Full time party girl, part time daughter. MASTERLIST
In which: Bruce Waynes daughter, Y/N Wayne is a full time party girl. Club hopper, party animal, hedonist. Whatever you want to call it. To full the void her father left, she turns to nightclubs, dingy bars and basement raves.
But when Bruce Wayne finds his daughter in an alleyway, half dead and delirious, he decides something has to change.
Part One- The party
Prologue: Before the party
Chapter one: Club classics
Chapter two: Miss world
Chapter three: Sympathy is a knife
Chapter four: Awful
Chapter five: Talk Talk
Chapter six : Petals
Chapter seven: Stay Away
Chapter eight: Heaven Tonight
Chapter nine: I might say something stupid.
Chapter ten: Reasons to be beautiful.
Part Two- The After Party
Chapter eleven: If I get high
Moodboard: info on reader/ second moodboard
Playlist: Music/ little more info on each chapter / playlist submission 1 / playlist submission 2/ playlist submission 3 / playlist submission 4/ playlist submission 5/ playlist submission 6
Fanart: By MeowingMalleus/ By Princessceebee/ By Princessceebee (2)/ By 77sleepyfeline/ By itzamor/ By Nighttwink/ By Moosilala/ yourfavfae/ By cjshimlyn / By spookess/ By Justafank / Picrew from advline
⚠︎ -> angst/sensitive topics (likely on-screen violence for titus)
☆ -> personal favorite
Series
Mrs. Danforth (Ongoing)
Series Summary: As Titus Danforth's sugar baby, you don't know much of his secretive, wealthy lifestyle. But when he accidentally gets you pregnant with a potential Danforth heir, it's decided that you'll be joining the family. There's no manual as you're plunged into their world of extravagance and violence.
Chapter One: A Well-Trained Companion (14.1k) ♡
Summary: After finding out you're pregnant with his child, Titus must secure his family's approval in order to make you a unique proposal: Become the new Mrs. Danforth.
Chapter Two: How, Why, and Other Unanswered Questions (4.0k)
Summary: As you prepare for your social debut in the Danforth world, Titus leaves you home alone for the first time to test you.
Chapter Three: Trivial Recommendations (7.3k) ♡
Summary: You accompany Titus to the Governor's Ball, your first major social outing as a member of the Danforth social hierarchy, and it marks an unspoken shift in your relationship.
Synopsis. A bIoody trail of vampire attácks, a political marriage, and four suitors you’re forced to choose from - all haunting you. But none as much as the mysterious stranger that makes everything in you scream that you might just be fated for the very thing your kingdom is trying to escape from.
Pairing. Gojo Satoru x Reader
Content. MDNI, fem! princess! reader, king! Gojo, vampire AU, he’s actually ÍNSANE, royalty AU, arranged marriages, creampíes, breéding, fated mátes, FÉRAL down bad Gojo, mentions of bIood and kílling, bíting, óral (fem receiving), spítting, marks (a LOT), fíngering, pórn with plot tbh, overstím, ínnapropriate use of powers, jealous! Gojo, slight inspiration from Persephone and Hades, pet names, swearing.
Word count. 15.8k (HUH???)
A/N. Was listening to Haunted by Beyoncé, and my mind went “ooo vampires.” Hope y’all have a lovely week <3
In all your years being carefully primed to take over the throne, there have only been two rules you were raised under:
You live by the crown, and you will die by the crown. No matter what.
To stop the vampires - if your father, the king, fails to contain the bloody trail of killings before his own inevitable death, you have to. Or, more according to those tedious meetings with the table of elders, your husband will have to.
And it seems as if they were well and fully intent on enforcing that last rule as of late - with sharply increasing numbers of attacks on your local towns, the public was growing restless - and so was the royal court.
You weren’t doing any better either - but for a wholly different reason.
Maybe it was paranoia, but these days, you found yourself constantly catching a flash of crystal blue in the corner of your eye. Or hearing a sweet, sweet whisper in your ear deep at night. Maybe even a soft run of fingers down your spine as you were readied for yet another ball - hands much too large to be any of your ladies-in-waiting.
Like something was watching.
Waiting.
“And then I- your highness, are you listening?”
That familiar, grating voice snaps you out of your thoughts, and you’re gasping in embarrassment as you turn back to the prattling man in front of you.
“My apologies, Lord Naoya.” you smile tightly, desperate to finish up yet another conversation about his latest cavalry expeditions. Nodding dismissively, “Just tired, please continue with your ah- wonderful tales.”
But of course, when he starts right back from the very beginning to “cover the key points you missed”, your stomach turns when you realize that you won’t be escaping any time soon. Great. Wonderful. Perfect.
God, future suitors your ass. You’d been taught that there’s no such company as “bad company” when you’re an heir to a kingdom, but this has been the fourth royal ball this month - and the biggest one yet. The fourth night you had to listen to another uptight lord show off his sparse battle medals, or another elder snide about how you’d be useless against the dangers of vampires.
You knew it was likely some coping mechanism with the grim deaths this week, but surely the nobles were tired of all this silly dancing? You sure were.
Gauzy dress just a bit too tight, sighs just a bit too loud than was permitted for the princess, you let your gaze wander across the brilliant ballroom. Those intricate gowns, the huge reflective wall, those little pastries you really wish you could walk away from this conversation and-
Blue.
Crystal blue.
“Wait! Did you see-” you startle, and it disappears as fast as it appeared. Your heavy skirts sway as you whirl around to uselessly track that odd burst of color, “Did you see that?”
“I know!” Naoya gasps, making you turn your head in excitement. “The light reflects off my medal so gorgeously! Oh, and this one-”
Dammit.
All through your life, it was this same color that’d been flitting occasionally through your vision, now haunting you almost every day.
You didn’t know where to look to find that familiar blue again - and you didn’t want to stand here waiting to find out. At the very least, your ears have definitely been assaulted with enough talk about horses and how “absolutely enormous” Lord Naoya’s weaponry at the Zenin Estate was.
Compensating, you muse.
The thought helps you plaster on a grin to your face, humming in a saccharine-sweet tone, “It pains me to cut through, my lord.” It really didn’t. “And I’d love to chat more later, but I think I hear my lady-in-waiting calling for me.”
He sputters, breathing out a few profanities under his breath that you catch. An arm raising as if to keep you in place, “Now, wait a minute-”
You’re angling your body expertly to make your dash. Batting your lashes deceivingly innocently, “Oh? What was that?” you cup your ear. “I hear her again- I really do apologize, but feel free to recount your valiant um- fairy tales in a letter.”
“But your father-”
Not waiting to hear the rest of his response, you barely even bother with a polite curtsy before determinedly weaving your way through the stuffy ballroom. Nodding by the nobles greeting you, waving past the throng of young lords that wanted to reel you into more conversation. Your satiny feet taking you anywhere but here - anywhere but where you could feel the still, heavy gaze of something burning into your back as you escaped.
You just prayed that it was only a miffed Naoya and nothing else.
It was around this time that the orchestra struck up another upbeat waltz, and with most people pairing off on the dance floor, barely anyone noticed you tip-toeing out of the ballroom.
“God-” you’re letting out a sigh of relief when you reach the long hallway, rubbing at your throbbing temples. “The next ball they host, m’gonna conveniently disappear, I swear.”
You didn’t care enough for what matchmaking would happen in the future anyway, no matter what the elders may tell you.
Your ballgown swishes with every urgent step through the quiet, dimly-lit corridors. Maybe a bit too quiet.
Strange. You knew that not many nobles would be wandering around the palace during a ball but, surely you can’t be the only one here? Where were the guards?
Just then, a soft winter breeze puffs against your left ear - and you inhale sharply. “Wha- hello?” you shudder, gaze darting around. “Anyone there?” But when only silence greets you, you’re struck with the sudden thought that the windows along the hallway were closed.
Where did the wind come from?
The realization has you taut with goosebumps pricking at your skin, your pace increasing ever-so-slightly. Gulping, you round the corner quickly, making a beeline for the closest haven you could find - the library.
Ducking past the towering stone archway, you hastily slam the door closed. It takes you a few seconds to get used to the darkness inside. With silvery moonlight ribbons filtering in through the curtained windows, you could just barely make out the rows upon rows of books you’d pestered your father into lining. Surrounded by heavyset tables, and your favorite, cushioned armchair. Luxurious, yet completely dwarfed when seating the lone silhouette-
“If this is an attack, then I surely don’t mind.”
“Fuck-” you scream, reflexively grabbing the nearest book spine you could reach to throw in the direction of the shadow. “Show yourself.”
Somehow, it’s as if the book bounces off an invisible forcefield, plopping down unceremoniously onto the velvety carpet right in front of the tall figure.
“And here I thought princesses usually curtseyed.” that deep, honeyed voice cuts right through your heavy breathing. He makes a move to get up - languid, and torturous, as if he enjoyed your agonizing suspense. “Well, maybe I do prefer being pelted by a- hey, that doesn’t mean pick up another book!”
In a split-second, you were brandishing a weighty encyclopedia this time - holding it firmly behind your head in a ready stance to throw once again.
“Show yourself.”
The man sighs, stepping into a channel of low light. It illuminated his stature - taller than you’d thought, towering well above most of the generals in the royal court. Muscled, yet lean - powerful, the thought strikes you. Magnetizing.
Someone from outside the kingdom, you observe, otherwise you’d have remembered that cloudy white hair, strands falling over a strange, black blindfold stretched across the upper half of his face. Leaving you only a set of high cheekbones, and a pert, pretty mouth to admire.
One that curls into such a mischievous smirk of neat pearly whites, and a tiny dimple digging into his cheek. “Now, I’ve never had anyone this eager to see me.” He drops into a courteous bow at the waist, expensive blue fabrics rippling. “From the North kingdom, Satoru, at your service, princess.”
Your hand falters - partially because of the heavy weight, partially because you recognised that gold “G” insignia in the middle of this stranger- Satoru’s uniform. The Gojo family.
That mysterious, estranged kingdom from the Northern part of the country that hadn’t been seen since you were young. You’d heard stories of them - everyone in this vast country had, it was impossible not to. Of their cruel winters and even crueler king, how blood stained every room in his palace. It was rumored he was a monster, and yet, no one ever saw his face - if they did, they never lived to tell the tale.
You knew your father had invited the king to every single ball out of diplomatic obligation, but he’d never attended. Never even bothered to respond.
So who was this?
“No one. Just a lowly attendant accompanying my king, your highness.” you’re jolting when he purrs, a brow quirking at just how he knew what you were thinking. “The question ah- showed on your face, my apologies.”
Finding your voice, “Um, I apologize, too, Satoru-” You note the lack of a last name, “-for the book. I can’t imagine being hit with Yaga’s 1001 Methods to Crochet was a very warm welcome.” And like a little truce, you’re placing down the encyclopedia in your hand. Flashing him your most practiced smile, “I bet you’re hiding out here for the same reasons as me, then.”
That draws out a pretty laugh from him, bubbly and boyish. “Mhm, the ladies just refuse to leave you alone, too?”
“Well, more like the lords there.”
He hums, something that sends a chill down your spine. Words just a little strained, “Not much for bragging about horses?”
And suddenly, you get the urge to snark back, huffing in a way you know your preparational teacher would faint at. “Absolutely not. I’d rather face a vampire than listen to Naoya and the “absolutely enormous” weaponry he uses to-”
“-compensate!”
“-compensate.” the two of you finish at the same time. “I like this place a lot better, it’s quiet- though…” your voice trails off in wonder. “It’s strange, guests aren’t supposed to be allowed in the library unsupervised.” His jaw clenches when your eyes sweep him, “We are supposed to have a few guards here but I don’t know where-”
All of a sudden, it’s like you’re being splashed with cold water. And your words are dying on your tongue when the room drops a few degrees in temperature.
Satoru is unnervingly still, yet he catches onto your slight shiver. “This damned wind, am I right?” And he’s gesturing at the windows with his head. The closed windows. Words tumbling quickly from those pink lips now, “Anyways- why don’t you sit down-” He prowls towards you, slow, confident. Large hands rest at your arms, they’re pale, surprisingly cold - guiding you easily to sit on the unoccupied armchair. “-since m’being nice enough to let you hide out here.”
His words drip with tease, and you still couldn’t see his eyes, but you imagined they’d be twinkling. No one ever dared to speak to you this way - it was always either thinly-veiled condescension or fear towards royalty.
Surprisingly, you didn’t mind.
You roll your eyes, trying to hold back your smile. “Yeah? Well what do I owe you in return for that, Satoru?”
His lips part, as if not expecting this response. Before letting out another sharp cackle at your expense, “Well, why don’t you-” You can’t tear your eyes away from his magnetic figure when Satoru begins unbuttoning his flowing coat to reveal a snow-white shirt underneath. Wrapping it snug around your shoulders in one, fluid motion, a hand of his tilts your head towards him. “-give me your soul?”
The Gojo emblem burns into your back, and Satoru’s deep, almost raspy tone rings in your ears. It sounded like a joke - but looking into his ethereal features, there was no trace of a grin on what you could see of it. And once again, you’re struck by the pure power radiating off of him.
You hoped it was a joke.
“S-soul’s not for sale.” you manage to choke out, trying to make it look like you weren’t breathing in his metallic, peppermint scent. Heady. Pulling the soft fabric tighter around your cold body, “Steep price for a hideout, don’t you think?”
“S’a discount for you, flower.” his chilling breath fans your face. Letting out hushed, “Heh, you should see the prices I charge others.”
You’re reeling, face burning, “Flower?”
“Because you’re shaking like one, see?” The pads of his fingers move from under your chin to trace up, up, up the goosebumps on your exposed arms. Somehow, you can’t bring yourself to pull away.
Hypnotic.
And his steps are soundless as he walks over behind you, the moonlight giving him an angelic halo. Haunting, almost. “And you’re just as gorgeous, like a wild rose. Way too gorgeous for the fuckin’ bastards out there, might I add, princess.”
The nerve!
Heart pounding, you turn around to- call him out for his disrespect? Snap back? Accept the compliment?
You don’t know - and you don’t get to find out, either. Because before your eyes can search for Satoru’s mysterious figure, the door to the library is slamming open with a deafening bang!
“Ah! There you are!” your lady-in-waiting’s relieved voice floods your ears. And she’s barging in with no comment about your sudden stiffness, or that foreign coat around your shoulders. “We’ve been looking everywhere for you, your highness. His majesty is just about to make his speech of the night and needs you there.”
Shit, out of all the scandals.
“I- I can explain.” You’re desperately trying to catch Satoru’s eye to make up an excuse for why you’re alone with a strange man away from the ball, shooting from your seat to look around the library. “We’re just-”
The suddenly empty library.
“Yes yes, I understand that the balls aren’t exactly your favorite pastime.” The oblivious girl is pushing you towards the door, brown eyes narrowed. “But we’ve got to get going now.”
Despite her wrangling you outside, you manage to sneak a few glances backwards, straining to see if he was hiding in the shadows. Only to be met with a now-rumpled armchair and the still, dark bookshelves. As bare as if Satoru never existed - the only proof of his existence being a sad copy of Yaga’s 1001 Methods to Crochet lying on the ground.
And yet, you can’t help but feel a pair of eyes on you.
You feel it all through the short walk back to the ballroom, Nobara’s excited chatter about how finely your all-new coat was made filtering through one ear and out the next. Even when you reach the edge of the dance floor, even when you feel every single other eye in the room on you - you feel it.
“Um, Nobara.” you whisper, discreetly shuffling the coat off your shoulders. “Please take this to my chambers for me.”
The younger girl is positively bursting at the seams, murmuring conspiratorially to you, “So is this where you were? With who- The “G” what does that-”
“Ah! My daughter!” Saved by your father’s booming voice - though, you wouldn’t consider it too much of a salvation when you’re immediately being whisked away to the high platform your father’s throne was seated on. His arms spread wide to greet you in a hug despite stiff etiquette.
“You’re late.” he whispers in your ear.
It’s all you can do to manage out a quiet, “S-Sorry.”
Without another word, he’s addressing the congregation in the middle of the dance ballroom again. More ruler than father at this very moment. “My people, we are gathered here today to dance, to sing, to forget about the horrors happening in our beloved nation.” To large murmurs of agreement he continues, “And despite it all, it’s a reality we must all live with. Me, especially, as your king, have a duty to fulfill.”
There’s a beat of silence, and you wonder where this is all going - your father never brought up vampires during a time like this. Never.
Clearing his throat, “And as we all know, I’m not getting any younger here, unfortunately. Which is why-” He claps his hands once, and three figures - one of which being Naoya, amongst two other nobles you briefly recognized - step forward from the crowd. “Ah- there should be one more- Anyway, after thorough consideration with the table of elders, we have decided to go forward with the betrothal process for my dear daughter here. With the joining of hands will not only be the joining of kingdoms - but the joining of arms, and our people shall prevail as one over the vampires.”
You think you might stop breathing, eyes burning and trained firmly on the ground. This had been a topic of conversation - well, more the elders conversing while you skipped out on every meeting once this discussion was brought up.
You knew this would happen. You knew. But now? At this very moment? All you can do is stand there and listen while he rattles off.
“I know four of the- erm, three of the most eligible young suitors of the land will do their utmost to vie for her heart - and her hand. No easy task I tell you.” Your fists clench, head swimming. “And in a week’s time, we will hold the grand ball to announce my successor.”
Shit - a week. A week.
Somewhere in your line of vision you see - you feel that spark of blue. And you’re raising your head to cheers echoing from all around the room, and still no sign of where those eyes are.
“The next time we meet, will be with the future king and queen!”
Fuck.
---
That night was spent with a few too many tears, and a consoling Nobara at your side all until daybreak. And if you held onto that comforting, peppermint-scented coat through it all, well, you were only glad that you seemed too pitiful for her to question it.
Feeling much more composed and only slightly less bitter about the prospect of being married off to a stuck-up noble you didn’t know, you made your way to breakfast the next morning. An affair usually spent with your father, or in the palace gardens - but this time, surrounded by four suitors under the guise of getting to know you. Sizing each other up, maybe.
“Ah, your highness, good morning!” you sweetly reciprocate the greetings once you’re escorted into the dining room, taking your seat at the very end of the long, mahogany table.
Sighing you take in the scene - on your left was Lord Naoya from last night, the same sharp grins and shifty eyes as you remembered. Seated beside him was the young duke of the Kashimo clan - hair striking, his battle staff laid out next to him on the table. Intimidating.
But nothing in comparison to the hulking man on your right, it seemed as if his uniform was on the verge of bursting. Face sullen, letting his pink locks fall into place - Sukuna, you think you remember.
“Your highness.” Ichiji bows, taking his place supervising the breakfast. “I am afraid our guests from the Northern kingdom will not be able to attend this breakfast today. He sends his deepest apologies. B-but-” His face-paled, looking scarred for life. “-he did have his um- attendant send this note-”
You’re gratefully taking the creamy scrap of paper before the words have even left Ichiji’s mouth, flipping it over to reveal slanted, beautiful calligraphy - Apologies for the sudden departure last night, flower. And I hope you forgive my king for not being here to deter the talk of horses - duty holds both man and beast from freedom. Worry not, we will be seeing your sweet smile again soon. But, for now, give those three bastards a rude gesture from me.
You giggle, tucking away the note. A tiny pang of disappointment hitting you out of nowhere at the lack of that gold “G” emblem anywhere along the table - and more importantly, the white-haired enigma that would follow.
All three men were glowering, yet begrudgingly plowing on with their conversation from before as you settled. Not having the energy to contribute, you listened in.
“-this would never have happened in my estate.”
“Oh buzz off-” Kashimo interrupts Naoya, before throwing a guilty look your way at his crass words. As if you didn’t say worse. “Apologies, your highness. As I was saying-” he turns back to the man. “Don’t think we haven’t heard of those vampire killings in your court that you tried to cover up, your defense isn’t as impenetrable as you want it to seem, Naoya.”
That causes you to raise your brow - and evidently, Sukuna’s as well. “That so? Little fraud, aren’t ya, Zenin?”
The shorter man sputters indignantly, “You- you little- you call me a fraud and yet you’re the only one who didn’t bother to help investigate last night? Got something to hide, oh king-of-curses?”
“Tch, shut up.” That little nickname ticked something off in Sukuna, and his grip on his delicate fork tightens. Smirk intentionally bared to piss off, “It’s just because when the princess marries me, she won’t have to worry about vampires attacking guards in the middle of a ball.”
Wait, what?
“Yeah right, you and what army because I have an absolutely enormous-”
“What do you mean?” Your smooth voice cuts through their bickering, and all three men freeze, gazes snapping to you as if they’d already forgotten you were there. “I didn’t hear about any killings last night.”
If you thought they were tense before then you weren’t prepared for right now - shoulders raising in surrender, for all their blabbering, not a word was uttered after your accusatory question. After a few beats of silence, you scoff in frustration, turning towards your escort, squirming and avoiding your pointed stare at the very corner of the room.
“Ichiji.” The man looked like he could positively give anything to blend into the meticulously hand-painted flowers on the wall. “Ichiji, tell me what happened.”
“P-princess!” he yelps, adjusting his glasses. “I- I’m afraid the king said- please I can’t-”
“Ichiji…”
“P-please don’t banish me-”
You’re on your feet now, cornering the poor man. Mentally, you make a note to give him a raise. Eyes narrowing, “I won’t banish you, but as the future queen I have a right to know, don’t I?”
“...”
“...please?”
And the remaining men had been watching with morbid fascination as you worked your magic. They were already aware that the frail attendant was the weakest link out of them all, but what they certainly did not expect was exactly how weak.
It only took a single bat of your lashes before his pale cheeks colored an almost-concerning pink. Eyes scrunching shut in embarrassment, as the words spilled from his lips. Neverending and slurring with haste as he speaks in one breath, “Th-three of the guards stationed near the outer corridor and library wing were found killed by a vampire last night before you retired for the night, your highness. Their b-bodies were disposed of, and this in combination with all the recent killings was why the king hurried the announcement for your engagement. B-but, his majesty decreed that this never be relayed to you in order to keep you in high spirits after the betrothal eep-!”
“Is- is that so?” you breathe, eyes wide. Taking one last look at the four speechless men, before walking out of the tall doorway. “I seem to have lost my appetite, I will be heading for my chambers now. I sincerely hope you enjoy your stay, my lords.”
Shit shit shit - how did you not notice?
Maybe you walked right past the killer last night and didn’t even realize - who knows what could’ve been hiding in the shadows. How did you not realize? How did you not see?
Just then, a thought strikes you - did Satoru see?
---
It’s one of the whirlwind of questions ringing around in your mind even by the time you hear a steady knock on your door. Jolting you upright from where you splayed out on your plush, silken bed, rows upon rows of books on vampires haphazardly surrounding you.
Peering out of your large window, you notice the hues of pink and red painting the sky, a big red sun just dipping below the horizon - shit, when did you even fall asleep?
“Come in.” you answer, voice scratchy. Rubbing away the sleep in your eyes, you could barely make out the hazy outline of Ichiji standing in your doorway.
“Ah- your highness, I apologize for waking you up.” he bows. “But master Kashimo will be headed out for a late-night hunt at this very moment, and requested your presence shall you wish it. He noticed that you seemed upset at breakfast, and wanted to make it up to you.”
You take a moment to mull over the question - it certainly was rude for you to just ignore your guests all day. And considering you might just be marrying one of them, it wouldn’t kill anyone to actually get to know them.
“Alright.” you reply, voice even. And your answer seems to surprise the other man, “Tell Tsukumo to get my gear ready, I will be down as soon as I change.”
“Y-yes, princess! I will call for Nobara to help you get dressed.”
As the door shut once more behind him, you threw off your heavy blanket- and your coat? Satoru’s coat, which had evidently been draped around your upper half. Heart stuttering, you didn’t remember putting that on before…
Hm, you had to thank Nobara for that later.
---
Hunting with Kashimo was, unexpectedly, dull.
“So…” you drag your words, trying to fill the tense silence. “What is it that we’re actually hunting for-”
“Shhh-” you hear for about the third time this past hour. A brow of yours quirking at the way it seemed like the two of you had been wandering the woods belonging to your kingdom’s estate for hours, and you still didn’t know what it was you were supposed to be looking for.
Alright, perhaps hunting wasn’t the best opportunity to get to know your potential future husband.
“My lord…” you call out warily, already aware of the duke’s affinity for hunting. “Maybe we should rest for a bit, after all, the stars are out already and the moon is so bright.”
He barely even turns to look back at you, “No time. The woods belonging to your kingdom have some of the rarest species of cursed animals in this country. I must make the most of this week in that case, your highness.”
You brighten at the closest shred of conversation in so long. “Oh, yes, I’ve heard! I also hear they-”
“Shh!”
So close.
Letting out a resigned sigh, your eyes glaze over as you watch Kashimo trace his thick fingers over animal tracks on the dirt. Suddenly, gesturing for you to follow him as he sped off in another direction.
It doesn’t take too long for him to stray out of sight. Meanwhile, your legs lag behind in protest - and pettiness, you realize. Grumbling to yourself about how you’d rather have watched paint dry as you’re sure the elders often did. Well, you look at the now-barren pathway, at least now you didn’t have to worry about someone shushing you all the ti-
“AHH!”
And then, all of a sudden - it felt like you were the hunted.
It’s like every bit of blood drains from your body at the blood-curdling scream. Grip tightening on your bow, you’re jolting at the direction it came from - where did Kashimo disappear off to again?
Yet, for how much you knew your kingdom like the back of your hand, it’s so dark. The moon barely peeking through gloomy gray wisps of clouds that you don’t know where exactly you’re running to - just that something was tugging. Reeling you in. No destination in sight until you’re crashing face-first into- a wall?
“Hey, flower, where are ya running off to this late?”
Your hairs raise, something visceral in your body jolting.
Satoru - blindfold and all.
“Wh- Satoru thank God you’re here.” you gasp, looking nervously over his broad shoulders. “I heard a scream, and I’m worried about Kashimo because he went somewhere over there and-” You’re pointing aimlessly in his direction, before clasping a hand around Satoru’s defined bicep. Tugging, “You have to help me, that idiot even insisted on no guards because of disturbing the wildlife and I’m so worried and-”
Before you can react, big strong arms are enveloping you. And you’re suddenly hit with the smell of peppermint and Satoru - something so sickly sweet tinging the air, it makes you droop limply into his firm hold. Your skin burns when he breathes in, deep.
“Shhh shhh, I know I know, princess.” he hums, pulling you deeper against his chest. Until you could feel every dip and curve of his pectorals. “You must’ve been scared, right?” At your hesitant nod, “You did good. You did perfect- in fact. Especially putting up with that pretentious bastard.”
The shocked laugh that drags from your throat has Satoru sighing contentedly, an almost-pained grunt leaving him as he pulls away ever-so-slightly. You felt much the same.
“S’alright, I’m pretty sure it was some animal.” he soothes. He clasps your hands with his, running a damp thumb over your knuckles. “I saw him trudging about disturbing more wildlife over there.”
You breath catches in your chest at just how close Satoru was now, his breath mingling with yours. Pretty plump lips so close - too close. Yet you’re leaning in closer, like you’re drawn by a thread. “Are you sure? Maybe we should-” You gasp, eyes widening when you look down at where your hands were intertwined - red. Or, what you assumed to be red, a saturated, patchy stain on your hands where Satoru’s met yours. He stiffens when he follows your gaze, trying to pull away, but you only hold your grip harder. “Satoru, are you bleeding? Or is this-”
“Not mine.” his voice is hard - and for a second you have to wonder whether this is really the same Satoru. And you swear there’s a little tremor in his words as he explains, “You see, I went out on a little hunt myself, flower.”
Even if Satoru didn’t have his blindfold on, you’re sure his face would’ve been unreadable. That almost-familiar grin of his is strained. Too strained. Yet, his movements are unwavering as he tries to wipe away the blood. “Must’ve forgotten to wipe down, I apologize for sullying your hands, princess.”
“Let me-” you mutter, taking a hold of the coat around your shoulders to wipe away the blood. Uncaring for what you were dirtying at the moment. “I swear you need to take better care of yourself, Satoru. Seriously.”
And you didn’t see them - but somehow you could just feel the amusement dancing in Satoru’s eyes. Raising your confused gaze up to meet his, “What?”
He only flashes you a knowing grin, “S’jus’, you’re wearing my coat, your highness.”
Your movements pause, mouth gaping open while you try to pathetically spout out an excuse. “I- I didn’t mean to get this coat dirty, oh my god. I didn’t think-”
“S’alright.” he inches in even closer. A smirk grazing those sinful lips of his, “I actually prefer it like that, you look like mine.” Taking a deep breath, “You smell like mine.”
And before you can ask about his cryptic message, he’s placing a hand at the back of your waist. A very improper hand that would definitely make the elders gasp in scandal. “We should head back to the palace, it’s getting late. I will escort you, m’sure that born hunter of yours is already halfway back too.”
“Carry me.” you blurt out, your body aching to feel more of him. And before you can retract your words - probably sputter a few apologies, you’re being cradled by a smug Satoru. One hand under your knees, the other supporting you like you’re weightless.
“Heh, a princess carry for a princess.”
“Oh, shut up.” you grumble with embarrassment when he walks forward slowly, your legs swaying in midair. “Want my soul for this as well?”
And you can feel Satoru’s muscles ripple, you can feel the way his breath hitches in his chest ever-so-slightly. Rumbling as he drawls, “More than you’d know.”
“S’that a discount, too? You still didn’t tell me what you charge others.” you quip, remembering the conversation from the night before.
“Oh, you’ll find out soon enough, your highness.”
You’re quirking a brow, something hot churning at the pit of your stomach at that ragged tone to his words. “I’m onto you, y’know.” You stare up at his clenched jaw, highlighted in the dim moonlight. His long, pale neck, the crevices of his blindfold. For a moment, you wonder what it would be like if you could peek under. “Onto you and your absurdly high prices, Satoru.”
He breathes out a shuddering, overly-dramatic shudder. “Mhm, flower, I should be worried.” Before looking up at the sky - and you wondered just how well he could see through his blindfold. “The moon is beautiful tonight, isn’t it?”
That night, you dreamt of long-winded star-gazing and blue, blue eyes.
---
“What do you mean Lord Kashimo has left for his kingdom?” you hiss, feeling a faint stab of offense. Seriously, were you that awful at hunting? “He didn’t make any indication of it last night.”
And if your careless words made Nobara beam with slight embarrassment, you didn’t take note of it - too caught up in what you’d just heard. Enough so that it takes her next words to bring you out of your stupor, “Exactly what I said, your highness. The lordship and his court have all vacated their wing, leaving behind only a letter of forgiveness for ending the festivities early.”
“Still.” you murmur petulantly. Setting aside another one of your books on Vampire: Mates, Murder, and More. “It’s strange, I thought he was here for the hunting sprees, if not for me.” Your tiara weighs heavy on your head as you turn to your young lady-in-waiting. “I would like for Ichiji to catch up to Kashimo’s traveling party, make sure they’re safe, and send them my well wishes.”
Ha! Take that elders - you’d show them you’re fully capable of holding diplomatic relations as a ruler.
“As you wish, princess. Additionally, this-” She’s holding out a small pouch of blue fabric that you’d never seen before. “-was found by your bedside when cleaning and I wished to give it back safely.” Before her polite smile drops into a much more devious smirk, “A gift from one of the suitors, perhaps~?”
You gesture for her to hand it over, the silk casing soft under your touch. Detailed. One-of-a-kind, from what your tedious lessons in the history of fabrics had taught you. You didn’t recognize the patterns sewn onto it as something typical for your kingdom - or any other you’d learned about, really.
“M’not sure.” you whisper. Opening the little purse to reveal a flash of gold - a necklace. Thin and intricate, holding a sapphire pendant in the shape of an eye.
Blue.
A blue you knew too well - the same one that peeked out from every dark corner, that you saw before you slept at night. The one that’s been by your side for years.
Constant. Now coming to haunt you.
Chills run down your spine, and your fingers tremble at how life-like it looked. Burning into your very soul.
“Would you like for me to help you put it on?” Nobara asks, mistaking your shock for difficulty. And yet, you don’t correct her - body moving before your mind to simply nod.
There was only one clasp on the chain - leaving you to worry about the fit. But when it was hooked around your neck, you found that it fit you so perfectly. Like it was tailored to you - and only you. Why was it so perfect?
Why did it capture the exact color you’d been chasing after your whole life - since before you’d even formed memories? Since you were nothing but a surly, teary-eyed little girl that was crying about the dark, babbling about that “blue flash” that no one else ever seemed to see.
“If that will be all, your highness. I will take my leave.” With a nod and a low bow, you’re left all by yourself in your sprawling chambers. Wondering, somewhat in amusement, whether you’d be let off this marriage pact if all the other suitors suddenly left as well. Hell, maybe you could marry whoever got you this necklace since they apparently know you so well.
And you swear - maybe it was the fatigue from trekking last night, maybe it was the stress from the past month - but you swear the wind picks up in its chilly bite. Howling just low enough that it sounds like a deep, taunting cackle.
The necklace doesn’t leave its palace around your neck for the next few days. You still didn’t know who’d gifted it to you - right inside your chambers for god’s sake - and if either of the two suitors remaining knew, they didn’t make any indication of it either.
Three, technically, but it seemed that the more the days passed, the less you saw of the mysterious king of the Northern kingdom.
While Sukuna and Naoya had taken it upon themselves to woo you by joining you in your daily activities, he hadn’t even shown his face to you yet. You were sure your father would’ve had him humiliated and thrown out of the palace already if he wasn’t afraid for his life.
But you didn’t mind, because you saw enough of Satoru to make up for King Gojo and Kashimo. The man seemed well and fully intent to stick by your side, talking yourselves well into the night.
It was on a night like this - sprawled out along the plush armchairs in the very library you’d met, only a few days after Kashimo’s departure - you asked, “Satoru, what color are your eyes?”
That makes him pause in the middle of his extremely animated story about how he’d caught Earl Yaga in the middle of an artistic dance routine. The baritone of his voice cracking so uncharacteristically as he responds with, “Wh-why do you ask, princess?”
“Because.” you roll your eyes. “In four days m’gonna be marrying, and it might just be your king. Yet, I don’t even know his attendant’s eye color - what type of good queen would I be then?”
You knew it was a flimsy excuse, truthfully you just wanted to see Satoru. All of Satoru.
“Not many have wanted to look into my eyes”
You tilt your head, “How come?”
“Well, I can assure you that they aren’t half as alluring as yours.” Satoru pushes back your tiara ever-so-slightly to reveal your face to him better, fingers dancing down to fiddle with your pendant. “You’re a strange one, aren’t ya, flower?” he chuckles, face inching closer to yours - and for a moment, you think he might do something else. “Tell me, how are the wedding preparations going?”
Ah, right - the wedding preparations. Your wedding preparations, to someone else.
Did you want him to do something else?
“W-well-” you pull back from his hypnotic presence. Heart lurching, necklace burning cold into your skin. “Sukuna keeps trying to teach me his very particular diet, I swear I’ve spent much more time with Uraume learning it than with him- they’re a sweetheart though, I can’t complain.” Eyes trying to avoid the intensity of his gaze, “Oh- and Naoya still talks about his weaponry, however, I think his Zenin elders had a word with him because he asked to meet me in the gardens tomorrow evening to actually get to know me for once.”
You brave to take a look at Satoru at the end of his spiel - only to be met with a face you never thought you’d see. His mouth a tight gash, jaw ticking, and you could almost hear the grinding of his teeth.
Terrifying. Magnetic.
Powerful.
The library was always cold - but you fail to suppress a shiver at the sudden grip in the air. “S-Satoru?”
And suddenly, at the mere sound of your voice, everything clicks back to normalcy. You’re staring that familiar grin painted onto his face again, musing slyly, “How much d’you wanna bet he’ll ask about your weaponry instead?”
“Oh, shut up.”
It’s only much, much later at night when you’re forced to retire early - Satoru slipping past the library earlier than usual with groans of his “attendant duties” that you realize - he didn’t answer your question.
---
“P-princess, will you be alright going alone? I don’t think-”
“It’ll be alright, Ichiji, I’m just meeting Lord Naoya.” you wave off the stammering man. Tugging your velvety coat snugly around your body, “Honestly, you act like I haven’t been out in the gardens alone before.”
And it was true, since returning from his little meeting with the Kashimo court, your jumpy attendant seemed even more so - and you didn’t even know that was even impossible. Always peeking cautiously behind corners of the winding hallways, always hovering close by you even when his duty didn’t require it.
He’d told you - in that quiet, shaky voice of his - that Kashimo was well, and headed straight for his kingdom to fulfill emergency duties. To which you’d accepted - you understood the gravity of responsibility, after all.
“But- but, your highness!” he gasps, pulling you out of your little reverie. “I don’t think- with the way he-”
A spine-chilling breeze rustles the nearby tree, sending shivers down your spine. Howling in your ears. You squint your eyes against the cold, “Sorry, what was that, Ichiji?”
But the man in front doesn’t speak - fuck, you didn’t even know if he was breathing. Face a sickly pallor, mouth gaping open and shut like he wanted to say something - he needed to say something. Yet, he wasn’t even looking at you, wide eyes locked on something over your shoulder.
“Are you-” Your body holds you back, feeling two burning eyes on you - and you have to force yourself to look over your shoulder. Only to see- nothing? “-are you alright?”
Seeing nothing out of the ordinary, you’re turning back to face your attendant - only to see him sprinting back down the entrance as fast as his knobbly legs could carry him.
“I’ll see you tomorrow, then!” you call, hoping it echoed far enough to be heard.
Strange.
It’s all you can think about for the next half an hour you’re seated on that dainty, painted bench in the middle of the palace gardens, waiting for your potential future husband. And for the next hour. And the next.
It’s by the time the sun has fully set, when twinkling stars are dotting the night sky that you settle with the conclusion that yes, it seems that Naoya has already made his decision about the marriage. And no it doesn’t end with a wedding.
“Dammit.” you spit, running a hand through the hair you had Nobara fuss about with. “S’not like I wanted to marry you anyway, bastard.”
And you didn’t - you really didn’t. Whenever you dared to imagine walking down that decorated aisle, Naoya was the last person you saw.
But seated alone and abandoned, trying to cover yourself from the biting chill of the night, you never felt more like an unworthy heir. Fuck, if no one wanted to marry you how would you even dare to think of taking over the throne?
Maybe you should just-
“We have got to stop meeting like this, flower. S’like you’re haunting me.”
“Satoru!” you gasp, throwing yourself into his embrace. You’re reaching up to loop two arms around his neck, “Oh, you wouldn’t believe it. That asshole had the audacity to stand me up.” Pulling back so your face ghosts his, “I got all dolled up just for him to leave me like this. As if I wanted to be with him, I was just trying to be a good- a good h-host and-”
Suddenly, you’re struck with the realization of how close you two actually are. You could count every crease on his blindfold, pinpoint exactly where every dimple at the corner of his grin was.
Your hands slide their way down to his sculpted chest, pushing slightly. “-I apologize, this was forward of me.”
But his arms only tighten around your waist - when did they even get there? Large and steady, pulling you back to nuzzle his face into the crook of your neck, your racing pulse. “Stay.” he groans, and he sounds slightly out-of-breath, heavy exhales tickling your ear.
“We can’t be caught like this, Satoru.” you breathe, but that familiar little tug has you shuffling closer. Breathing in that familiar metallic sweet scent you’ve grown to love, “I- I’m getting-” Bile creeps up at the back of your throat, and you laugh bitterly. “I think I’m getting married in three days, y’know? To Lord Sukuna, I assume, since two of my suitors ah- ran away and the other refuses to even see my face.”
His thick fingers dig deeper into the extravagant corset at your waist, “I know. Fuck- don’t I know.”
It’s a steady beat of silence, so still. So tense you could hear every stuttering heartbeat of yours, and strangely enough, you had the nagging feeling that he could, too.
“You could just marry me.” Satoru’s abrupt confession breaks the silence, and you find yourself sinking deeper into his soft coat. Wrapping yourself up in his heady presence. “Be my queen. You wouldn’t have to worry about duties or elders or- or vampires.”
And the night was still. So still.
Despite the way your heart races, eyes blinking up in disbelief, you find it in yourself to deadpan, “F-funny. Do I have to give you my soul for that as well?” Oh, some stupid little part of you think you might just have.
And you’d expected Satoru to crack a laugh, to give you a teasing smile while he carried on that little inside joke between the two of you. You’d expected him to no sooner shove you off and talk about it being late. Hell, a part of you even expected this to be some elaborate set-up from the elders to get you caught in such a compromising position with the no-longer stranger from the Northern kingdom.
But, no. It’s anything but that - everything but that.
Because the taller man only rasps, nose-to-nose now, “No.” Sounding like his sanity was slipping away from him with every breath, fingers making their dance down to twirl your sapphire pendant between them. “I’d give you mine.”
You can feel his breath fanning your cheeks, head dipping slowly - so torturously slowly. As if he was giving you ample opportunity to run away if you wanted to. But you don’t think you could move for the life of you.
Instead, you’re dipping closer, gliding the tip of your thumb over his defined cheekbone. Mere millimeters away - just one push. Another hand of yours steadies at the back of his neck, feeling those snowing locks under your fingers.
One.
Your thumb dips just under the seam of his blindfold - unwillingly.
“Your highness.” Satoru’s voice is cold, his fingers lacing with your own even colder. Something eerie. And even with the delicate touch you could feel the power thrumming through Satoru’s body. “This is for you.”
You can only stand there in shocked silence as the moment shatters, and he produces a wild rose as if out of thin air. “Consider it from King Gojo.” Touch searing against yours when he hands it to you, you feel drunk off of him “Perhaps the night is late now.”
Right. The king.
When you’re walking back in the directions of the palace’s warm lights, you don’t think you’ve ever felt safer. Strangely enough.
“Satoru.”
“Yes?”
“I’m onto you.”
“You’re onto me.” he’s tucking the bloom over your ear. Before stepping back into the inky pool of shadows beside the entrance you came from. “Sweet dreams, flower.”
That night, when you tuck yourself into bed, you swear you hear a faint whisper of those same three words lulling you to sleep. Over and over.
Sweet.
Dreams.
Flower.
---
Floral preservation was one of the lessons you’d been forced to attend growing up in the palace, but even you didn’t know how that wild rose Satoru gifted you hadn’t wilted yet.
It remained as fresh and prim as the night it was picked, bluish pink petals never fading. You didn’t keep it safely in a bowl of water amongst the other plants and flowers in your bedroom. Somehow, never out of place, always tucked safely behind your ear in the days that followed. Perhaps it was improper to keep it on you even when you were being fitted into an engagement gown to be promised off to another man. But Satoru didn’t complain, and you didn’t either.
With Kashimo departing for his kingdom early, and Naoya apparently following in his footsteps due to “irrevocable differences”, it was now almost confirmed that the future king was to be Lord Sukuna. Not like King Gojo had made any effort to reach out - and Satoru hadn’t mentioned it either.
Satoru.
Things were…the same after that night, and you didn’t know what to make of it.
It must be done, you sigh, wincing at the pinch of the flowing white dress being suited onto you by the bustling tailor. At least it could be worse, even if you’d rather…
“Honestly, young people these days.” Yaga speaks up from where he was fussing with the silken hem of your gown for tomorrow. “I heard of that Naoya brat leaving out of nowhere, princess. My condolences.”
“Ah-” you startle, not expecting to be addressed. “It’s not your fault, we likely didn’t mesh all that well. I just wish he left a note- Honestly, I’m lucky to even have a suitor left after these six days.”
Another grimace leaves you when you feel another tweak of pins pricking at your skin. The other man hums lowly, “Don’t say that, anyone would be lucky to have you. Anyway-” He gets up from his position kneeling, towering over you to admire his own work. “How do you like it, your highness?”
You let out a gasp when you face the floor-length mirror, “Oh my god, it’s perfect.” The dress was regal, decadent. With flowing tresses resembling a petals, and gilded gold and blue weaved into the fabric.
Blue.
“I fashioned it after that necklace and flower of yours.” You unwittingly reach for that familiar pendant, “I ah- forgive the assumption, but I assumed you would be wearing them both at the betrothal ceremony tomorrow, princess?”
Taking another long look in the mirror, you nod, “Yeah. I will.”
---
“I knew it.” he laughs shrilly. “I fuckin’ knew there was something wrong with you. As soon as I saw you butterin’ the princess up in the library, I knew you were a fuckin’ freak.”
The other man only responds with ominous silence, letting labored breathing cut through the bone-chilling air. Clearly unsatisfied, “What? Not gonna talk now? Aren’t ya just in it for the crown like me? Have the bitch, just give me the crown.” Goading now, “I bet you’re not even an attendant are ya- I know what you are-”
His words are cut off with another choked-up gasp, followed shortly by a strained growl. “I know- what you are-”
Red stains the marble floor - a problem for later.
“I know, King Gojo.” And it’s the last thing he sees. “And you’ll reap what you sow, she’ll never love you.”
Blue.
“You’ve haunted me too long, flower.”
“Satoru–!” you scream, throwing your soft bed sheets off your body.
It was burning - you were burning, gasping for the cold lungfuls of air that filled your empty bedroom. Mind bleary, distantly, you register that it’s around daybreak - tiny fingers of golden sunlight just barely dipping through your window - your open window.
Hastily, you’re tumbling out of bed to slam it shut. Heart still pounding when you take in the mess of flower petals from those congratulatory bouquets you’d gotten. Ruined. Only the stems left in the vases after that sudden, chilling wind.
“What-” Your eyes dart around to look over your dresser, where you always kept Satoru’s wild rose. And a shiver creeps down your spine when you realize it lay snug tucked behind your ear, safe and sound. Exactly where you didn’t keep it. “-happened?”
You couldn’t settle back into bed after that - couldn’t even think about it. So you find yourself reaching for your wardrobe of dresses, running your fingers along the intricate gown made for your engagement ball tonight. Your engagement to Sukuna.
If this was the nightmare, and tonight was to be the dream - why did your stomach turn so?
---
It was difficult convincing Nobara to let you keep the wild rose on after getting ready.
“But that’s so last season.” she bemoans. “No offense, your highness, but even old lady Ogami wouldn’t be caught dead wearing flowers in her hair these days.”
You’re giving her your best puppy dog eyes, “Please, Nobara?”
“No.”
“I’ll let you raid my exclusive wardrobe the next time you want to play dress-up?”
“...”
Which was how you found yourself shoved into a dress that was way too gorgeously palatial, barely even having the time to admire the lush gold and blue decorations around the sparkling ballroom before you were being ushered next to your father on his throne.
You fiddle with your ringed fingers, feeling more and more like a lamb sent to slaughter - a very opulent slaughter - with each step.
“I am so proud of you for this week, and you look absolutely divine, my love.” your father whispers into your ear once you’re up on the crushed velvet platform. “I hear from Ichiji that you know, I apologize we couldn’t go through with this marriage under better circumstances.”
You shake your head, giving him a calm smile - you’d already forgiven him, sometimes there was duty far greater than any man.
“My people, as promised, we are gathered once more to celebrate the joining of two hands - and two kingdoms.” The king projects his voice out to the eager crowd, “Together, these two young loves will face their duty. They will face the dangers. They will face our future.”
The thought had you clenching your fist into the soft fabric of your gown, looking down at your feet in a bow.
“As I did with my father before me - God rest his soul - the future king and queen will oversee their responsibilities to protect our people from those treacherous vampires. The elders-” he stops short, eyes widening at the empty seats on the balcony - where the table of elders always sat. Abandoned. Chilling. “...have decreed, in accordance with our princess, to introduce my daughter to you all as our future queen-”
Your father gestures a hand your way, and you step forwards to cheers, still not daring to look up. And all you could see were two, gold-toed boots stepping into your field of vision.
“-and our future king!”
“Look up, flower, this is the best part.”
Gasping, you raise your head - Satoru.
“Y-you?”
He smiles that pearly smile at you, one that makes your knees weaken, “Me.” Before leaning down conspiratorially, “Better get moving now, the king just declared that the big bad Northern king and the precious princess will have their first dance as a couple.”
It felt like you were moving through a dream as you slip your hand into his, flinching at the feeling of his cold lips meeting the back of your hand.
The crowd of whispering nobles part to make a path for the two of you, and Satoru is so gentle when he leads you into the middle of the dance floor. Weightless on his feet, swiftly placing a burning hand on your waist - just below where the elders would consider proper.
The other intertwining with yours, you barely even register the slow, romantic tune playing from the orchestra.
“I bet you have questions.” he whispers, breath fanning your cheeks.
You take in his tall figure, the rows of medals, gleaming only half as bright as the smile that makes its way onto your face. Hissing, “That doesn’t cover the half of it, King Gojo.”
“I-I apologize. I can’t apologize enough but-”
“Though, I did have a nagging feeling about the fifth time you talked yourself up.” you smirk.
Satoru throws his head back in a loud cackle, echoing through the hushed crowds - no doubt gossiping about this being the Northern king, that fearful beast that ruled over the Gojo family. “I know.” His hand comes up momentarily to brush over your sapphire necklace, “And I’ll spend our entire lives making it up to you, flower.”
Goosebumps dance down your arm, your spine, right down to where Satoru held a firm grip on your hip. You two waltz around the edge of the dance floor, perfectly in time. Through the crowd of grumbling lords, the orchestra, past the table of foods.
“And exactly how long would the rest of our lives be, Satoru?”
Slowing right in front of that huge, reflective wall.
You couldn’t see his eyes, but his biting gaze was all you could feel.
Lingering on the blue pendant nestled at your chest, the everlasting wild rose tucked behind your ear, the mirror to your right - where the twin image of you shone. Powerful, gorgeous, everything that a monster like him could never have because he wasn’t standing there right next to you. His kind never could.
In the back of your mind, you registered collective gasps sounding all around you - the rest of the ball attendees that’d also taken note of the lack of Satoru’s reflection. But your eyes stay locked on him.
A thumb hooks under his blindfold, and he grimaces. “You really were onto me, huh, flower?”
Tugging.
Your fingers tighten around his, unable to let the most fearsome of creatures escape from your grasp. “You must’ve been onto me, too, Satoru.”
Pulling.
All you see is a flash of a regal nose bridge, and the flutter of thick white lashes - before every single chandelier in the ballroom snuffs out at once. Cloaking the room in unnatural darkness, it sends every single knight and noble into a frenzy.
And then, he opens his eyes.
“IT’S HIM-”
“A body! A BODY FOUND IN THE ROYAL GUEST SUITE–
“VAMPIRE! STAY BACK-“
Oh, it’s blue.
That crystal blue.
And then it’s black.
---
SLAM!
“If you must kill me.” Satoru’s voice sounds from somewhere above you. You blink away the darkness, feeling your bleary gaze try and adjust to that unfamiliar high ceiling, the outlines of hauntingly beautiful paintings on it. His ragged breaths cut through your thoughts once more, hastily folding your hand to grip your pendant. “If you must kill me, then I prefer you do it with your own hands, princess.”
You can’t tell whose hand is trembling more - yours or his. Distantly, you realize you’re being pushed up against a luxuriously padded wall, one you’d never seen before in your life.
Where were you?
“The Gojo palace- Please-” he reads your mind, voice breaking at the end of his plea. Gasping - and you can discern two elongated teeth at his canines. Fangs, you realize with a shiver. “You may leave if you want to, you may kill me for what I’ve done. My life is in your hands.”
“Satoru.” you soothe in a hushed voice, despite the way your head was reeling. The Gojo palace? “I won’t kill you.”
“But-”
“Satoru, what does this necklace mean?” You beg, and at this point, you’re not surprised that the necklace is from him - because it was an exact replica of the two burning eyes staring back at you. The only source of light right now, glowing a blue you’d finally found after a lifetime. “Why did you-” you gulp, heart lurching. “Why did you hand me your…life?”
Soft lips play right over your rapid pulse, murmuring into your skin, “S’my soul.” A long, pale index of his plays with the pendant. “The only part of my soul that’s living, gilded into a necklace to be kept in the safest place I know. You.”
“But-” you cry out, trying to get another look at his eyes - but your fiancé only kisses deeper at your neck. Nibbling at the thundering beat just below. “But why did you give it to me?”
“Who else would I give it to, if not for my mate?”
Mates - there were a thousand and one books and official documents detailing everything from a vampire’s killing pattern to the aphrodisiac toxins found in their blood. But the research on a vampire’s mate was far and few between.
Perhaps owing to the lack of willing mates that can come out without persecution, or perhaps due to the vampires’ intense rumored mating rituals. But it didn’t go without its own gossip, you were no stranger to the ladies of the court tittering about how morbidly “romantic” it was that mates were akin to soulmates - how it was an invisible string connecting two people to share a life, a soul.
A vampire’s one and only mate.
Satoru was pinning you harder to the wall now, his pink tongue darting out to lick over your pulse. The fingers holding onto the necklace were now tilting your chin up at him, “Speak to me, flower.”
“I’m your mate?” you whimper, your lips ghosting over his. Already knowing the answer, but fuck you needed to hear it from him. “What does that mean exactly?”
He lets out a pained grunt, pressing his forehead gently against yours. “It means you’re the other half of my soul. My only one, I was born for you.” Pressing a chaste peck on there - and you swear you could feel the nip of two sharp canines against your skin. “The one I’ll fight heaven and hell for, until the very last beat of my cold, dead heart.” Your fingers curl at his shoulders when his mouth moves to the shell of your ear. “The one I’ll kill for, take out every measly scum that thinks they can get with my mate.”
He huffs out a burst of cold laughter when your breath hitches, probably reading over the thoughts running through your mind - Satoru killed them. The guards, Kashimo, Naoya- fuck, maybe even Sukuna. He killed them. He killed them. He killed them. He killed them.
You shiver, “A-and all the wind? The whispers? I thought it was just you these past week b-but- All my life, that was you?”
You know. You knew.
Another kiss - this time to the corner of your eye, and Satoru licks a long, content stripe up the big fat tears unwillingly welling up behind your eyes. He groans at the salty taste of you, taking in a long, drawn-out breath. “Yes.”
All it takes is that single word for your entire body to collapse, thankfully onto an awaiting Satoru. He holds your entire body weight with one hand around your waist, the other coming up to swipe his thumb under those tears rolling down your cheeks now.
He kisses your cheek, “All your life.” The corner of your lips, “And all of mine.”
Run away run away run away run away-
But you can’t - you don’t want to.
Your lips wobble when he nuzzles down your face, leaving a trail of hot kisses with his cold, cold mouth. “As soon as I learned to use my powers - was just a brat you see - I just had to see my mate. To smell her scent.” He’s inhaling deeply again, hands groping over your engagement gown. “Lo and behold, there was you. A cute lil’ princess around my age, tuckered out and fast asleep.” Lingering at your jaw, the hand tight around your waist pulls you painfully closer. Satoru’s knee wedging itself between your trembling thighs, “Imagine my surprise when she took one look at me and cried. Scared me enough to teleport outta there as soon as you opened that smart mouth, flower.”
And the thought of Satoru - tiny and determined - teleporting halfway across the land only to be yelled at by you has you huffing out a shock of laughter.
“So when I heard through the grapevine about your potential engagement, fuck- I couldn’t have ran out of this palace faster. Was so excited I fuckin’ forgot to teleport, too. Even if you were afraid of the ‘cruel Northern king.’”
Fuck - that’s right. He must’ve heard your thoughts that time you met him in the library.
Satoru’s tone drops to a low simper, so close now that you could feel every slight curve of his grin. Every twitch of his fingers sweeping up and down your exposed skin, feeling the delicious thrum of your veins. He could bite you right now - easily. “And luckily, as I grew up, so did my ability to blend in with the darkness.” Eyes boring into yours, something so vulnerable in them now. “But you found me, you always did.”
“Satoru.” you angle your head upwards. “Kiss me.”
And how could he ever deny you?
You wince at the slight pinch of Satoru’s teeth - his fangs - as he crashes his lips into yours in a greedy kiss. Sliding his tongue over to taste those candied lips he’s been dreaming of for years.
“Fuck-” he breathes out through his nose, jaw sagging open further to kiss you deeper. “Fuck, princess.”
Strong arms pin you harder against the wall, and you’re blindly reaching out to reciprocate even a fraction of Satoru’s neediness. Just dragging your hips up and down his muscled thighs. Sinful.
Shit, it was so endearing to him seeing you struggle to touch him this way. And with a flick of a wrist, the candle chandeliers hung high above your heads are lighting up at once. “S’that better, flower?”
It takes every bit of will in you to manage to pull away, yet the thought of seeing Satoru - of really seeing Satoru is what spurs you to break the kiss. Delicate strings of saturated spit snapping in the non-existent air between you two, you take a long look at your new husband.
Fuck, he was so pretty.
You always knew he was.
But even with his face tilted downwards, within the soft light tinting those snowy strands a sunset yellow - you could make out the pretty pink flush all the way from his glossy, ravaged lips, up, up, up to his delicate cheeks - he looked like the last thing from a monster.
“No you’re pretty.” he hums, and you’re still not used to him reading your mind. Head nodding downwards, “Just look, grinding on my thigh like such a slut.”
What met you was a dark pool of slick saturating his trousers, just peeking out over the hem of your dress. It makes you give another lingering, experimental grind.
“Satoru—” you’re letting out a honeyed drag of his name, reveling in the way it makes him swallow heavily. “You can hear my thoughts, right?” Look at me.
Slowly - but surely - familiar blue meets yours. Half-lidded, pupils blown, and if you didn’t know any better you’d have said there were tiny sparks of lightning at the corners of his long white lashes.
You’ve been haunting me my whole life, Toru.
And it was an accident - it really was, your freshly kissed brain too hazy to slur out Satoru’s full name. But the impromptu little nickname has him dragging forwards like he was magnetized.
A low growl escaping when he’s kissing you again. And again. And again and again and-
“Say it-” Two hands are tugging at those tedious ribbons tying your decadent gown together. Pulling. “Say it again f’me.” Ripping.
The more his lips are assaulting yours, the more the dress slips further and further down your shoulders. Tattered. The soft satin leaving goosebumps down your spine as it reveals your neckline - all that skin for him to ruin. To mark.
“Oh-” you’re squealing when one of Satoru’s fangs prick a bit too hard at your lip. Feeling a hot flow of crimson bleed out, the feeling has you so weak. So drunk. “Quite eager, aren’t ya?”
“You have no idea.” he groans again. Soft tongue moving from swirling around your own to lazily pool your blood on it. And you can’t imagine what about the metallic taste would be so euphoric, but he’s letting out his loudest drag of your name yet. Eyes rolling to the back of his head like he’s just tasted a personal slice of heaven. “Fuck- fuck you have no idea.”
You moan into the kiss when he bites down again on your already-bruised lower lip, “I’ve always wanted to do this-” Slow, slow hands kneading up your waist, at a dizzying tempo matching his mouth down your jaw, your neck. Hips bucking, you feel the outline of something so hard between his legs. “-to kiss you. To-” Tethering on the sensitive area of your pulse, “-bite.”
In a split-second, you’re sinking down into plush silk sheets, swallowing you whole in a king-sized bed you didn’t even realize was in the room before.
“S-Satoru, did you teleport us again?” you gasp, eyes adjusting to the intricate paintings on the ceiling that you hadn’t gotten to admire before. Of white-haired youths and roses, of cold, dark palaces and- and you.
You - when you were younger, sleeping peacefully while a little boy watches intrigued from the corner. You - passed out in the library after a long night of reading, two pale hands wrapping a blanket around your shoulders. You - your brows furrowed, head cocked while you pushed past nobles to search for that flash of his blue. You, you, you.
You.
“I can hear the gears in that pretty head turning.” Satoru grins, still kissing you in a languid graze of lips. “And as much as I love it when you hah- admire my lonely paintings, I’d rather you pay attention to-” A low groan curdles at the back of his throat when he’s grinding his massive clothed erection against the syrupy spot at your core. “-me.”
There’s a dark little huff of laughter and with one last bite at the side of your neck, Satoru’s unapologetically tearing right through the middle of your gown.
And you know it’s made with the finest fabrics the country has to offer, you know that no normal man should be able to even rip a tiny shred through your dress - but Satoru is no ordinary man.
Your spike of disappointment is quickly overshadowed by cold breath hovering over your exposed tits. “Oh, so perfect f’me.” he’s groaning, deep and primal. Biting down on your hardened nipple, “Ya think those uptight elders your court has- ah, had would appreciate me desecrating their precious princess before marriage?”
Through gasps, you peek down at his wicked tongue, swirling around the sensitive spots of your areola. “Who- who gives a shit.”
“So feisty.” The peaks of your tits are left coated in him as Satoru pulls away. “So addictive.” Pinching your soft flesh between his teeth - just hard enough that you worry he’s out to draw blood again. “So- so-”
Words are failing Satoru’s sharp mouth as he kisses his way down your body. The valley of your chest, your stomach, your hips.
Down, down, down-
“Fuck, Satoru-” you’re hissing when he easily pulls the pathetic remains of your dress off and onto the floor. The rest of your inner skirts easily following afterwards. “Are you gonna…”
“M’afraid not.” he licks sloppy circles at the skin of your thighs. Tasting, nipping, leaving little marks with his fangs for later. Sloppily soothing his tongue over the tiny droplets of blood beading from the bites, he murmurs stubbornly, “Not until you address me correctly.”
Hesitantly, you reach out a limp hand to thread through his dampening white tresses. Tugging softly to lock those devouring blue eyes with yours, “Please, Toru?”
You get absolutely no warning when he kisses right through that flimsy excuse of your drenched panties to slide his tongue up and down your sopping wet slit. Up and down up and down up and-
“Sh-shit, Toru-” you moan when he’s just dipping the very tip barely past your puffy folds. The fabric of your underwear still sticking to you, “Stop being such a tease, goddammit ngh-”
“Why?” Of course, he toys with your patience even now, addicted to those needy whines falling from your lips. “I jus’ wanna play with my princess’s pretty pussy. What am I getting out of it?”
You smirk, not even having to move your pretty mouth to know you had him in the palm of your hand already. I’d be your mate for life.
It’s all you can do to watch with satisfaction as the great Gojo Satoru gasps - gasps. Slick-glossed lips falling into a soft oh! Hazy eyes widening almost-comically, and at full heady attention while he takes a few seconds to mull over your words.
RIP!
In an instant, your soaked underwear is ripped clean off to bare your dripping cunt for him, wrapped tightly around Satoru’s fingers and disappearing down below to where your imagination couldn’t handle.
“Oh, such a pretty pussy.” he coos, thumbing apart your puffy folds to admire your lewdly winking cunt. Glistening and so so needy, you jolt when he bullies two long fingers past your sloppy entrance. With your greedy hole swallowing every slender inch of Satoru’s fingers easily, “So needy too. This all f’me?”
As if to prove his point, his pink lips wrap around your throbbing clit, grinding his tongue over the ravaged tip. The harsh texture of his tastebuds rolling over every inch of you he could reach.
“Y-yes-” you squeal, hips bucking down mindlessly to try and match his relentless tempo. “S’only for you.”
“Tha’s what I love to hear-” Satoru’s cheeks hollow when he sucks on your sensitive little nub - hard. “Sweeter than I even imagined, shit-”
Every pump of his merciless fingers in and out of your cunt drags along your gummy walls. Deftly curling to prey at those hidden sweet spots of yours he just knew would wrench out such throaty moans from you - and fuck, Satoru thinks- no, he knows that the sound is is favorite song.
“You’re makin’ me- hah making me fall in love all over again.” he gruffs out into your cunt. The pads of his fingers pressing into the cushiony ends of your pussy. “Because look how messy you are- how loud.”
You didn’t know if he had mind-control powers on top of mind-reading, because it’s as if you’re on auto-pilot when your lolling head is whirling down to look at the absolute sin made of you below. Satoru - running his mouth a mile a minute to send white-hot vibrations along your clit. His milky fingers buried knuckle-deep to stretch out your poor cunt. Your sweet sweet juices drooling all over them in such an obscene sheen down his palm, his wrist.
He whines, “Makin’ me wanna-” You jolt when he’s biting down so dangerously around your clit. “Wanna-”
Satoru doesn’t end up finishing his sentence - and he doesn’t have to.
Because he’s pausing his make-out with your clit to spit once. Twice. A thick thumb swiping at the intentional splatter of saliva marking your skin, before surging forwards even deeper - you didn’t even think that was possible. But Satoru has the tip of his nose rubbing methodical circles against your clit, jaw grinding at the base of your pussy, tongue flattening out your pussy lips.
Messy. Harsh.
“Oh- oh my god, Toru-” you’re keening at the feeling of his wet muscle trying to squeeze in past the fingers still continuing their assault on your entrance. “It- it won’t fit–”
“Shhh shhh, s’okay, princess.” he hushes, letting another round glob of spit wet your clingy pussy. “You can take it. You will - otherwise how are you gonna take your husband, hm?”
That little comment has connotations that make your plushy walls clamp down vice-like around his fingers - his tongue. And you’re angling your head just right, blinking away the lustful haze in your eyes to spy down at the rapid, jerky movements of his other hand. Devouring gaze dropping down to-
Oh.
Oh fuck.
It was difficult to even look at the sight below - your panties, soaked and completely see-through with slick and precum, wrapped prettily around what you could make out to be Satoru’s aching cock. Standing proud, twitching wildly with every drag of his fist up and down his glistening length.
“Fuck-” he groans, taking the opportunity to devilishly slip his tongue past your feeble entrance. “Fuck fuck fuck fuck- y’like this, huh?” Drawled out little praises now muffled as he fucks you on his tongue the way he wished he could with his cock. In and out in and out in and out. Pulling back to eye your gaping hole, “I can feel y’getting wetter for me is it because-” Before surging back forwards, as if he’s addicted. “Because-” Again.“Fuck don’t clench around me that way. Was hard enough trying not to fuck you stupid right there in the middle of the ballroom.”
You whine, tears flowing down freely at the sheer pleasure at this point. “Y-you-” you gasp, your five fingers splaying out over Satoru’s head. Pushing even harsher, “You hngh- talk too much- m’so close-”
Partially because you really needed those pretty lips back at your heated core, partially because every word tumbling from his mouth had you throbbing embarrassingly, your slick spreading a glossy sheen on the sheets underneath you.
“Oh yeah? Heh, anything for you, flower.” Satoru grins such a sly, sultry grin and you feel it against one set of your swollen lips. “Absolutely anything.”
In and out in and out. He has his brows furrowed now, concentrated on having every flick and divot of movement pushing you closer and closer towards the edge. Faster. Sloppier. You have half the mind to wonder whether it didn’t hurt - whether Satoru’s tongue wasn’t cramping up from how fast he was going, whether his fingers weren’t tired already.
Out of the corner of your spotty vision, you can see those stuttering squeezes of Satoru’s hand speed up. Trying desperately to match each bullying push of his tongue and his fingers into your overstuffed pussy.
The thought makes you whine, “Oh my god- Toru, m’gonna cum.” And shit, at this point it’s too much. You couldn’t think - you couldn’t even breathe. “M’so close please.” Barely able to even register anything but Satoru Satoru Satoru-
It’s why you don’t even realize at first when you’re finally cumming - Satoru does, though. He feels it in the way your heavenly walls are closing down on his fingers, clenching around him so tight that it was almost difficult to fuck you through your orgasm. Waves of electric pleasure crashing into you and you think you’re drowning.
“Tha’s it.” he rasps. “Cum f’me like that, tha’s it- thaaat’s it, such a good lil’ wife- a perfect mate.”
The fingers stuffed deep inside your pussy are being pulled out in a flash - not letting you waste a moment of your heady high before he’s toying ravenously with your swollen clit. Pinching, and rolling between two soft fingers.
“O-oh fuck, m’-cumming? M’cumming m’cumming-” you moan deliriously, mind just now catching up. Your hips drag your sloppy pussy all over Satoru’s pretty face. Just drenching his noble features with your gushing mess. “Feels too ah- good, Toru.”
And he takes it like it’s everything he needs - everything he’s ever wanted.
Jaw falling slack to let your juices slide down his throat, tongue lolling out flick your spasming cunt through your high. Unstopping. Unwavering.
Even when your vision stops tingeing with black at the edges, even when you think you’re sane enough to form a coherent thought. Even when your climax is bating enough that every flick of Satoru’s tongue only sends almost painful thrums of pleasure down your spine.
“W-wait m’done-” you sob, tasting the salty stream of tears splashing down your face now. “S’too sensitive- ngh-”
When he doesn’t show any signs of stopping anytime soon, you try again - this time thinking the embarrassing thought out loud. I…I really want you inside me now, Toru. Please?
And he pauses - jolting, as if some dark, primal part of him had just been called back to life. Tongue still hot on your cunt, fist still greedy around his rock-hard shaft.
“F-fuck you’re gonna be the death of me, flower.”
And before, you couldn’t get enough of those striking blue eyes, but now you couldn’t escape them.
With inhuman speed, he’s shuffling up the soaked sheets. “An absolute fuckin-” Slick-glossed lips meet yours, smearing along the combination of juices till the lower half of your face was as dripping wet as Satoru’s. “-minx, y’know that?”
“Wh-what can I say?” you tilt your head with a smirk, lips a bit too loose than you’d like - but it didn’t matter anyway, he was in your thoughts. Your mind. “I’m your mate, after all.”
He falls back onto his knees at that sinful little sentence of yours, throwing his head back in a guttural groan. “Fuck- you’re mine alright. See what you hah- do to me? See how this is all your fault?”
If Satoru expected an answer, then he doesn’t receive it. Because every snippy little retort on the tip of your tongue melts when you get a long, hard look at the angry shaft in his hand. So red and angry. Thick enough that you felt your cunt quiver already.
Delicate with prominent veins that glistened and throbbed down his long, long length with each slew of his vigorous fist. And his tip- fuck, blushed your favorite shade of weepy pink, slobbering a sheen of precum all down his wrist, his tufts of cloudy white.
And you realize with a jolt that he still had your panties wrapped around him - looking so tiny around Satoru’s massive cock.
Wordlessly, your hand replaces his.
“W-woah- fuck-” His toned waist flexes with the effort to fuck up into the soft cushion of your palm. “How the- ngh how the fuck does your fuckin’ hand feel this good?”
“You’re so big- fuck, don’t know how I’d- Wait you never imagined this?” you bat your eyes up with faux innocence. A thumb gliding over that deep divot on the very tip of his fat head. “Because I sure have, Toru.”
Satoru’s heavy balls smack against your arm when he shuffles down his pants even further, now fully letting you go ahead with your agonizing torture. “Shit-” he yelps, eyes screwing shut at the image. “Don’t- don’t say that, holy shit.”
You toy with your scrap of panties, massaging every ridge and curve with it. Just dragging your hand up and down. “Would you rather I think it instead?”
Within milliseconds, two sharp fangs are poised right above your rapid pulse, a hand around your throat. “No- no no no no-” Satoru gasps, sounding like he was at the end of his rope. And it takes him a few blinks to realize his position, immediately moving his lips up to nip at your jaw. “Fuckin’ no.” Hard enough that another red pearl of blood drips out, instantly being sucked up greedily by your fiancé. “Gonna make me lose it before I-I ngh-”
With a pained growl, he suddenly has you sitting so prettily on his muscular lap. Your legs splayed out like such a slut, needy cunt slobbering all over where you were sat right on his demanding erection.
By the time you’re realizing your helpless position, it’s too late - and Satoru’s already shrugging off the rest of his pants. Buttons hitting the floor when he just tears his flowing dress shirt off.
“Sh-show off.” you breathe, hands mapping out every dip and curve of the plane of defined muscles displayed before you. So mouthwatering.
“Can tell that you- ngh think m’mouthwatering, flower.” he grins. One hand kneading and groping the flesh of your ass to steady your drooling cunt to kiss at his thick tip. The other keeping one of your palms stuck to his washboard abs, up, up, up to press at his sculpted left pec. “N’ I know m’heart’s not beating, but I’m much the same. Very- much the- same.”
And Satoru’s spent years waiting, yearning - so he doesn’t waste even a second more when stuffing his cock inside your snug cunt.
“O-oh. Satoru- Satoru please oh-”
The stretch - fuck, the stretch. The stretch is so much that it feels like you’re being split apart. Just the bare tip of his fat cock being bullied in short, determined half-thrusts.
And it takes only one, lucky collision into the bullseye of your g-spot and you’re already falling apart.
“Wait- wait wait wait m’gonna-” you gasp, your nails running down his broad, milky back in jagged red lines when you’re cumming once more. Toes curling, hips convulsing wildly on top of a smug Satoru. “Oh my god, ngh- what’ve you done to me, Toru?”
“Now, let me ngh- let me tell you a little secret, hah- princess.” His hand comes up to cup your jaw, gifting a sweet kiss on your swollen lips. “The best thing about mates?” Sharp fangs catch onto your delicate skin, “They feel sex on a whole other level.”
And then he’s bringing down both hands to spread apart the globes of your ass. Your puffy folds are stretched to their limits when he thrusts up once. Muscled thighs flexing underneath yours. Harsh.
Ignoring your pleading keens and the slight resistance at the intrusion of his intimidating size, “Hold on, princess- hold- fuuuuck.” Lips latch onto yours, drinking up every heady whine when your poor cunt is being fed every inch by fucking inch. “You’re taking me so well.”
And that you were - your pussy lips bulging and struggling to accommodate Satoru’s monstrous size, but still taking him in so greedily.
“There we go.” he grunts out, punctuated with heavy rams of hips. Up, up, up until you could feel Satoru’s sobbing tip graze against your cervix - your lungs. “Theeere we fuckin’-” Pushing and pushing until there was no more, until your neglected clit was scratching against his snowy pubic hair. Ass coming to rest at his twitching balls. “-go.”
“You’re in so deep-” you’re blabbering, cockdrunk already. The last few dredges of your high still not wearing off, it takes you a few seconds of Satoru still trying to squeeze his cock even deeper to manage to raise a hand about midway up your stomach. Feeling for that vertical bulge that was him, “-can feel you right here.”
“Oh yeah?”
And like he was testing your theory, Satoru fucks up into your gummy hole in another bullying slam. Watching in wonder at the way that little divot in your stomach crashes around the same spongy cervix he was.
“Fuck- you’re right.” he hisses. Addicted now. Immediately rocking into you with reeling, long rolls of his hips. “You’re so- fuckin’ right.”
You can’t find the energy in yourself to even yelp in surprise when Satoru immediately changes your positions so that you’re now laying fucked-out on the mattress. His domineering hips pinning you down to use you like some little cocksleeve.
“God-” he pants into your open mouth, tongue swirling with your weighty one. “God- fuck fuck fuck if heaven is real then this is it.” Each little profanity is decorated with a smoldering crash of his tip into your sweet spot. “You’re the heaven I don’t ngh- deserve, flower.”
That neat bitemark on your thigh is being jostled with the amount of ragged movement, and you wince with pain when it starts flowing again.
“Oh- oh.”
Satoru’s like a predator that has cornered his prey, and is spending hours tediously unraveling every single bit of you.
Sliding two smooth palms underneath your legs, they’re urgently thrown over his large shoulders to fold you down, down, down into the meanest mating press you think you could handle - handle without fucking breaking, that is.
“So good t’me.” he breathes, long tongue easily licking up that sweet nectar of your blood. “Y’know your cute lil’ brain s’too scrambled to even read right now.”
“H-how can I think when you’re ah! Like- like this, Toru?”
The sudden change in angle makes you scream. It makes you clamor for the headboard, the sheets, your husband when that obscenely perfect upwards curve of his dick is massaging every nook and cranny of your cunt.
“Yeah? Feels good? Now now- don’t run- away” he’s dragging you down those drenched sheets by the legs like some ragdoll, stuffing you more and more with his painful cock. Fucking you so relentless, like he was trying to worship every little hidden sweet spot inside your dripping cunt. “Say it- no no no, not in your head. Say it.”
And you do - a little over fifteen times when his thick hilt pecks your pussy lips over and over with each thrust when Satoru bottoms out, hitting all the way into the back of your cunt - your cervix, your g-spot - like he couldn’t decide which one to bruise more.
“S’too good-” you’re gasping. Your overstimulated pussy being molded like clay to the girthy shaft kissing down your cunt. Stretching out your elastic walls until you could almost feel them take shape to his swollen cock. Feel every sensitive spot inside you being overstimulated at once with every burning massage against them. “You’re fuckin’ me way too- too good- ngh- can’t even think.”
But that wasn’t enough for him.
Dipping a thumb down to circle around your clit, white-hot pleasure shoots up your spine when he lets out a deep rumble, “Think I fell in love with you when I- fuck, right then and there when I first- hah saw you all those years back.” speeding up with the sloppy staccato of his rude cock. Satoru’s words slurring now, messed up and half-prepared like the accelerating half-thrusts being bestowed upon your ravaged cunt. Like he couldn’t bear to pull out completely. “The first time you saw me, you were so afraid. Look at you- fuck, jus’ look at you now, princess.”
Each word is like a brand onto your sticky skin, accompanied by harsh smacks of Satoru’s balls against your ass, his sharp hip bones digging into your thighs. Him.
“Toru–” is all you can manage to whine out, a limp hand pulling his face closer to yours. You’re jumping with each swipe at your poor clit. “Toru m’here.”
“And- and yet-” he’s still blabbering, still pussydrunk while he fucks you so menacingly. Fingers sopping wet with their assault on your sensitive nub, “And yet I just- fuck-” He cuts himself off to give your messy hole another thick stream of spit. Coating his long, raw shaft - rubbed red with the way your gripping walls were massaging him so right - making it easier to slide in and out. “And yet, I just had to see you, to see the gorgeous mate I don’t deserve. I couldn’t live without you.”
A single overstimulated tear glistens a track down Satoru’s pretty face - one you kiss away as quickly as it appeared. Nudging open those teary, blue gaze to bore down on you.
Oh, he looked an absolute wreck - white hair mussed up, stray strands sticking to his forehead. Glossy lips parted, drool pooling at the corner, broken grunts leaving him with each smash of his tip back into your cunt. So blissed out.
Jolting at your eyes on him, Satoru feels his balls tighten so painfully. Abs burning when his pace stutters with need.
“You’re haunting me, just as much as I was haunting you, Toru.”
The candles go out. Instantly.
And shit you’re feeling it first when when hé’s cumming and cumming so hard that it almost hurts. Flashes of white startling behind his closed, glassy eyes. “Shit- shit shit shit shit-” Hairs on your body raising as Satoru’s fingers draw circles on your clit so aggressively. Dragging out your high. Forcing it. “Take it- take it all, my flower. Let me paint this pretty pussy all white.” Violent, almost.
So, really, it makes sense that your third orgasm of the night was the same.
Just shivering, sinful tingles running from your overstimulated mind right down to where Satoru was stuffing thick white ropes of potent seed deeper and deeper down your tight channel.
Overspilling with each calculated ram, his cum is oozing out of the corners of your puffy lips with each furious clench of his balls. Too much.
And it’s all you can do to sit there and take it, feeling the sloppy dredges of cum make a mess slobbering down your thighs and his. Starting up blearily at the blurry paintings on the ceilings. The paintings of you - of a still Satoru that looked down at you with only half as much intensity and pure swirling emotion as he was right now.
Something that couldn’t be painted - but would make such a pretty picture, when his fangs bite into that racing junction at your neck.
You scream a soundless scream of his name, eyes rolling to the back of your head as something warm fills your entire body.
Leaving your words unheard, your ravaged hole loose to let out slobbering squelches of Satoru’s cum. Blood racing and flowing right into Satoru’s greedy mouth.
“Princess-” he gulps. Tongue licking up every crimson bead his crazed eyes could spot, body aching when he dares pull away from that heavenly taste. More. “Princess princess princess- you- hngh you’re mine. All mine now.”
And he’s letting out more thick globs of cum straight into your waiting cunt. Body bowing even harder to let it seep into your elastic walls, your womb. So much more than you can take and he just keeps giving.
It seems like forever when Satoru finally pulls away - and within the glowing blue of his eyes, you can see the red staining his lips, dripping down those fangs, his chin. Staining the silk sheets below - staining you with so much more.
Before you can stop yourself, you’re reaching up to catch his lips in a bloodied kiss. Your own elongated canines catching amateurishly on his lips.
Satoru hisses - but he likes it. And you can tell.
You can read every single hypnotizing thought whirling behind those crystal blue eyes - how he wants to ravish you again, how he wants to worship you. To make you his all over, to have you make him yours. The thought makes you smile as you whisper, “I’m onto you, Toru.”
“You’re onto me, flower.” Catching your lips in a sweet, sweet red kiss. “Forever.”
A/N. This was SOOO fun to write omg y’all have no idea. If you made it this far then you get a sloppy smooch from me mwahhhh.
Synopsis: You wake up in the fictional world of a series you have yet to finish: AKOTSK. But you're not about to pass up the opportunity to make right the wrongs in this universe.
Pairings: Where the blood flows.
Note: There's no fixed Character x Reader endgame (yet), reader's presence may complicate things for SEVERAL characters. I started this out of a whim because Baelor died. (Baelor come home, the kids miss you)
Chronicle I
Chronicle II
Chronicle III to be unsealed..
Chronicle IV to be unsealed..
Chronicle V to be unsealed..
More Chronicles will be added as the story progresses.
Imagine: The first time Na'vi! Caleb sees a human.
Content warning: size difference, possessive!Caleb, obsessive!Caleb, use of she/her pronouns, feral behaviour.
Authors note: Translations from Na'vi to English are ordered according as sentences appear. You can find the translations at the bottom of the post. The translations I did may not be at all correct because I translated word by word trying to make each sentence coherent by using the dictionaries and translators of Na’vi language. Sorry for the incorrect grammatical pronunciations. Also sorry for gramatical errors, english it's not my first language.
Credits to divider: @cafekitsune
Na'vi! Caleb, who was going out for a hunt, all damp from the rain. The sound of the droplets mixed with everything, making his hearing difficult to his surroundings, but the scents in the forest are more prominent to his nose thanks to that. His eyes are focused on every move, watching his steps of a possible mistake to scare away the prey, but there is something strange, something new, an aroma he has never smelled before. It was sweet, ripe like a pale pod; his fangs itched at the mere thought of running his tongue over it, licking, sucking, marking. He shook his head trying to come back to his senses, it was intoxicating.
His long muscular legs moved with stealthiness at each step he took, moving the dirt beneath his feet with ease, bow in one hand and the other adjusting his arrow, ready to shoot and kill. He aims in front of him in a single movement, shoulders flexing and torso expanding, but he stops abruptly when he sees you. A human.
Caleb lowers his arrow as he looks at your terrified expression. His eyes observing your smaller form, soft compared to a Na’vi body, weaker. Your chest was plump, two small buds peeking against the wet clothes by the cold, and your aroma, it was intoxicating, it made his heart accelerate, making him feel strange, a sensation of deja vu, members of his clan describing that sensation when finding a mate.
He was fascinating; so this is how a human female looked like, compared to a female Na’vi body, they had some similarities.
He relaxed his pose, less intimidating, he hadn't meant to scare you. “Mawey… Tawtute”. He kneels, raising his hands showing you he is no threat, looking at each of your reactions, how your breathing becomes slower, the way you stop biting your lower lip and your nails stop digging in your palms. He points at his chest “Caleb” he says slowly, tapping his fingers and repeating his name. You gulp the fear down your throat as you imitate the gesture of his hands, you pronounce your name; Caleb savorates each syllable in his tongue, your name was so precious to him now, he would never get tired of repeating it.
Na'vi! Caleb, who’s first time seeing a human. He was taught since young that the sky people were soulless creatures, who worshipped the steel like a god, destroying everything in their path. He was supposed to hate humans, kill them; but looking at you made all those hostile thoughts disappear. Humans were demons, then why did you look as if Eywa had created you just for him? So small, so soft, so vulnerable, his mate. Your head barely could reach his hipbone, and still, in your eyes he could see your feistiness.
You were wearing a strange kind of large white tunic that was soaked by the rain, he could inspect that synthetic material later, right now he needs to get you to a safer place, dry and cozy, like hell he was going back to hometree so his clan could question him and kill you after it. What he didn't know is that you had got lost after escaping the RDA laboratories.
Na'vi! Caleb who holds you with ease despite your restless movements, he was being careful, bringing you to his hunting spot above from the ground. It was too high to escape as you looked down from the branch. The higher you both were it was safer, he thought as he began to descend the tree. “Wait! I don’t want to be left here!” you told him, grabbing for dear life at the trunk behind you. But Caleb didn’t understand your language, so he just understood your desperate actions for some kind of need, maybe some food. “Tawtute ohakx, tätxaw mawkrra”, he smiled at you as he left.
You didn’t understand a single word that came from his mouth, ironic, since you were born in Pandora, but growing up with humans in the laboratories was different; speaking your native language every day and barely hearing one or two Na’vi words all your life. That happens when the RDA decides that it’s a great idea that humans should grow a neural queue by changing their DNA, still considering today that the Avatar project was a waste of time and this being the solution for the future human race. You had escaped.
Na'vi! Caleb, who is back from a successful hunt, begins to clean the carcass and starts a fire, roasting the meat and mixing with some vegetables. After he finishes he extends the bowl at you, but you backed away without taking your eyes off him, you didn’t know if all Pandora’s food was edible for humans. Caleb observed you, concerned as you weren’t accepting the food he had made specifically to make you gain more calories by the coldness of your body. He smiled again, this time bringing the bowl near your face, caressing your leg as a way to comfort you, “Nga zene yom”, but you looked away. That was not the reaction he wanted.
If Eywa had sent him this human girl as a mate, it was his duty to care for her, to protect her, to keep her warm and full. Maybe she was being shy, still not recognizing his caring as a devoted future mate, he thought. She just needed time.
You screamed when suddenly you were picked up and placed on Caleb’s lap, one hand holding you down, his fingers almost covering your abdomen and waist completely. He reached for the bowl taking in between his fingers a piece of meat and bringing it to your mouth; you backed away again, desperately trying to get off of him, “I don’t want it, it’s not safe”, he interpreted your words as if you were scared of the food, “Mawey, syuve ke txumnga’ ’”, he brought the meat to his mouth as his fangs tore a piece, chewing and swallowing, showing you there was no danger. You didn’t oppose him this time, he waited patiently until you opened your mouth and chewed. He caressed your bottom lip as a reward, “Sìltsan lefnele”.
Na'vi! Caleb, who becomes more obsessed of you as the days pass. Most of the time he is near you, keeping a watchful eye on your movements as he sits on the edge of the branch cleaning his weapons meticulously. You would’ve thought he was just observing his bow, but when you attempt to put a foot out from the pelts he arranged especially for you, he would immediately look inside the tree. Freezing you would cover yourself again and not dare to come out.
You look down at the forest floor, it was a strange place but majestic at the same time, growing up surrounded by white walls was all you knew. The people at RDA told you stories about earth, how once it was a place full of green growing life, today in day it was ruled by steel. You flinched when you suddenly felt his presence behind, you looked up at him as his yellow eyes observed every detail at the light of the sun, his hand resting on his hip and the other caressing your cheek. “Could you help me get down?” you hoped he understood this time, just a little bit, but Caleb only smiled and walked away starting to prepare dinner. Maybe it was time to find a way down from this gigantic tree on your own.
Na'vi Caleb was so gentle with you, each step he took was three for you, so trying to avoid his massive body was complicated. He would kneel waiting for you to approach, you would ignore him; sometimes he was tracing and twirling the locks of your hair, taking his time to comb out the knots, but when his fingers got near your neural queue, at least that was what humans called it, you would step out from his embrace leaving him dumbfounded. That place on your nape made you really sensitive, so letting someone else touch it wasn’t that comfortable. Caleb didn't seem to mind letting you be, it was strange for him seeing a kuru on a human but didn’t dare to touch further. Grateful to Eywa by letting you breathe Pandora’s air, he could try asking later.
There were days you weren't in mood of feeling his hands enveloping or caressing your body so you would yell at him for some space and punching his chest at the same time, barely feeling any pain by your small hands but he listened; Caleb understood basic emotions in other creatures so your anger didn’t look alien to him, he would let you be, going out for hours and bringing back bigger hunts and sometimes courting gifts hoping it would make you happy. When you accepted his offerings he would just give you that big puppy smile and making those strange purring sounds from his chest.
It was starting to get suffocating staying at the same place after days, it's not like you had another place to go, the RDA was all you knew and this small tree home. So when Caleb began to climb down you followed, alarmed he immediately climbed back up carrying you in his hand with a swift motion, your feet touching the branch again. “Let me come down with you! It’s getting boring being up here alone for hours.”, Caleb only looked at you, “Lehrrap, tawtute hì'i sì kì'ong. Nga ke tsun nong oe mi. Fìtseng kxuke ne nga”. You didn’t understand the meaning of his words, but his expression said it all when he began to descend again, he would be back at nightfall. You couldn’t wait another day like this, it was becoming claustrophobic in a way.
An hour passed by, it was time. Holding for dear life at every branch and vines, your feet carefully stepping at giant fungus; it may have taken you half an hour, but finally you were standing on the wet soil ground. You ran away from that place.
Na'vi Caleb, who got back from another successful hunt, wanting to surprise you with some sweet fruit he found on his way, imagining the expression on your face when you gave the first bite just made his heart flutter. As he entered his small home he was welcomed by silence, your scent was still there but you were nowhere to see; his instincts were on full alert in an instance, searching for any trace of a predator, crouching as he moved in a slow calculated pace around the room, he lifted up the pelts you slept in, searched the treetop, inside his small home again, but you weren't there. As he stood outside on the branch his eyes traveled all the way down to the base of the tree, his pupils contracted. “Skxawng”.
There were too many dangerous in Pandora’s forest, animals could easily attack a human and devour them, poisonous plants could spray their toxic spores at you and would be dead in seconds, you could fall at the river bank hitting your head with a rock at the tumultuous current, or a Na’vi from his clan could find you in his path and kill you without hesitation. His people couldn’t understand the connection he had felt the first time he saw you, so there was no safer place than staying by his side.
He was a hunter, a skillful hunter. So finding you wouldn't take him that long. His hands traced the wet soil, his developed sense of smell perceiving the aromas nearby, a faint sweet scent of sweat droplets was still in the air impregnated in the plants.
You were running, but he already knew where you were going.
| Translations |
Mawey… Tawtute: Calm down… Human.
Tawtute ohakx, tätxaw mawkrra: Human hungry, return later.
Nga zene yom: You must eat.
Mawey, syuve ke txumnga’: Calm down, food not poisonous.
Sìltsan lefnele: Good female.
Lehrrap, tawtute hì'i sì kì'ong. Nga ke tsun nong oe mi. Fìtseng kxuke ne nga: Dangerous, human small and slow. You still can't keep up with me. Here is safe for you.
Skxawng: Idiot.
Authors note: Thankssss for reading. It's been a long time since I wrote fics again, it feels like the first time that it made me nervous to publish. Maybe I'll right a second part if my inspirations doesn't vanish lol.
pairing: baelor "breakspear" targaryen x f!stark!reader
and so the story goes: a dragon falls in love with a wolf, ice invites fire.
content warnings/contains: stark!reader (no physical description other than the fact you're barthogan stark's daughter); set pre-akotsk so no show spoilers, but post first blackfyre rebellion; strangers to lovers; implied age gap; protective!smitten!baelor; angst/fluff; mutual pining; falling in love; sexual tension; court drama.
⊹ ࣪ ˖ pinterest board | inspo tag & asks | ao3┊baelor/lady stark playlist | aerion/lady stark playlist
⊹ ࣪ ˖ word count: 90k┊next update: 29.03.26┊rated: t.
Summary: A mission meant to be routine becomes a race against the clock when you’re bitten, and the only antivirals are destroyed. With the infection spreading and time running out, Leon Kennedy abandons everything except the one objective that matters: getting you back alive.
Warnings/tags: bite injury (reader), infection themes (fever, delirium), mentions of blood/wounds, mission-related violence, guns, angst, protective leon
The hallway smells like antiseptic and old rain, sharp enough to taste at the back of your throat. Emergency lights pulse a slow red, painting everything in the color of a heartbeat that refuses to settle. Somewhere deeper in the facility, something metallic groans, the sound carrying through the walls like the building itself is shifting in its sleep.
Leon moves ahead of you with that familiar economy, every step deliberate, shoulders slightly rounded forward as if he's braced against a wind no one else can feel. Years ago, you would have called it tension. Now you know it's simply how he stands when he's ready to protect something.
You.
He lifts one hand without looking back. Two fingers. Hold. You stop immediately, rifle angled down but ready, covering the rear out of habit. Your breathing slows to match his. In the quiet, you can hear it, the faint rasp of fabric as he adjusts his grip, the tiny click of leather at his wrist. He glances over his shoulder, blue eyes catching red light, and the corner of his mouth tilts.
"Tell me you hear that too," he murmurs.
"Ventilation system struggling to keep up with poor life choices," you whisper back.
His mouth twitches a little more. "Comforting."
"Very."
He turns forward again, advancing with a careful sidestep around a fallen gurney. You follow close, boots landing where his did, stepping into the spaces he clears without thinking. Years of missions have worn this path between you into muscle memory. You could navigate a battlefield blind if he were moving ahead of you.
Sublevel three, quarantine wing. The official report had said that the outbreak was contained. Minimal hostiles. Data retrieval only. You and Leon had both read that and packed extra ammunition.
Something scrapes faintly above you. You both stop again. A wet sound follows, soft but unmistakable, like raw meat dragged across tile. Leon's shoulders go rigid. He tilts his head, listening, then slowly raises his pistol toward the ceiling vent ten feet ahead.
"Don't," you breathe.
Too late. The grate explodes outward in a shower of dust and rusted screws. A shape drops hard onto the floor between you, limbs hitting at angles that don't belong to anything living. The body spasms once, twice, then snaps upright with a sound like tearing cloth. Its eyes are wrong. Its mouth is wrong.
Leon fires twice. The creature barely stutters before lunging. You're already moving. Your rifle cracks, recoil thudding into your shoulder as you pivot left to avoid Leon's line of fire. The rounds chew through rotten muscle, splashing something dark across the wall. The thing keeps coming anyway, a puppet yanked forward by invisible strings.
"Persistent," you mutter.
"Understatement."
It reaches Leon first. He sidesteps, grabs a fistful of its ruined jacket, and uses the momentum to sling it into the wall hard enough to dent the drywall. Before it can recover, he drives a knife up under its jaw with brutal precision. The body convulses, fingers clawing weakly at his sleeve, then goes slack.
For a moment, the only sound is your breathing and the slow drip of something unpleasant onto the tile. Leon exhales through his nose, shoulders lowering a fraction. He wipes the blade on the creature's shirt before sheathing it, movements efficient, practiced, almost weary.
"You okay?" he asks without turning.
"Fine."
He turns anyway, eyes scanning you head to toe, checking for tears in fabric, blood that isn't yours, the small tells you can't hide from him even if you tried. His gaze lingers on your face a second longer than necessary.
"Your heart rate's up."
"So is yours."
"Occupational hazard."
You step closer, bump your shoulder lightly against his arm. "You jumped."
"I did not."
"You absolutely did."
"I adjusted my stance."
You snort. "Sure you did, hero."
His hand comes up automatically, settling at the small of your back as he guides you past the body. The touch is brief, grounding, gone almost before you register it. He does it all the time now, in doorways, on stairs, whenever the path narrows. Years ago he used to keep that kind of contact locked away behind professionalism. Marriage burned that barrier down to ash.
"Remind me why we didn't retire somewhere with a beach," you say quietly.
"You hate sand."
"I could learn."
"You said that last time. Then you threw a shoe at a seagull."
"It started it."
He huffs, a sound that might be the ghost of a laugh. "We're not buying a coastal property just so you can wage war on wildlife."
"Coward."
They're soft words, familiar words, the kind that live comfortably between you, even in places like this. Especially in places like this. If you stop talking, the silence fills up with too many ghosts.
Ahead, the corridor splits. One path descends into deeper shadow. The other ends at a reinforced door marked MEDICAL ISOLATION.
Leon studies it, jaw tightening slightly. "That's our best bet for antiviral storage."
"And our worst bet for everything else."
"Probably."
He reaches for the panel. It flickers, unresponsive.
You lean in, shoulder brushing his. "Stand back."
"I am standing back."
"Further."
He sighs but obeys, stepping aside as you pull a compact breaching charge from your pack and set it against the seam. Your hands move quickly, efficiently, though you can feel his eyes on you the entire time.
"Try not to blow yourself up," he says.
"Try not to worry so loudly."
"I don't worry."
You glance up. "Leon."
"...I worry a normal amount."
You smile despite yourself. "Uh huh."
You trigger the charge and pivot away, grabbing his vest to pull him with you behind the corner. The explosion is sharp, contained, dust puffing into the air like a violent exhale. When the ringing fades, the door hangs crooked on shattered hinges. Leon looks down at where your hand is still gripping his gear. His expression softens in a way that has nothing to do with combat.
"You can let go," he says gently.
You realize you're still holding on and release him, suddenly aware of how solid he feels under your fingers, how warm even through layers of tactical fabric.
"Right," you say, clearing your throat. "Professional."
"Very."
But he brushes your knuckles once before moving past you, so quick it could almost be an accident.
Inside, the medical wing is colder, air conditioning still struggling on backup power. Cabinets hang open, supplies scattered across the floor as if someone had tried to pack in a hurry and failed. A hospital bed sits abandoned in the center of the room, sheets twisted into ropes. You sweep left. Leon sweeps right. The familiar dance resumes. For a few seconds, nothing moves.
Then something thumps weakly from behind the bed. You both pivot, weapons raised. A figure drags itself into view, lab coat smeared dark, face gray with fever. Human. Barely.
"Help," he croaks.
Leon lowers his weapon first, but doesn't relax. "You're infected?"
The man nods frantically, clutching his side. "Bite... hours ago... there's... antivirals... storage fridge... code..."
His hand trembles as he points toward a small sealed unit in the corner. Hope flickers, fragile and dangerous. You step forward. Leon catches your arm immediately.
"Careful," he murmurs.
"I know."
His grip tightens just a fraction before he lets go, thumb brushing your sleeve as if memorizing the texture.
The man coughs wetly, body shaking. "Please... I don't want to... turn..."
Leon's jaw flexes. You can see the calculation in his eyes, the grim understanding of how this story usually ends. You move past him anyway, crouching by the fridge, fingers already working the manual override. The seal pops with a soft hiss. Inside, rows of vials gleam faintly in the emergency light, liquid clear and precious as water in a desert.
"Jackpot," you whisper.
Behind you, the man makes a sound that isn't quite human.
Leon's voice snaps sharply. "Back."
You turn just in time to see the change sweep across the man's face, muscles locking, eyes clouding over like frost creeping across glass. Too fast. Leon fires once. The body collapses before it can lunge.
Silence crashes down, heavy and absolute. Your hands are still wrapped around the cold vial when Leon steps in close, one hand settling at the back of your neck, fingers warm against your skin. He leans his forehead briefly against your temple, a gesture so intimate it almost hurts.
"Hey," he murmurs. "Stay with me."
"I'm here."
"Good."
"Leon," you say, unable to keep the lift out of your voice. "We've got—"
The ceiling tile above the doorway caves in with a thunderous crack. Something drops through in a tangle of limbs and teeth. Leon fires before it even lands.
The room detonates into motion. Another body slams through the door behind it, then another, drawn by noise or scent or whatever twisted instinct drives them now. The first infected hits the floor crawling, jaw snapping, fingers scrabbling for purchase on slick tile.
"Back!" Leon snaps.
You're already moving, grabbing the case and pivoting away from the fridge as gunfire shatters the sterile quiet. Your rifle kicks against your shoulder, rounds punching into torsos that refuse to care. The air fills with the acrid stink of cordite and something fouler underneath.
One lunges for your legs. Leon intercepts it, boot driving into its chest hard enough to send it skidding across the floor. He doesn't even look as he fires downward, ending it with clinical precision.
More are coming. The hallway beyond the ruined door is a writhing mass of shapes pushing over each other, hungry, relentless. The lab equipment rattles as something heavy slams against the wall.
"Too many," you shout.
"Move!"
You sidestep, firing, trying to carve space, trying not to hit Leon as he crosses your line. Your shoulder clips the edge of the bed. The case slips in your grip for half a second.
A larger infected barrels through the doorway, body swollen, movements jerky but powerful. It collides with a rolling cart, sending metal instruments clattering across the floor like thrown knives. Leon pivots to engage, emptying three rounds into its upper chest. The creature staggers backward. Straight into the open refrigerator. Glass explodes.
The sound is high and crystalline, almost delicate beneath the gunfire, like a chandelier being smashed in a ballroom no one will ever dance in again. Vials shatter against metal shelves, against tile, against each other. Clear liquid splashes across the floor, instantly indistinguishable from the spreading mess of everything else. You see it happen in horrible, slow clarity. Hope, reduced to glittering debris.
"Leon!"
He fires again, dropping the brute for good. The body collapses forward, crushing what remains of the storage rack beneath its weight. For one stunned heartbeat, neither of you moves. Then another infected claws over the fallen bulk, and survival yanks you back into motion. You fire. Leon fires. Bodies drop. The noise is deafening, claustrophobic, relentless until at last the hallway falls silent again, littered with unmoving shapes.
Your ears ring. Smoke hangs in the air like a dirty veil. Slowly, cautiously, Leon lowers his weapon. His gaze drifts past the carnage to the refrigerator, to the floor, to the glittering field of broken glass and spilled medication soaking uselessly into grout lines and fabric and things you don't want to identify. He doesn't say anything. Neither do you. The man on the bed has gone very still. His eyes stare at the ceiling, clouded over, whatever fragile thread holding him to himself finally snapped in the chaos. A drop of liquid slides off the shelf edge and hits the tile with a soft, final tick.
Leon exhales, long and controlled, like he's forcing the air out through a space too small for it. "...We'll find more," he says quietly.
He steps closer to you, one hand settling on your shoulder, firm and grounding. His thumb moves once, a brief stroke through dust and sweat, as if confirming you're still solid beneath his palm.
"You hurt?" he asks.
You shake your head, throat tight. "No."
"Good."
His hand lingers a moment longer, then drops. He scans the room again, already shifting back into mission mode, but the tension in his jaw has sharpened, lines around his eyes etched deeper by the red emergency light.
"Storage areas are usually clustered," he says. "If there was one unit, there are probably others."
You nod because he needs you to nod. Because forward is the only direction that exists anymore.
Together, you step around the shattered glass and the ruined promise it once held, boots crunching softly with every movement, and head back into the corridor where the dark waits patiently for you to return.
The corridor beyond the lab is narrower, older, the walls traded from clean hospital white to poured concrete stained by decades of leaks and neglect. Emergency lights hum overhead, casting everything in a tired amber glow that feels less like an alarm and more like a dying sunset that forgot to go away. Your boots echo differently here. Hollow. The sound carries too far.
Leon slows without saying anything, adjusting his pace until you're shoulder to shoulder instead of single file. His arm brushes yours with each step, solid and reassuring in a way that feels deliberate without calling attention to itself. After a minute, you realize he's listening to your breathing.
"You know," you say quietly, "most couples go to dinner."
He huffs under his breath. "We tried that."
"You got a call."
"We both got a call."
"I didn't even get to eat my pasta."
"You ordered something with fourteen ingredients I couldn't pronounce."
"That's not a crime."
"It should be."
You bump his shoulder lightly. "You promised dessert."
"I'll buy you dessert."
"You said that last time."
"I meant it last time, too."
His hand comes up automatically, resting on your back as the corridor narrows, guiding you around a fallen chunk of concrete. The touch lingers just a second longer than necessary.
"When this is over," he adds quietly, "we'll go somewhere that doesn't have reception."
You glance at him. "You're serious."
"Dead serious."
A small smile pulls at your mouth. "You'd last two days."
"I'd last three."
"Two and a half."
He considers it like it's a tactical estimate. "Two and a half."
The next door is heavier than the others, industrial steel with a small wired-glass window clouded by years of grime. A faded placard reads BIO STORAGE B in letters that have peeled into something ghostlike and hard to trust.
Leon raises a hand automatically, stopping you just short of the threshold.
"Hold."
You halt with your boot inches from the seam, rifle angled down but ready. He steps past you, placing himself between you and the door without thinking about it. He always does that. As if the hinge of the world were located somewhere in his spine.
He wipes a sleeve across the glass and peers through, eyes narrowing as he adjusts to the dim interior. "Don't see movement," he murmurs. "Shelving units. Containers. Could be clear."
"Could be."
He glances back at you, reading your face the way other people read weather. "You good?"
"Always."
One eyebrow lifts. Not convinced.
You roll your shoulder where your gear has started to dig in, trying to work out the stiffness before it becomes a problem. "Just cramped."
"Switch packs with me."
"I'm fine."
"That wasn't a suggestion."
"It wasn't an order either."
For a moment, you just look at each other, the quiet argument unfolding in expressions instead of voices. Married diplomacy in a war zone.
Finally, he exhales through his nose, conceding the point without admitting defeat. His hand comes up instead, settling briefly at the side of your neck, thumb brushing the muscle there in a grounding stroke.
"Tension," he says softly.
"Observation skills of a seasoned agent."
"Comes with the badge."
"You don't even carry a badge."
"Metaphorical badge."
You lean into his touch for half a second before you can stop yourself. He notices. His thumb stills, then presses lightly once more before he lets his hand fall away.
"Stay behind me on entry," he says, voice shifting, professional edges sliding back into place.
"I take left. You take right," you counter automatically.
He gives you a look. You give him one right back.
"...Fine," he mutters at last. "But if I say fall back, you fall back."
"Yes, dear."
His mouth twitches despite himself. "Don't 'yes, dear' me in a mission."
"Yes, sir," you salute.
Leon grunts and shakes his head, trying not to smile. You reach past him to test the handle. Locked.
"Stand clear," you say.
He moves aside this time without commentary, covering the door while you pull a compact bypass tool from your vest. The metal is cold against your fingers, humming faintly as it interfaces with the ancient locking mechanism.
For a few seconds, the only sounds are the tool's soft electronic chirp and your breathing. Then the mechanism clicks. You don't open it immediately. Instead, you glance sideways at him. Close enough to see the faint lines at the corners of his eyes, the tiny scar along his jaw, the exhaustion he carries like a shadow that never quite detaches.
"After this," you say quietly, "we're getting that dessert."
He studies you for a long beat, something unspoken passing through his expression. A deep, stubborn refusal to imagine a future where that doesn't happen.
"Yeah," he says at last, voice low and certain. "We are."
Your hand brushes his wrist as you shift your grip on the handle. He turns his palm just enough to catch your fingers, squeezing once, firm and warm. A promise disguised as reflex. Then he releases you, raises his weapon, and nods.
"On you."
You pull the door open. Cold air spills out, stale and chemical, carrying the faint scent of something spoiled long before anyone stopped coming down here. The room beyond is a maze of tall storage racks and plastic containers, shadows pooling thick between them like standing water.
Leon moves through the doorway first, silent, precise, clearing angles with ruthless efficiency. You follow a half-step behind despite earlier negotiations, covering what he can't see, trusting him to do the same.
All you hear is the hum of failing lights. The soft creak of metal settling. The distant, almost inaudible drip of water somewhere in the dark.
Leon lifts two fingers, signaling pause. You freeze. He tilts his head, listening.
"...Thought I heard something," he whispers.
You hold your breath. The room holds its breath too. Then, very softly, something shifts deep between the shelves. A scrape. Leon's posture tightens, every line of him sharpening toward the sound.
"Stay close," he murmurs.
You move in beside him, shoulder brushing his arm, the warmth of him grounding against the cold air of the room.
"Always do," you whisper back.
The air grows colder the farther you go, heavy with the stale tang of chemicals and something faintly organic beneath it, like fruit left too long in a sealed container. Your flashlight beam skims across plastic bins, sealed crates, labels bleached into illegibility. Dust floats in slow spirals each time you move, disturbed ghosts reluctant to settle again.
Leon advances at a measured pace, weapon steady, shoulders tight enough to telegraph that he hasn't liked this room from the moment the door opened. You mirror him, covering the angles between shelving units, eyes darting through the narrow gaps where shadows knit together into something almost solid. Another scrape, closer this time.
A container shifts on a shelf to your left with a soft plastic thud, tipping just enough to rock in place. Your rifle swings toward it automatically.
"Probably just settling," you whisper.
Leon doesn't answer. He takes one careful step forward, angling to get a better view past the rack. The beam of his light cuts across the gap, illuminating stacked boxes, a collapsed cart, nothing that looks immediately threatening.
Your shoulders start to loosen. That's when the hands shoot out of the darkness. They clamp around your calf, iron strong, nails digging through fabric as something drags itself from beneath the lowest shelf with a wet, hungry sound. You don't even have time to shout before you're yanked off balance.
"Leon—!"
He pivots instantly, dropping his aim to avoid hitting you as you hit the floor hard enough to knock the air from your lungs. The infected is half-crushed, lower body mangled, but its arms work just fine. Its mouth snaps inches from your boot, teeth clacking together with a sound that vibrates up your bones.
You kick, connecting with its face, but it barely registers the impact. Its grip tightens, hauling you closer, closer, jaws opening wide enough to show the slick black of its throat.
Leon moves. He doesn't fire. Too risky. Instead, he lunges forward, grabbing the back of your vest and hauling you backward with brutal force. The infected comes with you, still latched on, dead weight and fury combined.
"Let go!" he snarls, driving his boot into its shoulder.
Bone cracks. The grip loosens just enough for him to wrench you free, dragging you behind him as he finally gets a clear shot. Two rounds. Point-blank.
The body jerks, collapses, and goes still. For a moment, all you can hear is your own ragged breathing and the thunder of your pulse. Leon stays crouched in front of you, one arm braced across your chest like a barricade, gun still trained on the corpse in case it decides death is negotiable.
"Hey," he says, voice low, urgent. "Hey. Look at me."
You blink, vision swimming, lungs finally remembering how to work. "I'm... I'm good."
His eyes scan you anyway, fast and thorough, hands already moving, checking arms, shoulders, gear, the way he always does. Routine. Training. Care disguised as procedure. Then his hand stops at your leg.
The fabric of your pants is torn where the creature grabbed you. Dark spreads through the rip, wet and unmistakable even in the dim light. Leon goes very still. Slowly, carefully, he pulls his glove off with his teeth and tosses it aside. His bare hand is warm when it closes around your ankle, steady but not gentle as he angles your leg into the beam of his flashlight.
You follow his gaze. For a second, your brain refuses to interpret what you're seeing. Just shapes. Color. Shine. Then it resolves. Deep teeth marks on your ankle. Blood wells from the punctures, thick and bright, running down into your boot.
"Oh," you say softly.
Leon doesn't speak. His jaw tightens so hard a muscle jumps along his cheek. His thumb presses near the wound, not enough to hurt, just enough to assess depth, damage, and reality.
"How bad?" you ask, because someone has to.
He inhales slowly through his nose, like he's trying to pull the air all the way down to somewhere that doesn't exist anymore.
"...Through the muscle," he says at last, voice roughened at the edges. "No arterial spray."
You almost laugh. Of course, that's what he notices. Of course, he frames it in survivable terms.
"Good news," you murmur.
His eyes snap to yours, sharp, bright, furious at something that isn't you. "Don't."
The word isn't loud. It doesn't need to be. Silence floods back in, thick as the dust hanging in the air. Carefully, he releases your leg only long enough to tear open a pouch on his vest. Gauze. Compression wrap. His hands move with practiced efficiency, but there's a tremor there now, small and stubborn, like a fault line threatening to split.
"This won't stop it," you say quietly.
"I know."
He presses the gauze down anyway, firm, unyielding, as if pressure alone could force time to behave.
"You didn't get grabbed anywhere else?" he asks without looking up.
"No."
"Scratch? Contact with fluid?"
"No, Leon."
He nods once, wrapping the bandage tight enough to hurt. You don't complain. Pain feels reassuringly human. When he finishes, he doesn't pull away. His hands remain braced on your leg, head bowed slightly, shoulders rising and falling with measured breaths. From this angle, you can see the faint silver threaded through his hair, the lines carved deeper by worry than age. You reach out before you can stop yourself, fingers brushing his jaw. He freezes.
"Hey," you say softly.
His eyes close for one heartbeat, leaning just slightly into your touch, like a man starving who just found water. Then he opens them again, focus snapping back into place with visible effort.
"We're moving," he says, voice low and absolute. "There will be another storage area. Another lab. Something."
You nod because you believe him. Because you have to. Because you don't want this to be the end. Because you don't want Leon to have to go through that. Because you want your dessert.
He rises first, then offers you his hand. When you take it, he pulls you up carefully, keeping his other hand hovering at your waist in case you falter. You put weight on the leg. It holds, though pain flares hot and sharp.
"Can you walk?" he asks.
"Yeah." A lie. A manageable one.
He doesn't call you on it. Instead, his arm slides around your back, anchoring you against his side as you take your first step. Protective. Supportive. Refusing to let distance exist.
"Stay with me," he murmurs.
Your head rests briefly against his shoulder, just for a second.
"Always," you whisper.
Adrenaline still burns hot in your veins, dulling the edges, convincing your body it can outrun consequences if it just keeps moving. Leon keeps his arm locked around you, pace adjusted to match yours without comment. Not slow enough to feel patronizing, not fast enough to make you stumble. Perfect. Infuriatingly perfect.
"You don't have to babysit," you murmur.
"Good," he says quietly. "Because I'm not."
His hand shifts slightly at your side, fingers spreading as if to support more of your weight without making a show of it. The corridor slopes downward. Each step sends a dull shock up your leg, deeper now, heavier, like the pain has roots instead of edges. You grit your teeth and keep going. After a dozen paces, something else creeps in. A warmth. Not the healthy kind. Not exertion. This feels wrong, thick and syrupy, pooling under your skin like fever deciding where to settle. You swallow. Your throat feels dry. Too dry.
"Leon," you start, then stop, because you're not sure what you were going to say.
He glances at you immediately. "What?"
"Nothing. Thought I heard something."
He doesn't look convinced, but he doesn't push. Instead, he shifts you a little closer, your hip brushing his with every step now, a steady rhythm of contact that keeps you oriented.
The lights flicker overhead. For a split second, the world tilts. You blink hard, waiting for it to right itself. It does, but not completely. The edges of your vision feel soft, as if someone smeared petroleum jelly across reality.
"Hey," Leon says quietly.
You realize you've slowed. "I'm fine."
He stops anyway.
"No," he says, voice calm and immovable as bedrock. "You're not."
Before you can argue, a shape lurches from a side passage ahead. Its movements are jerky and uneven, its head twitching like a broken marionette. Leon eases you behind him with one hand, weapon already up. He takes it out, waiting a few seconds to make sure it's down.
When he turns back to you, his focus narrows, shutting out the rest of the world. "Sit," he says.
You shake your head. "We don't have time."
"Sit."
There's no edge in it. No raised volume. Just absolute certainty that this is happening. Your legs decide for you. The moment you stop resisting, they wobble, knees threatening to fold. Leon catches you instantly, one arm wrapping around your back, the other under your uninjured leg, guiding you down against the wall with careful control.
The concrete is cold through your gear. It feels strangely good. He crouches in front of you, close enough that your boots nearly touch his knees. Up close, you can see every tiny tension line in his face, every sleepless hour etched into skin that has forgotten what "rested" means.
His bare hand comes up again, settling against your neck, fingers sliding to your pulse point. You shiver.
His brows draw together. "You're burning up."
"Shock," you say weakly.
"You know that's not true."
His thumb presses lightly, counting. You can feel the rhythm under his skin, your heart hammering like it's trying to break out of your chest.
"Too fast," he murmurs, mostly to himself.
A tremor runs through your hands. Small at first, then stronger, fingers twitching against your thigh as if they belong to someone else and forgot to tell you. You curl them into fists, but it doesn't help. Leon notices. He reaches down slowly, deliberately, and wraps his hand around yours. Not restraining. Anchoring. His grip is warm, solid, impossibly steady compared to the jitter under your skin.
"Look at me," he says softly.
You do. Blue eyes. Tired. Fierce. Terrified in a way he would deny under oath.
"We're going to fix this," he says.
"You don't know that."
"Yes," he says, so simply it almost hurts. "I do."
Your vision blurs. You blink rapidly, trying to clear it, but the edges keep fuzzing out like a badly tuned signal.
"Everything's... weird," you admit. "Like I'm underwater."
His jaw tightens. "Any nausea?"
"No."
"Dizziness?"
"...Maybe."
"Confusion?"
You hesitate.
His expression darkens. "How long?"
"Ten minutes."
He leans forward suddenly, pressing his forehead to yours. The contact is gentle, deliberate, his eyes closing for a brief moment like he's drawing strength from proximity alone.
"You stay with me," he murmurs. "You hear me? No drifting."
"I'm right here."
His hand slides to the back of your head, fingers threading into your hair, holding you there. Making sure you don't slip away. For a few seconds, neither of you moves. Somewhere far off, metal clatters. A distant echo of something collapsing. The facility settling into deeper ruin. You swallow. Your throat feels raw now, like you've been breathing dry air for hours.
"Leon."
"Yeah."
"If I start to..."
He pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes sharp. "Don't."
"You need to be ready."
"I am ready."
"That's not what I mean."
His hand tightens at the back of your neck, just enough to stop you from looking away.
"I'm not leaving you," he says quietly. "Save it."
Your chest aches, and not from the bite. You nod because you don't trust your voice. He studies you another moment, memorizing something only he can see, then exhales slowly and shifts back into motion.
"Okay," he says, tone sharpening into mission focus again. "We move in short intervals. Next sector should have auxiliary storage or research offices. More supplies. Maybe antivirals."
"Maybe," you echo.
He rises, then hesitates, looking down at you like he's recalculating physics.
Without warning, he slips one arm behind your back and the other under your knees.
You blink. "Leon—"
"Save your strength."
"I can walk."
"I know."
And that's the end of the discussion. He lifts you with controlled ease, settling you against his chest. Your head ends up tucked under his chin, close enough to hear his heartbeat, steady and stubborn as a drum calling soldiers back to formation. You don't argue again. Your hand fumbles for his vest, gripping the fabric as another wave of heat rolls through you, deeper this time, almost nauseating in its intensity.
"Still with me?" he murmurs into your hair.
You nod weakly. "Yeah."
"Good."
He adjusts his hold, one hand splayed protectively across your back, and starts down the corridor again, footsteps measured, unhurried, as if he has decided that time itself can wait its turn. The world sways gently with each step. Your eyelids feel heavy.
Leon's voice cuts through the fog, low and insistent. "Stay awake."
"I'm trying."
"Talk to me."
"About what?"
"Anything."
You think for a long moment, chasing thoughts that scatter like startled birds.
"...Dessert," you mumble finally.
A soft breath leaves him, almost a laugh, almost something else entirely.
"Yeah," he says quietly. "We're still getting that."
You clutch his vest a little tighter, grounding yourself in the solid reality of him.
"Don't let me fall asleep," you whisper.
His arms tighten around you, careful but unyielding.
Leon adjusts his grip as you shift in his arms, not because you're heavy, never that, but because your body no longer anticipates his movement the way it usually does. You used to lean into turns before they happened, tighten your hold when he stepped over debris, and match his rhythm without thinking. Now you lag by half a second behind every motion, like your connection to gravity is buffering. He notices. He notices everything.
Your skin is too hot even through layers of fabric. Heat seeps through his sleeves, through his gloves, into his palms like you're burning from the inside out. Your breath ghosts unevenly against his throat, sometimes shallow, sometimes too deep, like your lungs can't agree on a pattern. Fever, he tells himself. Infection. Not the other thing. Not yet. Your fingers twitch where they clutch his vest, loosening, tightening, loosening again.
"Hey," he murmurs quietly. "Still with me?"
A pause. "...Yeah."
The word is slurred at the edges, dragged through molasses. His jaw tightens. He keeps moving.
The corridor stretches ahead in dim amber light, empty except for the occasional smear on the wall or abandoned equipment pushed aside by people who ran out of time. His footsteps are steady, deliberate, conserving energy, minimizing jostling. He's carried wounded before. Teammates. Civilians. Strangers. None of them felt like this. None of them felt like carrying his own heartbeat outside his body.
Your head shifts, cheek pressing against his collarbone. For a moment you go very still, so still that something cold claws down his spine.
"Talk to me," he says, softer now. "You promised."
A long silence. Then, faintly, "Cold."
He stops. A clean halt, like someone pulled a lever inside him. Cold is wrong. You're burning up. He lowers you carefully to one knee without setting you fully down, keeping one arm wrapped around your back so you don't tip sideways. His other hand comes up to your face, bare fingers brushing your cheek. Your skin is blazing. But you're shivering. Small, violent tremors run through you, teeth chattering softly against each other, lashes fluttering as if your body can't decide whether to wake or sleep.
"Hey," he says, sharper now. "Open your eyes."
You do, slowly, unfocused at first. Your pupils look blown wide in the low light, swallowing what little color remains in your irises.
"It's... dark," you mumble.
His chest tightens. The lights are still on.
"I'm right here," he says. "Look at me."
Your gaze drifts, struggles, and finally locks onto his face. Recognition flickers there, fragile but present.
"...Leon."
Relief hits him so hard it almost feels like pain.
"Yeah," he breathes. "Yeah, it's me."
Your brow furrows faintly, confusion knitting your expression into something painfully vulnerable.
"You look... tired."
He almost laughs. "Occupational hazard," he says quietly.
Your hand lifts weakly, fingers brushing his jaw as if you're mapping terrain you've walked a thousand times but suddenly don't trust your memory of.
"You should sleep," you whisper.
The tenderness in it is what breaks him a little.
"Soon, sweetheart," he says.
Your hand slips, falling back against your chest. Silence stretches. Your breathing grows uneven again.
Then you say, very softly, "Did we make it home?"
The words land like a physical blow. For a second, he can't answer. His throat closes around something sharp and unmanageable.
Home. Not the facility. Not the mission. Not the outbreak. Home. He swallows hard, forcing air back into his lungs.
"Not yet," he says, voice low and steady by sheer force of will. "Working on it."
Your eyes drift past him, unfocused, as if you're looking at something over his shoulder that isn't there.
"...Smells like coffee," you murmur. "Burned it again."
His vision blurs. He blinks hard, refocusing on the concrete wall behind you. You're not smelling coffee. There is no coffee. There hasn't been coffee in hours. Just dust and chemicals and rot. Hallucinations, a cold voice in his mind supplies. Neurological involvement. He hates that voice.
Your lips curve faintly, a sleepy little smile that belongs in a sunlit kitchen, not here. "You always do that," you mumble. "Say you're watching it, then forget..."
Your head tips sideways, resting against his arm. Your eyelids droop. Panic slices through him, clean and immediate.
"Hey," he says sharply, fingers tightening on your shoulder. "No. Stay with me."
You stir weakly. "...'m tired."
"I know."
"So tired."
His thumb presses against your pulse again. Still fast. Too fast.
"You can sleep when we're home," he says, leaning closer, voice dropping to something rough and urgent.
Your eyes open a sliver.
"...Promise?"
The question is so small it barely exists.
He bows his head until his forehead rests against yours, eyes closing for one heartbeat, he allows himself.
"Yeah," he whispers. "I promise."
He doesn't know if he's promising sleep, survival, or something else entirely. It doesn't matter. Your breathing evens out a little, not better, just slower, drifting toward something that looks dangerously like unconsciousness. Not yet, he thinks fiercely.
He slides one arm under your knees again and lifts you back against his chest, more carefully this time, as if you might come apart if handled too roughly. Your head lolls against his shoulder, then settles in the hollow of his neck, breath hot and damp against his skin.
"Stay with me," he murmurs into your hair. "Just a little longer."
Your fingers twitch weakly against his vest, not gripping anymore, just resting there like they forgot their job.
"...Love you," you whisper, so faint he almost thinks he imagined it.
He stops breathing. The entire world narrows to the weight in his arms and the fragile thread of sound still hanging in the air. His hold tightens, protective, desperate, careful all at once.
"I know," he says quietly, voice breaking on the edges despite his best effort. "I know."
He presses his cheek briefly against your hair, eyes closing, grounding himself in the reality of you. The heat. The softness. The terrifying fragility. Then he straightens and starts moving again, steps faster now, less cautious, urgency bleeding through the discipline he's clung to since this began. Somewhere ahead, there has to be another lab. Another storage room. Another chance. There has to be. Because the alternative is unthinkable, and Leon Kennedy has built an entire life on refusing to accept those.
"Hang on," he murmurs. "I've got you."
The corridor opens into what used to be a patient ward, rows of metal-framed beds bolted to the floor, privacy curtains hanging in limp, dusty folds like flags after a lost battle. Most of the mattresses are stripped bare, plastic covers cracked with age, but the room is quiet. No movement. No shuffling breath. Just the low electrical hum that seems to haunt every corner of this place.
Leon slows, scanning automatically, mapping exits, sightlines, choke points. Good visibility. Single main entrance. Minimal clutter. Defensible. More importantly, close.
A reinforced door at the far end bears a faded hazard symbol and the words AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY stenciled beneath it. The hinges are external. The frame is thicker than standard interior construction. Lab access. Or something close to it.
"Okay," he murmurs, mostly to himself. "This'll do."
He crosses to the nearest intact bed and lowers you with painstaking care, one arm supporting your shoulders, the other guiding your legs so the injured one doesn't twist. The mattress sighs softly under your weight, springs complaining but holding. For a second, he doesn't let go. Your head rolls slightly to one side, hair falling across your face. Your eyes are half-open, unfocused, lashes trembling like you're dreaming with your eyes still in the world.
"Hey," he says quietly, brushing the hair back with fingers that are gentler than anything else he's done today. "Stay with me."
Your gaze struggles to find him. "...Hi," you whisper.
"Hi," he echoes, voice rough.
Your hand lifts weakly, searching. He catches it immediately, folding his larger one around yours, grounding you with solid pressure.
"Where are we?" you murmur.
"Almost there," he says. Not a lie. Not quite the truth. "I need to check something."
Your fingers twitch in his grip, barely there. "...Don't go far."
His throat tightens.
"I won't," he says. "You'll be able to hear me the whole time." That seems to satisfy something in you. Your eyes drift closed, not fully unconscious, just sliding along the edge of it.
He gently lowers your hand to rest against your stomach, then hesitates. After a moment, he reaches up and unzips his jacket, shrugging it off despite the chill. He drapes it over you, tucking it around your shoulders, creating a cocoon of familiar warmth and scent. Leon rests his palm against your cheek one last time, thumb brushing your skin in a soft arc.
He forces himself to stand. Every instinct screams not to leave you. To pick you up and run until the world ends, the cure appears, or both. But the door at the end of the room waits, silent and stubborn, and something in his gut tells him that whatever hope exists is behind it.
He moves. Slow at first, reluctant steps that keep him within arm's reach, then a little farther, turning back every few seconds to make sure you're still breathing, still there, still you. Halfway across the ward, a shape shifts behind a curtain. Leon's weapon is up before the fabric finishes swaying.
A figure stumbles out, skeletal, skin pulled tight over bone, eyes reflecting dull amber in the emergency light. Its mouth opens in a soundless snarl as it lurches toward the nearest movement. Leon intercepts it before it gets anywhere. Two suppressed shots. One to the chest, one to the head. The body collapses in a boneless heap, momentum carrying it forward until it skids to a stop across the tile.
Another groan answers from somewhere deeper in the room. He pivots, firing again, dropping a second infected as it claws its way over a bedframe. Efficient. Controlled. No wasted motion. No unnecessary noise. Three heartbeats of silence. He listens, counting breaths. Nothing else rises. Only then does he glance back. You haven't moved. Relief floods through him so sharply his knees almost unlock.
"Still here," he murmurs under his breath, as if confirming it makes it true.
He reaches the reinforced door and tests the handle. Locked. Of course it is.
Up close, the barricade becomes obvious. Heavy shelving units have been shoved against the interior side, metal edges visible through the narrow seam where the door meets the frame. Whoever sealed this room meant to keep something out. Or in.
Leon leans closer, ear to the cold steel. Nothing. No breathing. No scratching. No shifting weight. He steps back and scans the frame. Electronic panel. Dead. Manual override slot intact. Hope stirs, cautious and unwelcome.
He glances over his shoulder again. From here, he can still see you on the bed, small beneath his jacket, chest rising and falling in shallow motions that make his own lungs ache in sympathy.
"Almost there," he says quietly, whether to you or himself, he doesn't know.
From a pouch on his belt, he pulls a compact breaching tool, the metal catching the light as he slots it into the override housing. The device hums softly, vibration traveling up his wrist.
Behind him, the ward remains still.
Then your voice drifts across the room, thin and fragile. "...Leon?"
He spins instantly. Your head has turned toward him, eyes open again, unfocused but searching, panic flickering in the small movement of your hands against his jacket.
"I'm here," he calls, already crossing back toward you. "Right here."
You stare at him as if trying to memorize his face before it disappears. "...Too many," you whisper. "They're everywhere."
"There's nothing here," he says gently. "You're safe."
Your head sinks back into the thin pillow. Consciousness slips away from you like water through open fingers. Leon stays there a second longer than he should, watching your chest rise, fall, rise again. Then he stands and turns back to the barricaded door, something steely settling over him, heavier than anger, sharper than fear.
The tool in his hand whines as it bites into the locking mechanism, sparks spitting in brief, angry bursts. Metal protests. Screws shear. The smell of hot circuitry fills the air.
"Hold on," he murmurs, not looking back this time because he won't stop if he does. "I'm getting us in."
Behind him, the bed creaks softly as you shift in fevered sleep. Ahead, the door shudders as the final bolt gives way. Leon shoves the door inward, the weight of it grinding against the barricade until the gap is wide enough for him to slip through sideways. Inside, a toppled shelving unit leans against the opposite wall, confirming what he already suspected. Whoever sealed this room did it from within and didn't plan on leaving.
The air is colder here. Cleaner. Sterile in that artificial way that smells faintly of alcohol wipes and plastic, like illness reduced to a controlled environment.
Emergency lights glow a sickly green, illuminating rows of lab benches, overturned stools, racks of glassware frozen mid-experiment. Papers lie scattered across the floor, curling at the edges. A monitor flickers weakly on one station, casting a pulsing rectangle of pale light that feels almost alive in the otherwise stagnant room.
Leon clears the space in seconds, weapon sweeping corners, checking behind doors, under desks, anywhere something could hide. Nothing lunges. Nothing breathes. Just abandonment, sudden and absolute, like the people who worked here evaporated mid-sentence.
He lowers the gun a fraction, chest rising and falling a little too fast to be purely tactical.
"Okay," he murmurs, voice rough in the quiet. "Okay."
He moves to the nearest workstation, scanning labels, cabinets, drawers. Chemical reagents. Disposable supplies. Data drives. Everything except what he needs. Another bench. Same story. He opens a refrigerated unit. Empty trays. Frost buildup. Power too low to maintain temperature.
His pulse hammers harder.
Not here. Not here. Not here.
"Come on," he mutters, rifling through containers faster now, less methodical, more desperate. Glass clinks sharply as he shoves aside vials of things that don't matter, powders with long names, syringes sealed in sterile plastic. Nothing labeled antiviral. Nothing labeled serum. Nothing labeled hope. A cold weight settles in his stomach.
He moves to the flickering computer, fingers flying across the keys, waking it from whatever half-dead state it's been trapped in. The screen brightens sluggishly, revealing a login prompt already bypassed, system hanging on by a thread.
"Don't do this to me," he whispers.
Folders populate slowly. Research logs. Incident reports. Containment protocols. He scans titles with ruthless speed, opening anything that looks remotely relevant, eyes burning as line after line of technical jargon scrolls past.
A crash echoes faintly from the ward beyond the door. His head snaps toward the sound. Silence follows. He waits three seconds. Five. Ten. No approach. No impact against the door. No dragging footsteps. Still there, he tells himself. She's still there.
He turns back to the screen, forcing his focus to narrow again. A document catches his eye.
ANTIVIRAL DISPERSION PROTOCOL – EMERGENCY USE
He opens it. Paragraphs of dense instructions spill across the display. Stabilization procedures. Delivery methods. Storage warnings. STORAGE LOCATION: SECURE BIOCONTAINMENT VAULT B-2. His stomach drops. Not here.
Coordinates blink uselessly on the screen, pointing deeper into the facility, farther than he wants to think about, farther than you may be able to survive the trip.
Something inside him finally gives. He grips the edge of the desk, knuckles whitening, shoulders bowing as if someone just added fifty pounds to his back.
"Damn it," he breathes.
The word fractures on the way out, barely more than air. He squeezes his eyes shut, forehead dropping toward his clenched fists, fighting the surge of helpless fury that threatens to tear through discipline, training, every wall he's built over years of surviving the unsurvivable. Not enough time. Not enough distance. Not enough anything.
Out in the ward, you lie alone on a metal bed, burning up, slipping further away with every second he spends standing here empty-handed. His chest tightens until breathing feels optional.
For one dangerous moment, he imagines walking back out there, picking you up, and never stopping. No cure. No mission. Just distance and denial. Just the selfish hope that if he runs fast enough, the virus won't catch you.
He exhales sharply, dragging himself back from the edge. Running never saved anyone.
"Think," he mutters hoarsely. "Think."
His gaze drifts across the lab again, slower this time, less frantic, searching for patterns instead of miracles. That's when he notices it. A sealed medical kit is mounted on the wall near the exit. Standard emergency issue. Bright white casing. Untouched, pristine compared to the chaos everywhere else. Too pristine. He crosses the room and pops it open. Bandages. Burn gel. Basic trauma supplies. Nothing else.
His shoulders slump. Then his eyes catch a thin seam along the back panel, almost invisible unless you're looking directly at it. Not part of the original design. Too clean. Too deliberate. He taps it with his knuckle. Hollow. Hope flares, sharp and painful.
He wedges a knife into the seam and pries. The panel resists for a second, then snaps free with a brittle crack, revealing a narrow cavity hidden behind the kit.
Inside rests a single reinforced container, matte gray and no bigger than a paperback book, sealed with a biometric latch long since disabled. Not government-issue, but research-grade. Whoever put this here didn't have the chance to get it.
Leon's hands shake as he pulls it free. The lid pops open. Nestled in foam are two glass syringes pre-loaded with clear liquid, labels printed in blocky lab script:
ANTIVIRAL SERUM — FINALIZED STRAIN
For a second, he just stares, brain refusing to trust what his eyes are telling it. Air leaves his lungs in a sound that might be a laugh or might be something closer to a sob strangled before it can exist.
He presses his forehead briefly against the cool plastic case, eyes squeezing shut, letting the relief hit him in one violent wave before he can stop it. Shoulders shake once, twice, a tremor he doesn't bother to control because no one is here to see it. No one except the person who needs him most. He straightens abruptly, wiping a hand across his face, composure snapping back into place like a mask he's worn too long to misplace.
"Hang on," he says, already moving for the door, clutching the case like it's made of glass and prayers. "I'm coming back."
Your skin is still hot. That's the first thing he registers when his palm cups your cheek. Heat floods into his hand, fever-bright, but there's a wrongness to it now, a brittle quality, like warmth without life behind it.
"Hey," he says softly. "I'm back."
No response. Your lashes rest against your cheeks, unmoving. Your mouth is slightly open, breath slipping in shallow threads that barely stir the hair at your temple. The shivering from before has stopped. Your body lies too still beneath his jacket, as if it finally decided movement was optional.
A cold spike of terror drives straight through his chest.
"Hey." Louder this time, but still gentle, still careful, as if volume alone might break you. "Come on. Open your eyes for me."
Nothing. He slides his hand to your neck, fingers pressing to your pulse point. It's there. Fast. Thready. Irregular in a way that makes his own heartbeat stumble trying to match it.
"Okay," he breathes, more to himself than to you. "We're okay."
His other hand trembles as he fumbles the case open, snapping it back with a soft plastic crack. The syringes gleam under the emergency lights, their clear liquid looking impossibly calm compared to the storm in his chest. He sets the case on the bed beside you, movements deliberate, controlled, forcing precision where panic wants chaos.
"You're gonna hate this part," he murmurs, fingers working to clear space at your collar, tugging fabric aside so he can reach skin. "But you can yell at me later. I'm counting on it."
Your head lolls slightly with the movement. No protest. No reflexive tension. He swallows hard.
"Hey," he says again, softer now, thumb brushing your jaw in a slow arc. "Stay with me, okay? You don't get to check out early. We still owe each other dessert."
His voice catches on the last word. He pushes through it.
"Remember that place downtown? The one with the ridiculous chocolate cake you said was worth the calories?" A shaky breath. "I figure we'll go there."
He presses his forehead briefly against yours, eyes squeezing shut for a fraction of a second.
"You hear me? We've got plans."
Your breathing hitches faintly, a tiny irregular stutter that might be a coincidence or might be something else. He latches onto it anyway, desperate for anything that looks like a connection.
"That's it," he murmurs. "Right there. Stay with me."
He lifts the syringe, checks it automatically, habit stronger than fear. No air bubbles. Fluid clear. Needle steady despite the tremor in his hand.
"Okay," he whispers. "Here we go."
He slides his arm behind your shoulders, lifting you just enough to support you against his chest, cradling you there so the injection won't jostle too much. Your head falls against him, cheek resting over his heart, breath warm and frighteningly faint through the fabric of his shirt.
"You're doing great," he says softly, even though you're doing nothing at all. "Almost there."
The needle presses into your skin.
He hesitates.
Not because he doubts the serum. Because once this is done, there's nothing left to do but wait, and waiting is the one thing he has never learned to survive gracefully.
"Don't be mad," he murmurs. "I'm not giving you a choice."
He depresses the plunger slowly, watching the liquid disappear into you, as if he can track hope molecule by molecule. His other arm tightens around your back, holding you upright, holding you together.
"All right," he says, voice barely above a breath. "You did good. See? Easy."
He withdraws the needle and sets it aside with mechanical care, as if any sudden movement might undo what he's just done. Then he just holds you.
Seconds crawl past, each one stretching thin as wire. Nothing happens. Your breathing remains shallow. Your pulse, when he checks again, is still fast, still erratic. His chest starts to feel tight, air coming harder, like the room has quietly stolen oxygen while he wasn't looking.
"Okay," he says hoarsely. "Sometimes these things take a minute."
He shifts you slightly, thumb stroking your arm in absent circles, the same motion he uses when you're half asleep on long flights or bad nights. Comfort muscle memory kicks in even when the situation is far beyond comfort.
"You're not allowed to do this," he whispers. "You hear me? Not now. Not like this."
Your hand slips from where it rested against his vest, sliding down between you, fingers loose and unresponsive. He grabs it instantly, folding it back into his palm, pressing it against his chest.
"Come back," he says, the words fraying at the edges.
Another long stretch of nothing. Fear blooms, cold and suffocating, filling every hollow place in him. Too late, a voice in the back of his mind whispers. Too slow. Too far gone.
He shakes his head sharply, jaw clenching.
"No," he mutters. "No, you don't get to do that."
He bows over you, pressing his forehead to your hair, eyes squeezed shut, breathing you in like oxygen.
"You promised," he says roughly. "You don't break your promises."
Your pulse stutters under his fingers. He freezes.
There it is again. A strange hitch, a pause that stretches too long, then a sudden rush, as if your heart forgot the rhythm and is trying to find it again. His own heart stops in sympathetic terror.
"Come on," he whispers. "Come on..."
Your body jerks. A sharp, involuntary spasm that arches you slightly against him before you go slack again. Leon sucks in a breath, half panic, half hope colliding in his chest.
Your brow creases faintly, expression tightening as if pain is finally breaking through the fog. A weak sound escapes you, barely audible, more exhale than voice. His grip on you tightens, careful but fierce.
"I know," he murmurs. "I know, sweetheart. It's okay. You're okay."
Your breathing changes, deepening suddenly, as if you're pulling in air like someone surfacing from underwater. It catches, stutters, then comes again, stronger this time, dragging oxygen into lungs that finally seem interested in using it.
"There you go," he breathes, voice shaking openly now. "That's it. Stay with me."
Your fingers twitch weakly against his chest. He presses his cheek against your hair, eyes closing, holding you like you might still vanish if he loosens his grip.
"I've got you," he whispers. "You're okay. I've got you."
He keeps you cradled against his chest, one arm locked around your back, the other braced across your shoulders, hand splayed as if shielding you from something that no longer exists. His cheek rests against your hair, breath uneven, dragging in through his nose, out through parted lips like he's relearning how to do it.
Your pulse is stronger now beneath his fingers. Still fast, still fragile, but steady enough to count. Steady enough to believe in. Only then does the tension start to bleed out of him. It comes all at once.
His shoulders shudder. Not violently, just a small, contained tremor that he tries to swallow down and can't. A sound escapes him, rough and broken, something halfway between a breath and a sob he never intended to make. He tightens his hold instinctively, pressing his face into your hair as if hiding there makes it less real.
"Okay," he whispers hoarsely. "Okay... you're okay."
Warmth hits your scalp. At first, your fogged mind can't place it. Wetness. A second drop follows, sliding along your temple before disappearing into your hair.
Leon doesn't notice. Or he does and can't stop. He bows over you, forehead pressed to the crown of your head, shoulders shaking in small, uneven pulses he's trying desperately to keep silent. Years of training, years of surviving, years of holding everything inside, finally cracking under the simple fact that you are still here.
"I've got you," he murmurs, voice wrecked, words stumbling over each other. "I've got you, I've got you..."
Your fingers twitch. This time, the movement is stronger, a weak curl against his shirt, fabric bunching slightly in your grasp. The sensation filters through layers of fog, heat, exhaustion, and the lingering echo of pain. Consciousness creeps back in like dawn through heavy curtains.
Your throat burns. Your body feels impossibly heavy, as if gravity doubled while you were away. Every muscle aches with a deep, bone-level fatigue that sleep alone could never fix.
Sound reaches you first. A heartbeat. Loud. Steady. Close enough to be yours, except it isn't. Breath above you, hitching, uneven. Fabric shifting faintly with each inhale.
Someone is holding you. You force your eyes open.
The world swims into view in slow, watery shapes. A blurred patch of green light. A shadow that resolves into the curve of a shoulder. Blond strands of hair brushing your cheek.
Leon.
He doesn't notice you're awake yet. His face is buried against your head, one hand cupping the back of your skull with fierce gentleness, thumb moving in tiny, repetitive strokes like he's soothing a nightmare that hasn't ended for him yet.
Your voice comes out as a rasp. "Leon...?"
He freezes. Absolute stillness, like a statue suddenly unsure whether it's allowed to move. Slowly, he lifts his head. His eyes are red. Not just glassy, not just tired, but openly, unmistakably wet. Tracks of tears cut through the grime on his cheeks, catching the light as he blinks hard, as if blinking might erase evidence before you can register it.
For a second, he just stares at you, something raw and disbelieving cracking across his face, like he expected this moment and still isn't sure it's real.
"You're..." His voice fails. He clears his throat roughly. "Hey."
You try to smile. It feels wobbly, incomplete. "Hi."
Relief hits him so visibly it's almost painful to watch. His shoulders sag, tension draining out of him like someone cut the strings holding him upright.
"Hey," he repeats, softer this time, thumb coming up to brush your cheek in a careful sweep, as if confirming you're solid. "You're back."
"Was I... gone?"
His jaw tightens. "Not allowed."
You attempt a small laugh. It comes out as a weak breath. His hand slides to the side of your neck, fingers resting over your pulse again, counting, grounding, refusing to trust his eyes alone.
"You scared me," he says quietly.
Your gaze drops to his chest, to the wrinkled fabric where you must have been gripping him earlier. "Sorry."
His head snaps slightly. "Don't."
The word is sharp, then softens immediately.
"Don't apologize," he adds, voice rough. "Just... don't."
You nod faintly. Even that feels like work.
For a moment, neither of you speaks. You just lie there in his arms, breathing the same air, sharing the same small pocket of reality after hours of separation that happened without distance. Then you notice how tightly he's still holding you.
"Leon," you murmur, "I can't breathe."
He releases you instantly, horror flashing across his face. "Sorry. Sorry."
He shifts his grip, supporting you more carefully, one arm still behind your shoulders but no longer crushing you to him. His other hand lingers at your jaw, thumb brushing your skin as if he can't quite stop touching you.
"You're okay?" he asks, scanning your face like he's looking for cracks. "Dizzy? Nauseous? Vision?"
"Everything hurts."
He exhales, something that might be relief ghosting through the pain in his expression. "I'll take it."
Your eyes drift past him, taking in the ward, the beds, the dim light. Memory trickles back in jagged pieces. Teeth. Heat. Falling. Darkness.
"...You found it," you whisper.
He nods once. "Yeah, told you we would.
Your mouth twitches, not quite a smile. "Yeah. You did."
You study him more closely now, the red around his eyes, the dampness he hasn't fully wiped away, the way he keeps blinking as if his vision is unreliable.
"You were crying," you say softly.
Immediate denial rises to his lips. You can see it form. Then he looks at you. And whatever excuse he was about to give dissolves.
"...Yeah," he admits, voice low. "Maybe a little."
A tear slips free anyway, tracking down before he can stop it. He doesn't bother hiding it this time. Doesn't look away. Just lets it exist.
"You weren't waking up," he says, as if that explains everything. It does.
Your chest aches in a different way now. You lift your hand slowly, muscles protesting, and touch his face. Your thumb brushes the damp track on his cheek, wiping it away with clumsy tenderness.
"I'm here," you whisper.
He leans into your hand without thinking, eyes closing briefly, relief and exhaustion and something deeper collapsing together inside him.
"Yeah," he murmurs. "You are."
He covers your hand with his, pressing it lightly to his skin as if anchoring himself. After a moment, his gaze sharpens again, mission awareness bleeding back in.
"We need to move," he says gently. "Facility's not stable, and we don't know how long before more of them wander in."
You nod, though the idea of standing feels ambitious at best. He notices the hesitation immediately.
"Hey," he says softly. "I've got you."
He shifts, sliding one arm behind your back again, the other under your knees, lifting you with the same careful strength as before, only this time you help a little, arms coming up weakly around his neck. Your head settles against his shoulder.
"Still getting dessert?" you murmur against his collar.
A real smile breaks through at last, small but bright as sunrise after a storm.
"Yeah," he says quietly. "We're still getting that."
He turns toward the exit, steps steady, protective hold unyielding but gentle now that he knows you're truly there.
Three days later, the world smells like coffee and clean laundry instead of antiseptic and decay.
Sunlight spills through half-closed blinds, laying soft gold across the rumpled bedspread and the tangle of blankets around your legs. The air is warm, carrying the faint hum of city life from outside, tires on pavement, a distant horn, someone laughing somewhere far below.
Leon sits beside you, forearms resting on his thighs, watching with that quiet intensity he hasn't quite learned to turn off yet. He looks cleaner than before, shaved, hair damp as if he showered quickly and came right back, but the exhaustion still clings to him in the set of his shoulders.
"You're staring," you murmur.
"Monitoring," he corrects.
"You blink?"
"Sometimes."
You huff a small laugh, the motion tugging at sore muscles that remind you exactly how recently everything went wrong. His gaze sharpens instantly, concern flaring before you even realize you winced.
"I'm okay," you assure him.
He searches your face a moment longer, then nods, not convinced but willing to accept it for now.
"You hungry?" he asks.
"Always."
He disappears into the kitchen and returns with coffee and a plate of pancakes that look slightly uneven but deeply sincere. You eat, he watches, tension slowly unwinding from him with each bite you take.
When you finish, you lean back, warm and heavy with food, eyelids drooping in content exhaustion.
"So when is our dessert date?" you ask softly.
Leon goes still. Then he stands without a word and leaves the room again.
You hear the soft thud of the door opening, the faint clink of something ceramic, the careful movements of someone handling something fragile. When he returns, he's holding a small white bakery box tied with a thin ribbon, the bow slightly crooked as if it had to survive transport in a large, impatient hand. He sets it on the bedside table with surprising delicacy.
"I didn't make this," he says gruffly. "Figured we've both suffered enough."
Suspicion and curiosity spark together. You pull the ribbon loose, lifting the lid. Inside sits a slice of decadent chocolate cake, glossy frosting catching the sunlight, layers dark, dense, and unapologetically indulgent.
Your chest tightens.
"You remembered," you whisper.
He shrugs, looking suddenly very interested in a spot on the wall. "You seemed pretty sure it was worth surviving for."
You lift the cake plate slightly and notice something tucked beneath the ribbon, partially hidden against the cardboard.
An envelope. Your fingers hesitate, then slide it free. Leon doesn't look at you. He's staring out the window now, jaw set, shoulders a little too rigid, like he's bracing for impact.
Inside the envelope are two plane tickets. Beach destination. Departure in two weeks. Round trip. Vacation time from work. A hotel confirmation tucked behind them.
For a long moment, you can't speak.
"You said somewhere boring," he mutters quietly, still not turning around. "Figured that would be perfect."
"Leon..."
He finally looks back, expression carefully neutral, but there's something vulnerable in his eyes, something that says this mattered more than he wants to admit.
"You don't have to go," he adds quickly. "If you're not up for travel yet, we can postpone, or cancel, or—"
You set the tickets down and reach for him. Your fingers curl into his shirt, pulling him closer until he's standing right at the edge of the bed, close enough that you can see the faint pulse at the base of his throat.
"Thank you," you say softly.
Not just for the vacation. Not just for the cake. He understands anyway. His face softens, tension draining into something warm and quiet and deeply relieved.
"Yeah," he murmurs. "Anytime."
You pick up the fork, take a small bite of cake, then hold it out to him. He leans in, accepting it, eyes never leaving yours. For a second, neither of you pulls back, the space between you charged with something gentler than urgency, heavier than simple affection.
"Worth it?" he asks.
You nod. "Absolutely."
You set the plate aside, your hand finding his again, fingers threading through his with familiar ease. He squeezes back immediately, grounding, protective, like he did in the hallway, only now there's no fear behind it. You both crave this closeness after it was almost ripped away just days before.
You tug lightly, coaxing him down to sit beside you on the bed. He goes without resistance, one arm coming around your shoulders automatically, careful of lingering soreness. Your other hand lifts, brushing his cheek where faint redness still lingers if you look closely enough.
"I love you," you whisper.
His eyes close briefly, leaning into your touch in a way he never would in public. Just here, just now, where it's safe to be human.
"Yeah," he says quietly. "I love you too."
Leon leans in first. The kiss is slow, gentle, nothing desperate or urgent, just warm lips and shared breath and the simple reassurance of contact. He stills for half a heartbeat, like he's afraid you might break, then melts into it, one hand cupping the back of your head. When you pull back, his forehead follows yours, resting lightly against it, eyes still closed.
"Careful," he murmurs. "Doctor said no overexertion."
You smile. "Pretty sure that wasn't what they meant."
"Still."
His arm tightens around you, drawing you closer until your head rests against his shoulder, fitting there like it always has. His chin settles lightly against your hair, breath warm, steady.
Outside, the city moves on. Inside, time slows to match the rhythm of two people who fought hard for the right to sit in a quiet room and eat cake.
"Two weeks," you murmur.
"Yeah."
"You think you can handle boring?"
He huffs softly. "I'll manage."
You laugh, the sound light and real and alive. His chest rises under your cheek, its vibration grounding you in the best possible way. For a long moment, neither of you says anything else. You just sit there, sunlight warming your skin, fingers loosely entwined, the promise of salt air and quiet days waiting ahead like a horizon you can finally see. Sharing cake, and kisses, and being alive, and together in your home.
Dividers by @uzmacchiato <3
Thanks for reading<3 Just a reminder, my requests are open! I would love to hear from you!
Dr. Park and his preferred OR nurse who everyone calls his work wife
Quietly, obviously. Not even Garcia wanted a repeat of the glare it had earned the first time Park heard her say it.
But you fit the bill so well, folding yourself into his routine with the kind of steadfast presence not usually found in the trauma center. Things move fast in the Pitt, but you move faster; always a beat ahead of him, ensuring the theater is exactly the way he prefers. You're all but inseparable on the schedule, the powers that be long since bent to Park's iron will. You go where he goes, when he goes. Simple as.
The nature of this means you're often with him on breaks as well. Just easier that way, maybe. It surprises all the student doctors to see Park take break with anyone, but it starts the make sense the more they watch. (From afar, obviously. No one makes the mistake of being caught staring twice.) You don't really ever talk, content to let him brood in silence as you munch on whatever snack you've brought. He's efficient even here, broad shoulders heaving as he sighs over charts. You know better than to hum in sympathy, just slide the second bag of carrot sticks you'd packed his way and keep watching whatever day time talk show happens to be filling the relative silence of the room.
So people talk. Princess says you were originally brought on as a travelling nurse before putting down roots nearby, but if you willingly bought a house in the area that probably can't coincide with Donnie's insistence that Park once sabktaged a transfer request to keep you near. Dana goes uncharacteristically mum whenever asked for the truth. Mohan says she once saw you sobbing in the restroom after misjudging what size circular saw he would want during a fracture repair.
McKay says you used be talkative.
So people talk a lot. At least, right up until they learn better.
Because the problem is, it is a problem - or at least would be if Park's real wife found out.
inappropriate relationships (surgeon & intern), reader is a little horny for him but nothing explicit, he literally showed up for 5 seconds and i’m already writing for him
He brought you home one night.
It was late; the sun had long set over the horizon. Your feet felt like they were about to melt into the ground with each step. Caffeine wasn’t enough anymore—three coffees in and half a Red Bull (one of the big cans). You needed something else, something to stop you from falling off that edge.
He watched you like a hawk; maybe that should be his name instead. An overbearing stare on your back that made your head tingle. His expression did not betray his thoughts; his stoic face was like a wall.
He followed you back to the lockers, perched up on the one opposite yours. His dark scrubs are covered with a thick jacket that falls quite nicely over his shoulders.
“Come home with me.” He said, indifferent. You froze, hand hovering over your bag. Your eyes briefly turned to his; he looked as he always did. A bleak look, straight brows, impassive eyes. His mouth was turned inwards like he was disappointed; you’ve learned over the past few months that’s just what he looks like.
“What?”
“You heard me. Sleep in my spare bedroom. I know you live far out of the city and that you take the bus.”
Has he been watching you? How would he know that without watching you? Oh god, your surgeon is stalking you. Maybe it’s true what they say: this job never escapes you.
“Dr. Park, that’s highly—” you start, concern written all over your face,
“I don’t care. I don’t need you getting lost somewhere this late.”
He doesn’t let you finish, slipping off the locker with ease. He doesn’t even turn to look if you're following; he knows.
Silence takes over the interior of his car. It’s a nice vehicle, the nicest you’ve ever been in. It seems new too; it still has the fresh smell. His grip is tight over the steering wheel, fingers creasing into the hard leather. The drive to his place is short, a couple turns and stops from the hospital. If you were to take the bus home, you would get there within an hour and a half, so this was new. He pulls the car up to a tall building, glass windows lining the wall. The apartments parking garage is filled to the brim with pricey cars: Mercedes-Benz, Land Rovers, and BMWs. The only car you’ve owned was older than you. It sits broken in a storage container somewhere, listed for a couple hundred bucks on Facebook.
Public transport has become your saving grace; it's easier to ignore any grimy walls or cracked windows than to take out a loan for something that properly won’t even drive. You considered buying a bicycle or one of those electric scooters, but enough patients come into the ER with collision-related injuries for it to put you off the decision.
You're caught off guard when Dr. Park reaches over and unbuckles your belt; the strap swings over your arm, knocking you out of the daze. His fingers had brushed right over your thigh; it made your heart skip a beat.
He hasn’t said anything since leaving the Pitt; you are too afraid to start any conversations with him. It’s different now; you’re not at work, and he’s not the one that has to keep bossing you around, so why do you still feel so out of control?
Dr. Park is scary. A forceful presence that moves through surgical theaters and emergency rooms with an unaltered ease. People lower their heads when he passes, too scared to look him in the eye. He attracts a respectable audience; everyone knows who he is and what he can do. But you notice something the moment he unlocks and opens his front door.
It’s like a blanket of snow falling to the ground. He sighs deeply after throwing his keys into a lone dish bowl on the kitchen counter.
“There’s food in the fridge. Eat something. I’m going to have a shower.” He confirms, voice like a commanding officer. “The room is down the hallway; make yourself at home.”
He doesn’t let you respond like always, but he does turn to look at you. His head tilts, not like he’s confused, more like he's asking a question he already knows the answer to. You want to protest; you don’t want to eat his food despite how hungry you are. You don’t want to make yourself at home; this is his home, and yours is much smaller and much more familiar.
Dr. Park shucks his jacket off and slips it over a hook where others sit. The dark grey North Face windbreaker sticks out to you, and so does the matching puffer vest. You can’t wait until the day you’re able to spend so much money on such simple things.
His fridge is taller than you, with shelves lined with fresh fruit and expensive meats wrapped in paper. There’s a stack of glass containers, each containing a portion of prepped food. You take one out and lift the lid. Inside is an array of proteins, chicken and beef, alongside some roasted root vegetables. It makes you snicker under your breath, of course. Of course this is what he eats. Probably pairs it with a post-workout smoothie or something.
Even the microwave is fancy, stainless steel, and sleek.
The meal is good—of course he can cook too—but you're too tired to think much about it. Dr. Park comes back out once you're done, his hair slightly damp and messy. There’s a faint blush on his cheeks, the heat of the water warming his blood. You hum to yourself, cute.
He pauses in front of you behind the counter, brow twitching. You choke. That wasn’t said aloud, right? His face quirks, not quite a smile, but still an amused look. Oh god.
“Taste alright?” He asks, and you bite down on your tongue. What?
He notices your silence and chooses to ease your panic. “The food.”
“Oh, yes. Thank you.”
He nods, looking at you in a way you can’t possibly explain. He always seems to be doing that, enough to the point where others have taken notice. Princess, one of the day shift nurses especially. She was an observer. Or noisy, one would say. A couple of weeks ago was when she noticed your predicament with Dr. Park.
“Are you sleeping with him?” She questioned, leaning over the computer you were typing on. Scandalised, you denied it with warm cheeks. Princess laughed, a belly laugh that caught the attention of others around. You were not sleeping with him; that was crazy. He’s your superior; it’s not even legal. Well, maybe it’s not technically illegal, but it’s still wrong.
But the truth of it was clear to anyone with eyes. You liked him; he was good-looking and very smart. Your mother would be proud, a rich man with focused hands. You never quite figured out how he felt about you, though. It didn’t matter; it was just a simple crush on your side, proximity gained. Though the way he talked to people warmed parts of you much lower.
The spare bedroom was as big as your living room and kitchen combined. The bed was neat, with the sheets and duvet tucked tight into the mattress. On the opposite side there was a chest of drawers, dark oak and heavy like the tree it came from. You can’t sleep. You should be sleeping; it’s late, but you don’t even feel tired. Your mind is racing with memories of the week and events of the past evening. You're in his house. Sleeping in his spare bedroom like it’s normal. It’s not normal, not in the slightest. But why does it feel so normal? Like maybe, one day, it could be? You roll over, the layers moving with you as a car honks in the distance.
You’d really have to figure out another idea; you could not, under any circumstances, stay in his apartment again.
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