Most often I write about yandere. This is dark content. Please pay attention to the warnings and decide for yourself whether you want to engage with it.
Requests are inspiration, not obligations. I will only write what I genuinely feel like writing. Sometimes inspiration aligns with requests, sometimes it doesn’t. Please be understanding about this 💙 All received requests are not forgotten. They are kept in a list and may eventually be fulfilled after a long (very long ╥ω╥ ) period of time.
At the moment, requests are open closed. But I will probably open them later. When that happens, feel free to interact with me, send requests, ideas, and just thoughts. (I love reading all of that)
(Please note: Reposts I make on this blog are often not similar to what I write. For example, such works may contain darker content (even by yandere standards) and/or pornographic content.)
Thank you for your interest in my works and for your feedback! I love you 😭💙💙💙
Mlb fans, we need to talk about Season 6, Episode 9 asap!
I haven’t done this in a long time (~_~)
When I wrote about Luka using the Miraculous in a way it wasn’t meant to be used, I DID NOT THINK IT WOULD BECOME CANON. He just dumped everything he wanted to say on her and then immediately backed off. He saw her reaction and decided it wasn’t worth it?!?!
Luka, my boy. You bring out the absolute worst in me 😭
I don’t know how to process this new information. I need a smoke *pulls out a pocky*
Also, in this episode, he asked a girl to pretend to be his girlfriend. For a second, I thought he was doing it to make Marinette jealous 😩 Of course, he had good intentions. BUT HEAR ME OUT. What if the reader was the person Luka asked for help? Yandere Luka starts a fake relationship with the reader, but along the way realizes that maybe he doesn’t need Marinette all that much after all. Meanwhile, the reader is so invested in his personal drama that she doesn’t even consider him a potential boyfriend. Reader genuinely just wants to help him! This time, Luka is in a slightly better position because they’re already in a relationship (as far as he’s concerned, it doesn’t really matter that the relationship is fake). All he has to do is prove that he can be the better boyfriend 😭💙
OKAY. AND FOR DESSERT
That scene where he so insistently asks Ladybug to give him the Miraculous. Oh my god, he literally shouted in her face that he loves her and that he has to do something to protect her.
He was so pushy and grabbed her by the hand. I had to stop just to catch my breath. I CAN’T HANDLE MY EMOTIONS
Another scenario. If the reader were Ladybug, and Yandere Luka was selfish enough to keep quiet about knowing Ladybug’s identity. In that case, he would be taking a huge risk by continuing to stay in Paris. But he doesn’t want to leave the reader! And it also gives him room for manipulation. Knowing secret, he would be able to choose the right words that could reach something deep inside the reader. The reader would feel like they are so alike. He understands so well.
Your Dottore fic Misery and Company was phenomenal! I love how it’s so in character. Although I truly felt sad for reader because man, what a terrible and cold (literally) situation with no current outcome.
For a concept, I was wondering how things would play out in a sagau or imposter scenario with Godttore in such a setting. Would having trilunar authority make him hyper aware of the creator since the powers would be primordial and predate elemental ones? Thus being… “closer” to the origin of the world in a sense?
Part of this is just me rambling about sagau since there’s so many concepts to roll around with when it comes to recent lore. Regardless, thanks for your writings!
Hello, Anon!
Thank you so much for your kind words. It genuinely means a lot to hear that 'Misery and Company' was so well received. For anyone who's reading this who is unaware Anon is referring to [THIS] fic of mine.
As for the reader's situation, I'm afraid they've found themselves facing what can only be described as the lesser of two evils. Neither path offers freedom in any meaningful sense, only different forms of confinement. When you consider Dottore's own relationship with immortality (particularly through his segments) alongside the reader's presumed immortality as well, it paints a rather grim picture. Perhaps this isn't a choice they're making for a handful of years or even a lifetime, but one they may be forced to live with indefinitely.
This is also the point where I sheepishly admit that I haven't actually played Genshin Impact since Fontaine. Unfortunately, the game's ever-growing size eventually surpassed the small amount of storage space I could spare for it. I still try to keep up with the broader story and major developments from a distance, but my knowledge is definitely secondhand these days. So if any details sound a little off or don't align perfectly with the current lore, I hope you'll bear with me.
Personally, when I think about Dottore ascending to true godhood through the trilunar authority, there are several narrative possibilities that immediately come to mind. One of my favourites is actually completely unrelated to 'Misery and Company' and instead leans heavily into the self-aware elements that are so prevalent within SAGAU settings. Specifically, I find myself drawn to the idea that the Creator has not yet descended into Teyvat at all—or perhaps an imposter has descended in their place.
In a scenario like that, Dottore's position becomes uniquely interesting because he is one of the few characters I can imagine possessing both the means and the willingness to perceive the truth. If he were granted access to a primordial authority, one that predates the current order of Teyvat and reaches beyond the limitations imposed by Celestia and the false sky, then perhaps he would be capable of glimpsing fragments of a reality that was never meant to be seen. I'm imagining it occurring during the very moment he tears apart the false sky itself. Rather than seeing what he expected, he instead witnesses the world unraveling at its seams for only a split moment. The sky splits open into streams of disappearing code, deleted assets, and incomprehensible numerical sequences. For a fleeting instant, before the world corrects itself, he catches sight of something beyond Teyvat entirely.
Perhaps it is only a reflection upon a screen, the outline of hands manipulating a world from afar through a controller, and perhaps it is nothing more than the vague impression of an observer existing beyond the boundaries of existence itself.
What makes this concept so compelling to me is that I do not believe Dottore would react the same way most SAGAU characters traditionally do. In many interpretations of the genre, the discovery of an imposter occupying the Creator's position is met with outrage and betrayal, the overwhelming desire to see justice restored. The false ruler is condemned and the characters become fiercely devoted to correcting the deception. Dottore, however, has never been a man guided by faith, nor has he ever placed much value on concepts such as divine legitimacy. I cannot imagine him demanding justice on behalf of a Creator he has never met, nor can I see him becoming enraged simply because someone else occupies their throne.
Instead, I think his response would be rooted in curiosity. If the real Creator truly exists, and if they are capable of observing events from beyond the confines of Teyvat, then why have they done nothing? If an imposter sits upon their throne and claims their authority, yet remains unchallenged, then what does that imply? Is the deception unknown to them, or is it permitted? More importantly, if they possess the power to intervene and simply choose not to, then perhaps the imposter was never a mistake in the first place, could they be part of the design? Perhaps everything that has transpired was allowed to happen because it serves some greater purpose invisible to those trapped within the experiment.
And that is where I think Dottore's perspective would begin to shift in a way that very few other characters could understand. Standing in the position of a god himself, wielding authority over forces that shape reality, he may begin to recognize uncomfortable similarities between his own actions and those of the distant Creator. Throughout his life, Dottore has observed people, manipulated circumstances, and conducted countless experiments in pursuit of knowledge. Entire lives have become variables within larger equations, entire nations have served as environments in which theories could be tested. If the Creator exists beyond the world and watches Teyvat from afar, then are they truly so different?
From that perspective, the world itself begins to resemble a laboratory. The people of Teyvat become subjects, history becomes a controlled sequence of observations, and the Creator ceases to be an object of worship and instead becomes something far more intriguing: a fellow researcher operating on a scale beyond comprehension.
Reverence requires faith, and Dottore has never been a man of faith. If anything, I think the Creator would serve as an inspiration rather than an object of worship. The mere knowledge that such a being exists would validate everything he has spent his life pursuing. They would represent proof that there is a state of existence beyond mortality, beyond divinity, and beyond the laws that govern the world he inhabits. Rather than looking upon the Creator and seeing someone to kneel before, Dottore would look upon them and see the culmination of his ambitions.
In the context of 'Misery and Company', however, I think the scenario changes quite significantly because Dottore is no longer dealing with the abstract concept of a Creator hidden somewhere beyond the world. He already knows you. He has formed an impression of you long before reaching any sort of godhood, and that familiarity fundamentally alters the way he interprets both divinity and his own ambitions.
After all, Dottore recognizes something of himself in you. He sees someone who was abandoned by the very people who should have cherished them, cast aside and condemned despite possessing value beyond what others were willing to acknowledge. It is a wound he understands intimately because it is one he has carried his entire life. The details may differ, but the underlying experience remains the same. Because of this, I think his perception of you eventually evolves beyond anything as simple as reverence or devotion.
Instead, you become his counterpart, his equal. The relationship begins to occupy a strange space where traditional distinctions no longer seem adequate. Creator and scholar, the observer and observed, subject and researcher. The boundaries separating those roles gradually dissolve until neither of you can fully claim one position or the other. You influence him just as much as he studies you. He dissects your nature while simultaneously exposing his own. The experiment ceases to have a clear beginning or end because both participants are constantly changing under the other's influence.
Ironically, I do not think this makes him any less selfish. If anything, it makes him even more. While Dottore's pursuit of divinity is undoubtedly self-serving, there is one exception he consistently makes, and that exception is you. In his mind, the divinity he strives toward belongs to both of you because he no longer sees the distinction between where he ends and where you begin. Over time, you become integrated into his self-concept to such a degree that your existence feels inseparable from his own. The ascension he seeks is not merely personal achievement; it is the culmination of something the two of you have built together.
That is why I find the idea of him possessing the trilunar authority particularly compelling in this context. Unlike the elemental authorities, which emerged later as part of Teyvat's current order, the lunar authority feels older, stranger, and closer to the world's primordial origins. By claiming it, Dottore is not simply becoming more powerful. Symbolically, he is moving closer to the source itself.
In a way, it becomes another attempt to shorten the distance between you. And it's not because he views you as something unattainable, but because he views you as something fundamentally connected to himself. Every step he takes toward the origin of the world is another step toward understanding you, and every revelation about your nature becomes another revelation about his own. The pursuit of divinity and the pursuit of understanding the Creator become inseparable goals.
What fascinates me most, however, is how this interpretation reframes his eventual death.
When considering Dottore's fate, I cannot help but wonder whether his final experiment would mirror the one imagined with Pantalone. If a person can be understood completely, can they be recreated? If every memory, every conversation, every habit, every flaw, and every contradiction is preserved within the mind of another, is death truly permanent?
The thought feels like something Dottore would inevitably explore. And perhaps, after his death, you become the vessel through which final hypothesis is tested. A version assembled from every observation you ever made of him, every argument, every moment of understanding, every irritation, every rare glimpse behind the masks he spent his life wearing.
The irony of such an ending is almost beautiful in its own twisted way. Dottore spent his entire life fragmenting himself into countless versions, each one representing only a portion of who he was and ending up to be entirely their own people in a way. Yet a recreation born solely from your memories might be the first version assembled into a complete whole. In that sense, the version of himself recreated through your memories might become the one thing he spent his entire life searching for—the person he always wanted to be, reflected back to him by the only individual he ever considered his equal.
I think I've probably rambled far longer than I originally intended, but you're absolutely right, SAGAU is one of those concepts that feels almost impossible to stop talking about once you start exploring it.
your cousin's business trip left you with his two little angels and a scheduled appointment to the doctor. only to have your niece and nephew assigned to two different pediatricians?!
pediatrician! phainon x fem! reader x pediatrician! qifrey
word count: 2.2k
note: i am no doctor and medical professional, most of the words and scenarios in here are from my research while making this fic (and also from the ungodly amount of hours i spent watching medical shows in my free time)
“Coco, Caelus, behave!” You dragged your whining niece and nephew inside the children's hospital despite their tantrums.
“Nonono! No doctor!” Little Caelus cried, holding on to his little garbage can plushie. “Nooo… Noooooo…” Little Coco sniffles sadly, trying to wipe her snot on her fuzzy brushbuddy toy.
This has been going on for a few minutes already. After your cousin went on a business trip three days ago, these two little angels have been giving you the best time of your life.
And nobody told you that these kids need a check-up!
So with a grumbling sigh, you dragged the two crying children to the receptionist. “Excuse me, these two here are scheduled for a check-up.” you nudged a look down at Coco and Caelus, much quieter now but with a bit of snot running down their noses.
“Coco… Caelus…” The receptionist chimed, her hands clacked on the keys as she shuffled through the appointments in the monitor screen. “Oh! Coco and Caelus.”
“They're two separate doctors.”
You blinked in confusion. Two? Seriously?
“What? Why two?” The question came out condescending, but the receptionist just sighs. “We're so sorry, there's been a few shuffles on the doctors lately. But, rest assured, the documents and details of the children submitted are with their assigned doctors.”
The explanation immediately got into you—so to just get this whole appointment over with, you nodded in agreement. “Alright, who are these doctors anyway?”
“Let me see…” The receptionist squinted her eyes. “Miss Coco is assigned to Doctor Qifrey… As for Caelus…” She scrolls her mouse a bit lower. “He's assigned to Doctor Khaslana.”
“And the time?” another few seconds of scrolling.
“Oh Caelus can be taken in now, Coco’s appointment is in thirty minutes.”
With the time determined; gently, you picked Coco up and gave her a gentle smile. “Will you be a good girl and stay here with miss receptionist, Coco?”
Coco nods quietly, her arms tightly held on to her brushbuddy toy. “Mmkay..”
Now that Coco is settled, you placed her down a chair for children and picked Caelus up, his one hand holding on to his garbage can plushie while the other desperately held on to your neck. “I'm scared..”
“It's okay, Caelus.” You gently pat his head and calmly walked to the room labeled ‘Doctor Khaslana || Open’
“Excuse me..” Your knuckles gently knocked on the door, followed by a “Oh come in!” as you turned the knob and went in.
The room was… calming to say the least. The doctor's desk remained near the door, but the room served a little nook for children. Tiny chairs on the corner coming in yellow and purple colors; the nook with a cute wheat field wallpaper, with tiny wooden toys like swords, shields, and spears kept on the corner.
Doctor Khaslana should supposedly be in his chair but he's also there on the nook—tidying up remaining toys. “Please give me a second.” He playfully hummed.
“There.” A second passed as he stood up and turned, only then did you realize that this guy is tall as a tower…
“Good afternoon! I'm Doctor Khaslana.” He gazed at you for quite a few seconds, then finally at little Caelus. “Hey little buddy.” Khaslana crouches to meet the little boy in the eye. “Call me Phainon, alright?”
“Fai…nun..” Caelus shyly mumbles and it seemed to make Phainon laugh. “Haha! Just like that!” He ruffled the kid's hair.
He stood up once more and offered to shake your hand. “A wonderful pleasure to meet you. Let's sit?” He smiles and offers you the seat nearest to his chair.
This doctor has gotta be nuts. You thought, because who honestly would waste such handsome looks for pediatrics?!
Still, you cannot deny that this doctor is awfully handsome, how old is he–twenty-five? twenty-eight?
“I'm twenty-eight.” Phainon blurts out, while writing on the patient records. “I mean… If you're wondering…” He sheepishly smiles.
You cannot deny the warmth creeping up your cheeks, was this room always this hot? Even with the air conditioner set on a pretty cold temperature, the smile that Phainon just gave you was enough to make you feel even just a teensy bit self-conscious.
“So! Little Caelus…” Phainon darts his gaze back to Caelus who surprisingly, stops looking anxious and is staring brightly at Phainon. “This is my little buddy.” He takes his stethoscope with a grin. “His name is Neikos! Is it okay if me and Neikos give you a little check?”
Another surprising feat as Caelus nodded eagerly, the persuasion proved to be effective as the little boy hands you his trash can plushie and extends his arms to Phainon, demanding uppies.
“Good job!” Phainon pats Caelus’ head, as he begins simple check-ups.
“You're really good with kids.” You expressed your awe over his amazing skill of making kids safe.
“Thank you, they did say I'd make a great dad.”
Phainon snickers softly, giving you a subtle glance as he focuses back to Caelus; still quiet and behaved.
It didn't take long for the check-up to finish, Phainon asked you basic questions about Caelus’ growth, appetite, and his sleeping habits.
“Very well, he doesn't have any complications.” Phainon puts his stethoscope to rest and smiles at Caelus. “Good work!” He raises his hand to give the boy a high-five.
“Since you've done so well, have a candy.” Phainon takes a tiny candy from his sweets jar and hands it over to Caelus, the little boy smiling with glee. “I'll talk to your mom for a second, okay? Look at those toys, wanna play with them?” Phainon coos and points to the children's nook, and without a sliver of hesitation, Caelus runs to the nook and starts playing with the toys, giving his garbage can plushie a toy sword.
The statement caught you off guard. A mom? You've heard a lot of misconceptions but you've never had anyone assuming that you're these two little kid's mothers..
“They're so adorable.” Phainon chuckles and gives you his full attention. “So what were we saying?–ah yes right.” He fixes his posture and looks you straight in the eye. “Caelus has no complications, give yourself a pat in the back, you're a great mom.”
“Oh I'm not his mom.. I'm his aunt.” You immediately protested, trying to brush off the awkwardness you felt after hearing his assumption.
“Oh really?” As if that reply made Phainon's face beam in joy. “Not mom?? Just aunt???” He double checked with a question, his face seemed to soften and lean closer. And to answer him, you nodded, a joyous grin elicited from his face soon after.
“Wonderful!–ahem..” He bashfully clears his throat. “Since Caelus has no problems, I won't have to give a prescription for anything.” He takes a prescription paper and writes.
“Here. Open it when you get home.” Phainon hands you the paper, both your hands lingered with a touch when you took the paper from his large hands.
“Thanks..” That familiar heat went up to your cheeks once more, to save yourself from embarrassment, you cleared your throat and called the little boy. “C'mon Caelus, it's time to go.”
Caelus gets up and grabs his plushie, clinging back to you as he gives Phainon a big wave. “Buh bye Fainun!” He hails as Phainon returns it with a cheeky grin. “Bye bye little buddy!”
When the doors went shut, you silently squealed in relief. That has got to be some kind of punishment. You've seen a share of handsome doctors in your life but Phainon? He knows he's hot.
Out of desperation to keep yourself intact, you slapped your cheek and moved on.
Now that Caelus is done, it's Coco's turn. You walked back to the chair you made Coco sit in. “Hey Coco it's time–”
Coco is nowhere to be found, the chair left abandoned as the panic starts to seep in. Where could Coco have gone?
“Coco? Coco!!” You call out, eyes frantically searching and prancing around while Caelus starts to get anxious. “Coco??” The little boy calls out as well.
A few seconds passed with no response anywhere until finally… “Auntie!” A little squeak caught your ears.
You snapped your head to the direction of the voice and saw Coco, smiling with her brushbuddy in her hands. A taller man held her in his arms, smiling gently as he approached them.
“Oh, are you Coco’s guardian?” The man asks, eyeing you intently from head to toe. You spared him a look and checked the tag on his coat. Qifrey.
“I'm Coco's doctor.” Qifrey puts Coco down, the two little children reuniting and hugging. “Waaah! Coco!” Caelus whines. “It's okay Cae! Mister Qifrey took care of me!” She tugs on Qifrey’s coat.
“You shouldn't be leaving children unattended like that.” Qifrey added, his tone laced with disappointment. “I am deeply sorry… But thank you for taking care of Coco too..” You looked at Coco ashamed.
Qifrey was right, you should've just brought Coco inside with Caelus during his check-up. They're both children, even if this was a children's hospital, you shouldn't leave a child unattended.
“No worries, but you should be saying that to Coco.” He glances at Coco who pats your hand. “I'm okay auntie… Thank you! Mister Qifrey is very nice!” The little girl assures you and pats your leg after.
“Shall we come in?” Qifrey offers, walking you to the room and opening the door for you. Although that action was quite confusing, doctors aren't exactly opening doors for you. Then why is he doing so?
You brushed off the confusing action and held Caelus and Coco's hands as you walked in—Caelus surprisingly tame now and sits quietly beside Coco after Qifrey offers a chair.
Unlike Doctor Phainon's room, Qifrey’s looked majestic. Stars and magic motifs plastered all over the walls; a little wooden table on a children's nook with small drawing papers and pencils labelled ‘magic pens’. Little story books on a purple shelf with fantasy themes and different colored dragons for book covers. The nook also comes complete with a velvet colored rug and little toys scattered on the floor.
“Ah pardon the mess… I just had one of my patients come in earlier and play with it… “ He smiles in embarrassment. “Ah Tetia, seriously…” He mumbles and fixes his seat.
“Alright, Coco is the patient, right?” At the mention of her name, Coco gets up and smiles “Yes! It’s me!”
Qifrey takes his stethoscope and looks gently at Coco. “Let's check you up, okay Coco?” His voice envelops the room, soft and gentle.
Carefully, Qifrey checks all of Coco’s vitals, heartbeat, height, and several questions about her wellbeing.
“For an auntie in charge, you're taking care of your nephews and nieces quite well.” He hums while writing on the patient record. “Coco is free of any complications.”
“Though I must say she's quite the fast learner, independent too.” Qifrey observes Coco who is now playing and drawing little circles on the drawing paper, copying the sigil on one of the dragon story books while Caelus stared at the book, drool slowly dripping.
“Ah yeah, she really likes to draw too.” You chuckle, attention also seemingly drawn to Coco.
Qifrey puts his pen down. “So you are aware.” The sound of his desk opening caught your ears, turning to look at him, he wrote on a small piece of paper and handed it to you.
“I’ll give you this, just in case you need a chart of how you'll track Coco’s growth.” He swiftly slid the paper on to your hands, his slender fingers intertwining with yours as he dips the paper in, eye contact with yours never breaking even for a second.
Qifrey offers you a flirty smile, his fingers slowly stroking your palm he pulls away.
The stare made you bashful, on equal par with the charming smile that Doctor Phainon gave you earlier.
What is up with handsome doctors in this children's hospital? Do you need the word ‘handsome’ in your resume to be qualified?
“Coco, it's time to go.” Qifrey stands up from his seat, leaving you flustered and confused as he approaches Coco and Caelus. “Is it time already?” Your niece pouts, but all Qifrey did was give a smile.
“Unfortunately, yes. I also have other little kids to take care of.” He picks Coco and Caelus up like they weighed nothing. “I gave your auntie something, ask her sometime if you want to talk ‘kay?”
Coco nods over his explanation, Caelus on the other hand stares back at you. “Home?” he asks.
“Yes, home.” You took Caelus from Qifrey's arms and held Coco by her hand with her brushbuddy in her pocket when she's placed down.
Qifrey holds the door open for you to walk out of “Thank you, Doc.” you offered a shy smile and walked out.
“Doctor Qifrey is so cool!!” Coco exclaims while walking down the hallway to the elevator. “He's so nice!”
Caelus wriggles out of your arms and walks beside you, holding your hand. “Doctor Fainun! Cool..!” He exclaims.
You can't help but laugh at the cute reactions your little nieces and nephews expressed. It seems that their doctors really caught their hearts and minds.
When you got home, the ‘prescription’ paper that Doctor Phainon gave and the note Doctor Qifrey handed you immediately crossed your mind.
While Coco and Caelus sat in the living room watching television, you opened both papers in unison.
[xxxxxxxxxxx It's my personal number, call me if you have any questions about Caelus… Or me <3 -Phainon Khaslana, Caelus]
[Here's my number if you ever want coco to talk to me, you're welcome to do so as well. xxxxxxxxxxx -Doctor Qifrey, Coco's Pediatrician]
notes: ah yes the concept of phainon and qifrey being pediatricians just sounded too good that i just had to make a lil fic abt it and also bc this was inspired from a recent medical mission i participated in and the pediatricians there were also good looking LOL (i totally wasn't giggling while writing this fic)
Officially announcing that, as of today, I am absolutely obsessed with these two 🛐
(If anyone knows the artist of this artwork, plz let me know)
I'm absolutely dying to write about yandere Qifrey. I'm open to any ideas in my inbox. Set my imagination ablaze with your fiery ideas, my sweet little donuts, and I'll reward you 🌚💙💙💙 (Bonus points for Brushbuddy)
As someone whose very first anime/anime crush was Inuyasha, I have a soft spot for white-haired animated men, and Qifrey is hitting all the right boxes for me, especially given his... range
here's an idea: yandere Qifrey who's just a liiiittle too fond of his new adult apprentice... just a little too eager to have the opportunity of teaching you magic as an excuse to spend time with you
"The best way to learn magic is to incorporate it into your everyday life!" says the man who uses this as a justification to GLUE himself to you to cater to his your every curiosity, to answer any possible question you may have about ANYTHING. He is constantly finding some sort of reason to be around you, always finding something new to teach you or talk to you about
It would be oh so convenient for him if you had a situation similar to Coco's where you're either an outsider or an unpracticed witch who, through an accident with magic or maybe even an encounter with a certain cult of Forbidden Magic users, has lost your home and needs a new place to stay, provided by none other than Qifrey himself. Why, after such a horrible ordeal, you'll especially need his company to help cheer you up and keep you in good spirits, won't you?
Any involvement with the Brimmed Caps is also more ammunition for him to justify his actions and behavior to anyone who may question his intentions. No no no, you see, he simply MUST be sure to maintain a constant vigil over you, because what if those evil witches were to return to target you? Isn't tracking them down and stopping them more important than some... 'perceived peculiarities in his behavior towards you'?
Of course, it would also be particularly sinister if this man who knows a thing or two about keeping secrets were to also have access to any sort of thing - say, perhaps a spell- that could do something crazy like, i dunno, alter your memories, maybe even erase them leaving you none the wiser?
An unfortunate discovery as you stumble upon certain 'art' of his involving you and particularly intimate areas of your body? Forgotten. You accidentally let out a shocked gasp while eavesdropping on a conversation where another person accuses your teacher of being a creep and you suddenly see some of his actions in a significantly less flattering light? No, that didn't happen. A confession of his undying devotion and love that ends with total rejection and a lost of trust? Consider that memory wiped clean for this selfish spellcaster to someday try again
Qifrey will bite his tongue and yearn for you in silence, wiping your mind as many times as it takes as long as it maintains your friendship. Whatever it takes to keep you close. Whatever it takes you keep you safe. Whatever it takes to keep you his.
synopsis: you and satoru gojo absolutely do not have a thing for each other. you only spend time together because of your shared affection for his dragon. at least, that’s what you keep telling yourself—because there’s no way you’d ever fall for the most insufferably cocky, sharp-tongued, ridiculously charming dragon rider on the entire isle of berk… right?
alternatively, in which a dragon plays matchmaker and you save satoru’s ass.
tags: fluff, mild angst, smut (oral sex, unprotected sex, fingering, riding), action, frenemies to lovers, how to train your dragon!au. pining, idiots to idiots in love. profanity, injuries, blood, reader almost drowns, etc.
word count: 16.1k
a/n: art by _3aem on x. reposted from my old blog :)
“Piss off, Gojo.”
Satoru Gojo does not piss off. You’re fairly certain he doesn’t know how to. It’s stitched into his DNA, being an annoying twat on the good days and an all-round prick on the others.
“I would,” he says. “But Sukuna really wanted head pats and for whatever reason, he thinks mine are unsatisfactory.”
The aforementioned Sukuna, of course, refers to his dragon—the last-remaining Night Fury on the Isle of Berk.
“You couldn’t have picked someone normal to bond with?” you ask the dragon.
Sukuna blinks slowly, entirely unfazed, then shifts his massive head a fraction closer to your shoulder. His scales catch the sunlight like dark, wet marble, but the way he’s leaning into you gives him all the menace of a particularly clingy housecat. A housecat with fire breath, razor claws, and the ability to level a village if he ever got bored enough.
Satoru, stretched out on the grass beside him, grins. “Don’t blame Sukuna,” he says, resting his weight back on his palms like he owns the hill, the sky, the whole bloody island. “He can’t help liking you better.”
“Everyone likes me better.”
“Mm. Bold claim.”
“True claim,” you retort. You scratch absentmindedly under Sukuna’s jaw, right where the scales give way to smooth skin, and he lets out a deep, throaty rumble of pleasure. It vibrates through the ground beneath your feet, a sound that would send most of Berk sprinting for the hills. You barely flinch. He’s impossible not to soften toward—something Satoru has weaponised far too often.
“I’m just saying,” Satoru drawls, “you might be his favourite person on the island.”
“He doesn’t have many options,” you say.
“Wow. And here I thought we were friends.”
You roll your eyes. “We are not friends.”
“Acquaintances?” he tries, silver hair glinting in the sunlight and blue eyes far too bright and mischievous and knowing.
“Barely.”
“Brutal,” he says. “You talk to all your barely-acquaintances this much?”
“Only the ones who refuse to shut up.”
“That’s most people, though.”
“Maybe you’re the problem,” you shoot back.
It’s exhausting, really, how he manages to talk in italics, every word tilted just enough to keep you bristling. He’s the single most aggravating man on the entire Isle of Berk—and that’s saying something, considering the place is full of dragon riders who think personal boundaries is a suggestion, not a rule.
You’d like to say you hate him. Really, you would. It would make things simpler. But hate implies he occupies actual space in your head, and the problem—the infuriating, inescapable problem—is that you refuse to give him the satisfaction.
“Why are you even here?” you demand finally, because you’ve learned the only way to deal with Satoru Gojo is to stay on the offensive.
“Sukuna wanted pats,” he repeats.
“Pretty sure Sukuna can find his own way here.”
“Yeah,” Satoru says, grinning wider, “but I can’t.”
You blink. “Are you—are you implying you used your dragon as an excuse to see me?”
“No,” he says immediately, dragging the vowel out. “Definitely not. I have so many better things to do.”
“Name one.”
He opens his mouth. Closes it. Thinks for a second. “…Patrolling?”
“That’s not better.”
“Depends on who you ask.” He falls back fully onto the grass, folding his arms behind his head, one long leg bent at the knee. The picture of ease, like he hasn’t just dropped the suggestion that he wanted to see you and then refused to elaborate. Like he hasn’t steadily been driving you insane since the day you met him.
The wind shifts over the hill, carrying with it the salt of the distant sea. Berk stretches out below—scattered houses of stone and timber, smoke curling from chimneys, dragons wheeling in the sky above the watchtowers. Out past the cliffs, the ocean flashes silver under the sun, calm for now but never for long.
“Illegal trapping’s been getting worse,” Satory says idly after a moment.
You glance at him. “And yet you’re here annoying me instead of dealing with it?”
“Hey, I’m off-duty.”
“You’re never off-duty.”
“True,” he admits, shameless. “But my boss doesn’t need to know that.”
You roll your eyes. The boss in question is Yaga the Vast, chief of Berk, who has approximately zero patience for stragglers like Satoru and yet, somehow, keeps putting him in charge of things anyway. Probably because when he isn’t being insufferable, Satoru is annoyingly good at his job.
Sukuna shifts closer again, massive head nudging your shoulder with a low whuff. The force of it nearly knocks you off balance.
“He’s so needy,” you mutter, scratching under his jaw again.
Satoru props himself up on his elbows to watch. “You love it.”
“Do not.”
“Do too.”
“Do not.”
“Do—”
“Finish that sentence,” you warn, “and I swear I will throw you off this hill.”
He smiles, unbothered. “Can’t, gorgeous. Sukuna would just catch me.”
“Shame,” you say.
Sukuna rumbles again, louder this time, as if laughing at the both of you. Which is ridiculous, obviously. Dragons don’t laugh. Probably. You’re still scratching absentmindedly at his jaw when the shout comes from below the hill.
“Gojo! We’ve got movement near the cliffs!”
It’s one of the younger riders—Yaga’s apprentice, maybe. You don’t remember his name. He’s sprinting uphill, out of breath, waving both arms wildly.
Satoru sighs. “And here I was enjoying my day off.”
“Trappers?” you ask, already knowing the answer.
“Yeah.” He pushes to his feet. “Looks like it.”
The apprentice finally reaches the top, panting. “They spotted nets near the west cliffs,” he manages. “Could be setting up for a catch.”
Satoru dusts off his hands lazily, as though he hasn’t just been summoned to go handle the exact kind of people who would love to get their hands on a Night Fury. On Sukuna. You glance at the dragon, who’s gone very still beside you. His tail flicks once, sharp and restless.
Satoru notices too. “Relax,” he tells him softly, before turning that insufferable grin back on you. “Rain check on the head pats?”
“Not my dragon,” you remind him.
He winks. “Technicality.”
With that, he swings easily onto Sukuna’s back, all long limbs and practiced motion, like he was born in the saddle. Sukuna launches into the sky a moment later, wings snapping wide, dust kicking up in their wake. You watch them go, a dark shape against the sunlit clouds, until they’re nothing but a speck over the cliffs.
You’re still staring at the empty sky when the young rider clears his throat.
“Uh… hi,” he says awkwardly. He’s about your age, maybe a bit younger, with a nervous energy that makes you want to pat him on the shoulder and tell him to relax. He’s holding a map, which he’d pulled out of his pocket and now folds and unfolds with frantic hands. “You’re, uh, you’re the mapmaker, right? The one who lives by the sea?”
“That’s me,” you say, forcing yourself to look away from the horizon.
He nods, relieved. “Right. Yaga said to give you this. It’s the new coastline for the north. He said you’d be able to sketch it out better than anyone else.” He holds out the piece of parchment.
You take the map, unfolding it to see the jagged lines and rough sketches of a coastline you haven’t visited yet. The lines are crude, but the general shape is there. “Thanks,” you say. “I’ll get on it as soon as I can.”
“Right,” he says. “So… you and Gojo. You guys are… close?”
You stiffen. The question is innocent, but it feels like an accusation. “No. Not at all.”
He looks skeptical. “He talks about you a lot. Like, a lot lot. Says you’re the only person who can keep up with him.
You fight the urge to groan. “He’s a liar.”
“Yeah, he is.” The young rider laughs, a short, nervous sound. “But I don’t know. It’s weird. He’s always, like, looking for you. Or waiting for you.”
You don’t know how to respond to that. It’s too close to the truth. You just shrug, then look at the map. “I should get going. I have a lot of work to do.”
“Right. See you around, then.” The rider turns to leave, jogging down the hill with a newfound energy, happy to escape the awkwardness.
You look at the map, then at the sky where Sukuna and Gojo disappeared. You can’t stop thinking about the way Gojo smiled when he told you that Sukuna was just an excuse to see you. It was a joke, you know that. He’s always joking, always playing with words. But the way he said it… it felt like there was a kernel of truth in it, a tiny, infuriating admission that you didn’t want to acknowledge.
You trace the lines on the map, but your mind is elsewhere. You’re picturing him, the way he looks when he’s serious, the way he talks when he’s trying to get under your skin. You’re picturing Sukuna, the way he leans into your touch, the way he rumbles with contentment. You’re picturing the two of them, a perfect pair of chaos, a storm of annoying energy.
You shake your head, trying to clear your thoughts. You have work to do, a map to sketch. But you can’t help but wonder if Gojo and Sukuna are okay. You can’t help but wonder what he’ll say the next time you see him.
A soft breeze, smelling of salt and distant rain, carries the sound of Sukuna’s contented rumble. You look up from your work, the firelight from your cottage flickering on the parchment in your lap. The Night Fury, a silhouette against the moon, lands with a soft thud, a dark shadow in the growing dimness. You can’t help the small, reluctant smile that tugs at your lips. It’s a happy sound, that snort of his, and it’s hard not to feel a little bit of warmth toward the gigantic reptile. The smile vanishes the moment you see Satoru Gojo dismount.
He slides off the dragon’s back and lands on the packed dirt with a huff. His silver hair, usually perfectly styled, is now adorned with a scattering of leaves and twigs. He looks ridiculously pleased with himself.
“Looks like you had a hard day,” you say, voice dry. You don’t bother looking up from your map, a new survey of the eastern coast that is proving to be a nightmare of jagged inlets and hidden reefs.
“The hardest,” he replies, walking toward the fire. Sukuna follows, a low purr rumbling in his chest as he nudges your shoulder gently. You stroke the smooth scales under his jaw.
“Did you, by any chance, get your head stuck in a bush?” you ask pointedly.
He laughs. “Just a little turbulence. But don’t worry, it was for a good cause.”
You raise an eyebrow. “Oh? And what’s that?”
“Well, you know,” he says, pulling a stray leaf from his hair. “I had to make sure the trappers didn’t get away. Can’t have them messing up the ecosystem, can we?”
“But your impeccable hair and abysmal flying skills get a pass, I suppose.”
“Priorities, you know.” Satoru sits down on a log across from you, the firelight glinting in his bright blue eyes. “What are you up to? Still drawing pretty pictures of rocks and water?”
“I’m creating an accurate navigational chart for the fishing fleet,” you correct. “So that they don’t end up on the bottom of the sea.”
“Right, right. Important work,” he says. “You’d be a lot faster if you had some help.”
“I’m perfectly fine on my own.”
“I’m just saying,” he drawls, “a second pair of eyes could be useful. Especially mine. They’re very, very good eyes.”
You roll your own. “I’m not interested in your help, Gojo. Or your eyes, for that matter.”
Sukuna, who had been contently nuzzling your shoulder, chooses that moment to let out a slow, mournful sound, as if he understood the conversation and is deeply disappointed by your attitude. He nudges Gojo’s head with his own, then your shoulder again. He goes back and forth, like a pendulum. It’s slightly annoying.
“See?” Gojo says, a smug grin spreading across his face. “Even Sukuna agrees. He thinks we should be friends.”
“Sukuna thinks you should be less annoying,” you counter, reaching out to pat the dragon’s large head. He lets out a low rumble, pleased.
“That’s a matter of opinion,” Satoru says. He leans forward, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “He told me on the way here that he thinks we would make a very handsome couple.”
You snort. “He has terrible taste. You’re lucky he hasn’t left you for a better rider.”
“Impossible,” Satoru scoffs. “I’m the best. And he knows it.”
“And the most modest, too,” you mutter.
Sukuna lets out a deep, throaty rumble, and gently nudges you closer to the fire. The action is subtle, but a piece of your parchment slips off your knee and lands with a quiet rustle on the ground near Satoru’s feet. He bends down to pick it up, his long fingers brushing against yours as he hands it back.
“Clumsy,” he says, but the glint in his eyes tells you he’s not talking about the paper.
You ignore him, focusing on the map, but your hand trembles slightly, and the ink bleeds on the line you’re trying to draw. You let out an exasperated sigh, and Sukuna, with a loud huff, settles down between you and Satoru. It’s a deliberate move. The dragon’s nothing more than a massive, scaly chaperone.
“Look at him,” Satoru says, his voice softer now. “He’s tired. Trappers, you know. They’re more persistent than usual.”
“Did you catch them?”
“Most of them. They had nets—one almost got Sukuna. If he hadn’t been so fast, it would have been a rough night.”
You look at the dragon, who is now snoozing with one eye open, the firelight catching the dark, wet-looking scales on his hide. A sudden wave of protectiveness washes over you, a familiar feeling when it comes to the dragon. But then you look at Satoru, and see the deep weariness in his eyes, the faint lines of stress etched around his mouth, and that familiar wave of protectiveness becomes tangled with something else, something you refuse to name.
“You should get some rest,” you say, the words feeling foreign and heavy on your tongue.
He looks surprised. “Worried about me?”
“I’m worried about Sukuna,” you shoot back, and the warmth in your stomach curdles into a familiar acidity. “He needs his rider to be in top form. The last thing he needs is to be stuck with a tired, insufferable oaf.”
He laughs. “You wound me. But thank you. It’s nice to know someone cares.”
“I don’t care,” you insist, and you know you’re lying. You also know he knows you’re lying. It’s a game you play, a tense, stupid dance.
Sukuna lets out a snort. He flicks his head towards Satoru, then towards you, as if to say, just talk to each other, idiots. You want to kick him. Affectionately, of course.
“Well,” Satoru says. “I suppose I should go. Duty calls and all that.” He stands up, stretching his arms over his head before shaking it.
“You’re going back out?” you ask, a note of alarm in your voice that you can’t control.
“Nah,” he says, smiling a little softer now. “Just kidding. Yaga told me to stay put until morning, ‘cause he said I caused enough trouble for one day.”
You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding.
He reaches down and ruffles Sukuna’s head, though his words are addressed to you. “I’ll be back tomorrow for some more pats, okay?”
Sukuna huffs happily in response.
Satoru turns and walks away, a long, lanky shadow disappearing into the darkness. Sukuna watches him go, then turns his gaze back to you, his garnet-coloured eyes flashing. He nudges your hand again. You know what he wants. He wants you to talk to Gojo. He wants you to go after him.
You sigh. “Don’t look at me like that. I’m not his keeper. I’m not yours, either.”
Sukuna snorts, a clear, exasperated sound, and settles his massive head on your lap. He’s warm, a solid weight of comfort in the cool night. You don’t bother to shoo him away. You simply sit there, under the moonlight, and stare into the dark where Gojo disappeared.
“It’s a fool’s errand,” you say, dropping the rolled-up parchment onto Yaga’s desk with a resounding thud. The Chief of Berk, a man with a beard as formidable as his temperament, looks up from the horn he’s polishing.
“What is?” he asks.
“This,” you say, pointing an accusatory finger at the map. “The north coast. It’s impossible to draw from the ground. I’ve only been there twice, and I spent most of the time trying not to fall to my death. The cliffs are sheer drops. The inlets are jagged and hidden. I need to map it from above.”
Yaga stares at you for a long moment, his gaze unwavering. You hold his stare, a silent challenge. You’ve never been one to back down from the Chief, a fact that both annoys and impresses him.
He sighs. “Fine. You’re right. You’ll need a rider.” He looks around the hall, his eyes scanning for a likely candidate. Your heart sinks into your stomach when he lands on the very last person you want to see.
“Satoru!” he bellows.
Satoru Gojo, leaning against a support beam, in the middle of conversation with Yaga’s apprentice, gives you a little wave.
“Yeah, boss?” he calls out.
“You’re taking our mapmaker to the north coast,” Yaga says. “She needs to draw it from the air.”
“Pleasure’s all mine, Chief,” he says, sauntering over to the desk. “North coast, huh? A little chilly for you, isn’t it?”
You resist the urge to punch him. “I’ll manage. Let’s just get this over with.”
He claps his hands together. “Excellent! My calendar is wide open.”
The next morning is cold and brisk. A light mist hangs over the village, and the air smells of wet stone and woodsmoke. You’re waiting by the flight academy, a satchel slung over your shoulder and your sketchbook clutched in your hands. You’ve been waiting for ten minutes, which is ten minutes longer than you’d like.
Just as you’re about to turn and leave, you hear a loud, familiar whoosh of wind and the deep, throaty rumble of a Night Fury. Sukuna lands right in front of you. Satoru leers at you, seated on his back.
“Ready to fly, gorgeous?” he asks.
“I’m ready to get this done,” you correct.
You climb onto the dragon’s back, settling behind him on the saddle and placing your sketchbook and charcoal pencils carefully in your lap. Sukuna lets out a low purr, a rumble that you can feel vibrating through your body. He nudges his head back, giving your hand a soft, affectionate lick.
“He’s excited,” Satoru says. “He loves when we all go out together.”
“He’s excited about the snacks I brought him,” you say, pulling a piece of dried fish from your satchel and holding it out to Sukuna. He devours it in one gulp.
“You brought snacks?” Satoru asks. “For the dragon, and not for your very handsome and talented pilot?”
“You are not my pilot, and you are not getting any of this fish.”
He kicks his feet against Sukuna’s side, and the dragon launches himself into the air. You grip the saddle, your knuckles turning white. The wind whips at your hair and clothes, and you close your eyes for a moment, letting the sensation of flight wash over you. It’s a feeling you’ve never gotten used to, and it’s always a little terrifying, a little exhilarating.
Satoru leans back. “You’re good at this. Not screaming, I mean.”
You grit your teeth. “I’m a mapmaker, not a child. I’m used to dangerous situations.”
“Oh, I know,” he says, and you can practically hear the smirk in his voice. “You’re the one who saved my ass, remember?”
The memory of that night, of his blood on your hands, of the raw fear in your gut, flashes through your mind. You shiver, a cold feeling that has nothing to do with the wind.
“I’d rather not,” you say.
He doesn’t respond. Sukuna, as if sensing the shift in the atmosphere, lets out a low, questioning snort. He banks left, heading toward the northern cliffs.
The gentle, rolling hills of Berk give way to a brutal, unforgiving coastline. The cliffs are dark and jagged, the sea a churning mass of white foam. You pull out your sketchbook and begin to draw.
You work for hours, meticulously sketching every rock formation, every inlet, every hidden cove. You direct Satoru to turn this way and that, and he, for once, doesn’t argue. He lets you work, his body a steady, comforting presence in front of you, ensuring Sukuna’s movements are smooth and controlled.
At one point, you get so focused on a particular series of sea caves that you lean too far over the edge of the saddle, and almost lose your balance. A long, strong arm wraps around your waist, pulling you back against a warm, solid chest. You stiffen, your body rigid with surprise.
“Careful,” Satoru whispers, his breath warm against your ear. “Don’t want you falling to your death.”
You push him away, heart pounding. “I had it under control.”
“Sure, you did.”
Sukuna lets out a low, knowing chuff, a sound that makes you want to smack him. You ignore him, focusing back on your drawing, but it’s hard to stop thinking about the feeling of his arm around your waist, the warmth of his body against yours.
“You’re quiet,” he says after a while.
“I’m working.”
He hums. “Right. I just thought, you know, we could talk. Get to know each other. Since we’re going to be hanging out more often, we might as well be friends.”
“We are not going to be friends,” you say for what feels like the hundredth time.
“We are,” Satoru says. “We’re a team. You and me. And Sukuna, of course.” He reaches forward and strokes the Night Fury’s head, and the dragon rumbles with contentment.
“He’s your dragon,” you mutter.
“He likes you, too. More than me, I think,” Satoru says, and there’s a flicker of something in his voice—something soft and genuine—that makes you look away from your sketch and at him instead. His eyes are fixed on you, a strange mixture of warmth and… something else. You can’t quite place it.
You look away, your heart pounding again. You can’t handle this. You can’t handle this man, this dragon, this strange, dangerous intimacy that has sprung up between you.
You land back in the village as dusk is falling. The air is colder now, and the stars are beginning to peak out. You slide off Sukuna’s back, your legs shaky from the long flight. You feel a hand on your arm, steadying you.
“You did good,” Satoru says.
“So did you,” you say.
He smiles, a real smile, one that reaches his eyes and makes them crinkle at the corners. It’s a smile that you realise you haven’t seen very often. It’s a smile that makes the hollow cavity inside your chest where your heart lies skip a beat.
You turn away, clutching your sketchbook to your chest. “I’ll bring this to Yaga in the morning.”
“Right,” he says. “I’ll see you around.”
You walk away, but you can feel his gaze on your back. You can feel the warmth of his hand still on your arm. You don’t look back.
You make it to your cottage, but you don’t go inside. You sit on the stone step, your sketchbook still in your hands, and stare at the sky. You think about the north coast, about the cliffs and the caves, but also about Satoru. About the way his arm felt around your waist, about the way his smile made you feel, about the way he wasn’t being annoying for once.
You hear a soft thud. Sukuna stands behind you, a small branch in his mouth. He drops it at your feet. A branch from a Night Fury’s nest. He jabs at your hand with his nose, his eyes fixed on yours.
You know what he’s doing. He’s trying to tell you something. He’s trying to tell you that Satoru is not so bad. There’s a place for you in his life, in their life.
You reach down and pick up the branch, then look back at the dragon. You sigh, a long, drawn-out sound.
“You’re a terrible matchmaker, you know that?” you whisper to him.
Sukuna lets out a low purr and nudges you again. You don’t know what to do. You’re a mapmaker, a person of logic and order, and this man and his dragon are nothing but chaos. There’s absolutely no way anything good could ever come out of this.
“Head pats? Again?” You shoot Satoru an unimpressed glare, though the effect is rather diminished by the fact that you’re hanging upside down, trying to fix a hole in your roof. “At least come up with a better excuse.”
“Can’t. The dragon wants what the dragon wants,” Satoru says. “And what the dragon wants, the dragon gets.”
You grunt, shoving a loose thatch of straw back into place. Your ankles are looped around a wooden beam, your torso dangling over the edge of your cottage’s roof. The world is a strange, inverted place from this angle. The grass is a vibrant green sky, the clouds are a white, fluffy ground. Satoru Gojo’s annoyingly perfect face is floating in the air below you. He’s leaning back, his hands in his pockets, watching you with a smile. Sukuna is a little ways off, chewing on a large branch.
“And what the dragon wants is for me to risk breaking my neck just so you can make a terrible joke?” you ask.
“No, no, the dragon wants head pats,” Satoru corrects, shaking his head. “I’m just here to deliver the dragon to the head pats. A simple go-between.”
“You’re a go-between for your own dragon?”
“Look, it’s a complicated relationship,” he says. “He’s a very discerning dragon.”
You roll your eyes, a motion that makes your head throb. You pull yourself up, muscles straining, and clamber onto the roof. You sit on the ridge, straddling the peak, and pull a loose piece of wood from the hole. The wood is rotten, and the smell of mold and wet earth makes you wrinkle your nose. A sudden gust of wind snatches a loose piece of cloth from the edge of the roof, and you watch as it flutters to the ground and lands directly at Satoru’s feet.
He picks it up and says, “Lost something?”
“It’s just a rag,” you say.
He examines it, shaking it out with a flourish. “Looks like a perfectly good rag to me.”
“It’s not,” you say. “It’s old and worn out. Just leave it.”
He doesn’t. He folds it carefully and places it in his pocket, before walking over to where Sukuna is lying, and pulls out a piece of meat from his saddlebag. He tosses it to the dragon.
“So,” Satoru says. “Roof problems?”
“No,” you say, “I just enjoy dangling from high places.”
He laughs, a clear, loud sound that makes your stomach feel weird. “I get it. You’re a thrill-seeker. It’s one of your many charming qualities.”
“I’m not a thrill-seeker,” you say. “I’m a mapmaker. I prefer quiet, predictable things.”
“Still,” he says, “here you are, hanging from a roof, and here I am, your friendly neighbourhood… well, whatever I am.”
You groan. “You’re a pain. That’s what you are.”
“And you’re my favourite pain,” he says. “You’re the only person on the entire Isle of Berk who doesn’t fall all over themselves to talk to me.”
“That’s because I have a working brain.”
He laughs again, and you find yourself staring at him. He’s leaning against Sukuna’s side, his arms crossed over his chest. His silver hair catches the sunlight, and his bright blue eyes are fixed on you. He’s the most infuriating man you’ve ever met, but you can’t deny that he’s also breathtaking.
You tear your gaze away, a flush of heat creeping up your neck. You turn back to your roof, your hands shaking slightly as you try to hammer a loose piece of wood into place. You miss, and the hammer clatters to the ground, landing with a soft thud on the grass.
“Fuck,” you say, eloquently.
Satoru bends to pick up the hammer, turning it over in his hands. “For someone who claims to like quiet, predictable things, you have a funny way of living on the edge.”
You scowl down at him from the roof ridge. “I’m fixing a hole, Satoru. Not fighting a dragon barehanded.”
“Could be both, if you fall on Sukuna.”
Sukuna, hearing his name, glances up, tail flicking idly. He looks like he’d catch you if you fell. Probably. Maybe. If he felt like it.
“Very reassuring,” you mutter. “Give it back.”
“Come get it,” Satoru says, grinning.
You glare at him. He leans back against Sukuna’s side, one long leg crossed over the other. He looks like he could stay here all day, bothering you from ground level while you slowly lose your mind above him. You wipe the sweat from your brow with the back of your wrist. The sun’s beating down hard, pressing heat into the back of your neck. Your hands are already splintered from the wood, your hair sticking to your cheeks. You have an entire day’s worth of mapping to do but here you are, arguing with Berk’s most irritating dragon rider over a hammer.
“Fine,” you say. “Keep it. I’ll just tell everyone you bullied me into falling off my own roof.”
“But you didn’t fall,” he says. “Yet.”
You wish you could throw something at him. Preferably something heavy. Like a rock. Or maybe the entire cottage.
Instead, you clamber down from the roof ridge to the small platform just under it, wiping your palms on your trousers. From here, the world tilts alarmingly close. Satoru watches your careful descent with the faintest smirk tugging at his mouth.
When you reach the edge, you stretch your hand out. “Hammer.”
He taps it against his chin thoughtfully. “What do I get in return?”
“Your continued survival.”
“Tempting.” He tosses it up, easy and careless, then finally lobs it towards you. It arcs through the air, spinning end over end, and you snatch it out of the air just in time, the impact jolting through your wrist.
“Show-off,” you say.
“You’re welcome,” he says.
You don’t dignify that with a response, instead crawling back to the hole and fitting the new piece of wood into place. The hammer thunks steadily as you nail it down, the sound mingling with the wind and the distant crash of waves against cliffs. Satoru hums something under his breath, a lazy, tuneless thing. It carries upward, curling under your skin despite yourself.
You focus very, very hard on the roof.
When the piece finally holds, you sit back, wiping your forehead again. Your arms ache, your knees are bruised, and you can feel bits of straw clinging to your hair. Glorious, really.
“Done?” Satoru asks.
“For now,” you say.
“Good,” he says, pushing off Sukuna’s side. “Because Sukuna’s patience is running out.”
At the mention of his name, the dragon lets out a short, sharp huff, nostrils flaring. The branch he was chewing lies in two neat halves at his feet. His pupils have gone wide, round as coins—his version of puppy eyes.
You narrow yours. “This is emotional blackmail.”
“It’s effective,” Satoru says cheerfully, already strolling over to you. “C’mon, he’s been waiting all day.”
You glance from the dragon’s enormous, hopeful stare to Satoru’s infuriating grin and feel, very distinctly, like you’re being tag-teamed.
“Fine,” you mutter, hopping lightly off the lower edge of the roof. You land in a crouch, knees absorbing the impact, then stand and dust yourself off. “But only because he asked nicely.”
Satoru bows low, one hand over his heart. “As the humble messenger of the dragon, I thank you for your generosity.”
“Shut up,” you say, but there’s no real heat behind it.
Sukuna lowers his massive head as you approach, scales gleaming like wet stone. He makes a low, thrumming sound as your hand comes to rest between his eyes, the tension in his frame melting instantly. It’s absurd, how such a creature—so powerful, so feared—can melt into warmth at something as simple as a touch.
You scratch behind his jaw, feeling the rumble travel through your palm. “You deserve a better rider,” you murmur, just loud enough for Satoru to hear.
Satoru presses a hand to his chest. “Wounded. Absolutely gutted.”
“You’ll live.”
He leans against Sukuna’s shoulder, close enough that you catch the faint scent of wind and leather and something warm underneath. “You always say that like you’re sure.”
“I could be wrong,” you say sweetly.
“Now who’s emotionally blackmailing who?”
You roll your eyes. The wind picks up again, tossing Satoru’s hair into his eyes. He doesn’t move to fix it, just grins at you through the mess like he knows exactly what kind of picture he makes—irritatingly golden in the sunlight, with the dragon at his side and the whole damn world under his heel.
“You really are full of yourself,” you say finally.
He tilts his head. “Takes one to know one. Speaking of which, did I tell you about the trappers that thought they actually had a chance against Sukuna? Even I don’t stand a chance against Sukuna, and that’s saying something.”
“Trappers?” You raise an eyebrow, keeping your hand moving against Sukuna’s scales. “I thought you lot scared them off two weeks ago.”
“We did,” Satoru says. “Or so we thought. But the funny thing about pests—” He leans lazily against Sukuna’s massive shoulder, folding his arms. “—is that they always crawl back when you’re not looking.”
You frown, not at him for once, but at the idea of it. “Where?”
“Southern Coves,” he says. “A little group at first—three, maybe four men. We figured they were amateurs, probably thought they’d make their fortune dragging a few Terrible Terrors back in cages. Easy enough. Send them running, burn a net or two. Job done.”
The way he says it—casual, dismissive—doesn’t sit right with you. It rarely does, when Satoru Gojo talks about problems like they’re inconveniences rather than… well, problems.
“But then?” you prompt.
“But then,” he says, drawing out the words, “we found another group. Bigger. With better equipment. Steel nets, reinforced cages, the whole shebang.”
Your hand stills against Sukuna’s jaw. “Reinforced cages?”
“Mhm.” He tilts his head, watching your reaction like it’s more interesting than the story itself. “Not something you find lying around unless you’ve got coin. Or connections. Or both.”
Sukuna shifts beneath your touch, nudging his head into your palm like he can sense the tension in your shoulders. You scratch harder, both to soothe him and yourself. “That doesn’t sound like a coincidence,” you say.
“It doesn’t sound like much of anything,” Satoru counters flippantly. “Could just be a few desperate men pooling what they’ve got. Could be something else. Either way, we’re keeping an eye on it.”
“And by we you mean…”
“The riders. Me, Suguru, Kento, Haibara—the usual.”
You narrow your eyes. “You mean the same group that considers dive-bombing into cliffs a legitimate training exercise?”
“Worked out fine for me,” Satoru says with a shrug.
“Everything works out fine for you,” you shoot back.
That earns you a flash of his grin—bright, boyish, and infuriating. But it fades, just a little, and he says, quieter, “Doesn’t always.”
It’s the kind of admission that makes your stomach twist, because it’s true. Riders don’t always come back. Dragons don’t always survive. Trappers—real trappers, the kind with coin and steel and a hunger that isn’t easily sated—don’t play fair.
You exhale slowly. “You think they’re after Sukuna.”
“Everyone’s after Sukuna.” He says it like it’s a joke. “Last Night Fury, blah blah blah. People can’t help themselves.”
You glance at Sukuna. His pupils are still round, content beneath your touch, but his tail lashes once, like even he knows the weight of those words. A rare thing: fear dressed up as restlessness.
An unease worms its way beneath your ribs. It feels like the calm before a storm, the air just a shade too still, the sea too quiet. The trappers Satoru described don’t seem like scavengers chasing scraps. They’re organised. Equipped. Waiting for something—or someone. You hate it. You hate that Satoru can stand opposite you, hands tucked in his pockets, as though the world isn’t about to tip over its edge.
“You should be more worried,” you say finally.
“I worry plenty.”
“You don’t act like it.”
“Would it help if I wrung my hands and wept dramatically at your feet?”
“I’d pay good money to see that,” you say automatically. Sukuna nudges you again, harder this time, nearly knocking you off your feet. You steady yourself with a laugh that comes out thinner than you’d like. Satoru watches the two of you, his smile softened into something that almost looks like thought. Then, just as you’re about to ask another question, a shrill whistle splits the air from somewhere down the hill.
“Show time.” Satoru straightens, stretching his arms overhead. “Sounds like they’ve spotted another group near the coastline.”
Your stomach sinks. Already?
Satoru clicks his tongue, turning back to Sukuna. “Up, big guy.”
The Night Fury rises in a smooth, graceful motion, all coiled muscle and gleaming scales. His wings snap open, blotting out the sun for an instant, and you step back instinctively. Satoru sings into the saddle. He doesn’t look at you until Sukuna’s already crouching low, ready to launch.
“Don’t worry too much,” he says. “We’ve got it handled.”
“You don’t know that.”
He grins down at you. “Sure I do. I’m me.”
“Again?” You stare at Yaga the Vast like he’s sprouted another head—which, considering the man’s already broad shoulders and beard thick enough to hide a small family of sparrows, would be quite a sight. “You want me to map out the north coast again?”
“Yes,” Yaga’s voice rumbles, his arms crossed over his chest. The firelight in the great hall casts half his face into shadow, making him look even more immovable than usual. “But this time, you go deeper. Past the cove, beyond the breakers, to the inlets we’ve yet to mark. Unless we map out our neighbouring areas, how will we be able to defend Berk?”
You blink slowly, as if stalling will make the task shrink back into sanity. “Defend Berk from what, exactly? The world’s deadliest flock of puffins?”
“From anyone who thinks Berk is ripe for the taking,” Yaga replies. His thick fingers drum against his arm. “We can’t pretend we’re isolated forever. Already, the trappers sniff at our borders.”
You mask the prickle of unease that shivers down your spine with a scoff. “So your solution is to send me to traipse along the most dangerous stretch of coast known to dragon or man?”
“You won’t be alone. Take that scoundrel of a dragon rider with you.”
You groan, dragging both hands down your face. “Not him.”
“As if there were any other scoundrel I could mean,” Yaga says, almost indulgent.
“Satoru Gojo,” you say, lowering your hands and scowling, “is less of a companion and more of a—what’s the word—parasite. Loud, obnoxious, impossible to get rid of once he latches on.”
“He’s effective,” Yaga says.
“He’s insufferable,” you say.
“Both can be true,” he says. “And if you want Berk defended, if you want us to have some place to safely hide, or if you want your precious maps to mean something, you’ll take him with you. End of discussion.”
You gape at him, outrage coiling hot in your chest. But before you can muster a reply sharp enough to singe even Yaga the Vast’s vast beard, a familiar voice cuts through the hall.
“Did somebody say my name?”
Of course. Speak of the devil and his Night Fury, and both shall appear.
Satoru Gojo strolls in; his hair is a windswept mess of silver, his tunic is half-untied, and there’s a cocky grin already plastered on his face. Sukuna pads in behind him, the great black beast moving silent as shadow, his eyes glowing faintly in the dim hall light.
“Perfect timing,” Yaga says. “You’ll be escorting our mapmaker along the north coast. Deep waters. High cliffs. Dangerous territory. See to it that she comes back alive.”
“Yes, boss,” Satoru replies. His gaze slides to you, and his grin widens. “Couldn’t stay away from me, huh?”
Your hands curl into fists at your sides. “Believe me, if I had a choice between this and swimming naked through eel-infested waters, I’d be halfway to drowning by now.”
“Romantic. You always know how to make a man feel wanted.”
Sukuna rumbles low in his throat, the kind of sound that could be a laugh if dragons were capable of such a thing. You swear he’s mocking you, too.
Yaga heaves a sigh. “Enough. The pair of you leave at dawn. Supplies will be waiting at the stables. Make sure you chart everything—caves, currents, shoals, nesting grounds. The more detail, the better.”
You open your mouth to argue, to plead, to hurl one last desperate objection into the flames. But Yaga fixes you with the kind of look that ends battles before they begin. You clamp your jaw shut.
“Fine,” you mutter. “At dawn.”
“Looking forward to it,” Satoru says brightly, clapping you on the shoulder. “You, me, the sea, a few deadly cliffs. It’ll be fun.”
You glare at him. “You have the worst definition of fun I’ve ever heard.”
He leans down, so close you catch the faint scent of leather and salt. “That’s because you haven’t tried my kind of fun yet.”
Before you can throttle him, Yaga clears his throat. “Gojo,” he says. “I want your usual post-mission report for this one as well. How Sukuna flies, how he fights—everything. Not a single detail should be omitted.”
“Not just that,” Yaga presses. “Every maneuver. Every burst of speed. How he responds under pressure. The trappers are adapting. If they’ve learned to counter one type of dragon, they’ll learn to counter another. We need to be ready.”
“Of course, boss.”
Satoru says it so confidently that it makes you want to hit him with the nearest tankard. He doesn’t care about reports—he’s probably never written anything down properly in his life—but somehow Yaga keeps trusting him with “observations” and “evaluations.” And somehow those “reports” always end up getting him exactly what he wants: more freedom, more lenience, more time spent to annoy you.
“I’m serious,” Yaga says. His gaze sharpens, sliding briefly to you before returning to Satoru. “I want precision. Not exaggerations, not flourishes. If there are trappers along that coast, I want to know how they move, what they use, where they hide. If Sukuna faces them, I want to know every reaction. Understand?”
It’s subtle, that pause on Sukuna’s name, but it hooks in your gut like a barbed fishing line.
“Your last report,” the chief continued, “was ten pages of what Sukuna ate, and a drawing of your own face in the margins.”
You can’t help it—a bark of laughter escapes you. Satoru grins wider, like he’s proud of the memory.
“Historical accuracy,” he defends breezily. “Someday, bards will want to know I was the handsomest man alive while Sukuna was saving lives.”
Yaga doesn’t look amused. In fact, the firelight catches on the hard planes of his face, casting the deep creases at his brow into shadows that look almost like cracks. “Enough,” he says, but this time there’s a finality to it—like stone slamming into place, sealing a tomb.
You should probably let it go. Keep your head down, accept the assignment, and try not to imagine all the ways you might die tomorrow. But Yaga’s words stick in your ears like thorns. He’s always been thorough, sure, but the way he said it makes something twist uneasily in your gut.
Why does it feel less like he wants a record of Berk’s defenses and more like he wants a catalogue of its weaknesses?
You frown, shoving the thought down before it can root itself. Paranoia. That’s all it is. Spending too much time around Satoru Gojo rots the brain.
“Sir, yes, sir,” Satoru says, snapping a salute. “We’ll chart your cliffs, your caves, your currents, your… cozy little hidey-holes. And if the trappers do come sniffing around, we’ll have a nice little map all drawn up for them, won’t we?”
It’s meant to be a joke. You know it is.
Yaga’s eyes cut to him, sharp and assessing, but then—to your surprise—soften into something close to approval. “Just bring me the report.”
You’re dismissed. Or maybe exiled. Hard to tell with Yaga.
Satoru stretches like a cat as you both step out into the night air, his hair catching silver in the moonlight. Sukuna slips behind him, shadow melting into shadow, only the gleam of his garnet eyes betraying him.
“This is gonna be fun,” Satoru says.
You snort. “You heard him. Reports, details, flight maneuvers—like you’re some glorified scribe. What’s he going to do, publish a book?”
“Who knows? Maybe Yaga just really likes bedtime stories.”
“You’re going to fall if you keep bending over like that.”
The words brush the back of your neck, almost lost to the roar of the wind. Satoru’s voice, of course, because if anyone was going to ruin the thrill of flight over the North Sea cliffs, it was going to be him.
“I’m not bending over,” you snap, leaning forward on Sukuna’s broad back to adjust the rolled parchment strapped at your hip. “I’m securing the maps so they don’t blow away. Some of us actually care about documenting this trip.”
“Mm,” he hums, far too close behind you. “You say that, but it looks a lot like you’re presenting yourself to me.”
You jerk upright so fast you nearly throw yourself off balance. “I will throw you off this dragon.”
Sukuna rumbles beneath you, wings slicing through the wind. The cliffs roll past below—jagged teeth rising from the sea, waves smashing themselves to froth at the base. A treacherous coast, all jagged rocks and narrow inlets, the sort of place even seasoned dragon riders avoided unless they had a death wish. But, you remind yourself, you’re riding with Satoru Gojo. Death wishes are practically stitched into his skin.
“Relax,” he says lazily, shifting so that his chin rests on your shoulder, bold as anything. “If you fall, Sukuna will catch you. Probably.”
“Probably?”
“Eighty percent sure.”
You elbow him hard in the ribs. He laughs. The wind whips against your face, tugging at your hair and lashing past your chin. You should be focusing on the coastline, on the cliff formations and hidden coves Yaga wanted mapped. Instead, you’re stuck with Satoru practically wrapped around you like an overgrown barnacle.
Below, the sea shifts from deep sapphire to frothing white, currents curling against each other in unpredictable swirls. You sketch the outline hastily, balancing parchment on your knee, your fingers stiff from the cold. The smell of salt, the tang of brine—it all presses sharp in your nose, mixing with the faint smoke curling from Sukuna’s nostrils as he exhales.
“You’re making that bay too small,” Satoru says, peering over your shoulder. “It’s at least twice that size.”
Your head snaps towards him. “You’re a dragon rider, not a cartographer. Shut up.”
“I’m just saying,” he says. “If you want this to be accurate, maybe listen to the guy who’s actually looking down at it.”
You jab your charcoal against the parchment with unnecessary force. “I am looking down. You think I’m staring at the clouds?”
“Wouldn’t blame you. They’re very fluffy today.”
You grit your teeth. It’s either throw him off Sukuna’s back or commit to your map and pretend his voice doesn’t grate against your ears.
The coastline curves sharply, forcing Sukuna to bank hard. The sudden tilt knocks your knee against the saddle, the parchment slipping sideways in the wind. You swear under your breath, catching it just before it can flutter away.
“Careful,” Satoru drawls. “Wouldn’t want all your precious squiggles to drown.”
“They’re maps,” you snap, tucking the roll more securely under the leather strap. “Not squiggles.”
Sukuna lurches again, this time with a force that wrenches you off balance completely. One moment you’re clinging to leather straps, the next, you’re weightless—dangling over empty air, your stomach dropping out as the sea roars up to meet you. Your scream is swallowed by the wind.
Cold air slams against your face, your limbs flailing as the ocean surface rushes closer, white spray licking like fangs. You think, absurdly, that this is it. Yaga will get his precious map back water-stained and half-torn, and Satoru will laugh at your funeral pyre.
The sea devours you whole. Salt scorches your mouth, icy shock steals the breath from your lungs, and the water closes like a fist around your ribs. You kick, thrash, but the waves drag you under, tangling your limbs. The North Sea swallows you whole, dragging you down, down, down. Your maps slip free, parchment dissolving into sodden clumps as the current claws them away. Panic claws harder.
Through the blur of bubbles, a shadow streaks above—massive wings cutting the sky. Sukuna. You can just make out the gleam of his scales as he dives, but the current twists you sideways and drags you deeper.
You feel hands.
Hot even through the freezing water, strong fingers hook beneath your arm and haul you against a solid chest. Your head knocks against leather and chainmail. You cling without meaning to, nails biting into Satoru’s sleeve as he kicks upward, legs cutting the water with terrifying strength. The world tilts again, the suffocating weight of the sea giving way to open air as he breaks the surface.
You cough, choking up brine, the cold biting so deep it feels like your bones are splintering. But there’s air—ragged, salty, glorious—and Satoru’s arms are still wrapped around you, keeping you afloat.
“See?” he says, breathless. “Told you one of us would catch you.”
“Shut—” you hack, spitting seawater in his face, “—up.”
With one arm, Satoru signals upward, and Sukuna swoops low, skimming the waves. The dragon’s vast shadow falls over you both, wings slicing the mist. With a smooth, practiced motion, Satoru boosts you toward the saddle. You land gracelessly, half-sprawled, coughing into your sleeve. Sukuna steadies his flight. Moments later, Satoru swings up behind you, water dripping from his hair.
You twist, glaring, salt-stung eyes narrowing. “You dropped me!”
“I saved you,” he says.
“If you’d stop distracting me, I wouldn’t have fallen in the first place.”
“Aw, admit it,” he says, tugging you back against him as Sukuna banks into the wind again. “You wanted me to play hero.”
Your jaw locks. You want to scream, punch him, and shove him straight off Sukuna’s back. But the truth sticks bitter at the back of your throat: without him, you’d be a corpse rolling in the tide right now.
Instead, you grit out, “The only reason you’re still alive is because I’m too cold to kill you.”
“Sure, gorgeous,” Satoru says, far too cheerfully for someone who just dove into the North Sea like a loon. He pats Sukuna’s neck. “Land over there, big guy.”
Sukuna banks again, wide wings slicing through the mist as he angles toward a rocky shelf jutting from the cliffs. It’s not much—a spit of grass clinging stubbornly to stone, slick with sea spray and battered by wind—but it’s flat enough for a Night Fury to perch. The dragon’s claws scrape against the stone before he settles down.
You peel yourself upright, every muscle trembling from the cold. Water streams from your hair and sleeves, soaking into the saddle leather, dripping in miserable rivulets down your legs. You feel like a half-drowned cat.
Satoru swings off Sukuna and immediately shivers, shaking out his hair. Droplets fly everywhere.
“Ah!” You swipe your face with your sleeve. “Do you mind?”
“Not even a little,” he says.
You clamber down less gracefully, boots squelching against stone. The moment your feet hit solid ground, the wind slices through your wet clothes. Your teeth chatter so hard it feels like they might rattle loose.
“Right,” you say, hugging your arms around yourself. “Let’s make this quick. I need to salvage what I can of the map before—”
“Before your hands freeze off?” Satoru interrupts. He crouches to scratch Sukuna’s chin, even though he’s dripping seawater like a broken barrel. “Sorry, cartographer, but your squiggles can wait. We’re both shaking. That’s a fast track to hypothermia.”
“I’m fine.” Your voice wobbles with a shiver. “We don’t have time to—”
“You’re not fine.” He straightens, eyeing you in that annoyingly perceptive way of his. “Your lips are purple. You’re shivering so hard I can hear your knees clacking. Don’t make me be the sensible one here, sweetheart—it feels unnatural.”
You glare. “If I die of cold, I’ll haunt you.”
“Oh, you already haunt me.” His grin softens the jab. “Now, strip.”
“I— Excuse me?” you splutter.
“Your clothes are soaked,” he says matter-of-factly, already tugging at the laces of his tunic. “Wet fabric sucks the heat right out of you. The best thing we can do is get ‘em off, huddle together, and hope Sukuna doesn’t roast us in our sleep.”
You blink at him, scandalised, even as another violent shiver racks your body. “You’re insane.”
“True. But I’m also right.” He pulls his tunic over his head in one easy motion, tossing the dripping cloth onto the stone. The setting sun’s light catches across his bare skin—broad shoulders, pale scars scattered across his abdomen, lean muscle shifting as he moves.
You pointedly do not stare.
“You’re ogling me,” he says.
“I’m glaring at you.”
“Your glare looks a lot like ogling.”
“Die.”
“Already almost did,” he says lightly, wringing out his sleeves. “Your turn.”
Every inch of you bristles at the command. Still, the damp fabric clinging icily to your ribs argues louder than your pride. You peel off your own tunic with stiff fingers, ignoring his wolf-whistle, and spread it on a rock to dry. The wind hits your bare skin, covered only by the slip you’ve worn inside, cold and merciless, goosebumps rising instantly.
Satoru’s eyes flick toward you, lingering longer than you like. He doesn’t comment. Doesn’t need to. The curve of his mouth says enough.
“Don’t you dare say a word,” you warn, hugging your arms over your chest.
“Not one word,” he promises. “Plenty of thoughts, though.”
You groan, dragging your hands down your face. “This is torture.”
“No, this is survival.” Satoru pats Sukuna’s flank, and the dragon obligingly lowers himself, curling his massive body into a crescent. His wings arch inwards, a living shelter against the wind. Heat radiates from his scaled belly.
“See?” Satoru gestures grandly.
You want to argue. You really, truly do. But your legs wobble under you, and the promise of warmth tugs at you. So you crawl into the nook of Sukuna’s body, pressing against his side. Satoru follows, sprawling next to you, then tugging you firmly against him. His skin is startlingly warm, even damp as it is, and his arm slides around your shoulders.
“Move,” you grumble, trying to twist free.
“Nope,” he says, tucking his chin on top of your wet hair. “You’ll freeze.”
“You’re unbearable.”
“So you’ve said. Multiple times.”
You want to snap back, but the heat of him seeps into your skin. Sukuna’s breathing is a thunderous rhythm behind you, the rise and fall of his chest as steady as the tides. Satoru’s warmth presses into your back, his heartbeat steady against your spine.
The shivering ebbs. Your eyelids grow heavy.
You think, just before sleep drags you under, that maybe it isn’t so bad—being held like this, the storm kept at bay by dragon wings and an irritating idiot who refuses to let you drown or freeze. You’d rather die than admit it out loud.
“Oh, my Gods.”
The voice snaps you awake like a slap. Your eyes peel open blearily, gritty from salt and sleep. The first thing you see is scales—Sukuna’s broad, ridged side, still warm beneath your cheek. The second is pale dawn light seeping over the horizon, turning the sea into hammered silver. The third, and the worst by far, is Yaga’s apprentice standing ten paces away, gawking at you like you’ve sprouted a second head.
You jolt upright so fast your skull cracks against Satoru’s chin.
“Ow—fuck!” Satoru lurches back, clutching his jaw. His hair is sticking up in ten different directions, his chest bare, his arm still heavy across your waist. He blinks owlishly, still half-asleep, then follows your line of sight.
“Oh,” he says. “Morning, kid.”
The apprentice—gangly, freckled, barely old enough to grow a proper beard—turns a shade of crimson so bright it could signal passing ships. His dragon, a lumbering Gronckle, looks pointedly in the other direction as though it, too, is practicing modesty. The apprentice’s mouth opens, closes, then opens again. “I—uh—you—Chief Yaga sent me—”
You scramble upright, hugging your damp tunic to your chest as though it might shield you from the apprentice’s wide-eyed horror. “It’s not what it looks like.”
The boy squeaks. “It looks like you and Gojo—”
“It doesn’t,” you snap. Heat crawls up your neck, sharp as the morning chill.
“Actually,” Satoru drawls, still lounging half-naked against Sukuna’s side, “it’s exactly what it looks like.”
You kick him in the shin. He hisses through his teeth but grins anyway. Bastard.
The apprentice makes a strangled sound and stares very hard at the cliffs instead. His ears are scarlet. “Chief Yaga said—he said it was urgent. Two dragons were stolen last night.”
“Stolen?” you ask.
He nods quickly, eyes still fixed anywhere but at you. “By trappers. They slipped past the watch posts by the southern coves. Took a Nadder and a Zippleback. Riders tried to give chase, but they were gone before dawn.”
You freeze, cold in a way seawater could never manage. Images slam unbidden into your head: chains biting into scaled hides, muzzles forced over mouths, wings bound and flailing. Dragons screaming as they’re dragged into cages.
“Shit,” Satoru says, the first hint of sharpness cutting through his lazy tone. He pushes to his feet, water-dark trousers hanging low on his hips. Sukuna rumbles beside him, wings twitching restlessly.
The apprentice swallows, wringing his hands, as his Gronckle hovers above the ground. “The Chief sent me to find you. He said you’re needed immediately—both of you. He was… angry that you weren’t at the watch last night, Gojo.”
You flinch. Angry. Of course he was. You were out here, tangled up in a mess of salt, warmth, and sleep, while dragons were dragged away into darkness. Your stomach knots.
Satoru’s hand brushes yours. “Not your fault,” he murmurs.
You want to believe him. You don’t.
“Which direction?” Satoru asks crisply.
“East,” the apprentice answers. “Towards the mainland, we think. Scouts found broken nets on the tide and claw marks on the rocks, but… there were too many tracks. More than just one ship. It’s—bigger than usual.”
You hug your tunic tighter, your unease curdling into something colder. Too many tracks. Bigger than usual. And Yaga, always conveniently aware of where the trappers struck, always pushing for maps that stretched further, deeper, as though he wanted Berk’s vulnerabilities laid bare on parchment. Something ugly stirs at the back of your mind.
“Great job finding us, kid,” Satoru says. “Go on back, tell Yaga we’re on our way to Berk.”
The apprentice nods and urges his Gronckle away. Silence stretches after his wings vanish into the horizon. The only sound is the crash of waves and Sukuna’s low, restless growl.
You finally tug your tunic over your head, the fabric clammy against your skin. “Two dragons. Gone. While we—” You swallow down the lump in your throat. “While we weren’t there.”
Satoru’s gaze flicks to you. “We’ll find them.”
You want to argue. Want to spill the unease clawing at your ribs—that this isn’t coincidence, that someone is feeding the trappers information, that Yaga’s heavy insistence on maps and watch-posts feels less like defence and more like design. But Satoru swings into the saddle, his hand extended down to you, and all you can do is shove the suspicion somewhere deep down where it won’t choke you.
Later. You’ll think about it later.
The ride back to Berk is wordless. Sukuna cuts through the dawn sky with a speed that makes your bones rattle, the wind lashing your damp hair against your cheeks. The village comes into view—first the crooked rocks of the cliffside, then the smoky thatched rooftops, and finally the wide stone courtyard where riders and dragons gather in knots of uneasy conversation.
Yaga waits at the centre of it all, arms folded across his massive chest. His scowl alone could ward off a sea storm. You’ve seen him angry before, but this—this is something else.
Sukuna’s talons scrape stone. Riders hustle across the square, tightening harnesses, checking saddlebags, shouting clipped reports to one another. Dragons bristle and shift, their restlessness bleeding into their humans. You slide down from Sukuna’s saddle, boots hitting the stones. Satoru follows, rolling his shoulders once.
“Come,” Yaga’s voice booms from the centre. “Where were you?”
“Taking the north coast maps you wanted, remember?” Satoru says. “Thought you’d be proud I was finally listening.”
Yaga’s jaw ticks. “While you wasted time drawing cliffs, two dragons were stolen from right under our noses. A Nadder and a Zippleback. Good, loyal beasts, now likely in chains.”
You open your mouth—an instinctive we didn’t know, we would have been there if—but Yaga’s eyes cut to you, and the words wither in your throat.
“And you,” he says, quieter but no less cutting. “Distracted.”
Your cheeks burn hot as a furnace. You force yourself not to look at Satoru, not to flinch under Yaga’s disappointment.
“Careful, Chief,” Satoru says, stepping forward. “Sounds almost like you’re blaming us instead of the ones who actually stole the dragons.”
Silence. Riders shuffle uneasily at the edge of the square, pretending to busy themselves with tack and gear. Yaga exhales. He gestures with a curt hand, and says, “Enough. We’ve no time for excuses. Gojo, you’ll take Sukuna east. Track the trappers. If they’ve gone towards the mainland, we need to know which paths they’re using. Don’t engage. Don’t be reckless.”
“Reckless?” Satoru echoes. “Chief, that hurts me.”
“It’s meant to.”
Yaga turns to you. You think—hope—he’ll send you with Satoru. You’ve flown the coasts enough times now, you know the currents, the cliffs, the possible landing points. Together, you’d be faster.
“You,” Yaga says instead. “Stay here. The maps you made—finish them. Copy them properly, mark all the coves and hideouts. We’ll need every detail if we’re to tighten our defenses.”
“But—” You start. “With all due respect, I should go too. I was with Satoru when we—”
“No.” Yaga’s eyes harden, the finality in them brooking no argument. “We need accuracy more than we need an extra set of hands in the sky. Your maps will serve Berk better than you will.”
Heat floods your chest: anger, shame, suspicion all jumbled together. The same suspicion that had gnawed at you when the apprentice spoke of too many tracks, bigger than usual. The same suspicion that whispers now: why does he care so much about these maps?
Satoru’s hand brushes yours again, quick, almost hidden. When you glance at him, his expression is unreadable, but his mouth quirks, almost imperceptibly, in reassurance.
“Don’t worry, gorgeous,” he says aloud, stretching his arms. “I’ll bring your lizards back safely. Maybe even some extra, if they’re feeling friendly.”
“Go,” Yaga growls.
Satoru vaults back into Sukuna’s saddle. The Night Fury launches skyward in a storm of wings and air, climbing so fast your stomach flips just from watching. He doesn’t look back, but you feel his absence immediately, like the ground beneath you has shifted.
“Chief,” you try again, forcing the tremor out of your voice, “if there are more ships than usual, if this is bigger than—”
“Finish your maps,” Yaga cuts you off, turning away.
You stand there for a long moment, your fists clenching around nothing, as riders murmur and scatter and dragons snort restlessly at their sides. Something in your gut twists again, sharp and certain. Yaga doesn’t just want you out of the mission. He wants you blind, and you don’t know why.
Satoru Gojo doesn’t arrive back with the rest of the riders and it takes you about four hours to swallow down your pride and admit that something has gone terribly, horribly wrong.
At first, you tell yourself he’s late because he’s lazy. Because he got distracted chasing a gull or decided to nap on Sukuna’s back somewhere over the cliffs. That’s his style, isn’t it? Careless, infuriating, utterly impossible to pin down. But when the other riders return—faces set in grim lines, dragons shuffling uneasily on the packed earth—there’s no trace of him.
The knot in your stomach hardens into stone.
The courtyard empties slowly, mutters and wary glances trailing after you as you linger by the dragon pens. You can’t ask them where he is, not when your throat is tight with fear. You can’t ask Yaga either—at least, not openly, when you already suspect he doesn’t want you to know the answer.
Instead, you find the apprentice.
He’s lugging a basket of fish towards the Gronckle pens, shoulders hunched. You stride over and plant yourself in his path.
“Where’s the Chief?” you demand.
The boy nearly drops the basket, mackerel slopping over the edge. “Wh-what?”
“Yaga,” you say. “Where is he?”
He stammers. “He—uh—he’s in the great hall, I think. With some of the elders. I’m not supposed to—”
You move before he can finish. The great hall looms at the centre of Berk. Its roof rises steeply, carved dragon heads snarling from the beams. The heavy double doors are shut, but a warm glow seeps from the cracks—torchlight, flickering against the chill dusk. You shouldn’t be here. Yaga will flay you alive if he catches you sneaking where you don’t belong. But the thought of waiting, sitting idly while Satoru doesn’t come back doesn’t sit right with you.
You slip inside.
The hall stretches wide and long ahead of you, the walls lined with shields and old weapons that gleam in the light. Long tables stretch out across the floor, empty, a few littered with tankards and scraps of parchment. The far end is dominated by Yaga’s chair, carved from mahogany, massive enough to dwarf even him.
It’s empty.
You turn away from the chair—because on the nearest table is your map.
Or rather, it should be there. The stack of parchment you left after your last session of furious sketching is gone, only a faint smear of charcoal dust staining the wood. The straps you’d used to tie them together still sit at the edge of the table, neatly coiled, but the maps themselves have vanished. Your stomach lurches.
The map of the north coast. The one you risked half your life to sketch, nearly drowned for. Every cove, every inlet, every hidden path marked out in careful strokes of charcoal—gone.
Your hand curls tightly around the strap left behind, the leather cutting into your palm. The room spins, your thoughts snarling into one conclusion: if Yaga has the maps, he didn’t take them to protect Berk. And if he doesn’t have them, then someone else does. And Satoru still hasn’t come back.
You hurry out of the hall, past the empty pens, past the wary stares of villagers who pull their cloaks tighter as you barrel through. The sky is already bruising into night, gulls wheeling overhead in harsh cries that grate against your nerves. You don’t think. You just turn—towards the cliffs, the only place that makes sense. The north coast, where your maps pointed. Where Satoru isn’t supposed to be.
The path narrows as you climb. The wind rises, sharp and cold, tugging at your tunic. The sea roars below, white foam smashing itself against black rock. Each gust shoves at your balance, each step rattles your teeth. You know these paths—you’ve sketched them, charted them—but tonight they feel alien, hostile.
Your lungs burn. Your legs ache. Still, you push forward, clutching your side, muttering curses under your breath.
A shadow moves above you, massive fast, cutting across the purpling sky. The figure drops lower, angling towards you. You stumble to a stop, heart hammering, and tilt your head back.
Sukuna.
The Night Fury flies through the dusk, scales glinting dark blue where the light catches. His cry rips through the cliffs—sharp, haunting, enough to send a flock of puffins exploding from their nests. The wind from his wings slams into you, sending you staggering backwards.
He’s alone. The dragon banks sharply, almost skimming the sea, and you see a saddle still strapped tight, leather dark with seawater, reins dangling loose.
He lands on the cliffs just ahead of you, talons tearing furrows in the stone. His wings flare wide before folding in, each movement rippling with tension. He’s restless, furious, his chest heaving and his tail lashing like a whip.
“Sukuna,” you breathe, your voice cracking.
He turns at once, those twin rings of garnet eyes locking onto you. Recognition flares, but it’s not soft. It’s sharp, wild, like he’s on the edge of bolting right back into the sky. His nostrils flare, smoke curling as he huffs out a growl.
Your legs move before your mind catches up. You rush towards him, arms out, words tumbling uselessly from your mouth. “Where is he? Where’s Satoru?”
Sukuna lowers his head, nostrils flaring again as though scenting the wind. His scales are slick with salt, his wings ragged from the flight, his whole body coiled tight with an agitation you’ve never seen in him before. He paces, restless, claws scraping sparks against the stone. The saddle’s empty. Satoru’s gone.
The thought claws at your skull, frantic and ugly, but you push it down, shove it away, refuse to let it root. “Take me to him,” you say. “You hear me? Take me to him!”
Sukuna freezes. His head tilts, eyes narrowing, sharp and assessing. You think he’ll refuse, that he’ll vanish into the sky without you. But he shoves his massive snout against your shoulder, hard enough to nearly knock you flat. His wings flare again. It’s not an invitation. It’s a command.
Your hands fumble with the saddle’s straps as you clamber up, fingers numb, stomach twisting. The moment you’re seated, Sukuna surges forward, leaping into the air and spreading his wings. The world drops away beneath you, cliffs shrinking, sea spreading endless and merciless below. Wind tears at your face, your hair, your clothes. You clutch the straps tightly, the air freezing your cheeks, your heart slamming so hard you can’t tell if it’s fear or relief.
Sukuna doesn’t soar, doesn’t play with the air currents or bank lazily just to terrify you the way Satoru likes to. He cuts through the night like an arrow, wings beating ruthlessly, each downstroke flinging you forward until your stomach lurches. The North Sea yawns before you, and the cliffs crawl past in uneven shadows.
“Where are you taking me?” you shout, though the wind steals most of it away. Sukuna’s neck stiffens, his flight angled low, purposeful.
The further north you go, the rougher the landscape grows. The cliffs rise higher, crueler, sharpened by centuries of waves gnawing at their base. The moon breaks through the clouds in flashes, silvering the rocks. You’ve charted these shores on parchment, every inlet and alcove, but in the dark, they look unfamiliar.
Sukuna dives. The drop rips the breath from your chest and tears your stomach into your throat. You can only cling and pray as he folds his wings tight and plummets. At the last possible instant, he flares his wings wide, landing with a shuddering crash onto a stretch of uneven stone, claws biting through moss and shale.
You scramble down, your boots skidding on slick rock as Sukuna growls. Ahead, the cliffs hollow into a cove, a natural amphitheatre of stone and sea. Torches burn inside, small orange flames that lick against the rock, wrong against the wild dark.
In the centre of it all: Yaga.
The Chief of Berk stands with his arms crossed, broad shoulders squared and cloak snapping in the wind. His great beard glints ruddy in the torchlight. But it isn’t him that makes your heart stutter. It’s what’s at his feet.
Satoru.
He’s on his knees, wrists bound in thick rope, head tilted at an insolent angle that doesn’t quite hide the blood streaking down his temple. Even half-slumped, gagged with a strip of cloth knotted cruelly between his teeth, he radiates infuriating carelessness—eyes narrowed, expression hovering between boredom and mockery.
You make a sound—something strangled, something useless—and stumble forward, only for Sukuna to block you with a sweep of a wing. He growls again.
“Finally,” Yaga says. His voice booms off the rock, heavy, immovable, the kind of voice that fills halls and commands loyalty. “I was beginning to think you’d abandoned him.”
“What are you doing?” you manage to ask.
“What I should’ve done the moment that creature set foot on Berk.” His eyes cut to Sukuna. “That dragon is too dangerous to be left in the hands of a fool. Or worse, shared between fools. Give him to me, and I may let Gojo live.”
Satoru makes a muffled noise behind the gag, rolling his eyes so hard you half-expect them to stick. You can almost hear his voice anyway: Don’t listen to the old man, gorgeous. He just wants my dragon ‘cause he doesn’t have one of his own.
Your chest feels too small, your pulse hammering against your ribs. “You—you can’t mean that. Sukuna’s not a weapon. He’s not—”
“He’s a Night Fury,” Yaga says. “Do you have any idea what that means? The power he carries? No village could stand against us if he were ours. No trapper would dare threaten us. Berk would be untouchable.”
“He’s not yours,” you say.
Yaga’s gaze flicks past you. “And yet here he stands, listening to your commands. Think, child. You’ve seen the cliffs, the danger at our borders. Berk is one storm away from ruin. I won’t gamble its survival on the whims of a dragon who answers only to Gojo.”
Satoru gives a muffled, derisive laugh that earns him a kick to the ribs. He tips his head back, gag muffling whatever clever retort he tries to spit out.
“Is that why you funded the trappers to surround your own village, Yaga?” you ask, mustering up all the courage you own.
Yaga stills. His boot rests against Satoru’s ribs, his shadow thrown long against the cove wall. His lips twitch beneath his beard—not surprise, not shame. Annoyance.
“You shouldn’t know that,” he says slowly. “The apprentice talks too much.”
“You set them on us. You set them on him.”
A sound splits the night—metal ringing against stone, boots crunching over gravel. From the shadows at the edges of the cove, men appear. Rough-spun leather, ragged furs, nets rolled thick over their shoulders. Their faces gleam with salt and grease, their eyes hungry. Dragon trappers. You know them by the stink alone: fish oil, blood, old smoke. They slip from the dark like wolves, more than a dozen, their movements practiced, circling.
The torchlight catches iron chains coiled in their fists. Hooks. Bolas. Shackles built for wings, not wrists.
“You’re working with them?” you say.
“I’m using them,” the chief says. “They have the means, the tools that I don’t have.”
You think of the maps gone from the hall, the apprentice’s trembling mouth, the sidelong glances of riders who returned without their strongest, without him. Pieces snap into place with a sickening clarity.
“You sold us out,” you whisper again. “You sold him out.”
“I did what I had to. Berk survives because I make hard choices. You, girl—you make sketches. You play at your little maps, but I—I see storms on the horizon. Dragons beyond counting. Trappers fattening themselves on our weakness. Do you think a village of fishers and smiths can stand against that? No. But with a Night Fury—with that beast, Berk rules the seas.”
Sukuna’s growl reverberates through the rock beneath your feet. His pupils pinprick, his wings hitch upward, every line of his body coiled to strike. You know he understands enough: tone, intent, threat. He does not know, yet, how to forgive.
“Tell me,” Yaga says, low and inexorable, “what’s one boy’s life against the safety of a whole people?”
Satoru chooses that exact moment to lurch upright against his bindings, muffling something sharp and entirely unhelpful through the gag. You catch the roll of his shoulders, the tilt of his chin. One boy? Try national treasure, old man.
You almost laugh.
Chains rattle. The trappers are closing in. Their boots scrape the shale, torches lifting higher, nets poised to fly. The scent of pitch and iron stings your nose. There aren’t raiders in passing—they’re hunters, professional, and they’ve been waiting.
You step forward, planting yourself between them and Sukuna’s flank before you even think it through. “If you think he’ll ever obey you, you’re a bigger fool than I thought,” you bite out. “Sukuna isn’t a weapon. He isn’t yours to wield.”
“He will be.”
The nearest trapper lunges. A net arcs through the air, weighted corners sparking as they whip forward. You throw yourself sideways, but you needn’t have bothered—Sukuna’s blast rips it to cinders mid-flight. The explosion lights the cove for a split-second, dazzling white, searing afterimages into your vision. Rock shatters, smoke plumes, men scream.
The Night Fury roars.
The sound is primal, thunder given flesh. Sukuna surges forward, plasma bursting from his jaws in ragged, relentless blasts. Trappers scatter like startled crabs, some diving for cover, others spinning their chains desperately to keep him back. One man screams as his bolas ignite mid-spin, molten metal splattering his arm.
You drop to Satoru’s side in the chaos. He turns his head sharply, eyes catching yours, blue in the firelight, furious and alive. Your fingers fumble at the knots. The rope is soaked with seawater, swollen tight, cutting into your palms as you fight with it.
“Hold still,” you hiss, though he’s hardly moving.
He snorts through his gag. The knot slips at last. The rope slackens, and Satoru jerks his wrists free with a hiss. He tears the gag from his mouth, coughing once before grinning up at you, that same insufferable smile that somehow hasn’t dulled even after being tied and bloodied.
“Miss me?” he drawls.
You shove his shoulder. “Get up.”
“Oh, I plan to.” Satoru’s gaze flicks past you, to Yaga still looming at the centre of it all.
Sukuna lashes his tail, knocking two trappers flat, and whirlls his head back towards you both, plasma building in his throat again. The trappers rally, more of them pouring from the shadows at the mouth of the cove, their nets glowing with oil to withstand fire, their bolas gleaming with sharpened edges meant for wings. Their shadows jitter grotesquely against the cove walls, wolfish and endless. Sukuna’s blasts have rattled them but not broken them—they circle tighter, nets at the ready.
A horn splits the night.
It’s high and keening, rolling down from the cliffs above: Berk’s call to arms.
Shapes tear through the dark sky. Dragons. Not one, not two—a little less than a dozen, wings beating hard, riders silhouetted against the clouds. Their cries cascade through the air—the iron thrum of Nadder wings, the heavy, beating thunder of a Gronckle, the shriek of a Zippleback.
The riders dive. Bolas meant for Sukuna snap backward, suddenly tangled in fire. A trapper screams when a Deadly Nadder’s spines pin his arm to the cove wall. Yaga’s apprentice clings desperately to his dragon—far too small for this fight, a Gronckle, wings buzzing frantically—but his horn blast keeps sounding, rallying the others.
“Traitors!” Yaga bellows. His face is red with fury, veins bulging in his temple. “Do you side with him over your own chief?”
“Over a traitor, yes!” the apprentice shouts back.
The cove fractures into chaos—dragons wheeling, trappers shouting, nets burning in mid-air. Sukuna tears through them, plasma lighting up the night. You turn towards Satoru, only to freeze.
Yaga’s hand clamps down around your arm, thick and brutal, yanking you off your feet. The world spins; your back slams against his chest, his arm like an iron band around you. He drags you towards the cliff’s edge, gravel skittering into the black maw of sea below.
“Stop!” His roar drowns even the dragon cries. “Or she falls!”
Sukuna halts mid-pounce, talons gouging sparks in the stone. The other riders hover, their dragons’ wings beating the air in slow, heavy pulses. Even the trappers hesitate, chains slack in their hands. The sea crashes below, white foam gnashing against the rocks, a drop so sheer it makes you feel nauseous.
Yaga’s breath rasps against your ear. “The Night Fury, girl. Give him to me or you’re gone.”
You twist, fighting against his grip, nails digging into his arm, but he’s immovable, a wall of muscle and conviction. He jerks you closer to the edge, and the heel of your boot slips on loose gravel. Your weight tilts towards the abyss.
Somehow, impossibly, you make eye contact with Satoru—astride Sukuna. His white hair gleams in the torchlight. Sukuna crouches beneath him, plasma pulsing faintly in his throat, tail still twitching.
Satoru’s lips move.
Eighty percent.
You blink, barely comprehending. “What?” you croak out.
Eighty percent.
Suddenly, you know. He wants you to trust him. He wants you to fall. It’s insane. It’s impossible.
The apprentice screams your name from somewhere above. The riders shout warnings. The trappers lunge forward, seeing their chance. Yaga tightens his grip, preparing to hurl you like discarded cargo into the sea.
You make the choice first.
Your knees buckle, and you let yourself go slack. His grip loosens in shock—just enough. You wrench sideways, twist hard against his hold, and throw yourself forward into the air.
The sea roars up to meet you. Wind tears your scream to shreds. There’s only the black water yawning wide, jagged rocks slick with foam—until Sukuna dives down, his wings folded tightly. He rockets down the cliff face, plasma sparking in his jaws. You glimpse Satoru’s silhouette against the stars, leaning low in the saddle, eyes locked on you.
The air sears past your skin, the spray of the sea already stinging your face. Claws close around you.
Sukuna’s talons scoop you from the air. The force of it nearly rips the breath from your lungs, but the relief, the sheer surge of it, blinds you more than the wind. He angles upward in a steep climb, wings snapping wide, hauling you clear from the rocks and the ravenous waves.
You’re pressed tightly against his chest, his claws curled just enough to cage you without harm, his scales hot with exertion. Above you, astride the saddle, Satoru twists in his seat, grinning down at you.
“See?” he calls. “Told you. Eighty percent.”
You want to kiss him. You also want to scream. Instead, all you manage is a hoarse, furious, “You’re an idiot!”
Your first kiss with Satoru Gojo occurs because of Sukuna.
Not because you wanted it to. Gods, no. You’d rather have wrestled a Gronckle with one arm tied behind your back than admit you were even remotely tempted by the smirk plastered across Satoru’s stupid face. But Sukuna, traitorous beast that he is, decided that enough was enough.
It starts when the Night Fury refuses to let either of you down. You’re sore from the fight, ribs aching where Yaga had grabbed you, salt still drying and sticking to your skin. You’ve been through enough for one night, and all you want is the ground. Just solid ground beneath your feet.
Sukuna, it seems, has other ideas.
He lands not on the village cliffs, not near the dragon pens, but on the highest bluff overlooking Berk. A windswept place where he knows neither of you can escape quickly. He lowers his head, eyes narrowing with that calculating look he always gets when he’s three steps ahead of everyone else.
You try to slide off the saddle. His tail lashes, blocking your path.
“Really?” you snap, shoving at the scaled wall of muscle. “I’ve had enough for today.”
“He just doesn’t want us to leave,” Satoru supplies. “Can you blame him? We make such a great team.”
You whirl on him. “You nearly got yourself killed.”
“Nearly. Keyword.”
Your teeth grind. The wind snaps your hair into your eyes, the sea growls far below, and Satoru is—well, Satoru. All flippant grins and infuriating calm, as if Yaga’s betrayal, the trappers, the near loss of Sukuna, none of it left so much as a scratch on his spirit.
You jab a finger at his chest. “You think this is funny? You were gagged and tied and—”
“—and you swooped in and saved me,” he says. “Admit it, you couldn’t stand to see me suffer.”
“You—” you splutter. “I— That’s not—”
Sukuna rumbles, wings settling around you both like a barricade. His eyes gleam faintly in the dark, twin garnets pinning you where you sit. You realise too late: he’s cornered you.
Satoru tilts his head. “You hear that? He’s saying we should kiss and make up.”
“He is not,” you say flatly.
“He definitely is,” Satoru insists. He leans in just slightly, enough to test the boundaries, enough for your heart to betray you by stumbling over itself. “C’mon. Wouldn’t want to upset him. He’s had a rough day too.”
You glare, but the problem is that Sukuna seems to agree. He nudges the both of you closer with the blunt force of his snout, nearly toppling you into Satoru’s lap. The dragon huffs smoke, satisfied, before curling into the stone and laying his head flat as though to say, Now behave.
You should shove Satoru away. You should storm off, make the climb down the cliffs yourself, risk the dark. Anything but this.
The adrenaline of the fight still thrums through your veins. Your pulse hasn’t slowed since you saw him bound on his knees, blood dripping from his temple, smirking like a madman even then. You remember the feel of the ropes cutting your palms as you freed him, the wild terror that maybe you’d been too late.
Maybe that’s why you don’t shove him away. Maybe that’s why you let him close the distance, why your lips meet his halfway in a kiss that’s less a decision and more a consequence, inevitable as the tide.
It’s clumsy, at first. You’re too angry, he’s too smug. But he softens into it, just a little, and you hate the way the ground seems to tilt under your feet, how the world narrows to salt air and warmth and the reckless promise of him.
When you finally break apart, breathless, Satoru grins like he’s just won a war.
“Knew you liked me,” he says, blue eyes sparkling.
You shove him hard in the shoulder, though your face burns. “That was for Sukuna,” you say.
The dragon rumbles again, smug as any beast can be. Satoru only laughs, tipping his head back, and pulls you in for another kiss.
It’s ecstatic, the feel of Satoru’s tongue lapping at your folds.
His tongue is wet and hot as it laps over the sensitive nerves, and you can feel the way he hums happily as he laps at the juices that drip onto his waiting mouth. You’re sure his face is going to be covered in your slick by the end of this, but it seems like he couldn’t care less, if his moans and groans are any indication. Your fingers tangle in his white strands of hair, gripping hard to keep him where you want him. His arms are wrapped around your legs, keeping them open as he feasts on your cunt. You can see the muscles in his back flexing as he tries to get closer, get deeper, and you can only hold on for dear life, feeling the way he drives you higher and higher towards your orgasm.
Satoru is making a mess of himself, and you know he has a thing for being covered in your slick.
The moment the thought passes through your head, you can’t help the cry that escapes, a full-body shiver wracking through your body. He groans into you, the sound vibrating against your skin, and you feel his tongue move in a way that you know has him spelling his name, over and over again. You tug at his hair, trying to move him, but his arms tighten and he doesn’t budge.
You let out a moan, trying to speak. “Satoru, I—I need you. Inside me. Now.”
He wraps his lips around your clit, sucking harshly. “One more, gorgeous. Give me one more, and then I’m all yours.”
You whine, feeling the heat in your stomach build, and Satoru continues to eat you out. Your back arches off the bed, and you grip his hair tighter. Your thighs start to close around him; he lets go of one of your legs to press two fingers into your heat, pressing right into that spot that has you crying out his name, curling his fingers as his tongue flicks rapidly over your clit. Your body shakes, and you cry out his name, feeling the way your cunt tightens and throbs around his fingers.
Satoru groans, moving his face away from your core and watching as the aftershocks of your orgasm make your body tremble. He pumps his fingers slowly, prolonging your pleasure, and you whine at the sensitivity.
He smiles softly, kissing the inside of your thigh, before removing his fingers, bringing them to his mouth and licking the juices that cover them. He lets out a pleased moan, eyes locked onto yours, and moves to kiss you.
His lips are warm, and you taste yourself on his tongue. It only serves to rile you up more when you feel the way his cock throbs where it presses against your thigh. You raise your legs to wrap them around his hips, and you push him lightly. Satoru moves willingly, letting out a moan as he lies on his back. He grips the sheets in anticipation, watching as you straddle his lap. He groans, feeling the way your cunt settles on his thighs. You smile, running a finger down his chest, and he bucks his hips in response.
You let out a gasp when the tip of his cock rubs against your folds. He moans.
Satoru’s hands grip your hips tightly, and his thumb rubs circles on your skin. You can feel the way he trembles under you. Your hand wraps around his cock, pumping lightly; he whines. You position the tip at your entrance, rubbing it against your clit, and moan.
“Stop teasing,” he groans, and you grin.
“Or what?” you taunt, grinding against his length. “Are you going to punish me, Satoru?”
He growls, hips jerking upwards. You gasp, feeling the tip rub against your folds, catching at your slit, and try to lower yourself. But Satoru tightens his hold, not letting you sink further onto his cock. You glare at him.
“I should,” he says, and suddenly his arms are around you, flipping you onto your back.
He settles between your thighs, his arms framing either side of your head. His hair falls into his eyes, and you can feel his cock brushing against your folds. You move your arms to wrap around his shoulders, nails scratching lightly down his back.
Satoru groans, burying his head in your neck, nipping lightly.
“Fuck,” you breathe out, feeling his hips jerk.
The tip of his cock rubs against your clit again. He lets out a breathless laugh.
“I will,” he responds—only to be interrupted by a loud, keening wail from outside your cottage door.
The sound is so piercing, so demanding, that for a moment you think some villager has wandered into mortal peril right outside your door. But no—no, you recognise that guttural, almost petulant cry. You and Satoru both freeze.
“Was that—” you start.
Another wail, louder this time, rattles the hinges of your cottage, followed by the unmistakable scrape of claws against wood.
Satoru drops his forehead against your collarbone. “You’ve got to be kidding.”
The Night Fury wails again, insistent, tail thudding against the doorframe. You bite back a laugh, half-giddy, half-exasperated, and say, “I think someone wants attention.”
Satoru lifts his head, hair mussed and eyes narrowed. “He’s the worst cockblock in history,” he mutters. “Tell him to go hunt some haddock or terrorise the chickens, or—Gods, literally anything else.”
The next sound isn’t just a wail. It’s a low, mournful croon that slides under your ribs and squeezes. Sukuna isn’t just loud—he’s lonely.
You soften, even as Satoru makes a strangled noise of despair above you. “Satoru…”
“No,” he says, rolling off you onto his back. “No, no, don’t you dare give him those eyes. He doesn’t deserve those eyes. I was right there, gorgeous—right there.”
You’re already tugging your tunic back over your shoulders, laughing despite the ache in your belly. “He’ll tear the cottage down if we don’t.”
Satoru throws an arm over his face, groaning into the crook of his elbow. “I hate him. I actually hate him.”
But when you slip to the door and crack it open, Sukuna is there, his massive head lowered to the threshold, those garnet eyes glowing with expectation. He snorts the moment he sees you, bumping his snout against your chest.
“Alright, alright,” you murmur, your hands automatically smoothing over his warm snout. “Head pats. Happy?”
Sukuna rumbles, pressing harder into your palm. Satoru groans again. “Unbelievable. My dragon just stole my girl. I’m doomed.”
You glance over your shoulder to find him sprawled on the bed, hair a disaster, chest heaving, the blankets thrown over the lower half of his body. He’s sulking. You grin.
“Maybe he just knows when to step in,” you tease, scratching gently at Sukuna’s scales.
“Step in? He barged in.”
Sukuna lets out a little huff and nuzzles harder against your hand.
Satoru groans once more, louder this time, dragging the pillow over his face. “I’m moving out.”
a/n: thanks for reading! i have a habit of turning sukuna into animals lol he was also a horse in my old gojo tangled!au
Pairing: Yandere!King Baldwin IV x Reader
Me: *throws this at you and runs away*
Imagine this: you are the servant of a blind noblewoman.
Your lady is a gentle, kind soul who, unfortunately, is of little interest to anyone. Her parents had long since lost hope of marrying her off. Men have no desire to become her suitors. Women avoid the poor girl as though congenital blindness were contagious. Everyone whispers behind her back - with either contempt or pity.
You are the only person truly close to her. And you adore her. You devote all your strength to serving her, become the friend she lacks behind closed doors, fiercely defend her even at the risk of punishment for your insolence.
This continues until one day, by a fortunate (or perhaps unfortunate) coincidence, your lady crosses paths with King Baldwin IV himself. He is kind-hearted, and so he does not leave her without attention.
It is, undeniably, good for your mistress. People close to the court begin interacting with her. Her parents seem to remember they have a daughter again. Under everyone’s attention, the young woman begins to bloom. You genuinely want to be happy for her, yet you know none of these people are sincere. It is only a matter of time before they lose interest. Before the king himself loses interest.
You watch everything unfold with quiet doubt, dreading the day you will have to gather the shattered pieces of your lady’s broken heart, while never daring to voice your thoughts aloud. Even in your boldest dreams, you would never dare accuse His Majesty of treating someone carelessly. Not unless you wished to be executed.
It seems to you that Baldwin is far too enthusiastic about his new companion for this to be mere courtly politeness. And yet he gives no sign of being seriously interested either. You cannot tell whether your lady truly appeals to him. Though you assume she probably does. There must be a reason he invites her to meet with him again and again. Patiently, you accompany your lady on every evening stroll.
While your mistress curiously explores the flowers with her fingertips, saying something to the King, you absentmindedly kick a pebble aside. A strange sense of unease sends a shiver through your body. You look up.
Your lady has crouched down to smell the peonies. Behind her stands the king. Beneath the mask, his expression is hidden, but his gaze is fixed on you.
My man should be transferring ownership rights to me asap rocky.
If a man loves you giving you comfort isn’t enough. True love offers collateral. You should assets and empowerment. Not comfort in your dependence on his mood.
Yandere! BF-Husband who always includes you
BF/Husband! Who makes sure that when your together you receive a portfolio of stocks, bonds, and options. He wants to make sure you not only have him mind, body, and soul, but also some extra digits in the bank account.
Obsessed Bf-Husband! That makes you power of attorney and beneficiary to his estate and assets so should anything happen you are set up and have control immediately. No probate. He wants you powerful and protected.
Obsessed Bf-Husband! That communicates finances either way you like it’s a declaration of love. He wants to hold all the pressure of finances but he respects you and reveres you you include you in everything encompassing your shared life together. You will never be left out in the cold or out of the loop.
Obsessed bf-husband! Who from the moment your together wants transparency. You have the right to your privacy but he wants you to understand where he stands.
It turns him in to expose himself so completely and have to be able to define him by his net worth. Now he feels the need to grow it, for you.
He gets a hard on when he presents a leather portfolio to you containing his balance sheets and financial statements. He looks at you like a teacher evaluating his report card.
He wants you in the room when he’s on financial calls or doing anything with the bank.
“Good morning, I’ve got my (y/n) on the line, she’s part of all our financial decisions… Yes, we’re looking at the capital account summary you sent over. (Y/N), you have that pulled up? …Right, so we’re showing a net contribution of about $340,000 this quarter. What I want to understand is how that’s being allocated against the existing positions.”
Bro is serious.
“We got the holdings statement last week — (Y/n) actually caught something, which is why we’re calling. The concentration in the tech sector is sitting around 34%, and that’s higher than where we agreed to keep it. We talked it over and we’d like to bring that down closer to 22, 23 percent. What are you thinking in terms of timing on that?”
You will always have visibility. It’s not partnership if there isn’t visibility on both ends.
Thinking about Yandere Gojo who you found after a mission gone wrong. After months of being trapped amongst a vast empty landscape, your warmth and scent were like water to a man lost in the desert. He needed you to know he wasn't back there and what Gojo Satoru wanted, Gojo Satoru got.
Wordcount: 4.5k+
Notes: Yandere behaviour, nonconsensual touching and kissing, JJK typical violence
He reached for your hand, sharp blue eyes softened by the careful expression in them as though unsure if you were real. He breathed out a sigh of relief as his hand touched yours and he was met with the feel of warm soft skin instead of a disappearing specter.
Taking your hand in his, he pulled you towards him. Even weakened as he was, your strength was no match for the strongest sorcerer alive. You went sprawling into him, swept up in his embrace. Strong burly arms curling around you immediately, holding you captive to him.
Things hadn't always been like this between you two. There was a time when you were just the admin at Jujutsu High who you doubted even registered on the radar of the likes of Gojo Satoru. You could only sometimes see cursed energy, so you had known from early on that you would never be out on the field.
You had very little to do with the strongest sorcerer of your own and arguably all time. He'd stop to chat with you when summoned by the principal or come to collect something that had been left for him with you. Always friendly, a lazy grin on his face as he made a joke at one of your fellow sorcerer's expense and winked at you over his sunglasses. Complimenting your drab clothing or ordinary appearance as though he had any need to flatter you.
You understood that was just the type of guy Gojo was. A charmer through and through and someone who liked to make light of things. You couldn't even begin to imagine the burden he carried so it made sense that he didn't take everything too seriously.
The both of you were worlds apart. You didn't pay much mind to Gojo Satoru and neither had you been intending to be the one who found him.
It was really all just a coincidence. Your car had broken down in the midst of a delivery you had been asked to make and you had been wandering around in the hopes of getting some signal on your phone. When you had just about gotten a bar, the skies had opened up and within seconds both you and your phone were soaked.
You had run into the decrepit looking building nearby, having wandered too far from your car in search of signal to go back. Your phone's flashlight flickered as it drew its last breath through the thorough waterboarding it had just undergone. Eventually completely dying off, leaving you to stumble around blindly in the dark with your hands before you which was how you had felt the veil.
Going through it had led you to him. Hands tied behind his back, blindfold over his eyes and entire body wound up tightly. You'd pulled him down from where he was suspended a foot above the ground. His large body crashing down onto you and even through the darkness you could make out those blindingly bright blue eyes the moment you took the blindfold off.
Crossing that veil had triggered something and curses materialized as though out of nowhere. Had Gojo not been able to reach into the very depths of the vestiges of his power and summoned all of it to break those binds, you both would have died.
Seeing you trembling in fright beneath him had triggered a rage and a surge of protectiveness unlike any he'd felt before. He could have gone to the very ends of impossibility to ensure you made it through that night unscathed and the feat he had accomplished had been no less.
Even trying to stay out of the way, you had been a disadvantage for him. Forced to shield you as he fought for both your lives. You had merely been trying to avoid being crushed beneath a collapsing wall but stumbled down the stairs. Gojo forced to make himself vulnerable to attack as he saved your life. You had sprained a leg and hit your head but he had taken the brunt of the damage as the curses took advantage of his lost focus.
With you secured however he had been able to get the upper hand and defeat the curses that even in his current state were still no match for Gojo Satoru. Weakened as he was, it had taken everything in him and he had crashed to his knees the moment he was sure you both were safe. Crawling his way to you, trembling hands touching the wound on your head gingerly. Feeling sick to his stomach when his fingers came away covered in your blood.
The gentle touch had woken you from where you'd been passed out. The weakest link and the only reason Gojo was coming out of this with all that damage. Had anyone else found him they at the very least would not have been at risk of taking themselves out and likely would have been able to hold their own so he could focus.
Thanks to Gojo, your injuries weren't all that bad and seeing him in that state forced you to your feet. Somehow making it to the nearest bit of civilization with a pale and weakened Gojo kept upright only by your support. Your legs threatening to buckle beneath the weight of him as he leaned heavily onto you with the arm he had thrown over your shoulders.
You nearly bit through your lip to avoid making any sounds of pain as the added weight to your sprained leg felt like the most excruciating thing you’d ever undergone. Reminding yourself the continuity of the sorcerer world was currently on your shoulders to keep yourself going.
You had barely even been able to knock when you stumbled onto the first house within the little farming community. Swaying dangerously as you waited for someone to open the door. Soaked in sweat, covered in blood and near incomprehensible after your near-death experience but somehow the elderly couple had let you both in.
You lay Gojo down on a cot and they gave you clothing to change into but Gojo refused to let you out of his sight. Even when barely awake no one could break the hold he had on your wrist and you'd been forced to sit by him as the elderly couple fed him medicine and broth. Since that day, Gojo refused to part with you. Notably anxious and withdrawn whenever you so much as left his sight.
Waking up from sleep in the clinic screaming your name and tearing open his wounds as he frantically searched for you even as the doctor tried to explain you had only gone home to shower and rest. Trying to get him to stop ruining all her hard work.
You had only just gotten out of the shower, dead on your feet and eager to collapse into your bed after the whole ordeal that had been finding the strongest sorcerer alive, nearly dying for finding him and then dragging his barely conscious body miles to get help. Not that it had ended there, you'd been interrogated for hours on where and how you had found him. No one willing to accept that the administrator had been able to find Gojo Satoru when their best sorcerers hadn't.
Your doorbell had rung just as you were about to flop down onto your bed, happy to ignore it but unable to when the bell was immediately followed by a knock. Then your phone began to ring and realizing there was no way you'd be allowed to rest you had dragged yourself over to your door. Opening it to find a sorcerer explaining you had to come with him immediately because apparently Gojo had gone completely berserk when waking without you there.
You had followed the stoic man in only your house slippers and pajamas. Hair still damp from your shower but unable to bring yourself to find a pair of shoes and knowing you wouldn't really be given the time to.
The moment you had gone through the front doors of the school, there he was. Covered in bandages that had bled through. Crazed blue eyes landing on you the moment you stepped through the doors and then he was barreling at you. Nearly sweeping you off your feet as he slammed into you, only kept upright by the way he folded you tightly into his chest.
The doctor had looked furious and you knew she certainly was not a woman you wanted upset so you had somehow managed to coax Gojo back to his bed. Forced to sit by his side and hold his hand while his bandages were undone to reveal the torn stitches that were redone. Gojo talking through it as though it was no big deal while you could barely even bring yourself to look at the gruesome sight of the needle going in and out of his skin. Scolding you gently for leaving him while he was sleeping and making you promise you wouldn't do that again.
Neither of you noticed the crowd that had gathered. The dark beady eyes that watched the way the sorcerer clung to you desperately.
Gojo insisted you sleep in the bed with him but you had held your ground and pulled up a chair. You could understand that this was some sort of trauma response and he needed you right now, maybe a little more than you needed a night of sleeping in your bed. But you drew the line at sharing a bed with someone you barely knew.
When you had fallen asleep, eyes fluttering shut and head lolling forward, Gojo had carefully picked you up and put you in his bed anyway. Tucking you in close by his side and falling asleep with his head pressed against your chest so he could hear your heartbeat.
That place had been nothing but white emptiness. He couldn't see anything, smell anything, hear anything, couldn't feel even the clothes on his body. It was maddening. Weeks of that and even the strongest would break. He'd thought it then and he still believed it now, he could have withstood pain and all gruesome kinds of torture but that emptiness had been unbearable.
Then when he had completely lost track of time or hope for a way out, you had come crashing into the vast empty landscape and torn it down. Suddenly there was colour, there was sensation and hope.
He was not alone and he wasn't back there. He needed to be able to feel you, to smell you, to see you to know that for sure. The moment you were gone it all started to seem like a figment of his imagination again.
Gojo had spent a week in the hospital wing which meant you too had spent a week in the hospital wing. Your clothes had been brought to you and even when you started to feel fine you were still relieved of all administrator duties and told to focus on healing. Which you took to mean focus on Gojo's healing.
You had told him to take it easy and let you know if he needed anything before you headed out for your house. Too tired to notice that he hadn't responded or the way those blue eyes followed you till you were out of his sight.
Too caught up in looking forward to taking a shower in your own bathroom and then getting to sleep in your own bed instead of falling asleep in the chair and then being used by Gojo as a teddy bear once you had fallen asleep.
An hour later a knock sounded at your door and there stood Gojo Satoru. An overnight bag held in his hand and hopeful puppy dog eyes trained on you. Broad shoulders slumped as though in an attempt to look more pitiful which while taking up nearly the entire space in your doorframe wasn't really possible.
Unsuccessful as the puppy dog look was, you didn't have the heart to turn him away and stepped aside to let him in with a barely suppressed sigh. At least you had gotten your shower before he arrived and would be able to sleep in your own bed even if you did have to unwillingly play host.
The meal you could scrounge up without having to go grocery shopping wasn't anything fancy but he lapped it up like it was the best thing he had tasted. Asking for seconds and then thirds. If he planned to stay long you would probably have to start submitting your groceries as a work expense to keep from going broke.
Things were going fine until it came time for bed. You had set out blankets and pillows on the couch but could feel him following you like an oversized shadow when you retired to your room after bidding him goodnight. You turned slowly, for the first time understanding why victims in horror movies prolonged that moment before they had to face the monster prowling after them.
"No, absolutely not. Only I sleep in my bed. You want to stay over then you sleep on the couch." You said, pointing back towards the living room but he only stood there staring at you with those big blue eyes.
"Gojo I'm serious." You said, huffing when he still didn't move and grabbing him by the shoulders to turn him around. He was pliant beneath your hands, allowing you to push him all the way to the couch though you both knew if he wasn't complicit you wouldn't have been able to move him so much as an inch.
When he was stood before the couch you tried to force him down onto it but he grabbed your hips, tugging you along as he fell backwards. Large muscular arms immediately caging you to him so you couldn't move.
Landing on his solid chest knocked the air out of you and you angrily spat your hair that had swung forward out of your mouth as you tried to wiggle out of his hold.
"Gojo Satoru I am warning you, I will kick you out the second I get up if you don't let me go right now." You threatened, trying to knee him but your legs were caught in his until it felt like you were in a full boa constrictor hold unable to move so much as a limb. Left only with the power of your glare which was doing nothing to get him to release you.
"I sleep where you sleep. If you want me to sleep on the couch then you sleep here too." He said simply, settling back against the pillows to get more comfortable.
"Says who?" You asked, giving one last attempt at knocking yourself out of his hold but it was like anytime you tried to get away you were punished by him holding you tighter.
"Me. I can't sleep without you." He said which seemed very unfair considering you were fully aware he'd been given the kind of a-grade sleeping pills that would knock out a regular person if they so much as looked directly at them.
It was starting to dawn on you that no amount of glaring or threatening was going to get you anywhere and too bad for Gojo you weren't above playing dirty.
"Okay. fine. If you're going to be a stubborn rat then let's at least go sleep on the bed." You said and the rat bastard did nothing to hide the smugness he was feeling, smirking in your face as he let you go.
You got up slowly, making a show of huffing and righting your clothes. Turning to go into your room but pausing when you made it to the doorway.
"Wait, grab your pillow, I only have one." You said, barely able to keep your face straight as he fell for it. Turning back and the moment he was a couple steps away you slammed your door shut, locking it.
The triumphant "ha" you were about to let out getting stuck in your throat and your body jolting back in alarm instinctively when you heard something heavy slam into the door.
"Open the door." He said, no trace of the usual playfulness or amusement in his voice.
Rattling the doorknob as though it would just magically unlock if he willed it to or more likely trying to remove the doorknob entirely considering the force he seemed to be using. Another bang against the door making you jump.
Suddenly you didn't find any of this very funny either, starting to get the eerie feeling that you had trapped yourself in. The shaking and banging of the door making you feel like caged prey. Your heartbeat picking up speed in rhythm with his fists.
"G-Gojo I said you have to sleep on the couch. Take your pills and go to sleep." You said, trying to keep your voice level and be heard above the racket he was making.
"I need to see you. Open the damn door." He growled from outside, punctuating his words with another hit to your door.
You backed away from the door slowly, heading for your phone left charging by your bedside without taking your eyes off the door.
"Just unlock the door please." Gojo pleaded, sounding like a completely different person with the desperation colouring his voice.
"Gojo you're scaring me, I don't know what's going on with you. I'm gonna call someone, I think you need more meds." You said.
"I don't need anything, I just need you to open this damn door so I can see you. Open it or I'm going to knock it down." He growled, now sounding angry again.
You dialed the first number on your contact list, trembling hands bringing the phone up to your ear praying the old man would pick up before Gojo really broke down the door.
The ringing had only just been interrupted by them answering the phone when your door flew off the hinges with a bang revealing Gojo in your doorway. Broad shoulders heaving with each laboured breath and those eyes narrowing in on you the moment the door no longer stood in his way. He came right at you, stepping over the splintered door.
"Help he's -" was all you managed before the phone was being ripped from your grasp and you were being hauled into Gojo's chest.
His arms wrapping around you tightly, keeping you tucked against him as he buried his nose into the top of your hair and inhaled greedily making you whimper. He hushed you gently, a trembling hand raising to smooth your hair and only then did you notice that he was shaking too.
"Don't you ever do that to me again." He admonished, sinking down to sit leaned against the bed and bringing you down to sit in his lap.
"I can't breathe when you're not near me. It makes me feel like I'm trapped there again." He said, resting his cheek down on your head.
You stayed as still as you could, worried even a slight movement would set him off. Glancing at your phone from the corner of your eye to see that it had landed face down and shards of the glass screen were scattered about. That didn't matter though because you knew the call had gone through so they should have heard your plea for help and someone at the clinic would be able to tell them you had gone home.
You just needed to wait until they showed up. Then they would take Gojo out of here and get him the help he needed. Whatever sort of anxious attachment he'd formed to you after the trauma was more dangerous than any of you had realized.
You jumped as you felt something vibrate against your hip and he hushed you again, smoothing your hair as he tugged his phone out of his pocket and brought it to his ear.
"Yeah we're fine. There's no need to come by, just a misunderstanding is all."
Your heart sank as you realized they must have called him. You glanced up at him, swallowing dryly when your eyes connected with that unnerving blue pair that was already fixed on you. A freakishly large hand still patting down your hair as though that was any comfort after what he had just done.
If you didn't muster the courage now, god knows how long you'd be trapped here with him at his mercy.
"You need to come get him, he's not-" You started but a hand clamped down on your mouth.
Your big eyes widened at him as you tried to break out of his hold. But when would you learn darling that your strength was simply no match for his?
"Just a misunderstanding like I said. I'll explain things. I think we need a couple more days to recover, tell everyone to leave us alone."
Your eyes burned with unshed tears as Gojo bid the other person goodbye and disconnected the call. Feeling like your lifeline had just been snatched from you. No one was coming to save you from the madman you had trapped yourself in with.
The feel of your hot tears dropping down onto the hand still held over your mouth made his heart sink. He didn't mean to scare you nor to make you cry. You just needed to understand that he needed you. You had saved him and now you had to take responsibility.
He wiped at your tears gently with his thumb.
"Don't cry darling. I didn't mean to scare you, I mean you no harm. I will always protect you but you can't pull something like that again. You were just joking weren't you? You didn't mean anything by it." He said, sounding more like he was convincing himself than you.
"You were just joking weren't you?" He asked when you failed to respond and you nodded your head immediately. Even through your panic you could recognize the danger he posed should you not play along.
Your chest shuddered as you tried to suppress your sobs. The regret and dread creeping in even as you tried to clear your mind to think of a way out. You never should have indulged this, never should have let him develop this sort of unhealthy attachment to you.
It wasn't his fault, he was sick but you should have seen the signs. It wasn't normal for him to be unable to let you out of his sight. To follow you around the way he did.
"Let's go to bed darling. You look exhausted." Gojo said, swiping at the tears that still poured steadily from your pretty eyes. Tsking sympathetically at the dark circles beneath them. Some rest would do you both good.
Gojo stood up, carefully placing you on your feet as well but still refusing to take his hands off you. He peeled back the covers from your bed, nudging his head, silently gesturing for you to get in. You laid down gingerly, watching him with your big glossy eyes filled with apprehension as he immediately climbed in beside you. Resting his head down on your pillow so close your noses were nearly brushing.
He pressed his forehead to yours and shut his eyes as though praying but the likes of Gojo Satoru didn't have to pray. They were the gods of this world. You understood now that you had crashed into a God's orbit and leaving wouldn't be easy.
"I know this seems sudden and I know you're scared but you don't have to be. This fear, this helplessness is what you saved me from. You're my saviour. I need you to feel safe." He muttered, eyes still closed but inching closer so you two breathed the same air.
Your silent tears ran down and wet the pillow beneath your cheek, a hiccup escaping despite your attempts not to make noise making Gojo's eyes open. He hushed you cooingly, wrapping you in his embrace and cuddling you in close to his chest.
"Please don't be afraid. I promise I would do anything to protect you, I'll always keep you safe. All you have to do is let me stay by your side, don't ever leave my sight. I can't bear it." He said, pressing a deep kiss to your forehead. Inhaling the scent of your hair and exhaling shakily.
"C-can I check on my phone? I think it's broken." You said, using any excuse you could think of to try to get away from him.
"You don't need it. I'll get someone to bring you a new one in a couple days when they drop off groceries. Until then you can use mine or better yet just tell me what you need."
"I-I just want to see if it's broken or not." You said, weaseling a hand between you both and trying to push against his chest but he caught your wrist in his giant hand making you still.
"Don't worry about it. Just stay right here, you really scared me with your little joke earlier. I need to hold you, I can't let you go right now." He said, pulling you in closer to eliminate the mere inch of space you'd managed to put between the two of you.
Forcing your head down onto his chest so your ear was pressed right against where his heart beat. The anxious, thundering sound of it frightening you.
You glanced up at him, flinching at the mania you could see burning in his unnaturally blue eyes. He rested his forehead down against yours, breath intermingling with your own. With nowhere to go your only defense against him was to close your eyes. To save yourself from having to see that madness up close.
"Promise me you won't ever do something like that again." He demanded softly.
"I-I promise." You answered.
Next time you would be smarter, you'd never trap yourself in someplace he could get to you. Now that you finally understood how dangerous this attachment of his was, you wouldn't give him the chance to do something like this again.
"Look at me and promise you'll never leave me." He demanded.
You opened your eyes slowly, having to bite the inside of your cheek to keep from flinching back from him.
"I promise." You whispered, a gasp getting caught in your throat as his hold on you tightened to the point it was near painful.
"You're lying. I can feel your heartbeat." He cried, digging his forehead down against yours as though trying to merge into you so you couldn't try to get away from him.
"It doesn't matter, I won't let you go. I need you. You saved me and now I'm yours. I won't ever let you leave me." He whispered, pressing his lips to yours chastely in the mockery of a vow. Stealing the very breath from your lungs and there was nowhere for you to run.
They had grew wide with a bright surprise but then quickly narrow as the meaning of his words sinking into her like a needle drawn slow through flesh. "In what manner do you mean, Your Majesty ?" she ask, her tone light, yet carrying a current beneath it.
At that, the king tilt his head slightly, and even she could sense a flicker of uncertainty from him. “Whichever manner do you imagine ?"
“Do you mean to ask how a common girl managed to ensnare a nobleman such as he ?” She hesitate, gaze drifting away as though afraid to name aloud the thing she would not even dared to dream. "Or something else ?"
At her words, something pull in his chest. He could not say whether her answer has tightened around his heart or whether his own heart had begin to twist of its own accord. "I meant it in only one way and that is how could a man such as he— a fool, by all appearances come to marry a woman such as you ?" Her laugh come in response, quick and shapeless. Hollow. It scrape the edges of the silence.
“Your Majesty,” she said, with the smallest of bows, “you jest too far often.”
"And why should I make jests at the expense of others if not truth I am speaking". His voice is a little firm, the quiet sternness at the rim of his voice— just like the feeling in his chest.
She is quiet for a moment and a softness bleed between them before speaking. "For safety, security, position, standing, respect". She answer. "And love". She stare at him, the look in her eyes is soft and shining but the way she spoke the final word as though it were an afterthought, something obligatory, almost forgotten revealed more than she could conceal.
As if love were the last thread she is taught to mention, and not the first she felt.
A faint shift of cloth draw her eyes. The king has turn, only slightly, in his chair— just enough for her gaze to fall from the front, drawn to him by the rustle of motion and presence and when she look down, her heart hitch at the sight of his sore hand without the sliver-thread glove, revealing raw skin, red and peeling in parts, the flesh angry and marred. A wound not freshly earned, but stubborn in its refusal to heal.
Something in her chest stir, tighten. She had seen desperation before knew what it meant when the very skin seemed to eat itself in defiance of rest. And yet, instead of pity, admiration flow her. Fierce and sudden. Something she rarely feels for anyone let alone a man.
Mayhaps it show. For the king, watching her, feel his own expression dull, watching the slight pull of her neck, the faint tightening beneath her jaw. He brace for revulsion—wait for it to touch her features like a stain.
But it never come.
Instead, there is only smooth curiosity. A quiet surprise. Not scorn, not pity. And that absence strangely nourish the hope, flair it a little.
"Do you find it absolutely revolting ?" It is a mere question yet it climb from his throat and curl off his tongue sounding much weaker to the ear, less of a question.
Her gaze stay with his hand, steady and unyielding, and somehow that steadiness comfort him. "Your majesty, have you". She falter, as though weighing the shape of the thought, hesitant to mar its honesty with clumsy speech but he could not wait.
"Tell me". He encourage. Her eyes flicker at his at that and a rich, warm emotion shine in her gaze he can not will himself read it, he recognize it but he wait to name it. He is a king, not a god. No holier thing, no deity to be adored, accepted across all.
"Have you ever witness a child birth ?" She finish and it caught him wholly unguard, so much so for the first time ever did (Y/N) caught his eyes wide bright and look away he did and strings of coughs ripple through him as to wash away the discomfort or mortified she does not know which but thought he would not answer and cover his palm in his glove pretending to be never part of such conversation.
Yet he did not. "No. I was not allowed to see a sight of my sister's birth and I have no one to comfort who would confine in me related to those". After he peer at her, spies only to be astonish to see the line press thin her lips curve into a gentle smile and a delightful affability shine in her eyes as a short buzz in her chest at the innocence of his answer and all Baldwin could focus is the smile on her.
She lean real close yet no much to invade his privacy. "Your majesty, I have witness childbirth twice. And let me tell you— it is the most gruesome, most terrifying, most god-awful ordeal one could ever laid eyes on, more than any fierce battlefield I caught glimpse of but after the birth did I feel this strange surge of pride and thought honor. I thought that no one had the right to pity those who suffer such pain because when someone is doing their best, one should utter well done not". A break in the grey allow light to pour through, gilding her features in honey warmth. The golden gleam touch her eyes as she lift them to meet his—those limpid, knowing eyes, narrow slightly by the curve of her smile. "Poor you".
"Thus, I have no right to find it anything other than praise and reverence like it deserve". Her voice is but a murmur, soft and sweet, smoothing his aching heart with kind and comforting touch. The tightness flee and he inhale. A full breath. The first in what feels like hours. It fill his lungs, cool and clean, dispelling the fog that has cling to the edges of his mind. It's as though something heavy within him had been unknotted, and all he can he do is sit in the quiet it left behind.
━━━━━━━━
"That was most refreshing, Your Majesty. The finest amusement I have known in some time, I thank you for the pleasure it brought me," Thomas declare with an eager smile, rising to his feet after a courteous bow. Sweat clung to his brow, strands of hair matted across his forehead.
Yet to the king's gaze, there is no sincerity beneath the glisten only a self-satisfied pride, the bloated kind born of men who indulge heartily in their own enjoyment, never pausing to wonder whether others have partaken in it too.
The king observe him in silence, his expression inscrutable. "I see as well". Baldwin murmur at last, the words deliver flat and low, as he nod. The sun is soon to be set so would the couple when. The sun, slipping toward its descent, cast its golden farewell through the windows soon it would vanish, as would the company gathered here.
“I was wondering,” the king said, voice mild but deliberate, “if I might invite you to dine Mr. Thomas.” At that, a ripple of confusion stir among them.
“Mr. Thomas was not invited before, I believe,” he continue, calm and sure, “and I would dislike for him to be not include to the hosting of this time. I would join, too.”
At the king’s request, (Y/N)’s brow furrow ghosting across her features quick, but not quick enough. She banish it at once, masking it before it could be caught by any but the most watchful. Yet the king’s gaze had already found her. Those azure orbs, usually clear and cold, now seem to flicker with something warmer or perhaps it is only her thoughts weaving knots of confusion where none existed.
“Yes, Your Majesty,” Her husband answer hastily, too eagerly. “It would be why, the most delightful day of my life.”
He bob his head with giddy enthusiasm, the motion clumsy, almost childish, unable to contain the flood of excitement in his chest. (Y/N) agree too after he glance toward his wife, as if remembering she stand there at all.
━━━━━━━━
“So, Mr. Thomas, are you finding your new surroundings agreeable ?” ask Guy of Lusignan, the husband of Sibylla, his fingers curl loosely around a goblet of crimson wine. His posture drip with arrogance, and (Y/N) could see it plainly— he is the sort to bring trouble wherever he went. She could not help but wonder how such a man manage to wed the king’s sister. Surely, Sibylla might have refused. But perhaps even among the nobility, one’s voice was not always one’s own.
“Marvellous,” Her husband reply before she could think further, snapping her attention to him— particularly to the fifth glass of wine clutch in his hand. He has never acquaintance himself with the notion of moderation. It did not exist in the world he occupy, and she fear he would once again disgrace himself before the king.
The thought brought her back to earlier, to the king’s quiet words spoken in their solitude. She found herself wondering— was what she said then sufficient ? Had she chosen the right words, honest and soft as they were? He had grown so silent after, refusing even to meet her eyes.
Her gaze drift across the length of the table, past her husband’s boisterous laughter, to the far end where the king sat. He has not touch a bite of food, and as her eyes land upon him, she draw a slow breath through her nose for his gaze is already upon her. Steady. Heavy. She ponder how it escape her notice ? Then again her attention has been fix too tightly upon her husband and all the ways he might unravel.
“How long have you been wed to Lady (Y/N) ?”
Guy’s voice drag her sharply back into the moment, as if yanking her by the nape. Dread crept cold and damp over her shoulders at the question— one she despise above all. Her lips part instinctively, ready to spare them both, to speak before her husband could—
“For—”
“Ten years, my lord,” He answer swiftly, beating her to it, voice proud and oblivious. She bow her head, a small motion, almost reflexive, and Guy let out another smooth laugh.
But she knew what is coming.
Beneath the table, her hand sought his with urgent haste. Her fingers found his palm and pinch, a sharp warning mask by the linen drape. He turn to glance at her, eyes narrowing in a silent scold.
“That is quite wonderful,” The noble muse, raising his goblet once more. Wine touch his lips, deepening their hue. “With so many years behind you, one would expect the halls full of heirs by now. Never a concern for legacy, I suppose.”
“Oh, no. I have none.” It is her husband’s voice, thoughtless and careless.
(Y/N)’s jaw clench. Shame rose bitter in her throat, and she did not lift her gaze. She dare not— to anyone present within the table, not even Balian, her soul-brother seat further down. The silence that follow press down like damp wool. The clinking of silver cease. Even the air grow still, as if the very walls haa recoil.
“My dear, I believe this glass ought to be your last,” Sibylla’s voice chim in—playful, airy. “I can see your legs already plotting the path homeward.” She even laugh, a sweet peal of sound high and clear (Y/N) heard but all she could is gaze into her lap as though she might dig a hole through the fabric and vanish into it. Pray the earth to open its maw beneath her and consume her whole—grinding bone and pride alike between its teeth.
“Well, why not ?” said Guy at last, saving them all from Sibylla’s brightness. “But not before a toast with Mr. Thomas.” The words come crooked, as though dip in vinegar. The laughter that follow grate—too loud. It scald the back of her ears, and her skin tight in prickle shame.
“Why not,” Thomas echo easily, as he always did. Thoughtless agreement is his most fluent tongue.
“To generous Mr. Thomas,” Guy declar, raising his cup. “for loving his wife still.”
She shut her eyes. Stitch them close with all her will, so tight the strain behind her lids made her temples throb. She wish she could disappear into the dark behind her eyelids, where no one could see how her hands tremble in her lap.
“Cheers,” Her husband echo, and though she pretend blindness, she could feel the grin in his voice. Wide. Charming. Feel him stretch his cup across his face like a flag raised high. Indifferent to her humiliation again.
“What is the meaning of this toast?” The king’s voice broke through the hall like tempered steel drawn from its sheath— quiet, yet cold enough to slice. The mask dull the edges of his words, but not their weight. Beneath its gild shell, his tone bore the heaviness of command.
(Y/N) froze. (Y/N) hesitate, confusion darken her muddle state and she turn her gaze upward, slowly, to meet the sovereign’s veiled face.
“Hm?” He press, and there is no softness in the sound. “Tell me—why should that warrant a toast ? Loving a wife such as Lady (Y/N)—is that truly so rare an act it deserves exaltation? Must we raise our cups to something so... basic in duty ? When she is his wife. Is she not ? And generous, you said ? In what way, I wonder, is he generous ?”
The warmth drain from Thomas’s face. His usual grin—so careless, so loud—vanish like wax under heat. A dreadful frown settle in its place, slow and uncertain.
Guy, too, falter. His hand grip tighter faintly around the stem of his goblet as he brought it to his lips, draining the wine in a single pull yet he could not drink away the chill settling in his limbs. For Baldwin’s gaze, dark and unwavering, linger not on him but upon Thomas... and it saw far too much.
“I fail to see why there need be effort to love Lady (Y/N)— when love for her should rise unbidden, like breath. She is a woman any man of sense would count himself fortunate to call his own.” He look at him, his azure eyes sharp and glower at Thomas and Balian's stomach knot who sat quietly across the table recognizing the same voice, the same fire in Baldwin’s gaze and voice as when he had once condemned Reynald de Chatillon in public—before all men. That voice of low, controlled, yet brimming with contained fire. A reckoning, if not now, then very near.
Thomas swallow. The wine that once made him bold turn to ash in his throat. The warmth that had lit his face with foolish cheer begin to scald, leaving blotches of crimson shame at his neck and ears.
“Pardon me,” he stammer, the smile long gone, “it… it was a mistake.”
“For what ?” Baldwin ask at once, the words cutting the air before Thomas could finish his breath. He lean forward then, placing his elbows lightly upon the snow-white cloth of the table, as if to brace the weight of what he was about to demand.
"F–for…”
(Y/N) watch her husband flounder, watch his words tangle and collapse. It stir something in her. She feels it— small, mean satisfaction that curl in her gut like fire. She smother it behind still lips, behind a posture of modest stillness. But oh, it bloom quietly.
“Apologize to your wife,” He take his gaze away, as if the sight of the man is beneath even his contempt. Yet his voice quiet and clip carry enough weight to crush the breath from the room. No one dare so much as shift in their seat. "You have not offended me—only exposed yourself. For to imply Lady (Y/N) is lesser than you, and must be grateful for your affection, is an insult that lands solely on her.”
"I am sorry". Thomas murmur at last, his head turning slowly toward her—as though each inch cost him his pride. The words trip from his lips, reluctant and raw. Never before has he been brought so low in the presence of others, and it show in his shaking breath. (Y/N) give a small, impassive nod as he turn to glance toward Baldwin, seeking absolution.
“Guy.” The king voice cut through the silence again. “Apologize, too.”
The room turn.
Guy, who has kept his eyes low and sullen posture, blink. His brow furrow in disbelief. Yet the king merely stare—unmoving, like a statue carve from frost and judgment. His eyes, shadow behind the delicate silver of his mask, gleam like a crow’s—sharp and vengeful.
Guy swallow.
He share one final look with Baldwin a foolish attempt to resist but the silence strangle him.
“Pardon me, Lady (Y/N),” He mutter, the words sour on his tongue. “I… am sorry for my behavior.” No sooner has the words left his mouth than Baldwin lift a hand in dismissal, as though swatting away the presence of flies.
“I shall take my leave,” He said, rising to his feet. “My appetite has been spoilt.” He murmer raising Immediately, Tiberias was at his side, ever the loyal shadow. The others, caught between shame and duty, scramble to rise with him—chairs scraping, silver clinking, but no voices dare fill the silence.
The king pause once more before leaving, his gaze flickering coldly to Thomas. “Hopefully,” He said, “you’ve learned from your mistake.”
And then he turn, robes whispering behind him as he depart.
━━━━━━━━
“I still cannot believe the king saw fit to humiliate us like that,” Thomas mutter, shaking his head as though the weight of the evening still clung to his temples. Disbelief etch itself into every line of his face. “Frankly, I fail to see the saint you once claimed him to be.”
His hands work impatiently at the sleeves of his coat, twisting behind his back as he struggle to shrug it off. His gaze remain lower—fix somewhere on the seam where the stone wall kissed the floor, as if unable to meet anything more human.
“Do you think he intends to punish me formally ?” He ask, voice thin with unease.
(Y/N) look at him from where she sit—perch on the edge of the guest bed, hands fold neatly in her lap. The guest room has been offered by Sibylla, with a peculiar sort of insistence. Something about showing her gardens, about air and calm and sunlight tomorrow, as though she were trying to scrub the memory of the night away with flowers and civility.
And (Y/N) had accepted it only with a soft smile, gratitude blooming faintly in her chest—not for the room, nor for the garden. But for the gesture as it does not matter when this exact moment has occurred several times yet only this once did someone defend her and that is not her husband.
And now, as she regard Thomas, her voice come cool and even “Are you truly unaware of what darkened his Majesty’s mood ?”
"What ? I had not once spoke ill of him". Reply her husband smooth and urgent and it is that coolness that prohibit his tone from smoothing her heart. She sneer looking away from the only struggle her husband seem to face tonight is with his coat. Not with her. Not with this. As though the fabric clinging to his arms deserve more attention than the fraying threads of their marriage.
"Can you not tell—". Her voice spike before she caught it. She draw in a sharp breath, eyes falling close, lashes fluttering against the tightness in her throat. Then, quieter. Tighter. “Pray tell me, husband. Have we not lived through this exact moment again and again? Have I not begged you—begged—not to bring up how long we’ve been married?". And when her eyes open, the warmth that usually adorn her face is gone—replace by a grim as cold as stone.
“But why ?” he ask, his voice cracking around the words, still trying to make sense of it. “I don’t understand you—” he is bewildered, even as his coat finally fall from his shoulders. His chest rise with exertion—half from the heat of her words, half from his struggle to free himself from the fabric and the silence between them. He look at her fully now, ready to speak but the words wither.
For he saw them— those tears swelling in her (E/C) eyes, catching the faint flicker of candlelight like sorrow-cut diamonds. Her cheeks flush with fury, her mouth trembling with restraint. And in her gaze, a line of hate glimmer that he can no longer pretend. "Why do you pretend to love me when it’s clear you can not stand me ? Why do you speak around me, ignore me—refuse to even name how long we have been wed ? Why does the truth of our marriage embarrass you ?”
His gaze narrowing and he fought against the tremble that tries to grab hold in his tongue. “…Why are you ashamed of me ?"
Strange, how he looks at her with such wide, trembling eyes—those soft, beseeching pupils that might bring his mother to her knees in mercy but not her. She could not feel a ounce of forgiveness remaining for this man she married. Nor softness for his confessions rather a surge of rage in her heart grow hateful fangs and she fist the blanket in her palms. “Ashamed ? Love ?” she spit, each word barbed and bitter. “You bastard. You know why I married you. You know I have told you a thousand times not to speak of our years together—those ten years, a cruel count for any woman, enough to bear more than five children by now. And yet here I lie, barren while you open that babbling mouth, fuller than the jester’s, spewing foolishness as though it has anything to do with my fondness for you". Anger deep, and harsh roughen the woman's tone and draw her lips back from her glowering teeth and in the mud of her eyes so dark in color look nearly black. Immediately his eyes wide in response and dart to her entirety.
"Do you not know how people ought to think ? Do you take me as a fool that I wouldn't know is you are not so foolish, because if you were, you would not survive so long, that you could not hear the men’s toasts, their mocking praise, thinly veiled insults toward me are thus toward you by extension ? Have you never heard your mother’s venom, always poised to strike to me like a beast watching from the dark ?"
"And love, you speak of love but what have you done to earn it ? Do you believe like the spoiled son you have always been that it will be served to you on a gilded platter? Huh ? I have went through child birth alone twice, without your help because you were too frighten to see the womenly blood that could take my soul anytime and these past years I have been trying everything to conceive the very heir you desire even when the doctor gave me warning that I wouldn't survive just like my past children. Did you mourn them, husband ? Did you even remember them ? You speak of shame and fear of losing me, but do you know what it is to fight every day to remain your wife, terrified I’ll be cast aside, replaced the moment I falter by your mother like a broken trinket ?”
“I cannot conceive,” She whisper, her voice hoarse and full of ruin. “Do you hear that, truly hear it ? The greatest tragedy for a woman whose worth is measured by her womb and despite knowing this, have you ever once sat beside me ? Spoken a word of comfort ? Stood between me and your mother's words ?” The red in (Y/N)'s eyes bleed into her cheek and lips.
"Do you not know I choose you because you were the bestest and only option I had towards nobility. I choose you for standing not love as now I pay the price for it every single day". Her fingers are curling and her knuckles are pale as the moon and as sharp as her bone lay beneath. Her teeth bitter as she speak, her lips pull back in her blood soak cheeks and in her (E/C) eyes burn a frustration and hatred as bright and cruel and unforgiving as the dessert sun.
"You know. Nothing. Of. Me". Shame is a dull color and even bitter sound he let out from opening and clamping his mouth shut at her last words. He swallow thickly, his adam’s apple bobbing visibly—loud, almost vulgar in the hush that falls between them. He parts his lips once more—
Suddenly his eyes dart towards the door, past her that she narrow noticing and shot her eyes towards the direction and the woman's eyes go wide, full moons round and pale with sickly emotion, gleaming like wet coins in the candlelight and her fingers loose the death grip on the blanket at the sight of the king standing alongside his trusted man Tiberias and her soul-brother. All wore bewilder expression, no doubt the king too.
How long they have been standing there ?
Why ?
Did they heard everything ?
All of it ?
Her deepest darkest shame she buried so hard ?
She drag her pupils down to the white blanket, the horror in her eyes dawning in dark and desperate. She could feel the king's gaze, it's a cold weight and ever colder when it knew her naked now. Settling those gaze upon the back of her nape like icicles.
And for the first time King Baldwin saw her crack, the married woman stare beneath her, pale, cruel and sole of color from her eyes. It's so aching he wish to never prevail upon it. There is a terrible ripping sound in her head, like flesh tearing from the bone and her lower lip begin to quiver.
"We come to have an audience with you. Mr. Thomas". Tiberias break the silence making it easier for all in the room and though the said man nod, the action is all a cruel, reflex of dismissal nod. Yet the king could not bear to see sight of him, only able to stare at how tears burn at the back of her lids, the way her chest rose too shallowly to breathe, the way her vision must be swimming behind a veil of salt.
"Your majesty ?" Tiberias’s voice broke gently through the king’s trance, pulling Baldwin’s gaze from the woman back to his ever-loyal commander. Thomas now stand beside him, waiting evidently ready to leave. Only then did Baldwin recall why they has come at all. But he has not come for Thomas. That had only been the excuse. What he truly sought is a glimpse of her.
And he has seen far more than he intended.
“Go. All of you, go before me.”
A frown settle Tiberias’s brow at the unexpected command, but something in the king’s tone still his questions. Somehow, with a few quiet words and a firm hand he convince Thomas to leave alongside Balian. The door shut behind them with a hush like the last breath of the dead, leaving only the king and (Y/N) in the room.
A silence as deep and airless as a tomb follow. The shuffling of his robes reach her ears before the shape of him enter her vision. Still, she said nothing. Has nothing left to say. She only register him when the mattress shift beneath his weight. It dip beneath him without a protest, the blanket sliding just slightly as if even the bed did not dare disturb the moment.
Then a tear escape her eye. It trail down her cheek and slid along the curve of her nose, tracing its slow path to her upper lip in silence.
“Do you wish for me to kill him ?”
Her eyes snap to his, those eyes of cold azure, unwavering and impossibly sincere.
“What ill has my husband committed,” she whisper, breath catching, “for you to even think such a thing ?” Astonishment shimmer in her gaze, and the tear that has linger finally fall from her lip to her chin vanishing.
"For he made you suffer". A faint line carve itself between her brows at his reply.
"Everyone suffers".
"But I do not wish to see you suffer". The words, so softly spoken, loose something inside her. More tears swell—unshed, gliding down the curve of her cheek—as she continue to look at him. At those azure eyes that seem to hold everything, and yet give away nothing of the enigma king he is.
"And what becomes of me, your majesty ?" she ask, her head tilting slightly in quiet play, as if leaning toward a warmth she could neither trust nor flee. It is absurd, this moment. And yet it feels more intimate than she has ever known.
"My wife and the queen". Unease and bewilderment draw color from her eyes and the line of her mouth is tight.
She could not believe this. Not true.
She lean away from the man and caution gleam like coins in her pupils that got Baldwin to want to grab and tear it out of her, he do not wish to become the reason for it and for fear he would only has his patience, the very virtue to guide him.
"Is it a—".
"No, nothing is ever jest with you, (Y/N)". Her breath caught. The way he said her name—plain, unadorned startle her. Only lovers or kin spoke so. And they were neither but strangers bound by nothing more than a meeting the day before.
"You know nothing of me".
"Enough to want you". She turn away. Her hair, loose from its usual binds, fall like a veil to shield her face. He has never seen it undone before. And somehow it made her seem more fragile— more exposed.
"I am older".
"Age has never stood in the way of marriage. You would know that better than I.” His voice is gentle, too tender and far too near. It sting, like honey pour over an open wound. It made everything feel too real, too close. A king’s gaze is never a gift— it is a snare in silk.
"I—". She pause, then crane her neck back slightly, retreating deeper into the curtain of her hair, as though it could protect her. "I cannot conceive". In hush she said, the only thing that might spare her of his interest she does not know how she capture.
"I know". He said after a moment it tore a tear within her gaze as it slide her cheek. "So do I. I mean to speak painly, I have leprosy and due to it I do not believe I could father a child and even if I did, the nature of thus child could inherent my curse so I rather not have a child at all". Vanish, eaten all her excuses to push him away, deny the king of his wanting or waning his desire.
"Why ? Why you want me ?" She would not look at him. Her eyes search the walls, the lavish embroidery of the carpet though everything has blur behind the salt of her grief. "What this used woman have that you desire so much ?"
"I don't know". She feel it, a touch from his on her curtain of hair and how he glide it with the back of his fingers so tenderly tugging her eyes to meet his as he tuck the hair behind her ear and slowly meet and trace her cheek to hold her curve of chin with those silken glove fingers. "All I know is I love you thus I want you". And just like that, the veil of disbelief split down the center and in her eyes sudden, aching, torment is again bleeding spilling from her lashes.
She shut her eyes tight, drawing a sharp breath through clench fists— as though she could inhale strength and exhale the mourning. Mourning for all she is losing, all that is slipping through her fingers like water and when she look up, reply her tone as firm as it is tight. "Does your love comes with respect of my answer ?"
It taken him a back but he nod nevertheless. "Of course, yes". He utter.
"Then I refuse your proposal". She pull away from his touch, her chin lift out of certainty. And in her eyes is that same dreadful resolve he has seen the day they met, the very thing that had drawn him to her. No sweetness. No performance. No coyness of a fair maiden. Only the aching clarity of a woman who meant every word.
His hand, suspend mid-air, drop soundlessly to his side.
“May I know the cause of your refusal— beyond your marriage ?” he ask. She part her lips, but he gently add. "And please not lie for you love your husband for I heard it with my own ears you never even did yearn for him the slightest".
So he has heard everything, she realize and speak. "It is your rank, Your Majesty. That alone is reason enough.” She steady her voice, though it tremble at the edges like glass under strain. “There is no peace in royalty. There never was. You may offer love but it cannot coexist with peace in your world. I’ve already given all my strength to being the wife of a titled man… and I fear what little is left of me would not survive becoming a queen I would no longer be just a wife. I would become... a symbol. A crown.”
"Ah... I see". His voice come raw, gravel-thick and strain, as though the words had been claw from somewhere deep within his ribs— or perhaps torn from them entirely. There is no fury in them, only a hollow ache thread through each syllable. The pain cling to his tone, unmistakable even beneath the veneer of calm. She almost fear he would change his mind soon or done so—
"I understand". He stare at her and beneath the stoic mask he has attempt so vainly to fashion himself, she saw his lashes blink fanatic above the faint golden light, his eyes begin to ripple. With that he stand up, leaving her sat on bed alone.
It's lonely now she feels, devoid of any emotions or too many to choose one from.
Soon she lay down, waiting. Not knowing waiting for what, the sleep mayhaps because it did not grace her this time as easily as it does, her gaze hang on the space of anything, nothing in particular when the door open and she need not see to know the footsteps belong to her husband who without a word lay beside her. Yet a moment later he reach out and draw her close, his arm winding around her waist, her back to his chest and remain like that so did she. Not resist him or sleep. Just stare into the void after he snuff the light off. Morning arrive in pale strokes across the windowpane. She feel him stir, heard the rustle of his clothing, the familiar cadence of dressing. A warm hand press briefly to her shoulder—tender, almost reluctant—before the door thud open. Then close.
Only then did she sit up. Her eyes blink into the light bleeding through the open window, where the wind push the curtains in lazy billows. She stare at it for a while, the breeze brushing her skin like thought itself, until at last, she rise to her feet.
Today, when he return, she would speak to him. A decision is waiting to be said aloud.
━━━━━━━━
Adorned in jewelry and a gown newly wore, she stand by the open window, waiting. The sky above has been kind all morning, stretch in bright blue, the sun burning proudly in its throne, untouch by any whisper of cloud. It is a beautiful day.
Too beautiful. And yet at the day’s splendor, something curl within her gut. A strange unease, sudden and sharp, as if her body has sense something her mind has not. A bad omen. A terrible hush between heartbeats.
"Where is he?" He has not yet arrive. She could not tell how long she has waited, only that the sun has climb high now—higher than before, when it has still been climbing, still full of promise.
The door burst open.
She spin around, one hand flying to her chest, clutching her pearls as though they might anchor her to this earth. Her eyes, wide and stricken, melt at once into relief—if not confusion upon the sight of Sibylla stand in full light, radiant and composed, with that breathtaking smile she wore.
But even Sibylla pause. Her smile falter at the sight of (Y/N)’s pallor.
"What has paled you so ?" she ask. stepping forward with a note of concern.
At once, (Y/N) remember her manners and dip into a bow. “Nothing,” she murmur, straightening at the subtle rise of Sibylla’s hand. “Your entrance merely startled me. It's nothing worth worrying over.”
"Oh, but have you forgotten ?" Sibylla’s voice lifted in playful chiding, though no true irritation color it. "I invited you last night to see my private garden, the one I tend so dearly."
Heaven help her. She has forgotten entirely. All overshadowed, consumed by the storm of her feelings, the weight of his confession from the king—
"Is she aware ?" At that her (E/C) eyes flicker into those green orbs swirling mirth and oblivious smile. "Seem not ?" She thought.
Sibylla then laugh. "Fret not so much. I’m not upset. Who am I to scold you, when I myself am so often forgetful ?" She said, brushing the tension aside with a wave.
"Shall we go, then ?— if you’ve not otherwise occupied yourself ?" (Y/N) pause, thought slide behind her gaze before she give a small nod. He still has not come. She could spare a little time. At once, the royal woman move to link arms with her— an easy, fluid motion that made (Y/N)’s heart twitch. A soft confusion stir in her chest, though she made no move to pull away. She let it be.
Together, they step toward the doorway, nearly at its threshold, when hurried footsteps broke the moment.
A servant rush into view.
But not just any servant.
(Y/N)’s eyes narrow the instant she recognize her— her own private maid, young and slight and usually quiet as a wren. Yet now, she look breathless, wide-eyed. The moment her gaze land on the royal presence, she drop into a bow, waiting for permission to rise. Only once Sibylla give the faintest nod did the maid dare to approach.
She lean in close to (Y/N), her voice barely above a whisper. "My lady—Sir Thomas is dead". Her (E/C) eyes shot hot towards the sorrowful visage of her maid.
"N-no". She stutter in weak protest. "It cannot be". She scream strangle, fly her palms over her face and the horror in her eyes grow ruinous and desperate over her face and she succumb to her own pool of grown and her hands are shaking. "oh— no, oh heaven !"
"What happen ?" Sibylla watch her crumble to the ground, though her voice spew fast, it do with devoid of any urgency. The maid whip her head up to her highness.
"Sir Thomas is dead". She once again declare and that broke (Y/N) for the second time. Her spine bent and she cried as Sibylla rush to her aid, her palms hold her arms for (Y/N) could not feel anything beyond the fact he died. He has passed away and she knew. She had this inkling, had this odd feeling gutting her this morning of the very news she was about to heard.
There were footsteps then. More people entering. A blur of movement and shadows at the edge of her vision. But she heard none of it. "Sister". A familiar voice—a warm one, like memory wrap in wool—cut through the haze. Arms found her, embrace her into the warmth she could not get at her first mourning.
━━━━━━━━
It had taken the whole of a day to simply stand— shoulder to shoulder with the mourners— silent and shrouded in the color of sorrow and her face as blank as the gray sky that loom above.
Yesterday, all she had done was wept. Wept until her bones ached and her limbs no longer obeyed her. Until she crumpled into a fitful slumber, the kind that grants no rest, only escape.
And now, she stand behind his coffin watching as they lower his coffin into the earth—into that cold, brown soil that welcome him back to the place all flesh must return. Dust to dust. Silence to silence. Now dread seep through her, slow and suffocating. Panic coil tight in her ribs. What was to become of her now ?
There is no one to stop her mother-in-law from casting her out—thrown to the wolves that prowled the streets, starved of kindness and waiting to feed on the weak. Her own parents were long buried, their graves weathered by years, their names spoken only in prayer. And though she bore the title of Balian’s sister-in-law, to remain under his roof now would be unseemly. Improper.
And what man would wed a widow who could give no heirs ?
None.
She is better off dead than alive, to wither like a woman would be watching herself catch fire slowly, agonizingly and being forced to stand there and feel it all.
Like now she did not even realize when the mourning has finish and she sat at the edge of the guest chamber within the palace, her fingers limp in her lap, staring off space again. She could not even say her decision she had made in morning that she wishes to leave this kingdom to return. Who knew he will be claimed by the very earth beneath this foreign soil, buried with haste and grief. And his dear mother on her way to visit her beloved son's grave. (Y/N) wonder how would she feel when she learned the manner of his death?
Run down. Crushed beneath the weight of a carriage as he crossed the road only trying to reach the palace, only trying to bring her a gift. A simple box of sweets he had seen the day they first entered the kingdom.
They said he still clutched it in death.
Fingers curled, stubborn even in the afterlife, around the delicacies he thought might make her smile. And when his mother would hear it… She would drag (Y/N) to the very doorstep of Hell.
"You whore, the cause of my son's death". She would spat, her spits falling in (Y/N)'s face but she will not be able to defend herself because indeed she killed her son.
No, not directly. But the cause would still be her.
The door open and she turn her face slowly, eyes gliding with no hurry to face the very same sliver mask and white robe concealing the king. As his killer stands in front of her. She is not naïve nor stupid to see it as mere coincidence at how the very next day her husband died prior to when the king profess his love and ask if she desired him to kill her husband.
Without a care of the consequences she always have been burden with, her hand lashes out and seizes the candle from the table. In one swift, damning motion, she hurls it at the king, intent on watching it strike and melt him to the ground like wax beneath fire but it seem he has not wane to his sickness yet that he flick of his wrist, knocks the candle away, and it spins out to the far corner of the floor, a harmless, sputtering ember lost to the dark.
“Execute me,” she declares, her voice cold, crystalline. “For I have committed treason—I meant to kill the king.”
"I would not. It was not your intention—".
"Oh, your majesty then you not know me very well. It had my every bit of intention to hurt you". With snarl she look at him, such contempt she bears he know he been found, she is aware of what he has done and advance closer. At noticing that, she turn around, eyes searching for the next object to become a weapon when the king's hand found her. He seizes her by the arms first, and the heat of him burns through her sleeves, a moment later, his grip travels down, binding her wrists in his palms and he squeeze them tightly.
"Please, not be upset with—". He lean in, voice trembling like a fraying string. A softness weigh it down, sorrow just beginning to bud in his chest. Not even the cries of his own heart could quiet the quiver that touch his tongue.
"Not be upset with you ?" she echo, pressing the words through clench teeth. “Upset ? Then, Your Majesty, you are far more mistaken than you care to admit. I feel nothing for you but rage. You left me with nothing. You left me empty. Without my husband, I have to fend for myself.” Her breath rose, words tumbling into a shriek more than a scream.
"No, you would not have to".
"How ?"
"Because you would be my wife and the queen".
"Oh, I forgotten why it even begin".
“You were unhappy. Believe me, I would make you happy. I would give you the respect, the standing, without ever a whisper of being replaced. I would love you—devotedly—”
"Shut up ! You truly do not understand the weight of what you’ve done. Yes, I was unhappy. Yes, I might have chosen better. But you— you are worse. You would not even be alive long to protect me". Her voice shakes with the fire of it, and her wrists twist, wrenching in his grasp, but he does not release her.
"Yes, your majesty, mayhaps you would me love me like no man in my life has but could you protect me once you are gone? From beneath the earth? From the grave ? What happens to me then ? Who will shield me from the wolves that circle ? Yes, I may wear the crown but the crown bears its own doom. And death is the dearest of its burdens. Every man who bows to me in daylight of court would seek to slit my throat. Every day, I would rise only to fight for my life. If not harder than before, then crueler."
"Do you not understand ? I would be no safer than a lamb among butchers once your death— your inevitable, unpredictable death comes to pass. Is that what you plan? To leave a guard behind for your dear nephew the one you groom as heir to be king ? Would I even live long enough to see that day ?” Her tone as hot as a fire as fear flood through her face, running in her veins and it pain him to see the weight of her own words cast upon her heart so heavy her chest begin to heave.
"That's why I would take you with me".
"What ?" The word stumbles out, doubt clamoring in her skull. What does he mean by that ?
"You shall be buried beside me. In the same coffin. On the very day I die—we shall lie side by side." A chill runs the length of her body, so sudden and sharp it robs the warmth from her skin. She feels it leave her, the blood, the breath, the beat of her pulse— it all seems to pull back as her heart recoils with a violent shudder.
Her eyes, wide and unblinking, lift to his. Those azure irises still shimmer with light, bright and fill with impossible hope, as though he has just spoke a vow of love rather than a sentence of death.
And then— he releases her wrists. The gentleness is worse than restraint. His fingers, ghostlike, trace down to her waist and pull her into an embrace, warm as a hearth and just as capable of burning. Her chin found its perch upon his shoulder, and a tear escape before she know it had form in her wide eyes. “I love you far too much to leave you behind in such a cruel and unkind earth. Even in death, I can not bear to part. I shall not go on without you not even into the afterlife". His voice pleasant and light to the ear but the words it spoke has poise them so greatly disbelief tries to shield her, smothering her hearing with its cold hands, still the truth pierces through and all she could feel is agony as tears after tear, falling freely without a blink— grief made liquid. Agony, endless and wordless, soaking her cheeks.
"Have you drove yourself mad ?" she whispers, though there is no strength left in her to lace the words with anger. No breath to arm her voice with accusation, not after witnessing what this man dares in the name of love.
His mask cold as moonlight, grazes the bare nape of her neck. It is a mere brush— feather-light, like the wing of some pale nocturnal thing and yet it again steals the warmth from her spine, drawing forth a shiver that coils downward like a drop of ice melting through flesh.
“What choice do I have,” Baldwin breathes, so near she feels the words bloom against her skin. "when the arrow of cupid you loosely shot me dead center ?" A pause, then softer still
The same week your beloved cat goes missing, Gojo Satoru enters your life. It’s uncanny how similar this man looks and acts to your cat. It’s almost like…no that’s impossible…right?
word count: 12.5k
(smut, slight pet play, gojos a freak but what else is new, based on this post, for @indiewritesxoxo's Lust-filled Love Fest thingy!!! banner link)
Before you found Snowbell, you never had an interest in pets.
You owned a fish as a child. By that, you mean your parents felt the great misfortune of watching you clamber through your childhood home with a gap-toothed smile and a carnival fish trapped in a plastic bag that screamed, ‘I’m your problem now’. At your current age, you wondered how it was even legal to let a child win an arcade game that gave them a living, breathing thing to take care of. Back then, you were just happy watching your newest source of entertainment float around in a glass tank, going ‘blub blub blub’, unable to understand why your parents looked more exhausted by the minute.
From what you could remember, it lived a long, happy life. It lived the rest of its days happily swimming around next to the TV. Despite barely meeting the basic requirements for sentience, your parents were determined to give it a proper life. The words ‘This life is our responsibility now’ cycled throughout your home. They did well to instill a strong sense of responsibility in you that has carried on to this day.
When you grew up, that remained. As much as you gushed over cute kitty videos or dogs that knew tricks other than ‘sit’, you weren’t invested in the concept of a pet. Taking care of a fish already seemed like a daunting task the moment you entertained getting one.
If Snowbell hadn’t come along, you might’ve eventually gotten a foster animal. Or, you would’ve rescued a senior dog. Something small and not too barky.
You weren’t initially planning on keeping the cat. When you brought him home, you thought at most he would’ve stayed the night before you dropped him off at the local shelter. One night turned into two. Two nights turned into a week. Before you knew it, Snowbell became the second member of your household.
You tried to do the right thing, at first. You knew Snowbell probably had an owner who was worried sick looking for him. There was no way that wasn’t true. Despite the grim, sooty conditions you found the cat in, it was clear he was well-cared for and domesticated. His sweet blue eyes and long white fur were clear indicators that he wasn’t the average streetcat. As much as you tried to look for his original owner, nothing came of it. For the time being, Snowbell was stuck with you.
He never once hissed or scratched at you. He was such a sweet kitten, perfectly happy to lounge around on your bed or your sofa, dutifully waiting for you to come back home. You never had any problems other cat owners had with their cats scratching up their wooden furniture or making litter accidents. Life with him was peaceful and domestic. Idyllic, even.
Still, there was something strangely off-putting about Snowbell. You could never fully explain it. As pretty as his crystal-blue eyes were, you felt like there was something more underneath. Sometimes, it really felt like Snowbell was laughing at you. There were times he did things that were too human and less animalistic. Pet owners often overestimated how smart their animals were, but you were sure there was something about Snowbell you could never put your finger on.
Maybe that was the issue. You personified him too much–humanized him.
Snowbell disappeared through an open window one sunny day, just like any other cat would have.
You had been an emotional wreck that night. You cried all throughout the night and barely got any sleep. Pathetically, you cuddled the spot of the bed Snowbell used to lie on, as though his lingering warmth would be nestled in the pillows. You almost called in sick for work the next morning before inevitably deciding to sludge your way through the day. You hadn’t even remembered opening that window, but it wasn’t like Snowbell sprouted human hands and pushed it open himself. Guilt for being a shitty pet owner clung to you like dirt.
Snowbell disappeared on Monday. That night, you called every shelter you could think of in search of him. The volunteers on the other end assured you they’d call you if they saw anything, but you doubted anything would come of it. On Tuesday, you and some of your friends went out on a failed search. On Wednesday, you left out food and your shirt outside your apartment in a feeble attempt to lure him back. On Thursday, you went out to search for him again, but alone.
Snowbell disappeared on Monday. By Friday, you were starting to lose hope of ever finding him.
The door rattled as you shut it behind you. You were supposed to call the landlord about it ages ago, but you never got around to it. Non-urgent, but extremely annoying. Yet another thing tacked onto this terrible day.
Tomorrow was the weekend. You knew you wouldn’t spend it lounging around your apartment, catching up on that show you put off. You would be outdoors, continuing your search for hidden corners and pockets.
On the way out, you ran into your neighbor. Tachibana smiled at you–those pitiful little smiles you’d give to someone who got drenched by a speeding car careening over a puddle. Perhaps, in her eyes, there wasn’t much of a difference between the current you and someone like that.
Her daughter lingered just behind her. She was a sweet girl. Last you remembered, she was about to enter elementary school. She wore her hair in a trimmed bob with a bright blue headband. It reminded you of Snowbell’s bright eyes, the way he would track your movement across the apartment with such intelligence.
You were close enough with Tachibana and her daughter to exchange greetings. Some type of small talk. Tachibana gracefully danced around the glaring topic because she had lived in society for quite some time now.
Dani was less perceptive towards social norms. She peered up at you with big softened eyes.
“Have you found him yet?” She asked before her mother could hush her.
Despite the ache in your heart, you smiled down at her.
“Not yet,” you said, “but I’m sure he’ll turn up soon.”
You weren’t the only one dealing with the loss of Snowbell. The few times you had to leave for a last-minute trip, you often left your cat in the care of the Tachibanas. Dani adored that cat, snuggling him every time she saw him. Snowbell mostly tolerated it. He got along well with most of your friends and neighbors.
Dani frowned, clearly not convinced, but she said nothing more about it. She gave a wave as she and her mother brushed by you and back into their apartment. You smiled until their door shut and locked behind them.
The act was exhausting. You were glad you didn’t pass by anyone else as you wandered out the glass doors, onto the busy streets of the city. People brushed by you, completely oblivious to your misery. You didn’t fault them. Why would anyone pay attention to a stranger? You certainly wouldn’t.
You glanced down at your phone. There was nothing. No alerts, no beeps, no missed calls from someone having found your pet. You expected it. It still sank your heart.
You tucked your phone in your pocket, shuffling around with the missing cat posters under your arm. It was your last batch. Once you put these up, you promised yourself you wouldn’t make any more.
You didn’t want to spend Friday night like this. Not many people would. Your friends tried to talk you out of it, encouraging you to go out with them like you were grieving a break-up. Maybe to them, that’s what you were doing. Maybe they thought you needed a break from your misery.
But the thought of Snowbell being out there, alone, lost, and cold. Completely helpless. Injured–maybe even dead. It was all too much for you to think about abandoning the search for even one night.
By the time you stapled the last poster, the sun had already sunk well below the horizon. Oranges and reds streaked across the sky. In a few hours, it would be well into the night, limiting your vision.
If that wasn’t enough, it started to drizzle. The smell of rain hit your nose. The air started to mist ever so slightly, causing the area around you to take on a faint-blue hue. Apparently, everyone was smarter than you. The streets were empty, with the few people left carrying umbrellas or coats. Cold drops hit your hands, your face, your clothes. It wasn’t enough to soak you, but the dark marks on your clothes got more and more prevalent as the seconds passed. For lack of better words, this severely dampened your mood. You knew all those hours of you putting up missing cat posters would turn into soggy, unreadable scraps by the end of this storm, whisking away into the drain to never be seen again.
It was as though the universe itself was telling you to give up.
You’d try again tomorrow. Hopefully, by then, the rain would clear up. You pulled out your phone to check the time when you stumbled. Your fingers slipped, and you lost your grip on your phone, lips pulling up in a cringe when it crashed onto the ground and slid away from you.
You cursed to yourself as you made your way towards it. You really hoped it hadn’t cracked in the fall.
Pale, lithe fingers reached down and plucked it off the pavement.
It’s like he stepped off a runway. His clothes were expensive just from the look of the fabric itself. Despite the drizzle, he remained perfectly dry. His white hair framed his face perfectly. You couldn’t see his eyes, covered by black sunglasses. He might have been the most beautiful man you ever saw.
He silently offered your phone. You accepted it with grateful hands.
“Thank you.” You told him. Where had he even come from? You thought you were alone on this side of the road.
Pink lips curved into an easy-going smile as he towered over you. The stranger hadn’t stepped back once he handed your phone back. Instead, he leaned forward ever so slightly.
“Cute wallpaper.” He commented.
You glanced down at your phone. Your lock screen showed Snowbell in mid-stretch, baby-pink paws reaching towards the sky as he lounged on your bedsheets. You’d had many pictures of Snowbell, but you thought that was your favorite snapshot.
It was one of the few things you had left of him now.
You feigned a smile.
“Oh, thank you.”
The stranger didn’t register your clipped tone. “How long have you had him?”
“Barely a few weeks.” You honestly said before wincing. “I…I’m actually looking for him so–”
When people comment on your cat’s disappearance, there’s often a twinge of pity somewhere in their eyes. It made you feel small–pathetic. You steeled yourself, readying for that same look before he finally left you alone.
There’s none of that.
“I was about to ask.” The stranger hummed. “I thought he looked familiar. I think I’ve seen him before.”
Your eyes snapped up to his face.
“You’ve seen him?” What followed was a barrage of questions: Where was he? What did he look like? Was he injured? How long ago was it?
The stranger barely even flinched at your demands for answers. Even as you leaned into his space, he barely backed up. His smile grew wider as he opened his mouth to speak.
You jumped at the clap of thunder. The already darkened sky swirled with angry gray-blue clouds. The drizzle threatened to intensify.
He glanced up and clicked his tongue.
“How about we talk somewhere indoors?”
🐾
As soon as you stepped into the restaurant, the weather got ugly.
Rain thumped against the window, spraying water onto the soaked concrete sidewalks and roads. Puddles grew across the ground. Thunder rumbled as lightning streaked across the sky every so often. The wind aggressively blew past your shelter, changing direction every few minutes. You’d hate to be stuck out there at that very moment.
Compared to the storm's harshness, the restaurant was a haven. The warmth heated your cheeks as you shrugged off your coat. It looked a bit on the expensive side. Warm candlelight illuminated each table. You sat in a comfortable chair with a red plush seat, watching the waitress happily fill your cup with fresh water.
He was already glancing at the menu as you awkwardly sat across from him.
“What are you thinking of getting?” He asked as he flipped through the laminated pages. “Oh! The eel here is to die for. You’ll love it, promise.” He assured you.
You pursed your lips. “I’m not actually–”
“This also seems good.” He shoved the menu in front of your face, and you reflexively flinched back. “Wanna try it?”
You forgot how you even got to this point. When he suggested talking indoors, you thought he meant a brief shelter from the rain.
“Are you ready to order?” the waitress cheerfully asked.
“Yes!” He said before rattling off a long list of various foods and treats. He then turned to you with a questioning hum.
“Just the water is fine.” You told her, and she happily gathered your menus before she hurried off.
“Isn’t this place adorable?” He asked you. “I found it a while ago. I think a nice, quiet dinner with rain right outside sets the perfect tone.” He leaned back in his chair.
You stared at him and tried to figure out what he was even talking about.
“You said you saw my cat, right?” You changed topics. “Where did you see him?”
“I definitely saw him!” He told you. “A couple of times, actually. Trust me—would never forget that face. He’s really easy on the eyes, huh?”
Your eyes flitted down as you thought of pretty white fur and sparkling blue eyes. You spent hours a week grooming him, fluffing out his soft fur, and making him the best version of himself he could be. He was the prettiest kitten you’ve ever laid your eyes on, and you couldn’t help but make him even prettier.
“He is,” you agreed. You found yourself smiling just thinking about him.
“Really?” He leaned forward. A mischievous smile spread across his lips. “He’s handsome, right? Really handsome?”
Your eyes narrowed as you continued to eye him. Why was he trying to goad you into complimenting your cat?
“Of course he is,” you responded. It felt more and more like he was making fun of you. Were you wasting your time here?
He leaned back, looking oddly satisfied.
“I’m sure he’d be happy hearing you say that,” he told you. “Cats are really good about these things, y’know. Emotions and all that.”
“Right,” you said, hoping to ease him along into the conversation you really wanted to have. “So, again, you said you–”
“Oh, food’s here!” He cut you off and pointed excitedly to somewhere behind you. “I’m starved.”
Sure enough, the waitress stepped into your vision with a friendly smile pressed on painted lips. You watched as she set down pretty porcelain plates and bowls, most crowded in his direction. The smell of steaming veggies and heaps of rice drifted into your nose. Your lips twitched into a frown as the plates continued to pile up before the waitress set something right in front of you.
You moved, quick to correct her blunder. “Oh, I never ordered anything–”
Your words caught in your throat when you realized it was your favorite dish.
“You should try it!” The man urged. “They make it really well here.”
You watched him for a minute. He paid you no mind, continuing to chow down on his meal. How did he know this was your favorite meal?
When you asked him, he stopped eating, looking amused.
“No way, I was right?” He laughed, looking thoroughly pleased with himself. “You seemed like the type of person who would like this type of stuff. I guess I’m good at reading people.”
So it truly was a coincidence. You glanced down at the meal. Compared to how you made it at home, the restaurant’s version was immaculate. You weren’t too upset. After all, you weren’t a chef. The scent of the food reminded you of all those times you had to fight off Snowbell. He’d go wild anytime you made it. He would constantly appear in the kitchen, eager for a tasty swipe. You’d feed him scraps, letting him enjoy your hard labour every once in a while. You didn’t do it too often, afraid he might get sick, but you secretly appreciated how much he liked it.
In those times, he felt more human than cat.
“What are you waiting for?” A voice snapped you out of your thoughts. The man gestured to your plate. He was halfway done with his own meal. “The food won’t eat itself.”
It wasn’t like you could refuse, right? He’d already ordered it. You felt it was rude to reject his offering, no matter how strange this man was.
You took a bite.
“It’s good,” you said. You took another one.
He nodded along. “I told you!”
His voice quietened a bit after.
“Still, I think it’s better homemade.”
You agreed with him.
You took another bite. Then, you took another. After your tenth bite, you suddenly realized how little you’d been eating lately. Your free time was spent thinking about Snowbell and worrying about him. You barely had time to sleep, let alone eat a hearty meal.
Sometime after that, your belly was full, the plates were cleared of food, and it was still raining. You found yourself perched right at the doors, hearing the murmurs of the other restaurant’s patrons behind you. You watched as the rain lightly tapped at the crystal glass. The more you thought about the way this night ended, the more humour you found.
Earlier, you had been stuck out in the rain before being picked up by a strange man. It almost paralleled the night you found Snowbell.
(You stumbled onto him one random evening after work. You were hurrying home, eager to get out of the rain. The umbrella you held kept most of the moisture off your clothes, but you could feel water drip through your shoes and up the cuffs of your pants. You could almost imagine chucking them off and enjoying a nice warm shower.
Just then, you saw a streak of white.
Barely a glimpse. At first, you thought it was a plastic bag hurtling into an alleyway. You should have pressed on and ignored it. For whatever reason, you followed the gut feeling nestled deep inside of you.
It was a filthy alley. Trash littered the walls and splattered across the ground. The rain made the smell of garbage even more pungent. You scrunched your nose as you peered around.
Something rattled right behind a garbage can. You crouched down as you tried to steal a peek behind the dumpster.
“Come out here.” You clicked your tongue, trying to be as enticing as you could. You thought it was a small dog, at first.
A shadow peeked out of the dumpster.
The prettiest kitten you’d ever seen blinked at you.
Despite the rain that soaked it to the bone, you could make out pure white fur that was tarnished by mud and water. Flattened ears and a pink nose.
The most notable feature of the animal was its eyes.
The brightest blue you’d ever seen.
Like the cloudless sky on a summer day. The color of a calm, peaceful lake, with barely a ripple of disturbance. There was so much life packed within those eyes. They almost put you in a trance, and momentarily made you forget the rain and the harshness of the wind. The warmth and peace that lingered beneath those irises was enough to push away the cold.
A smile spread across your face as you crouched even lower, hoping you’d make yourself seem less threatening.
“Hi there.” You cooed at the cat, who only stared right back. “Are you lost?”
When you reached out, the creature barely flinched. It appeared more confused than anything as you stroked the top of its head before dropping down to scratch its cheek.
Eventually, your affections seemed to win the cat over to your side. Before long, it leaned into your touch, as if enjoying your petting. Happy at the progress you made in such a short time, you attempt to lift it from the grimy ground. Thankfully, the cat allowed you without much fuss. You tucked it under your arms, keeping it in the shelter of your umbrella. Considering how well it did with strangers, it was clear the cat was domesticated. Did it slip away from its owner when they weren’t looking?
“Poor thing.” You were awed by the sweet little kitten. “Where’s your owner?”
You continued to observe it. No collar. No distinct marking of a claim. You debated going online on missing pet forums. Maybe someone reported the poor guy.
How long had the poor thing been outside? It couldn’t have been any more than a day. The cat was practically a white beacon begging to be noticed. There’s no way this cat wouldn’t have been snatched up by a predator if you hadn’t stumbled upon it. In the harsh city environment, it was utterly helpless.
You hummed, glancing up at the sky.
“Looks like we’re both caught in this weather.” You talked out loud. “It’s a good thing we found each other, right?”
The cat continued to stare at you with large blue eyes. You smiled before tucking it into the warmth of your coat.
“You’re okay now.” You told it. “I’ll keep you safe.”
You knew you were just seeing things, but you swore the cat understood you, somehow.)
“Does it look like it’s going down?” A voice asked.
The man stood by your side, peering out the same window you were. You watched as his sunglasses crept over his nose, close to dropping down, before you glanced away.
“No.” You told him. “I don’t think the rain will stop for a long while.”
He hummed in agreement. “If we waited for it to stop, we’d probably be stuck here for hours.” He didn’t sound too upset at that, you couldn’t help but note to yourself.
You nodded along. Just like the rest of the week, tonight had ended in a bust. No Snowbell. No cat. You were stuck in a warm building after eating a delicious meal, while your cat was probably out in the cold somewhere, waiting for you.
Something stung in the back of your eyes.
You were a shitty pet owner.
“I saw him yesterday.”
Your eyes snapped up to meet his. He stared right at the glass. You waited for him to say something more, but he remained silent.
“Was he–” You swallowed. Your mouth felt dry. “Was he okay?”
“Yeah.” He told you. “He looked great. You took great care of him. I can tell.”
Relief snagged at your heart, weighing your shoulders down with a type of pain you’d never felt before.
“I tried to catch him, but he was a bit too slippery for me.” He clicked his tongue.
You failed to muffle your laugh. Snowbell had easily coaxed himself into your arms the first night you found him. You shouldn’t have been proud of this, but you felt something oddly like pride to know you were the only person he cuddled up to.
“Thank you.” You told him. “For the meal and for letting me know you saw him. It was really nice of you to do all of that.”
Outside, the rain dwindled ever so slightly. In the morning, a light fog would drift over the city, suffocating the streetlamps and the roads. The potholes in the streets would be filled with soot and water far into the afternoon with the sun blaring overhead. A bare heat would fill the city, gentle from the rain, but still warm.
“You really miss the guy, don’t you?” He asked.
You didn’t bother to answer. It’s not like you ever tried to hide your desperation. Everyone in your life thought you were crazy for losing it over a pet as you had in the past days. No one told it to your face, but you knew that’s what they thought. To others, you were some cat-crazed person who wandered the streets. You did miss him. You missed him more than anything.
“I don’t think the rain will stop anytime soon,” you said, “I'd better go before it gets too late.”
“I could drive you back,” he suggested.
You shook your head, insisting you’d be fine. You expected him to push back at your refusal. He seemed to take your rejection in stride, reaching out with something in his lithe fingers.
“Take this, then.” He settled the bundled-up umbrella into your limp hand. You recognized what it was after you instinctively grabbed it.
“No, it’s fine—“ You tried to insist, but he waved you off.
“Just take it. I’d hate for you to walk out in this weather without one. You should’ve had an umbrella in the first place.” He berated you, but there’s no real heat in his voice.
“Just give it back when we search for your kitty.”
You blinked up at him.
“We?” You repeated his words.
He nodded eagerly. “You planned on searching for him tomorrow, right?”
Of course you were, and the day after that, too.
“I’ll come with you.” He declared. “Two heads are better than one, right?”
What was so appealing about skulking outside, searching for the slightest hint of white fur? This man was such an enigma; you didn’t understand him. You knew you shouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth. The more eyes you have, the better. Yet, you couldn’t help the feeling that rested in your stomach.
“Why?” You asked, but it sounded more like a demand. “Why do you want to help me?”
The man tilted his head downward. The softest laugh left his lips at the same moment his sunglasses slipped down his nose.
His eyes.
The brightest blue you’d ever seen.
Like the cloudless sky on a summer day. The color of a calm, peaceful lake, with barely a ripple of disturbance. There was so much life packed within those eyes. They almost put you in a trance, and momentarily made you forget the rain and the harshness of the wind. The warmth and peace that lingered beneath those irises was enough to push away the cold.
They looked familiar.
“I knew somebody who lost their pet, once,” He told you as his lips quirked up. “It’s a sad thing. No one should go through that.”
Everything he said sounded like a joke, but you saw the sincerity in his eyes.
“This person.” You glanced outside when the sear of his gaze got too much. “Did they ever end up finding their pet?”
He nodded. You didn’t know why that gave you so much relief.
“If you have time tomorrow, then yes,” you said, “I’d really appreciate the help. Thank you.”
“Great!” He clapped his hands together before pulling out his phone. “Let’s exchange numbers, so we can meet up tomorrow.”
You agreed, wordlessly handing him your phone before you realized something.
“I don’t even know your name.” You said out loud.
He laughed again.
“Gojo Satoru.” He introduced before raising a finger in the air to point at you. “But you should call me Satoru.”
You hesitantly received your phone from his hands. The contact name ‘Satoru :3’ stared back at you.
“We should speak more comfortably with each other. After all, we’re gonna be kitty hunting buddies, right? ”
🐾
(The best thing about Snowbell was how sweet he was.
Not just to you (but mostly to you). He was loved by everyone on your floor. Children like Dani adored him, and often asked about him whenever you ran into her. You’ve read that cats were often aloof and hated strangers, but Snowbell wasn’t like that at all. He was liked by everyone and everyone loved him.
And then, Hatori came along.
You’d known Hatori for a while, actually. You two weren’t friends–barely a step up from acquaintances. He was a nice guy and you two were similar in age. Whenever you passed him by in the halls, you made small talk but you never went out of your way to do anything more.
So when you briefly mentioned having a plumbing issue and Hatori offered to take a look at it, you accepted immediately.
“Thanks again.” You told him as you led him into your apartment. “Seriously, it’s been driving me up the wall. All that noise.”
“I get it.” He assured you. “The one in your kitchen, right?”
You nodded. A fluff of white caught your attention. You were about to point your cat out to Hatori when all Hell broke loose.
Snowbell made a sound that was almost demonic before he rushed at Hatori. You barely stopped him before he could get to Hatori’s foot, holding him up by the scruff as he thrashed around in your hold. You kept him to your chest as your cat continued his onslaught. If looks could kill, Hatori would’ve been dead ten times over by now.
“I’m sorry.” You told Hatori as Snowbell continued to thrash and struggle. It was getting harder and harder to keep a hold on him. “He–he’s usually not like this.”
Hatori stepped closer to the door.
“I should go.” He concluded.
“I’m sorry.” You told him again.
Snowbell didn’t stop until Hatori was long gone. His fit was bad. At one point, he’d even hacked something up because of how stressed he was. You coddled him the best you could, apologizing to him over and over. He settled in your arms hours later and peacefully purred into your chest as you stroked his head.
You’d never seen him act like that before, but maybe you were wrong about him liking everyone. Maybe he had a bad experience with men and that’s why he acted like that? You should probably bring it up to your vet the next time you go to the clinic.
Either way, this was the last time you’d ever bring Hatori over.
You kissed the top of Snowbell’s head. His pretty blue eyes blinked up at you.
“Don’t worry,” you cooed, “you’re the only man for me.)
Twenty minutes later, Satoru still hadn’t arrived.
You crossed your arms as you lingered near the streetlight. People meandered their way through the busy street all around you. As the minutes ticked on, you grew more and more frustrated. You should have expected this. From the short while you’d known Satoru, he was not the most punctual guy in the world.
He turned up eventually, practically skipping up to you with a smile on his face.
“Didn’t have to make you wait too long, right?” He grinned, completely ignoring the frown on your face.
“I was about to leave.” You chastised. “You need to be more respectful of people’s time.”
He raised his arms up in a semblance of an apology.
“Whoops, my bad,” he said, “I swear I’m not doing it on purpose. I’ve been swamped at school. Lots of stuff to catch up on ‘cuz I took an unprompted vacation a few weeks ago.”
He mentioned being a teacher a couple of times, but you can’t imagine him doing that. Sitting around and grading papers doesn’t seem like the type of job Satoru excelled at, but maybe that was just because you saw this side of him rather than anything professional.
“Okay!” He clasped his hands together. “So far, we’ve checked the area around your apartment. Maybe we should broaden the search a little.”
“What do you mean?” You asked, your initial frustration waning.
“Maybe we should stop thinking like humans and start thinking like cats.” He told you with the utmost seriousness. “Places like underneath bridges and dark places scared little kitties might crawl into for shelter.”
That was a pretty good point, actually. There was a chance Snowbell wandered off somewhere, maybe in a crevasse you wouldn’t think to look for him in.
With a plan secured, the two of you set off. You and Satoru checked wherever you could think of: underneath bridges, in the park, and on the outskirts of a clump of trees. Each time, you came up empty. Any cat you did see never resembled Snowbell in the tiniest bit. They were often so skittish and wary of humans, shrinking away when you came close.
You still left a bit of wet food for them when you turned away. Maybe it had to do with your lost pet, but any stray cat chipped away at your heart.
Satoru passed the time as he often did, talking and yammering about anything he could. So far, the two of you had gone ‘hunting’ five or so times–each trip ending in nothing. Despite how disappointed you were after every failure, Satoru was more chipper than ever. Most would find how talkative he was absolutely annoying, but you didn’t mind one bit. His upbeat attitude felt comforting, like it was his own way of assuring you everything would be okay.
You often felt like you knew him forever. However, it was more realistic to assume you’d known him for three weeks at most. Maybe even less. He was just that type of person. That personality of his reminded you of Snowbell. He was a little like that too, yowling like he was trying to start a conversation with you even though you didn’t understand his language.
Lots of little things Satoru did reminded you of Snowbell, actually.
A couple hours into the search, Satoru suggested taking a break. You didn’t argue.
“There’s a cafe a little ways from here.” Satoru suggested. “I love their coffee.”
You’d seen the surgery contraptions he calls ‘coffee’ and you’d rather not relive that experience. Also, everytime Satoru brought you to a restaurant, he always insisted on paying, leaving you more and more guilty for taking advantage of him. These outings were starting to feel less like searches and more like dates.
You almost laughed, but you held your tongue. Ridiculous. He was just being a nice guy.
“My place isn’t that far from here,” you said as you turned to him. “Let’s just stop there and I can make us something to eat.”
For the first time, Satoru genuinely looked lost for words. He blinked at you behind his sunglasses.
“You never let me pay.” You explained. “The least you could do is let me cook for you.”
“Oh.” He cleared his throat. “Sure! Let’s go!”
You eyed him. He reeled himself back.
“It’s been awhile since I’ve had a home cooked meal,” he told you.
“Hm.” You walked away, not at all fighting the urge to tease him a bit. “So, what. You’ve just been surviving on instant noodles this whole time? Poor baby.”
“I eat.” He told you after he caught up to your pace. “How else do you think I got these muscles?” He playfully flexed but even underneath those baggy clothes you saw his bicep. You forced your eyes away and hoped he didn’t notice.
“Let’s just get you something before those precious muscles of yours get all flabby.”
You let him into your house ten minutes later. Satoru walked in and slipped off his shoes. He placed them next to yours before he looked around.
His steps were slow as he surveyed your home. You watched as he walked up to a window, hands drifting over the glass.
“...Smaller than I remember.” You heard him say.
“What?” You asked.
He pointed out the window.
“From the ground, the buildings look a lot bigger, right? But when we’re up here, they are a lot tinier,” he said.
Right, of course that’s what he meant.
He wandered to your photographs, scanning over the various knick-knacks and other things you’ve kept over the years. He smiled when he caught the lone picture of Snowbell, framed and proudly displayed. He lightly tapped on the glass.
“What a cutie,” he told you.
You agreed, stepping closer to admire the picture as well. Snowbell had always loved attention and he was oddly very photogenic. Anytime you whipped your camera out, he would stretch and purr and create these adorable poses for you to snap away at. You often wondered if you should make an instagram for him so more people could enjoy his adorableness.
Maybe you missed your chance.
“Seriously, the cutest little guy.” Satoru continued. “Terrible name choice, though.”
You rolled your eyes. This argument again. You couldn’t tell if he did it on purpose or if he genuinely had a personal vendetta against the name ‘Snowbell’.
“It’s a cute name,” you argued back.
“It’s uncreative. Especially for a work of art like that.” He pointed to the picture of your cat. “Lemme’ guess, you’d name a black and white cat oreo.”
‘Cow would be cuter,’ you thought, but you decided not to give him more ammo.
“It just stuck. Besides, I didn’t come up with the name. My neighbor did.”
It was a couple days after you brought the cat home. Back then, you weren’t sure if you were keeping him. His original name was even more uncreative–‘Cat’. Then, when you were helping Tachibana lug up groceries, her daughter asked if she could see photos. After showing her the numerous pictures you snapped of ‘Cat’, Dani excitedly exclaimed how similar ‘Cat’ looked to the cat in ‘Stuart Little’. Thanks to her, ‘Cat’ turned into ‘Snowbell’.
“Ah,” Satoru said after your tangent, “So Dani came up with the name, then.”
You nodded, but then you blinked.
“How did you know her name?” You asked.
“You mentioned her,” Satoru breezily replied.
“No, I didn’t.”
“Yes, you did.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“Pretty sure you did.” He smiled. “How else would I know?”
Your mouth opened, when a knock came from the door. You decided to table the discussion for now.
You smiled when you saw who it was.
“Hatori!” You greeted. “What brings you here?”
Hatori lingered by the door, polite and reserved as always. He gave a pleasant wave.
“Hey, hope I’m not a bother,” he said, “just hoping I could borrow a cup of sugar.”
You gave a smile. This isn’t the first time he asked for favors like that. You didn’t mind. It was nice to see a sweet tooth that doesn’t go overboard with his sugar like somebody you knew.
Like he’d been summoned, Satoru appeared behind you. You bumped into his chest just as you were about to let Hatori inside. He was so close. You could feel his breath on your back. His faded cologne lingered in the air.
You glanced up. Through his sunglasses, Satoru full-on glared at Hatori.
He’d never looked that upset before. Usually he was all goofy and happy-go-lucky. Now, he was stiff, coiled up like a spring.
“Sorry.” Satoru gave a smile filled with sharp teeth. Had he always had fangs? “We’re all out.”
Hatori blinked. So did you. He reacted first.
“Sorry.” Hatori narrowed his eyes and he looked between you and Satoru. “Who are you exactly?”
“Don’t worry about it.” Satoru reached past you and slammed the door in Hatori’s face.
You remained frozen even after Satoru retreated back into the apartment, slumping onto the couch.
“Uh, what was that?” You demanded after a bit of recovering.
“What?” Satoru whined, immediately going back to his usual attitude. You wondered if you imagined it all. “He was bothering you.”
You narrowed your eyes at him.
“He wasn’t bothering me. He’s my neighbor.”
“You should stay away from him.” Satoru finally told you.
You stared at him as he lounged over your couch as though he owned it. Sunlight streamed through your window, illuminating his hair.
You should have been mad at him. You should have kicked him out. And yet, you could still remember his presence imprinted on your back as he kept you on him. You wondered when your heartbeat would slow down.
“Why?”
“He’s bad juju,” he responded. “I can feel it.”
You gave him a look. “Right. Okay.”
“I can tell with these types of things!” He argued back. “Stay away from him. He’s bad news. He might make spiders crawl out of your sink!”
You rolled your eyes and turned away.
“Do you want food or do you just want to make more conspiracy theories about my neighbor being a spider whisperer?”
“Food, please.” Satoru immediately sprung up from the couch and followed you into the kitchen.
Again, you knew you should’ve been more upset with him. Yet, you weren’t.
It oddly felt familiar.
🐾
The cold made the alcohol bearable.
It warmed your stomach, flushing your cheeks with heat as you felt the burn travel down your throat. When you were younger, you despised the taste of alcohol. You could never understand why anyone would willingly drink the stuff.
These days, you still didn't understand, and yet you drank anyway.
You had to stop soon, but for now, you tossed your head back in reflex, taking another gulp. The bar remained sparse of people. There was nobody in the corner you stashed yourself in, surrounded by empty glasses. You preferred this. You don’t want anyone seeing how miserable you were.
Six weeks had passed since you last saw Snowbell. Truthfully, you stopped looking for him by the second. It was clear what happened to him.
He was dead.
If the universe was merciful, his death was quick. Maybe a predator snatched him up before he blinked. Other deaths sounded far more gruesome: eating something poisonous and collapsing on the hard floor of a cold alley, being hit by a car, or just starving to death.
A more hopeful part of you still believed he might have been picked up before you could send those missing posters out. He was a pretty kitty. His white fur was long and his fluffy tail curled so elegantly. His sweet blue eyes were wide and earnest. The chance of someone seeing him out and about and falling in love with him the same way you did was highly plausible.
Maybe they had seen the posters and just didn’t want to give him back. You think you would be fine with that. You just wanted to know he was okay. A sign. The slightest hint of–
“-Started without me, I see?” A voice teased from your left.
You didn’t bother looking up.
“You don’t drink.” You reminded him, but you didn’t argue when Satoru slipped into the seat across from you.
“Still, it hurts to be left behind.” He arched his plush lips into a faux pout before his mischievous smile was back on his flawless face.
You didn’t even tell him you’d be here, and yet, he showed up anyway. That was always the thing with him. He always just showed up, no matter where you were.
His outfit mirrored the cold that lingered outside of the bar. He was dressed in an expensive looking coat, something that nicely shaped his shoulders and torso. His fluffy white hair contrasted with the dark sunglasses he always wore on his face as he surveyed the mess you surrounded yourself in.
You thought you were about to receive a lecture from him. His smile faded ever so slightly.
“You’ve been crying.”
You didn’t bother denying it. Slowly, you reached up, brushing at your face. Your eyes felt raw, your skin felt open and vulnerable. Your nose felt oddly stuffy, like you were recovering from a fever.
Satoru watched you. You gave a helpless shrug.
“It’s the same thing I’m always crying about.” You admitted. That’s all you really wanted to say, but the words suddenly started pouring out and you couldn’t help yourself.
“I know how stupid this all looks. Trust me, I’m aware.” You started, looking into the glass of your golden brown drink because looking at him would be too much. “He was just a cat. That’s what everyone says to me.”
‘You need to move on,’ ‘You should get another cat if you care that much’. You’d heard all those things and more. You couldn’t even bring yourself to hate the people who’ve said that to you. They wanted to help, in their own way. To them, it was more like watching a child bawl over a lost toy. They didn’t understand.
“He…he wasn’t just a cat to me.” You bit your lip. “He was family. So yeah, the thought of him out there in the cold, miserable. I…I just really hope he’s happy.”
You thought you felt tears prick into the corners of your eyes. You blinked them away.
When you looked at Satoru, you felt yourself frowning.
“Stop doing that.” You told him. Your voice was tight and stern.
“Stop doing what?” Satoru repeated.
“Stop smiling like that.” You insisted. “You always do that. You–you always get this really big smile whenever I start gushing about him.”
“I’m not smiling.” Satoru denied, while still openly smiling.
“Liar.”
You rolled your eyes, but you didn't complain much further. He had this trick he liked to do sometimes. You just looked at him, and you instantly felt better, even a bit.
Snowbell used to have that effect on you, too. Anytime you cuddled with him, his presence washed away any stresses you had. There was just him and his soft fur.
Satoru laughed and shook his head.
“The way you speak of him…it’s nice.” He told you. “It’s nice to hear that. Your cat’s lucky to be so loved. I’m sure he’d be overjoyed to hear how much you missed him.”
You stared up at him.
“You think so?” You asked, your voice hushed.
He nodded. “Yeah.”
He did that often, too. He talked about things like he knew more than he let on–like he knew a secret you didn’t.
Or maybe that’s just the way he talked. He’d always been so odd and eccentric. From the short time you’d known him, he always dragged you from one place to another. He was constantly rambling about things you couldn’t catch onto. You’d call him ditzy if you didn’t know any better.
“You know what I think you should do?” Satoru suddenly piped up.
You looked up at him questioningly.
“I think you need something to get your mind off of the whole thing. Clear your head!”
You glanced around at where you were, what you were doing. Yeah, this was getting a bit pathetic.
“Okay.” You agreed. “Like what?”
His smile curled in mischief.
🐾
“What am I supposed to be waiting for, again?”
“Just hold on.” Satoru’s muffled voice came.
You crossed your arms, but you stayed put. Satoru’s apartment was huge. Even from your place on the lavish couch, you could see the wealth sprawled across his place. A bit empty, like he barely lived there.
Presently, he had tucked himself inside his room and told you ‘It’s a surprise!’ You had no idea what he meant by that, but knowing him, he was probably going to come out in something extremely ridiculous. Your imagination took off without you. You could totally imagine him waltzing out after stuffing himself in a hot dog costume.
He didn’t come out in a hot dog costume. Somehow, his surprise was both less and more mortifying than that.
He still wore his usual black clothes, but there was a new accessory he styled himself with. On top of his head sat two white, fluffy ears. You stared at them in disbelief.
“Tada!” He posed like he just unveiled something.
You got up.
“I’m leaving.”
He was in front of you in a flash, reaching the door before you could. A nervous smile spread across his face as he tried to usher you back inside. You’d never seen him look so unsure before, it almost caught you off guard. With those fake cat ears on he looked even more ridiculous.
“Just hear me out for a second.” He tried to say. You glowered at him, but you relented, flopping back down to the couch.
“Think of it as a therapy exercise,” he finally suggested
“A therapy exercise,” you repeated, incredibly suspicious.
He nodded before sitting himself in the space next to you.
“Studies have shown that petting animals reduces stress in humans and all that, right?” Satoru pondered, but a part of you wondered if he was pulling all this out of his ass. “Since we don’t have a cat right now, well…this is the next best thing!”
You stared at him, wondering if he truly thought you were this stupid. His glasses were off, abandoned back in his bedroom, so the blue of his eyes could stare right into you.
“Try it!” Satoru suggested, tilting his head down to show off his new ears.
Well, Satoru has always been a bit weird, right? He was strange, constantly blabbering about things that never made sense, but he was harmless. From the short time you knew him, he’d never revealed himself to be anything but that.
You sighed, but you reached up and gently patted his ears, hoping that would be the end of it.
They were softer than they looked. Almost delicate in nature. The fur was clearly fake but it was smooth and silky and the blooming pink hidden underneath the fur of the ears had such a deep resemblance to your own lost kitty.
“There.” You told him as you pulled away, albeit a bit reluctantly.. “Is our therapy session over?”
“Not yet.” He cheerfully replied. “We got movies too! You’ll love this one! It’s about a cat who wastes all his previous eight lives, and now he’s on his ninth and…”
You tuned out of his rambles, already knowing how this night will end. Truthfully, you didn’t mind a movie night with Satoru. He was fun to hang out with. Maybe a movie night would be good for you–it would cheer you up.
You thought it had to do with those eyes, mostly; they were why you were so agreeable to go along with his whims. A part of you thought he was well aware of your kryptonite, but you could never prove it.
An hour or so later, you were well into the movie when you glanced down at your lap. The setting changed. Satoru ordered pizza a while back and inhaled three whole slices before you finished even one. Half-finished cans of soda laid on the table. When the movie started, you and him sat at a respectable distance between each other.
Now, Satoru’s head settled on your lap with your hand absentmindedly drifting across his hair and faux ears.
The shade of the cat ears almost blended into ivory locks. His hair was soft, just as silky and smooth as that stupid prop he still wore. You wondered what products he used, if he used any at all when Satoru caught you looking at him.
He blinked slowly at you, like he’s fighting off sleep. Ivory, white lashes fluttered closed to meet the rounded parts of his cheeks before that brilliant blue spilled out open all over again. It was something Snowbell used to do. Once, you looked it up and discovered it was a way cats showed silent affection towards their owners.
You smiled. Satoru caught it.
“What?” He questioned.
You shook your head even before your mouth opened up.
“Do you remember the night we met?” You asked as the movie faded into the background.
He nodded and you wondered if he thought of the same night you were–the night when you were cold and wet and miserable and Satoru was a stranger holding out your phone with a smile you couldn’t decipher.
“It’s really strange.” You admitted. “You pop out of nowhere. You know my favorite foods–you know things I didn’t even know about myself. You’re always there when I need you the most.”
Your voice trailed off to a whisper when he rose up to meet you. He was so close and you realized just how many colors his eyes have. Colors you’ve named before: deep navy, rolling cobalt, the softest sapphire, the brightest tanzanite.
He looked into your eyes, too, and you wondered if he did the same thing you did.
“I’m good at reading people.” His voice was equally low and hushed.
“Are you?” You asked.
He tilted his head.
“Am I?” He repeated.
It’s like the world around you disappeared. The TV, Satoru’s living room, the bustling city, faded into irrelevance the longer you stared at him.
“There’s something about you.” You continued because there was nothing left to say. “I think I’ve felt it since the day we met, but I don’t think I could internalize it until now but there’s something familiar about you. I…”
‘I know I’m going insane, but I think you might be my cat.’
The words sat on your tongue, but you couldn’t bear to say it. It was all so ridiculous even as this full grown man sat in front of you wearing cat ears looking at you like you were everything in this universe. You wanted to laugh. Then, you wanted to cry. So much happened in just days and yet nothing happened either.
You were not sure who leaned in first, but neither of you pulled away.
His lips were soft. It was like his hair but a different texture. They were plump and full of life and adoration as he kissed you. A hand reached up to grab your cheek, holding you in place as he continued to kiss you.
You sighed into his mouth and Satoru stopped kissing you and started to eat you whole.
He pressed you into the sofa and you went down with a small ‘omph’ that he swallowed up too. Greedy, was the only word you thought as he kissed you again and again. He wanted it all, and he wouldn’t stop until he got it.
He only stopped when your head was spinning and you gave a low whine. Even then, he pulled away with such reluctance you could still taste it lingering on your teeth.
You were panting, heavy and needy and hot all over. He barely looked affected. His expression was oddly blank, like he was dazed. You would’ve believed he thought nothing of the kiss had it not been for the tight way he still held you, like he was terrified you’d disappear if he wasn’t constantly holding on. That, and the–
“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that.”
“Yeah?” You breathed. Your eyes trailed down to watch his Adam apple bob with anticipation.
The longing in his voice, it almost matched the intensity of his mouth. He burned so hot, you should have been afraid he’d burn you.
Instead, you reached up to pet the fluffy ears that rested just on his head. He shivered, eyes closing in a way you swore he could feel your fingers tickle the fur.
The slightest of smiles tugged at your lips. A tease.
“What else were you waiting for, pretty kitty?”
His eyes sharpened, there’s the softest hitch in his breath before he was on you all over again.
Rougher, pressing into you like he wanted to imprint his pattern all over your body so you could never forget his space and shape. Teeth that might have been fangs tugged at your lips as his fingers played with the hem of your shirt.
You shuddered as his long, lithe fingers crawled underneath your shirt, pushing it up and over your chest. The fabric pooled around your neck, proudly showcasing your tits, barely covered by the flimsy bra he was clearly eager to rip off.
His hands were cold as they pressed against your feverish skin. You felt goosebumps rise at just his touch as he reached for your bra to feel your tits. The fabric fell away and left you bare and utterly vulnerable to him.
He cursed, barely pulling back from devouring your lips to glance down at his unveiled treasure. Fingers tapped at your chest, eager to explore.
“Can I…?” He asked like you’d say no him–like you ever could.
Your nipples were hard and tender to the touch. A whine left your throat when he gripped them, squeezing at your supple flesh. It almost felt perverted and lingered on desperation.
“You’re so soft.” His tone almost made you laugh. It was like he could hardly believe it himself, needing to touch you more in order to truly prove that fact of the world.
You want to say something teasing when his mouth is dropping down again to lavish your jaw, trailing all the way to your neck and chest. He mapped your body with his lips and tongue before they finally landed on his prize.
“Satoru..” You could only sigh because he was barely touching you and you already felt everything. You relaxed against the pillows and the leather fabric, completely giving yourself to him. Heat pooled at your core as you twitched underneath him.
“Hm?” He asked, still lapping away at your skin. “It hurts, baby? Want me to make it better?”
He swirled his tongue over your nipples, flicking over them like he’s teasing the flesh. Eventually, he couldn’t help himself anymore. He took your entire nipple into his mouth, groaning as he did so, his voice vibrating your skin.
You felt like you were on fire, and yet, it was not enough. Your body was sparking and bursting into flames as you reached up to grab Satoru’s hair, keeping him there as he nuzzled and adored your tits. He’d barely done anything and you already felt like you were high. Your head was up in the clouds as he continued to ravish you.
“Satoru.”
Your voice was pitchy and drowned in want.
“Please please please.” You begged, uncaring to anything else. “Need you.”
He lifted himself from your chest with a loud, debaucherous pop. Your chest bounced lightly with the movement, nipples shiny and perky from his actions. You could already feel the ache on your skin. You were going to wake up tomorrow with marks all over you–you just knew it.
“Yeah?” He asked. His eyes were darker now, twinged with a type of hunger that should have scared you. His cheeks were flushed, dappled with the prettiest red you’d ever seen.
“Need me?” He repeated, hovering closer to your mouth, just inches away.
You nodded. His mouth curled.
“Gotta’ use your words. C’mon, you can do it.” He goaded, placing a chaste kiss on your cheek. You heard the condescension in his voice. In any other scenario, you might’ve just rolled your eyes. In this one, you wiggled your hips, helpless.
“Need you, please, Satoru,” you told him, “need you deep in–in my pussy.”
He shuddered at your words. There was the tiniest breath, a sigh of excitement, before he was pulling away to curl up at your hips. Eager hands gripped at your flesh, pulling down your shorts with a practiced ease.
“Oh, anything for you,” he said as he pulled apart your thighs to look at your vulnerable flesh.
“Anything.”
You were almost embarrassed at the way he looked at you. He practically drooled, licking his lips like he was trying to taste your heated scent. You expected him to rip off your panties the way he was clearly dying to, but instead he spread your thighs wider to lick up a stripe at your inner thigh. You jolted at the hint of teeth so close to your cunt.
“Bad kitty.” You tried to scold but it came out more like a whine. “Kitties don’t bite.”
“This one does.” He purred into your skin before biting you once more.
Just when you were about to complain again, he finally decided to put his mouth to proper use. Satoru eased off your panties, dragging them down your shaking thighs. He didn’t get them all the way off, like he did with the rest of your clothes. Instead, they tangled up your legs, leaving you completely exposed.
He took his prize like a vulture, swooping down to your cunt. His long tongue licked up and down the entire length of your pussy. Words melted back into your tongue as he worked your wet slit.
“Oh.” You sighed as Satoru’s head disappeared in between your thighs.
You thought he was saying something back. Something rested in his voice as he lapped deeply into your cunt lips–a dark tone you can’t place. You didn’t care. It didn’t matter as your thighs tightened around his head, like you wanted to keep him trapped there forever.
“Satoru.” You barely managed out as he licked the nub of your clit, lightly suckling on it as you felt a wave of tremendous pleasure roll down your back.
“Feel good, gorgeous? Don’t be shy, lemme hear you.” He said, his voice slightly muffled as he continued to eat you out.
As though to coax more sounds from your lips, his fingers delved into your pussy lips to rub slow circles onto your clit as his tongue entered your walls. You give him what he wanted, arching your back as your voice got louder and louder. You could hear the debaucherous slick sounds emanating from his mouth licking away at you. They were barely covered by your own moans of pleasure.
“That’s it. Fuck.” He hissed into your trembling thighs as you felt yourself tense up.
“You sound so cute when you feel good.” Satoru purred. “I’m so glad I’m the one who made you feel like this. All for me.”
You barely registered the darkness in his words. At some point, your legs were propped up on either side of his shoulders. Your fingers fisted into his hair, coaxing him deeper into your wet, needy heat. Satoru barely needed the extra encouragement, eating your pussy like it was all he was made for–like he’d die if he did anything else.
Your whines crested into something else. Satoru picked up on it, eagerly moving forward and picking up his pace as your pussy walls trembled from the constant attention he gave you.
“Gonna come for me?” He pressed. “S’ okay. Let go, gorgeous. You can do it. Just a bit more–”
Your back arched, but Satoru anchored your hips, keeping you in place as your orgasm rushed through you. It was the strongest you’d ever come, wave after wave of pleasure fizzed up your toes as they flexed and curled to assuage the intensity.
Satoru kept going until your body flopped down, exhausted by his ministrations. Even then, he only pulled away when your whines turned into pathetic begs of ‘too much’. You watched him rise from in between your legs with bleary eyes. He wiped away his mouth with the back of his hand, never taking his eyes off you.
You must have looked like a mess as you lied there, breathless. He wasn’t much better. His cheeks were dappled in pinks and red as his blue eyes simmered with ocean foam.
“Come here.” Your arms felt like cement but you reached up anyway, caressing his hot skin, coaxing him down. He followed like he was leashed, tethered to your fingers, crashing his lips onto your own.
You could taste yourself on his tongue, sour and sweet. You wondered what he was tasting as he ate your pussy, absolutely relentless. It felt like he’d happily suffocate in between your thighs, lapping away at your folds for the rest of eternity.
That didn’t sound too bad. A part of you hungered to push his head down to your clit again, let him worship your cunt in waves of ecstasy.
But another part of you felt something hot and heavy rest at your thigh, barely obscured by the denim of his jeans.
“Was I good?” He asked between feverish kisses, bringing you back to him.
“Mmh,” you agreed as his teeth nibbled on your bottom lip. “You were so good,” It’s all you could say, mind muddled and soupy by the orgasm.
Satoru moved down, lavishing your jaw and upper throat in kisses.
“Such a good boy–good little kitty.” He practically melted at your words, whining at your throat as you stroked his hair and fluffy ears.
“Yeah?” He asked, lips pulling away from your collarbone.
You nodded. “The best boy.” You continued as you wiggled your hips with need. “But Satoru–”
“I know.” He pulled away, and you mourned his warmth before you saw the way he straddled you as he fiddled with his belt.
“I’m hurtin’ too, gorgeous. Waited months for this.” Months? But hadn’t you met Satoru five weeks ago?
You ignored every alarm bell ringing in your head just in time to see his cock bob between his strong thighs. He looked painfully hard. Precum leaked from a mushroom-shaped tip as his cock touched your bare thigh.
Your mouth watered.
“Ready, baby?” That growl in his voice was back again as he leaned over, chest hovered above your own.
You never broke eye-contact as you licked your lips. You could still taste remnants of him in your mouth.
“Fuck me, Satoru.”
His eyes flashed. He was going to ruin you. You couldn’t care less. You wanted him to.
His cock slipped through your folds, teasing at your clit, still wet from him earlier. Your eyes rolled back into your skull at the first press of him at your battered pussy. You hissed at the same time he did, but you still managed to keep your eyes on him, wanting to admire what you did to him.
His expression was almost pained as he eased himself deeper into your cunt. His eyebrows were pinched together, and his jaw was clenched like he was physically holding back from crying out at the mere touch of your warmth. It looked like he was doing everything he could to stop himself from coming the moment he entered your pussy. Eventually, he couldn’t take it anymore, collapsing into your shoulder to whine at your shoulder.
“I–I can’t do it.” He whined but you could still feel his cock stretching out your hole. “You’re so warm and tight. Feels like–like I’m home.” He babbled.
You tried to laugh, but it came out as a strangled moan.
“Don’t say stupid”-- You barely stifled a moan as he pushed himself deeper inside you–”things like that.”
He bottomed out with a stuttered gasp, clinging onto you like you were his lifeline. You’d never felt more full in your entire life. He pressed all the way into your womb. If you looked down, you were half-afraid you’d see his cock imprint itself onto your belly.
“Fuck.” Satoru hissed in your ear. “Look at you. You’re…you’re a perfect fit.”
If you could speak, you might’ve agreed. His cock stretched you out oh so nicely, each curve nestled into the deepest, wettest part of you. A spit of precum dribbled out of your stuffed hole, lecherously coating your pussy lips.
“You okay?” Satoru asked when you shuddered underneath him.
You nodded, tucking your head into the crook of his neck.
“Can I move?”
“Please.” Your voice was soft and keening. “Please, please move, ‘toru–”
“Shit, quit that.” He lightly berated. “I’m tryna hold back but your voice drives me crazy…moving, so hold on, gorgeous.”
You moved on instinct, rather than on his order. A particular thrust left you gasping, making you reach up and cling onto his smooth nape. Satoru barely flinched at you clawing at him, curling his lips as he continued to stuff you full.
The way he fucked you was messy, bordering on desperation as he drilled you into the couch. The stretch against your walls left you breathless and panting for more. The cool air of Satoru’s apartment felt like aloe against your heated skin as he picked up the pace, filling you up with his cock over and over again.
“Shit. You feel like heaven.” He said through gritted teeth. “You’re squeezing me so good–do you feel good? Am I making you feel good?” It didn’t even feel like dirty talk. It felt like he was genuinely asking, scarfing down any lick of praise as he continued to drill you against the sofa.
Your pussy spasmed around his cock, bearing down on him like you never wanted to let him go. Your thighs were painfully clenched as you wrapped your legs around his narrow waist. A hand dropped down from Satoru’s neck to your clit.
Before you could relieve the pressure, Satoru snatched it up. He grabbed your wrists holding them above your head. He reached down with his other, circling your clit with his thumb and turning your head into mush all over again.
“Oh, yes,” your eyes rolled up as his cock pistoned into you. “Satoru its–its–”
“I know, baby.” Satoru lowered himself so his cock hit something deep and spongy inside of you. “Just gotta hold on a bit more. I’ll take care of you.”
Something rumbled in his throat. It almost sounded like he was purring as he rutted into you, and maybe that should have been your final sign, but you could hardly care less as you creamed around his cock. Your mind floated as he fucked you the way he wanted to, the way you begged him too. It was an endless build up that seemed to last for centuries.
Your orgasm hit the minute he slammed his cock into that spot all the way inside of you, rolling away at your clit at the same time. Your back arched as you came around his thick cock. Your pussy milked him for all its worth, gushing around him as Satoru staggered and swayed above you.
He didn’t last all that long after. There was a feral snarl before his cum sprayed all the way inside your womb. There was so much of it. Some dribbled out of your sore pussy all over your cunt lips.
Minutes later, when you barely put yourself together after that mind-numbing orgasm, you could still feel Satoru deep inside you. His head settled into the crook of your neck as he tried to regain his breath. You felt butterfly kisses across your skin as he lavished you in exhausted affection.
You stopped him when he tried to pull out, using the last bit of your strength to cinch your legs around his waist.
“Stay,” you mumbled, “‘feels nice.”
He smiled against your neck. You felt his arms wrap around your waist as he laid down with you. The couch was probably a snug fit considering how tall Satoru was, but you could hardly care less.
“Yeah?”
You hummed. You thought he said something else but you were too tired to care. Nestled in the arms of a man who fucked you silly was a good position to pass out in.
Just before you fell asleep, you noticed the funniest thing.
Between the pussy eating and the rapid fucking, those stupid, fluffy ears still remained on top Satoru’ head.
🐾
You woke up to sore legs and an aching body.
Your stiff limbs complained whenever you moved. Blearily, you opened your eyes. Sunlight poured in through a window. It was late-morning, at the very least.
Your environment also changed. The last thing you remembered was falling asleep next to Satoru’s warm chest on his sofa. Now the only thing you felt below you was a springy mattress and fluffy pillows. You laid naked underneath a bulky blanket.
Satoru was nowhere to be found, but the spot beside you was warm. Outside the room, you distantly heard a muffled phone call. Bits and pieces.
“Lost the curse user? That’s fine…got really curious about the…nah, it was my fault for getting caught up in that…yeah, I guess things mostly worked out…should thank him, honestly–”
You must have dozed off. When you opened your eyes again, Satoru was underneath the sheets with you. He watched you with a strange smile on his face, propping his chin up with his hand. His white hair was tousled like he’d never left. He was shirtless, proudly showing his bare skin when the light marks you left on him. With slight disappointment, you noted his cat ears were gone.
“What?” He asked, noticing your souring mood.
You scowled and turned away from him.
“You bit me,” you said, pulling an excuse out of the air. “‘Can’t believe you did that. Get out. I’m banning you from the bed.” You lightly nudged him with your foot.
Neither of you acknowledged that it was his bed in his apartment. Instead, Satoru whined, slumping over you in a bear hug.
“I’m sorry!” He kissed your shoulder, lightly licking over a mark he made the night before. “Please forgive me!” He caught onto your smile. “You’re into groveling? I’ll keep that in mind for next time–”
“Shut up.” You lightly scolded, but you sank into his hold regardless.
“Can I use your shower?” You asked after a few minutes of cuddling. As much as you liked this moment, your skin still felt clammy from last night.
“I can draw us a bath.” Satoru rubbed his cheek against yours with a satisfied sigh. “I got lavender scented bubbles and everything.”
“That sounds nice.” You nodded, but neither of you moved.
He practically invited himself into your shower time, but you didn’t mind. It was a little cute how eager he was. Or maybe that was just you missing every sign in the book. After all, this guy spent weeks and weeks helping you skulk around outside searching for your cat. Maybe you shouldn’t have been so surprised he was this forward.
Speaking of your cat….
“Satoru?” You called.
There was a hum against your skin as his head buried into the crook of your neck.
“I don’t think I need to worry about Snowbell anymore.” You tell him. “I…think he’s fine. Wherever he is.”
“Yeah.” Satoru said in this voice that you couldn’t read. “Wherever he is.”
You needed to shower, but he was so warm and the bed was so soft and perfect. You couldn’t help but drift off again, letting Satoru cling onto you. Distantly, you wondered maybe….
…maybe next time, you could convince him to wear a tail, too.
𝗛𝗼𝘄 𝘁𝗵𝗲𝘆 𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗰𝘁 𝘁𝗼 𝗳𝗹𝗶𝗿𝘁𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝘄𝗶𝘁𝗵 𝗮𝗻 𝗼𝗯𝗹𝗶𝘃𝗶𝗼𝘂𝘀 𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗱𝗲𝗿
⤷ Pagan Min, Vaas Montenegro, Jacob Seed, Joseph Seed, John Seed, Bembe Alvarez.
Pagan Min
You genuinely think he’s just a very affectionate person even when he cups your face mid-conversation and calls you his favorite distraction. You smile and thank him. He blinks. Once.
When he leans in too close, voice dropping as he murmurs how beautiful you look today, you laugh and say, “You always say that to people, right?” He does not, he absolutely does not.
He escalates with pet names, lingering touches, gifts that are clearly romantic. Silk, jewelry, things in your favorite color. You assume he just has “lavish taste” and enjoys spoiling friends.
At some point, he tests you by outright saying, “I want you.” You respond with, “Aww, you’re so sweet.” He stares at you like you just rewrote reality.
He starts getting dramatic—resting his head in your lap, sighing about how cruel you are to ignore his obvious devotion. You stroke his hair and tell him he’s “such a good friend.”
Eventually, he snaps—not angrily, but theatrically. He corners you, tilts your chin up, and very clearly kisses you just to prove a point. When you go wide-eyed, he smirks: “Finally. Progress.”
Vaas Montenegro
He flirts like it’s second nature—low voice, teasing smirks, invading your space. You interpret it as him just being… intense. Not romantic. Just Vaas.
When he calls you “mi vida” or “pretty thing”, you assume it’s just a nickname he gives everyone. It’s not. You are very specifically you.
He gets amused, and a little obsessed, with how oblivious you are. It becomes a game: how obvious can I be before she gets it?
He’ll pin you lightly against a wall, grinning as he says something undeniably suggestive… and you respond with, “You’re in a good mood today.” He actually laughs, shaking his head.
Sometimes he gets quieter about it—watching you, brushing his thumb over your wrist, lingering. Those moments are the closest he gets to genuine vulnerability… and you still miss it.
One day, he just blurts it out mid-laugh: “You really don’t get it, do you?” Then he kisses you, rough and sudden. When you finally connect the dots, he just smirks: “Took you long enough.”
Jacob Seed
His flirting is subtle, way too subtle for you. It’s in the way he watches you, the rare praise, the way he stands just a little closer than necessary.
When he tells you you’re “strong,” or that you “belong here with him,” you interpret it as mentorship. Encouragement but nothing more.
He tests boundaries quietly by brushing his hand against yours, guiding your movements, his voice low in your ear. You thank him for being “supportive.”
Your obliviousness frustrates him more than he lets on. He doesn’t do obvious, and yet you somehow force him closer to it.
Eventually, his patience thins. He corners you during training, grip firm but not harsh, and asks directly: “Do you really think this is just discipline?”
When you hesitate, confused, he exhales sharply and pulls you into a kiss—controlled, deliberate. Afterwards, he mutters, almost annoyed, “Pay attention.”
Joseph Seed
His “flirting” feels like devotion, his soft words, lingering touches, speaking about you like you’re something sacred. You think he’s just spiritually affectionate.
When he says you were “sent to him” or that you’re “meant to walk beside him,” you interpret it as religious symbolism, not romantic intent.
He touches your hands often, brushing his thumb over your skin while speaking gently. You assume it’s comfort and reassurance. Not intimacy.
He becomes more intense the longer you don’t understand, his gaze heavier, and voice softer but more insistent.
Eventually, he frames it differently: “Do you feel it too?” You respond with confusion, and he realizes you truly don’t see it.
He closes the distance slowly, giving you time to pull away but you don’t. When he kisses you, it’s soft but undeniable. When you finally realize, he smiles faintly: “Now you see.”
John Seed
His flirting is wrapped in charm and control, with compliments, teasing remarks, that polished smile. You think he’s just charismatic.
When he calls you “special” or says you’re “exactly what he needs,” you assume he means in a general, non-romantic way.
He gets very handsy—guiding you by your waist, brushing hair from your face. You don’t question it and he absolutely notices.
He starts pushing the line with more direct comments, watching your reaction carefully. When you just smile, he gets… intrigued.
Eventually, he traps you in a conversation you can’t deflect then asks you outright what you think he feels about you. You give the most innocent answer possible.
He laughs low and disbelieving before pulling you in and kissing you just to break the illusion. When you’re stunned, he murmurs: “Confession accepted.”
Bembe Alvarez
His flirting is flashy—winks, compliments, exaggerated charm. You assume it’s just part of his personality, not targeted.
When he calls you “mi reina” or showers you in praise, you laugh it off as him being playful. He’s dying inside.
He tries to make it more obvious by leaning in, lowering his voice, making things very suggestive. You respond with, “You’re funny.”
He gets dramatic about it—placing a hand over his heart, claiming you wound him with your ignorance. You apologize, thinking you actually upset him.
He eventually starts asking leading questions like, “What if I said I wanted you?” You respond with something painfully wholesome.
At his breaking point, he grabs your face gently and kisses you mid-sentence. When you finally understand, he grins: “Finally! I was starting to lose hope.”
Pairing: King Baldwin IV x Reader
tw: mention of leprosy (obviously)
Enjoy reading! ⸜(*ˊᗜˋ*)⸝
The castle corridors greeted Baldwin with the long-awaited cool of evening. The blazing sun had set, and at last he could breathe again, so far as his silver mask allowed him to breathe at all. At this hour he would usually be resting in his chambers, having shed the heavy garments that irritated his leprosy-stricken skin. But today the pain in his bones had been especially relentless. Baldwin desperately did not want to be alone with it, and so he chose to walk, hoping to distract himself with anything at all. One of the guards followed at a careful distance, far enough that the king would not see him, yet close enough to intervene if needed. The other had likely gone to summon a physician.
Baldwin felt like a soul that had found no rest, condemned to wander the castle corridors forever and suffer. Half-delirious, he strayed into the kitchen. To his surprise, one of the servants was still working - or so it seemed at first glance.
A maid bustled about in the dim candlelight, humming something under her breath.
The king froze, afraid to startle the woman. He remembered how people sometimes reacted to him in the light of day, before forcing themselves past fear and revulsion to show proper respect. It was unsettling to imagine how he must look now, in the half-dark, with that dreadful silver mask.
He considered clearing his throat to draw attention, but suddenly she spoke.
“Here, my lord. Your supper,” she said.
Contrary to the king’s expectations, the woman did not turn around. She looked down and set a bowl of food on the floor. Baldwin’s eyesight, weakened by illness, strained to make out what was hidden in the shadows.
The answer came in the form of a loud meow.
“If you came on time like all respectable cats, I wouldn’t have to stay here late every day,” the woman said, wagging her finger in mild reproach as she gently scolded the royal mouser. Hearing his purr, she couldn’t help but smile.
Baldwin leaned a hand against the wall, still making no sound. Hesitation washed over him. He had become a witness to something strange, something unfamiliar to him - something gentle, human. Something he had neither felt nor seen for many years, ever since the illness had taken hold of him.
The cat quickly finished his portion, jumped up onto the wooden table, and began to meow again, preening for the maid.
“Excuse me?!” the woman said, theatrically pressing a hand to her chest as she suddenly grew indignant. “You’re still hungry? In your opinion, are you not fed enough?”
At the sight of such vivid emotion, Baldwin felt a flicker of embarrassment. He understood that he was intruding on something private, yet he couldn’t look away. What was happening drew him in like some dramatic play.
“My lord, you really ought to concern yourself with catching mice instead of begging me for another portion. For your information, the entire court already thinks you’ve put on a bit of weight. Do you want to start even more gossip about yourself? Believe me, the nobles can be quite cruel!” the woman continued to fuss as though the cat truly understood her. Despite her feigned sternness, she couldn’t resist giving the little spot between “lord’s” ears a gentle rub. The attentive, watchful creature proved to be the final straw. Baldwin laughed.
The woman immediately flinched and let out a startled cry. She turned sharply. The cat’s ears perked up as well. The maid froze in shock for several moments, staring blankly at the king. It seemed all rules of etiquette had instantly flown from her mind. She even forgot to bow, as servants usually did.
“How long have you…? Oh…”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you,” Baldwin tried to soften the situation, but couldn’t suppress a faint laugh. “Or interrupt your conversation.”
He felt terrible for having startled her. A faint sense of unease tightened in his chest. Would she react like all the others? Yet after overcoming her initial shock at his sudden appearance, she now looked more embarrassed than anything else.
“Ooh…” her cheeks flushed. She averted her gaze in shame. The cat meowed curiously.
“My Lord… what are you looking for here? May I help you?”
She didn’t even notice that she had used the same form of address she used for the cat.
“No need. I think I’ve already found what I was looking for.”
“Then… allow me to take my leave. Good night, Your Majesty.”
“Of course. Good night.”
After exchanging courtesies, the maid hurried out of the kitchen, stumbling in her haste and forgetting her candle. The man’s gaze returned to the cat, which was still expectantly waiting for its evening share of affection.
The king approached the table, pulling a chair closer as he did so, and sat down. His gloved hand reached out toward the animal. The cat sniffed it carefully, then gave its approval, butting its head against the king’s hand. Baldwin paused in thought. Could the creature sense his illness even through all these layers of clothing? In any case, whether it could or not, tonight “lord” seemed gracious toward His Majesty.
From the corridor the king had not long ago come through, a noise began to rise. His retinue, led by the physician, had finally caught up with him.
CW: Detailed depictions of death, gore, Geto is completely off his rocker here, Reader is dead for most of the story, super dark you have been warned. (Not beta read lol)
WORD COUNT: 2.2K
It had been a terribly rainy evening. Grey clouds blotted out the sky, and rain came down like hail on your umbrella. The surrounding city scape was painted in melancholic blues and soft greens, mainly from the trees that hung over head of the sidewalks. Cars whipped by with little regard for the civilians unfortunate enough to be walking on the sidewalks nearby. One car in particular hit a small pot hole full of water, angering the old woman standing beside you at the cross walk, as you both were now soaked from head to toe.
Mina's message illuminated your phone with a soft buzz, as you fumbled around with your now drenched jacket, trying and failing to un jam it's rusty zipper. Slick fingers clumsy pulled at the tiny peice of metal. Your frustration making you accidentally break the zipper all together. "Fuck." You muttered, appalling the haggled women beside you, as she shot you a disapproving side-eye, one you pointedly ignored.
Your phone buzzed again. This time you answered. "Mina I'll text you in a minute, im almost home okay". You huffed out, as she finially relented, and hung up.
The red hand finially turned white, signaling it was finially time to cross. You jammed your phone into your pocket as soon as you stepped off the sidewalk. At least you tried to, before your beloved cellular device missed the safety of your jacket pocket by a millimeter, and clattered to the ground. The sign counted down the minutes, while you bent down to grab your phone and check the damage. A bike rushed by you, making you lose balance, clearly in a hurry to cross, as you slipped and hit the ground with your phone.
"Did you remember to pick up the ice cream?" Satoru's voice cracked through the static of Suguru's phone as he drove. "Yes, but you're breaking up Satoru" Suguru readjusted his grip on the steering wheel.
"Haha, must be that shitty cell service of yours, I told you you should've went with the same plan as me" Satoru laughed, and Suguru sighed. "I'll be home soon, love you." Suguru hung up after his husband bid his own farewells from the other end of the line. Tossing his phone into the passenger seat, Suguru sped up slightly, more or less in a rush to get home. It was his and Satoru's 5th anniversary.
They were married straight out of high-school. Satoru had helped pull him out of his depression, and been his shoulder to cry on during the whole thing. They had only grown closer, till eventually Satoru finially popped the question. Much to none of their friends surprise, (especially Shoko's) they were getting married. Satoru's family hadn't approved of course, and threatened to cut their own son out of their will. One talk with his old man, and he was quick to retract his threat all together, realizing he couldn't risk losing his prodigy of a son. Now years later, and they're still happily married.
The car picked up speed slightly once again, Suguru had to work overtime again, and his stop at the grocery store had already taken much longer than he expected. He was eager to get home. The road was completely clear, and most cars, had vanished somewhere behind him by now. A bend was quickly approaching, one mostly obstructed by the trees on both sides of the road.
He was clear to keep the same speed, until a shape in the distance on the crosswalk ahead caught his eye. Right on his next turn at the crosswalk, what looked like maybe a duffle bag, or some clothes, laid. It was hard to see through the heavy rain and his windshield wipers. The light had just turned green, and whoever was finished crossing settled on the other side.
Suguru hit his blinker, before the supposed duffle bag sat up. It was too late by then.
A sickening thud, then the crash of a windshield boomed in his ears, as his car veered off onto the sidewalk with a loud screeching swirl. Suguru's airbag depleted, as he rushed out of the car tripping over his own feet. His entire windshield had a massive indent, with shattered glass all over his hood. Laying almost 20 feet back was a women, sprawled out on the ground. At least from what he could tell, her limbs where all at wrong angles, jagged bones stuck out of skin, and her head was laying limply to the side. Blood was smeared across the asphalt like red paint. Suguru followed the grim trail.
His heart was pounding in his ears, ringing like a bell in his head. Each gasp of breath he took felt like inhaling glass. The closer he got the worse it looked. He was moving on nothing but adrenaline. Squeezing by the small crowd of people that had begun to gather around, Suguru all but fell to his knees. Trembling hands didn't know what to hold first. Her face was bloodied, hair stuck to her neck and face, matted with sticky blood and rain.
He removed her hair from her neck to check for a pulse, anything.
"Oh my god-" one woman muttered. "I'll call an ambulance!!" Another man began to back off. "NO!" Suguru's voice cut the man off, "She's still alive! I'll take her to the hospital myself" Suguru swore he could still feel your heart pumping, he could hear it even, if only faintly it was still something, it was proof of life. Suguru gathered your mangled form into his arms and darted to his car within seconds.
He wasn't thinking rationally he knew that, but he had to do something. Satoru and him both were more than loaded enough to take care of you, to pay for all of your medical bills, everything. He'd make this right, and then everything could just go back to normal again. Suguru pulled out, his car resiliently humming to life despite the damage. Satoru and his shared apartment was close enough, he'd worry about fixing his car later.
The car was pulling into the in building parking lot within minutes. Suguru had wrapped you in his coat, hiding most of the damage, and to warm your body. You were ice cold. He carried you bridal style to the elevator, before punching in the floor number.
The yellowish tint of the elevator light above had illuminated your face with an olive hue. Your jaw was slightly slack, and one of your eyes just barely hung open, from the way your head was tilted back. Suguru took a moment to stare at you, guilt quickly rising to the surface and making him frown even harder. He tapped his foot impatiently as the doors finially slid open.
Suguru rushed out, making a beeline for his and Satoru's apartment before anyone could come out and see him, and possibly call the police.
Satoru answered the door, grinning at the arrival of his husband, however when his blue eyes trailed lower, his smile fell from his face entirely. "Suguru what the fuck!?" Satoru stumbled back, before meeting Suguru's pleading eyes. His horror turned to confusion. "Please, Satoru I need your help." Suguru stumbled inside, barley kicking his shoes off, before gently depositing you onto the counch, with the kind of care a mother would have for a newborn. Satoru rushed over, to stand beside his husband. "What is this, what the fuck happened? Why haven't you taken her to the hospital yet?" Satoru's head whipped around to face Suguru. "Its- its a long story, please Satoru. We- I need to fix this. She's still alive." Suguru's pleading eyes reached his husband's. Satoru swallowed thickly before nodding and darting off to retrieve their immediate medical supplies. He'll have to call in a doctor as well.
The ticking on the wall felt like it was driving Suguru insane. Each soft noise matched the slow rhythm of your heartbeat. Satoru had helped to bandage the bulk of the damage, you hadn't moved or even flinched once. Medicine had dissolved on your tongue, before Suguru helped you to swallow it, by slowly pouring water from a bottle down your throat. But your heart still pattered faintly in his ears. Insistently so. He knew you're alive. Suguru's hand found yours. His large fingers interlocked with your smaller cold hand. "I'm so sorry." Suguru muttered, stroking your knuckles softly. Satoru watches from the doorway nearby.
The following days, Suguru had been convinced it was his life's mission to take care of you. Even going so far as to wash you, like you were his living doll. Satoru hadn't once enjoyed this, any of this. At first, when he phoned his private doctor Mr. Yamamoto to the apartment, the old man had wrinkled his brows at the scene before him. Satoru had stood over the man's shoulder the entire time, as he checked your pulse, while Suguru trembled like a guilty dog with you in his arms.
Suguru hadn't seen or heard whatever muffled conversation his husband and Mr. Yamamoto had. He rocked your still body like a broken child. Whispering his apologies.
The water was warm. Satoru sat, knees to his chest, and Suguru sat with his knees bent, and your limp form slotted against his chest. There was something nightmarish about the scene before him. His loving, and level headed husband, that has always been the voice of reason, (even to Satoru's own shenanigans) that he's known for almost 8 years now, was currently sitting across from him, a hollowed out look in his eyes, and a corpse laid against his chest. Horrific didn't even begin to describe it.
Satoru had been there for Suguru during his first psychotic break. Suguru had developed such a deep depression during the end of their high-school years together, that he had eventually fell into psychosis. Satoru had nursed him all the way through it, but this? This was something else entirely, and Satoru knew he was partly to blame for it getting this bad. He had paid off Mr. Yamamoto during his visit where Suguru couldn't whiteness it, just enough to keep his mouth shut. Thankfully (or not) you didn't seem to have any family that were going to be collecting you either, not one person had come looking. Satoru didn't think his husband would be able to handle the actual reality of this situation. You were long dead, you had been since he first arrived with you in his arms.
"Satoru?" Suguru crooned, smiling softly. Satoru's eyes snapped up at the sound of his husband's soft voice. "Yes..?" Suguru stroked your hair idly. "She wants you to wash her hair this time."
Satoru froze. "What?"
"Wash her hair, Satoru." Suguru repeated calmly.
Your scalp was stiff, and the roots of your hair where all but dead. Suguru smiled softly, like a lover watching the people he cared the most about from afar. A chunk of your hair fell out into the tub, Suguru didn't even flinch.
Satoru almost threw up, immediately he gagged, and Suguru frowned.
Shoving you away, Satoru jumped out of the tub, doubling over and vomiting his guts up in the toilet nearby.
"Don't pay any mind to him sweetheart..." Suguru murmured into your ear, pulling you back upright. Like a doll, he configured the mangled corpse back into position against his chest. Satoru hadn't really realized till now how much the color of the tub water had changed. It was murky. Bloodshot blue eyes trailed up to their mirror where a few flies had begun to linger.
Suguru never once moved, and never complained of a smell. He was perfectly content.
"Suguru...that thing- her! She's dead!" Satoru's raspy voice cracked, as he looked over his shoulder to his husband. He had to fix this. He had to snap Suguru out of it.
"She's not. She's not dead. I can still hear her heartbeat." Suguru lifted your corpse, pressing your chest to his ear, as if to test his theory. Thump, thump, thump. Just like he thought. Satoru, for once was wrong.
The bathroom light bulb flickered ahead. Suguru had complained in the past about it, that it was going to go out one of these days, and that he'd have to change it soon. He never did get around to doing that. Not before this happened, whatever this even is.
Guilt is a sick thing. It makes you irrational, emotional, frustrated. It drives many to their breaking points, frying every end of their nerves till there is nothing left. Satoru supposes that's what happened to his beloved husband. Suguru could only handle so many deaths, before he lost it completely. He blamed himself back in high-school when that little girl Riko had died, then when their underclassmen had soon followed in an ill fated accident of his own. Now this.
Satoru stood in the hallway, barely illuminated by the evening sun, warm rays of light painted his pale face in a soft orange. The tall white draping curtains he had carefully picked out, where partly drawn. He didn't dare move an inch to open them, as he watched Suguru stuff food into the mouth of the rotting corpse, sitting across from him.
Baldwin felt like a soul that had found no rest, condemned to wander the castle corridors forever and suffer. Half-delirious, he strayed into the kitchen. To his surprise, one of the servants was still working - or so it seemed at first glance.
A maid bustled about in the dim candlelight, humming something under her breath.
The king froze, afraid to startle the girl. He remembered how people sometimes reacted to him in the light of day, before forcing themselves past fear and revulsion to show proper respect. It was unsettling to imagine how he must look now, in the half-dark, with that dreadful silver mask.
He considered clearing his throat to draw attention, but suddenly she spoke.
“Here, my lord. Your supper,” she said.
Contrary to the king’s expectations, the girl did not turn around. She looked down and set a bowl of food on the floor. Baldwin’s eyesight, weakened by illness, strained to make out what was hidden in the shadows.
The answer came in the form of a loud meow.
