midpoint, searching for comfort in the linen and finding nothing. “Do you ever regret it?” she whispered.
He swallowed, pulse jumping. “Regret what?”
“Who you are. The things you have to be.”
He stared at the ceiling, letting the question sit between them, heavy as stone. He thought about all the women, all the nights that hadn’t mattered, all the times he’d been the dangerous one and wanted that power.
Tonight, he wanted none of it.
“Sometimes,” he said at last, voice so low it almost didn’t count as sound. “Sometimes I wish I could be less… practiced.”
She was quiet, then. For a heartbeat he thought she’d fallen asleep. But her fingers moved, a brush against his forearm—light as a moth’s wing, as trusting as an old story.
He didn’t move. Not away, not closer. Just breathed, aware of her, aware of himself, aware of everything he wasn’t allowed to want.
He tried for lightness. “You’ll ruin my reputation, scholar.”
She yawned, and the sound was so honest it undid him. “I won’t tell.”
He almost laughed again, except it was too close to breaking.
“You should sleep,” he said, gently but firmly. “Before I say something foolish.”
She laughed softly, warm and drowsy. “You already have.”
She shifted again—slow, unthinking—and this time her knee brushed his.
The contact was brief. Innocent.
It nearly shattered him.
He froze, every muscle locking as his body betrayed him in ways he hadn’t prepared for. He turned his face to the wall, breathing through it like a man riding out a storm, letting restraint burn until it hurt.
He listened as her breathing softened, slow and even. Her warmth was a silent map traced along the length of the bed, just out of reach but impossibly near.
She slept—trusting, warm, entirely too close.
Nokto remained awake, heart drumming beneath his ribs, skin buzzing, mind chasing itself in circles.
He called himself a fool, the word echoing against the rafters. Hadn’t he done this a hundred times? Shared beds, shared nights, shared nothing that ever lingered?
With any other woman, he would have reached for her—would have closed the distance, filled the night with practiced want and left the morning clean and empty.
But with her, he was rooted. Every muscle drawn tight with longing, every sense tuned to her nearness.
He lay perfectly still, as if carved by restraint, as if desire itself could etch his name into bone. Temptation pressed sharp as a blade, sweet as hunger left unsatisfied.
What was wrong with him?
He’d wanted women before—desired them, used that wanting like a coin spent and forgotten.
But this—this was want stripped of pretense, stripped of permission. Want that had no strategy, that demanded he become someone better, braver, softer.
He shifted, the mattress murmuring under his weight, a quiet protest, as if even the bed were in on the confusing fantasy.
He wouldn’t cross the line. Not tonight.
But gods, he wanted to.
Jaw clenched, eyes fixed on the ceiling’s uncertain shadows, he counted her breaths, counted the slow undoing of his practiced self.
So he lay there, untouched, unsleeping, letting the night remake him one heartbeat at a time—wondering how he’d ever mistaken other kinds of intimacy for this.
Sometime deep in the night, the world narrowed to breath and silver. Moonlight pooled against the bottle-glass window, fractured and soft, scattering itself across the bed like a spell half-cast. Nokto had not slept. Would not. Not with every nerve awake, tuned to the quiet gravity of her.
She slept toward him.
Not deliberately—sleep had no guile—but her body curved his way all the same, drawn by warmth, by habit, by whatever ancient instinct knew where shelter lived. Her hand wandered in the night, settling by his shoulder, fingers loose and unguarded. Her breath—soft as a wish—ghosted his forearm. Her hair spilled over the pillow, dark and wild, catching the moonlight like living fire.
He ought to have rolled away, put linen and dignity between them, clung to propriety like a shield. Instead, he lay utterly still, suspended between the sharp ache of restraint and the unbearable sweetness of her nearness.
Then she moved.
Just a shift—a sigh through bone and muscle—her knee slipping behind his, fitting there as if it had always belonged. She curled closer, unconscious and instinctive, as though she mistook him for safety and not a disaster in prince’s clothing. Or perhaps she simply hadn’t read the warning labels.
His body tensed, a silent stand-off with his own willpower. There it was again—that wild, bright flutter in his chest, as if some errant moth had taken up residence behind his ribs. The sensation of teetering on the edge of something tall and beautiful and knowing, with terrible clarity, that if you leaned, even slightly, you would fall.
He’d called this kind of closeness an invitation before—a prelude to pleasure, a negotiation with a clear and forgettable ending.
But this was not invitation; it was temptation, spelled out in the slant of her body, in the breath that mapped heat across his skin. Her hand lay between them, as if reaching out—was even her dreaming self trying to puzzle him out?
His gaze lingered on her mouth. The gentle parting of her lips, the spot where—if he dared—he could press a kiss and change the shape of their whole night.
Gods, he wanted to.
Not with the easy want of practiced affairs, but with a hungry ache that had no clear conclusion. With any other woman, he’d have already claimed the night, let want burn through, left only shadows and a half-remembered name by morning.
But this longing was stubborn, slow. It threaded under his ribs, left him aching and alive, wanting without permission, without strategy, without escape.
He curled his fingers into the blanket, knuckles whitening. If self-restraint ever needed a patron saint, surely it would look like this.
She shifted again, closer still. Her face nuzzled his shoulder. Her palm slid—careless, unconscious—over his chest and came to rest above his heart.
His pulse leapt. Frantic. Traitorous.
He ought to have run, leapt from the bed and out the window for good measure. Instead, he lay still as an oath, caught between the ache of wanting and the absurd sweetness of restraint. Somewhere in the back of his mind, a drier, older voice pointed out that he’d never suffered so much from not touching someone before. Surely there was a medical journal for that.
Her body pressed warm to his, thigh sliding tighter against his in a way that left his nerves singing. He bit back a sound, turned his face into the pillow, breathing her in—ink and skin and some wild, soft note that belonged only to her.
If he moved—
If he touched her—
He wouldn’t stop.
That was the truth of it. Not because he was cruel. Because he wanted too much.
So he did nothing, wanting everything.
He stayed—rigid, aching, her thumb brushing over his shirt—a sleep-born benediction he’d never earned.
She murmured something then, a word lost to dreams, and her breathing slowed again, deep and even, the sound of someone utterly unafraid.
He nearly laughed, the sound caught and tangled in his throat. What a disaster. A prince unraveled by moonlight and a sleeping scholar—wanting nothing more than to be the kind of man who could be trusted with her.
Nokto stared at the ceiling, chest tight, letting her gentle presence undo him with every heartbeat.
He had never wanted so badly to be good.
Never doubted so much that he could.
He counted her breaths—hoping the number would save him. When sleep finally came, it found him still wanting, still wishing, haunted by the memory of her touch and the impossible hope that morning might leave a little of this magic behind.
The world slipped into morning without his permission.
Dawn arrived slow and gold, slipping sly between the curtains, dusting the tangled bed and the secret curve of her shoulder where it tucked against his chest. The hush was honeyed and holy, spun from breath and the gentle pulse of his heartbeat under her palm. Nokto woke with her warmth braided through his bones—her head pillowed on his shoulder, her breath stirring at his collarbone, her hand sprawled possessively across his heart. His body ached with everything he’d forbidden himself the night before.
For one beautiful, dizzying moment, he let himself believe it was ordinary—waking like this, with her tucked against him as if she belonged, the world outside slowed to reverence, the day too soft to shatter anything so fragile. Maybe in another life, he thought, he would always wake like this—his scholar, his fiery sunbeam, wrapped around him like luck that never ran out.
He didn’t move. The spell was too delicate to risk, the hush so full of possibility it ached. He knew how easily morning broke things. He was almost afraid she’d wake and remember who he was—a prince, a danger, a man with a reputation too seductive for fairy tales and beautiful hearts—and pull away, leaving nothing but cold air and the memory of warmth.
But she shifted—slow, sleep-stunned—stretching under the covers, arching into him in that unselfconscious way of dreamers. Her fingers fluttered on his chest, tracing the frantic rhythm of his pulse. For a heartbeat, he kept his eyes closed, feigning sleep—because knowing she’d stayed was almost more than his battered heart could stand.
She didn’t retreat. She stilled, sensing him, her breath catching and then smoothing out again. A quiet truce.
When he finally opened his eyes, she was already watching—close, so close her gaze was all morning gold and tangled flame. Her hair spilled wild across the pillow and over his shoulder, catching the light in fierce, vivid color. There was nothing hidden in her—no cleverness, no armor, only the truth of what they were and all the things they weren’t yet allowed to be.
For a long, bright moment, neither of them moved. The world teetered, breathless, on the edge of what might be.
Nokto looked at her—truly looked, the way one does when the world narrows to a single, inescapable point of light. She was all wild grace and tender contradiction, sunlight caught in her hair and something unguarded in the soft part of her mouth.
Her face was a study in wonder and morning—cheeks brushed with rose-petal pink, the curve of her lips touched by a secret she hadn’t yet spoken. Strands of red tumbled around her like burnished silk, tangled with sleep and the hush of dreams, while her eyes—clear and storm-swept—held the last silver trace of the night.
She reminded him, suddenly, of the stories he used to doubt: maidens in enchanted woods, girls who carried the scent of summer roses and mystery. Here, now, she looked like the embodiment of some half-remembered ballad—untouchable, almost, except for the warmth pressed against his side and the imprint of her palm still over his heart.
He drank in every detail: the delicate arch of her brow, the way her lashes brushed her cheek, the ghost of a smile still lingering on her lips.
For the first time, he didn’t feel the need to speak, to flirt, to fill the space with cleverness. For the first time, just looking was enough.
She blinked up at him, dreamy and bright and wholly real. And with every breath, he realized how dangerously easy it would be to spend a lifetime learning the subtle language of her face.
The sunlight pooled between them, warm and golden, blessing the moment as if the world itself had decided, just for this morning, to conspire in their favor.
He found his smile, small and uncertain, breaking the spell with the gentlest touch. It tugged at the corner of his mouth, shy, crooked—meant for her alone.
“Good morning,” he managed, voice raw with everything he didn’t know how to say.
Her lips curved, soft and blooming—a sunrise opening just for him. “Morning,” she whispered, the word warming the chill of the morning.
The universe, he swore, held its breath.
He should have said something teasing, rebuilt the distance, wrapped himself in wit and carelessness. He did not. Could not. He was too tired for pretense, too exposed, too full of the night’s undoing.
Her hand came up—trembling, unsteady—and brushed an unruly strand of hair from his brow, knuckles grazing his temple, then his cheek. The touch was as light as an incantation: testing, not taking. His breath slipped out—a sigh, a surrender, relief and hunger all tangled together.
He reached for her, slow as the sunrise, as if a wrong move would send the entire sky scattering. His palm cupped her jaw, thumb drifting along the curve of her cheekbone, his heart thundering with foolish hope.
He watched her eyes, searching for fear or regret—any reason to stop, any reason to let her go. There was none.
She leaned into his hand, her gaze open and unguarded—a permission so honest it hurt.
So he closed the distance, his mouth meeting hers—soft, trembling, an unsteady question. The kind of kiss given by someone afraid of their own longing. It was the gentlest collision, the faintest pressure—just a breath, just the truth of want with no mask left between them.
She kissed him back—gently, sweetly, a silent answer to every wish he’d never dared to speak. Her lips shaped wonder and invitation, her hand grasping his shirt, anchoring him in the reality of hope.
Everything else fell away. There was only her, the bed, the hush, the morning, the heady rise of want that threatened to sweep him under.
She was the one to pull back, her hand resting over his racing heart. “Wait,” she whispered, her voice a tremor of hope and fear, “is this a terrible idea?”
He let out a laugh—raw, helpless, a confession and a plea. “Almost certainly,” he admitted, searching her face for regret. “But I find myself…completely incapable of caring.”
For a flicker of a moment, he thought she might retreat. But instead, she caught his jaw, tugged him back to her, kissed him with all the conviction of sunrise breaking stormclouds. Her fingers threaded into his hair and he let himself drown, the kiss deepening until every breath was a vow.
He rolled her beneath him, bracing his weight above her, letting the want take shape and tremble between them. The sensation of her—soft beneath him, her fingers tangling in his hair, her mouth opening to his, the meeting of them fierce, dizzy, all promise and no shame—was intoxicating and terrifying and so far beyond the casual dalliances he’d known that he felt raw, undone.
But he broke away, breath ragged, body quaking with the effort of restraint. He hovered there, barely a breath apart, his voice gone rough as gravel.
“We should…” he managed, voice gone rough and husky with want. “I need to stop, before I forget how.”
But his body refused to move; he trembled with the strain, holding himself at the threshold of something wild and real.
“Just a little longer,” he whispered, wonder and longing bleeding together. “I should let you go—you deserve better than a secret, stolen morning—but gods, I want this.”
She looked up, lips flushed, hair a wild corona on the pillow. “What if I don’t want you to stop?”
His restraint splintered. He groaned, dropped his forehead to hers, barely holding on. “You’re not making this easy.”
She only laughed—soft, radiant, victorious—and wrapped her arms around his neck, drawing him back down into another kiss, this one all certainty and sunlight. This kiss was hers, fierce, clear, leaving no doubt in either of them about what she wanted.
The world melted; he let himself want, let himself hope, let himself belong for just a moment.
And then—because he was still him, because the thing he wanted most was to be worthy of her trust—he broke away again, shaking, propping himself on trembling arms. “If I don’t stop now, I’m not sure I ever will.”
Her gaze was all fire and honey—wicked and gentle and entirely sure. She reached up, brushed his cheek, pressed her lips to his once more—slower, softer, the final word. “Then don’t stop. But don’t hide, either.”
He looked down at her—really looked, as if learning her from the inside out—and wondered if he’d ever been this close to falling.
She smiled, slow and sure, and slipped her hand into his, twining their fingers as if she’d always known how.
He let out a breath—half laugh, half ache, all hope. The ache in his chest wasn’t a wound anymore, but a promise.
He rolled onto his back, giving her room to choose. But she simply curled against his side, cheek on his shoulder, arm warm and certain across his chest. He went still, breathless, as if even hope were something sacred.
She tilted her face up, hair a wild fire across his skin. “Is this all right?”
His answer was a laugh and a sigh, unguarded, unashamed. For now, this was all that mattered—her heart thudding against his, her trust a living thing he could hold in both hands.
“It’s more than all right,” he whispered, voice raw with wonder. “I’ve never wanted morning to last so long.”
He felt it then, bright and perilous: I shouldn’t want this, but I do. Just a little longer. Please.
For the first time in his life, Nokto wanted to stay.
For the first time, he dared to hope.
And when she tightened her hold and pressed closer, it felt like a benediction—the world granting him one impossible, precious wish.
Usual Ikemen Tag List: @ithseem @chirp-a-chirp @aquagirl1978 @queengiuliettafirstlady @nyxthepixystick
If you're someone who struggles with interoception (knowing/understanding what your body is feeling):
if there's a task, especially a recurring one, that you find difficult to do and that you keep avoiding, check whether you're in pain or physical discomfort.
For a long time I would avoid doing tasks like showering because they nebulously made me feel 'bad' or i just instinctively felt like avoiding them. It wasn't until I got a shower chair that I realised standing to shower was causing me pain. My bodymind knew that on some level but didn't tell the conscious me.
Similarly with sensory aversions (things you don't like). Before I got kitchen gloves, I did the dishes but it took me a long time and I never wanted to. Afterward, it got a lot easier to motivate myself.
"But how can you not know you're in pain/uncomfortabke?" Extremely easily if your brain is wired a specific way or if you were taught, intentionally or not, to downplay your own experiences or distance yourself from your body.
There's no shame in struggling with these things. hope y'all are having nice days and you're able to do something today that makes it a little easier.
@lorei-writes and i talked about valko having 2 pairs of ears —> this is the results
(words are typed out below for ease of reading)
- having sounds coming in from both pairs of ears (and processing them) can get overstimulating for him, so he wears noise-cancelling headphones on his human ears sometimes
- his wolf ears are also extra sensitive to noise so he wears ear plugs in them too
- mc insists on giving him 2 ear muffs for ✨warmth✨
Lord, this looks even better with the colour accents added!!! It really is KYU-TEEE! >///<
Btw, did you make those shadows with the same pen? :o It looks like the strokes are just more compressed/more frequent in the dark-dark parts, but... The difference is so vast I genuinely can't tell if it's the same pen or a different one :o Your linework is so good, gosh.
Finally it's done! Sorry for the delay @otomefoxystar I hope you enjoy your gift! 💖
Thank you to @lorei-writes and @pond-lilies for arranging this giveaway! I had so much fun making this. 💖
Pairing: Reader x Mitsuhide
Warnings: None
*******************************
It started with the dreams. A flash of silver, the chiming of little bells. Night after night, you were haunted by longing and a sense of familiarity. Morning after morning, you woke with only half-remembered glimpses, and a sense that there was something you needed to remember.
Then, little by little came the memories. And slowly you could piece together a story. The story of a summer long forgotten, the summer you first met the ghost boy.
It was so long ago that you couldn’t quite pinpoint the year, but your family had rented a summer house to get away from the routines of everyday life.
Boredom soon set in, away from all your friends and the amenities of home. Dust motes danced slowly through the rays of sun coming through the windows. The only sound in the air was the distant hum of a lawnmower. The heat had slowed time to a standstill. In a bid to beat the boredom, or at least get some air, you headed out to the woods behind the house. They were just large enough for an adventure, and just small enough that if you got lost, you wouldn’t be lost for long.
Under the canopy, the world outside fell away. A thousand shades of green, broken only by small cracks of sunlight between the foliage. The gentle trickle of water drew you to a little stream that wound its way between the trees.
On a rock by the edge of the stream, not too far from where you were, sat a boy. Hearing your approach, he turned to you. Wild silvery hair framed a narrow, almost fox-like face. "There you are." His voice was warm, the tone casual. As if you being here was the most natural thing in the world.
You looked over your shoulder, to see if the strange boy was talking to someone else, but there were only the two of you. “I think you’re mistaking me for someone else--”
“Nope, I knew you were coming. I’ve been waiting ages for you. You just arrived at the yellow house yesterday, right?”
“How would you know that?” Maybe he knew the owners of the house?
“I know many things.” He smiled, and held out his hand. “I’m Mitsuhide.”
From that day on, you became fast friends. Mitsuhide often appeared from seemingly nowhere, like a ghost. He only came when you were alone, soundlessly, or with the quiet tinkle of bells. Always in the forest.
You invited him to come for ice cream, or to go meet your family, or go exploring different parts of the town, but he always refused.
You told your family about him, but when you explained that he wouldn’t come by and say hi, and that he would only show himself to you, they assumed he was just an imaginary friend. Your imagination was vivid, but there was no way you could have invented an entire boy, was there? Imaginary friends weren’t supposed to be this vivid, were they?
“You’re real, aren’t you?” You asked him one day, after once again having tried to convince your family that he wasn’t just a figment of your imagination. .
“I suppose so, he shrugged.” He held out his hand, and you took it. “I couldn’t hold your hand if I was imaginary, could I?”
That made sense. His hand was warm wrapped around yours, and a strange fluttering filled your body. After that, you decided it didn’t matter what your family thought. You knew he was real, and that was all that mattered to you. He said strange things sometimes, and he would never talk about his family, or where he came from, or even why you could only meet in the forest, but he was undeniably flesh and blood. The mystery just made him more intriguing.
The two of you spent the summer bathing, running about, and talking about anything that came to mind in the moment. Being around him was so easy, and you loved every moment of it. He showed you the secrets of the forest. What plants were edible, what ones had helpful characteristics like healing, and what ones to stay clear of. He showed you how to find different animals, and you watched them together in silent awe. He even had a little fox that would sometimes follow you around. He was like no other boy you had ever met.
When the day came that you were leaving, you found him at the edge of the woods. He took your hand, and you walked for a while in silence before he stopped and gave you a hug. There was something final about the gesture. He then stepped back, and looked at you with an expression you couldn’t decipher. “When you go back, you won’t remember me.”
“I will, I promise!” You reached for his hand, but he took another step back, out of reach. How could you forget the person who had brought you so much enjoyment and excitement. Someone who, you now realised, had become one of your best friends.
He shook his head. “No, you won’t. Not until the time is right. But that’s alright.” His lips quirked into a small melancholy smile.
You opened your mouth to ask him what he meant, but before any sound could leave you, he had vanished into the woods.
That was the last you saw of him, and with no one to talk to about him, and so much happening in your life, the memory of him slowly faded into nothing and he once again became a ghost.
Back in the present, something told you that you had to go back to those woods, that there was a reason why you had remembered all this now. You weren’t sure what you were expecting, or even why you needed to go there. Memories were just memories after all. And even if Mitsuhide was real, what were the odds he would even be around that sleepy little town any more. But it was autumn, and the price of renting the old house was so low that you might as well head out for a weekend, if only just to get away from your everyday life for a bit.
The town was quiet without the holiday makers. Only a few cars passed you on the way there. Time had not been kind to the house. The owners had grown old, and so had the building, but it was dry, cosy and clean. You chose the same bedroom as you had as a child, a room stuck in time.
That night you didn’t dream.
The morning crept up, grey and misty. Looking out the window over the rim of your steaming cup, the trees loomed like quiet sentinels. The prospect of going for a walk in those woods was all of a sudden much less tempting than it had been just last night. But what were you to do? Sit and wonder all day? You shrugged on a coat and some wellies and headed out.
Just as you took the first step into the forest, the sun broke through the clouds. The woods felt like they were welcoming you back. You almost chuckled at the thought. The path, now sun-dappled and soft under your feet, wound its way towards where you had first met him.
The white slab came in to view, and your stomach dropped. It was there, an empty and silent witness to the stillness of the forest. Accompanied only by your disappointment, you advanced. Inexplicably pulled towards it even now.
The wind rustled through the leaves, and you could swear you heard the faint chime of bells. It must be your imagination, conjuring up the faint sounds of a dream, you thought to yourself. Just wishful thinking. The second time the sound came, there was no denying that it was real. Your heartbeat quickened, and when you turned around, he was there. His face had sharpened with age, and he had grown into a tall well-built man, but his silvery hair and golden eyes were unmistakeable. For a moment you wondered if this too was a dream, and you had to resist the impulse to pinch yourself. The wind picked up, sending leaves swirling around you.
He smiled, something indeterminable twinkled in his golden eyes. As he advanced towards you, it was as if the forest floor itself smoothed to let him glide effortlessly across it. As if he was a part of it, and it a part of him.
Now that you were here, standing across from him, words evaded you. His presence felt the same, even after all the years that had passed. All doubts you previously had about coming here evaporated like dew in the sunlight.
"There you are." His voice was warm, the tone casual. "I told you you would remember when the time was right." He held out his hand to you, and without a hint of hesitation, you took it.
Hi Ninni! @my-day6 This is my gift for you! There were so many good tropes that you picked that I decided on the concept of slice of life and Coffee AU featuring Sasuke, Mitsunari, Nobunaga and Kenshin. They are definitely fighting over which has the best coffee. I hope you enjoy it!
Thank you as well to @pond-lilies and @lorei-writes for organizing this, especially helping me out with support, certainly been a hectic year.
The first rule of sewing is you can fix anything if you have patience, creativity, and a little bit of extra fabric! The second rule of sewing is AAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!
