犬き🍃 @inukiiexe - Tumblr Blog

pairing: megumi fushiguro x f!reader

content: 18+, knight!megumi x princess!reader, oral sex, affair mentioned.

the hour is late enough that the castle has softened around the edges, the corridors emptied of footsteps and the stone itself seeming to exhale after a day of ceremony and vigilance.

your chambers are lit only by taper candles set into iron sconces along the walls, their flames wavering gently as utahime moves through the room with the practiced quiet of someone who has done this for most of your life, drawing the curtains closed against the night air, loosening the pins from your hair one by one until the careful weight of it falls free down your back.

the bed has already been turned down, silk sheets smoothed and scented faintly with lavender and dried rosemary, a luxury your mother insists upon for sleep and for appearances alike.

beyond the windows, the courtyard lies in shadow, pale stone washed silver beneath the moon.

utahime hums under her breath as she helps you from your outer gown, fingers deft and familiar, tying the ribbons of your nightdress with care. she pauses only when you hesitate, standing too still, hands clasped in front of you as if bracing yourself.

“is something the matter, my lady?” she asks softly, already knowing the answer.

you shake your head once, then twice, the lie too thin to hold. “would you fetch sir fushiguro for me,” you say, keeping your voice even. “i remembered something about the eastern stair. i wanted to ask him about the night guard.”

utahime’s mouth quirks despite herself, the faintest curve betraying her amusement. she reaches out and smooths a wrinkle from your sleeve, indulgent.

“of course,” she says. then, more gently, “your mother expects you awake early tomorrow. she mentioned it twice at supper. please try not to keep him long, you will need your rest.”

“i know,” you say quickly. “i promise.”

utahime studies your face for a moment, fondness and knowing settled deep in her eyes. she has drawn your baths, dried your tears, taught you the etiquette your mother never had the patience for. there is very little about you she does not understand.

“i will fetch him,” she repeats, and slips from the room before you can change your mind. the door closes behind her with a soft click.

silence rushes in to fill the space. you sit on the edge of the bed, then rise again almost immediately, pacing the length of the chamber, bare feet soundless against the rushes. your thoughts refuse to still.

you do not think about crowns or treaties or suitors, you think only of him, your knight.

of the way megumi fushiguro stands as though the world might strike at any moment, of the quiet gravity that seems to follow him through every room, of how his attention, when it settles on you, feels like something holy.

you have loved him longer than you can properly name, this you know to be true.

you love him in the way described in the books your mother used to read to you, stories of princesses not unlike yourself, and you often find yourself imagining that he might be your knight in shining honor as well, that he could save you from the tower you were born into, from this legacy of loneliness and politics, with nothing more than his gentle spirit and his kind smile.

and it has nothing to do with duty and nothing to do with obedience. you love the way he listens as if every word matters, the way his eyes soften when you laugh, the way he never interrupts even when you ramble.

you love the restraint carved into him by years of training, and the rare moments when it cracks just enough to let something human show through.

you love him so fiercely that the title of princess feels incidental, an inconvenience, a nuisance that insists on placing you above him when all you want is to be near.

it is a shame lord marshal gojo, in all of his hypocrisy after years of day-drinking with your older brother, has frightened the joy out of all of them, you think. the castle would be a far livelier place otherwise.

the most scandalous thing megumi has ever done remains burned into your memory. that night, months ago, when you stole a flask of hippocras from the cellar and coaxed him onto the balcony overlooking the inner court, the stone still warm from the day.

he had been terrified of being caught, eyes darting to every shadow, fingers stiff around the cup you pressed into his hands.

you, less so. you had tasted wine at feasts before, to your mother’s vocal dismay, who once remarked that drink would give you your father’s stomach.

megumi held his far worse than you did, cheeks flushed, words loosening, his shoulders finally dropping as laughter escaped him in quiet, surprised bursts.

you remember the softness of his lips as something startling in its own right, the way they hovered for a breath too long before touching yours, as if he were asking permission without words, his hands warm where they came to rest at your jaw, thumbs brushing your cheeks with a care that made your chest ache.

it was your first kiss and every part of you seemed to register it at once, the faint taste of spiced wine on his mouth, the uneven rhythm of his breathing, the way your own hands trembled where they clutched the front of his tunic, unsure where they were allowed to go, unsure of anything except the certainty that this moment mattered.

his lips moved against yours slowly, reverently, as though he were afraid of breaking something sacred, and when you kissed him back, clumsy and earnest, you felt his breath hitch in surprise, felt the quiet sound he made against your mouth before he pulled back just enough to look at you.

his cheeks were flushed from the drink and from the courage it had given him, his eyes dark and bright in the moonlight, fixed on you with an intensity that made your pulse race. he rested his forehead against yours, still cradling your face, as if grounding himself.

“i think about you more than i should,” he murmured, the words unguarded and fragile, as though they had slipped free before he could stop them. “i wish for days where you wake without being claimed by duty. i wish i could give you that.” his thumb traced a small, unconscious circle at your cheek, his touch steady even as his voice wavered.

he swallowed, breath warm between you. “i wish i were allowed to stand beside you in the way my heart already does.”

the confession settled over you like a benediction, heavy and intimate, and you felt something inside you shift and settle into place, a warmth spreading through your chest that had nothing to do with the wine or the night air.

when he kissed you again, it was softer, surer, his lips lingering as though memorizing the shape of you.

you remember guiding him through the halls afterward, his steps unsteady, the two of you barely making it to the stair before yuji appeared, grinning and far too helpful, and together you managed to get megumi back to the knights’ quarters without incident.

the next morning, megumi was himself again, composed and distant, attentive but never too close. he never spoke of it, and you never asked. sometimes you wonder if he remembers it at all.

a knock sounds at the door.

your heart lurches. you cross the room too quickly, catching yourself at the last moment, smoothing your nightdress before pulling the heavy door open.

megumi stands in the corridor, lamplit and solemn.

he is off duty, which you notice immediately. no armor, no helm. instead, he wears a dark wool tunic belted low at the waist, the fabric softened by wear, sleeves rolled back to his forearms where muscle and old training scars catch the candlelight.

his boots are still dusted with grit from the yard, as though he came straight from patrol without stopping to collect himself, and his hair sits in unruly spikes that refuse discipline, framing a face that remains almost boyish despite everything expected of him.

there is a gentleness to his features that never quite disappears, the slight curve of his mouth, the earnest set of his eyes, and in the spill of moonlight from the corridor his skin seems to glow faintly, warm against the cold stone.

the collar of his tunic hangs loose, shifting when he breathes, revealing a narrow sliver of skin at his collarbone that draws your gaze before you can stop yourself. you feel your pulse respond to it, traitorous and immediate.

for a fleeting second, his eyes flick downward, brief enough that you almost convince yourself it never happened at all, landing somewhere near your mouth. hope sparks anyway, sharp and unwelcome, and you wonder whether the thin sheen of balm utahime pressed onto your lips at your insistence tonight, beeswax softened with rose oil, looks as pretty as you imagined it might.

the thought lingers, unsteady and fragile, as his gaze lifts again, solemn and attentive, leaving you uncertain whether the moment belonged to both of you or only to your wanting.

“princess,” he says, bowing his head. his voice is steady, low. “you sent for me.”

“yes,” you say, stepping aside. “please, come in.”

he hesitates, just briefly, eyes flicking to the side as if the lord marshal himself might materialize from the stairwell at any moment, white hair and disapproval fully formed, and you can see the protest lining up behind megumi’s mouth before he allows himself inside.

he steps over the threshold, hands folding behind his back out of habit, posture straight even without steel, discipline settling into him like a second skin.

you close the door, careful with the latch, and the chamber seems to contract around the two of you. the space feels altered, charged in a way that makes you suddenly uncertain where to stand.

megumi remains near the door, rigid and alert, like a startled hart at the forest’s edge, all coiled awareness and readiness to flee.

“It’s quite late,” he says quietly. “are you unwell, princess. do you feel in danger?”

the question is immediate, instinctive, the knight surfacing before anything else. you gnaw at your lower lip at the absurdity of it, at how quickly his mind moves to threat and blood and steel.

he is always like this. always prepared, always braced.

“no,” you say, a little breathless despite yourself. “nothing like that. i just… i had a question.”

you sound nervous to your own ears. you feel nervous. you cross the room and stop by the window, lifting the curtain just enough to let the moonlight spill inward, pale and generous, washing the stone and the silk and the quiet shape of him where he stands.

the courtyard below lies hushed and open, silvered rooftops and empty paths stretching out beneath the stars.

“it’s a beautiful night,” you say softly. “isn’t it?”

megumi follows your gaze, shoulders easing by a fraction as he looks out over the grounds he has patrolled a hundred times. “it is,” he says after a moment. “clear. good visibility.”

you smile despite yourself.

to steady him, and perhaps yourself, you add, “lord marshal gojo is not prowling the halls. i saw him slip out of the castle after compline, wearing his good cloak. he is certainly keeping some woman awake right now.”

the sound that leaves megumi surprises you both, a quiet snort he immediately attempts to suppress. his mouth tightens, though amusement lingers in his eyes, and something in your chest lifts at the sight of it, at this small proof that he can still loosen, still be human.

you turn back toward the window because you do not trust your voice, your words thinning the closer they come to truth, your gaze fixing stubbornly on the moonlit stones below.

“do you remember,” you say, drawing a careful breath, “the night we went onto the gallery, above the inner court?”

silence stretches. somewhere in the dark, an owl calls from the outer wall, and farther off you hear the low snort of a horse settling in its stall, the muted clink of chains, the soft creak of timber as the castle breathes in its sleep.

from here, you can see the path you took that night, the narrow strip of stone where you lingered too long, the bend in the courtyard where his shadow fell beside yours.

“i do,” megumi says.

your heart stumbles at the certainty in his tone. you curl your fingers into the hem of your nightdress, twisting the fabric between them as if anchoring yourself, pulse loud enough to feel behind your eyes. you wonder if the memory lives in him the way it lives in you, persistent and unquiet, returning at odd hours and refusing to be set aside.

you can hear megumi shift, can hear the weight redistributing as though he is choosing his footing with care.

“i think about it often,” he says, his voice low, shaped carefully as though even the walls might betray him if he allowed it any more volume, and when he adds, “more than i should,” it sounds like something he has admitted only once, only now, trusting the quiet of your chamber to keep it without consequence.

you turn then, finally, moonlight at your back, and meet his eyes. in this light they appear bluer than you have ever seen them, clear and intent, the color deepened by shadow and closeness, and the air between you feels fragile, held together by breath alone, as though a single careless movement might shatter it.

“i should not,” he adds quietly, almost hastily. “i know that.”

“i think about it too,” you say, your gaze drifting to the carved edge of the oak table beside the bed, tracing the worn pattern with your eyes as if it might steady you. “more than i ever meant to.”

“you,” he starts, then stops, lifting his head to meet your eyes again. his expression is careful, restrained, tension set into the line of his mouth. “you should not say things like that.”

“i know,” you reply. “i have run this predicament through my mind countless times.” your thoughts turn, unbidden, to your parents, to the narrow future they have planned for you, to how you cannot yet see a path that allows you to have him fully.

your fingers rise to your lip, gnawing at it as doubt creeps in, and you wonder briefly whether he feels burdened by your selfishness, by being summoned to your chambers, by the memory of the gallery and the night you stole together, your own longing clouding over what you were taught to call better judgment.

“do you regret it?” you ask.

“no,” he says. “i have never regretted it.”

“then why did you never speak of it again?” the plea slips into your voice despite yourself, confusion threading through every word.

megumi’s voice stays low. “because if i spoke of it,” he says, “i would want more.” he swallows. “and wanting more is dangerous for the both of us.”

“megumi,” you say softly, “i have spent my whole life being told what is dangerous.” the words gather speed as they leave you.

“i am not to leave my corridors at certain hours. i have had one female friend my entire life, and she is my handmaiden, twenty years my senior. i have never seen the rolling hills my mother is from, though my father and brother have crossed the sea and returned many times over. i am to be sent to the highest bidder as soon as my parents decide i am ready.” you step closer to him as you speak, each word tightening in your throat, the familiar pressure building there, heavy and hot, the way it always does when you are close to tears and determined not to let them fall.

“am i not allowed to want this one thing?” your voice fractures despite your effort, the sound thin and unsteady, fear threading through it before you can pull it back. “is it so wrong to want love?”

the question trembles between you, carrying the quiet terror you do not name aloud, the thought that presses at the back of your mind, persistent and cruel, that this moment might be singular, that chances like this do not come twice in a lifetime, and that if you let it pass, you may never be allowed to want again.

you step away from the window, slow and deliberate, the distance between you shrinking by inches. “megumi,” you say, steadier now, “i want you to show me.”

his brow tightens. “show you what, my—”

you cut him off before the title can land. “i want you to show me how you remember it.” you lift your chin a fraction, your hands trembling despite your resolve.

silence stretches. you can hear his breath now, controlled and shallow. “if i do, princess,” he says carefully, “i will not be able to pretend afterward.”

“i am not asking you to pretend,” you reply.

he swallows. “this is not something i should lead.”

you stop a step away from him, close enough that the warmth of his body reaches you, close enough that you can feel the quiet steadiness of his breath. “then lead me only this once,” you say, the words measured but trembling at their edges, and beneath them hangs the unspoken question, fragile and aching, whether this is the only time you will ever be allowed to ask.

his gaze drops, just briefly, to your mouth, then lifts again, resolve settling into his features with quiet inevitability. “if you wish it,” he says.

“i do,” you answer.

the space between you closes with deliberate care. megumi moves first, slow enough that every inch feels accounted for, his presence steady and certain as his hand lifts to your face, palm warm against your cheek, thumb resting just beneath your eye as though he is memorizing you by touch.

there is a faint scent to him, clean wool and leather, the trace of iron from the yard, the softer warmth of skin heated by movement and candlelight, something grounding and familiar that settles deep in your chest.

his lips meet yours gently, the contact light enough that you feel it everywhere at once. there is the slight roughness of his mouth, faintly chapped from wind and duty, the warmth of his breath, the careful way he adjusts when he feels you lean into him.

your heart stutters, then surges, sensation blooming sharp and sudden, a rush that makes your hands curl into the fabric of his tunic as though you might float away without the anchor of him. he lingers there, unhurried, as if the moment deserves patience, as if the world beyond your chamber has agreed to wait.

his other hand comes to rest at your jaw, fingers firm and protective, and when he kisses you again it is deeper, still chaste, still controlled, yet laden with all the wanting he has kept leashed for so long. you feel it in the way his thumb strokes your cheek, in the quiet sound he makes against your lips, in the way his breath falters when you kiss him back.

“look at you,” he murmurs, the words pressed softly into the narrow space between kisses, his voice low and careful, then, barely above a whisper, an exhale of your name against your mouth, the sound more breath than speech, and the quiet vibration of it sends warmth rushing through your cheeks, down your neck, settling deep in your chest.

hearing it like that, unguarded and unadorned, without title, feels intimate in a way that makes your breath falter, the knowledge of being known spreading through you with an intensity you do not attempt to hide.

the kiss steadies you even as it undoes you, warmth spreading through your chest and down your spine, a feeling both dizzying and sure.

for a suspended moment, there is only this, his hands holding you with care, his lips moving against yours with quiet devotion, the candlelight flickering around you as though bearing witness to something rare and fragile and achingly real.

his lips return to yours, firmer this time, the kiss deepening with the press of his body. your breath hitches as he moves slowly, mouth shifting to the corner of yours, then lower, to your jaw, to the hollow of your throat.

this is no longer megumi the quiet squire with ink-stained fingers and downcast eyes at court banquets, the one who bowed too low when addressed by title and spoke only when summoned. this is someone else, someone older, shaped by want.

a man, perhaps—one who has suffered the long reach of yearning and now tastes the fruit he was certain would be withheld until death.

the kisses he lays on you are deliberate, slow, wet, reverent. when his tongue brushes your skin and his teeth scrape gently, you feel something ripple through you—shock, heat, want—something curled and forbidden, something no embroidered psalter or catechism scroll had ever dared name.

none of this had been in the volumes your mother read aloud in the solar, beside the brazier where you learned to stitch. no saint ever spoke of this. no maiden in legend swooned like this beneath a knight’s mouth.

these were the things whispered of behind drawn velvet, in corridors thick with shadow. things suguru and lord marshal satoru spoke of in jest after returning from the taverns in the town’s south quarter—where the low houses of pleasure stood in plain sight, veiled by nothing but their red lanterns and the shame of those who dared to enter.

it is scandalous. profoundly so. this moment should never have come to pass. you are a princess of noble blood, daughter of a baronial house, and he is a knight sworn to your father's name.

if found, he could be whipped, branded, sent to the abbey in irons. and yet—his mouth trails fire across your skin. his hands, steady though his breath is not, cradle you with such care it makes your chest ache.

it is wrong. but in the candlelight, it feels ordained.

he sucks lightly at your neck, just above the collar of your nightdress. the soft flick of his tongue, the brief pull of suction, the heat of his breath—it coaxes a sound from you, his name slipping out before you can think to swallow it back.

“megumi—”

the syllables fall into him. he groans, quietly, like the sound is drawn from the depths of him, muffled into your skin. your knees nearly give when the backs of them strike the bed. the pressure of your body against the mattress halts your retreat, and your nightgown slips from one shoulder, baring the slope of your collarbone to the air. the skin there has only been seen by utahime, perhaps your mother, the occasional midwife during fever. now, it lies beneath his mouth.

he kisses the exposed bone softly, and your hands rise before you think, tangling in the thick mess of his hair—softer than you had ever dared hope, finer than lambswool. you had wondered, more than once, what it would feel like in your fingers.

his hands bracket your hips as you remain seated at the edge of the bed, your knees parted, your nightdress bunched about your thighs. he stands between your legs, tunic sleeves rolled. you feel the heat of him through the cloth still between you, feel the press of his body where your legs hook around his waist, ankles crossing behind him with a mind of their own.

you lean up, brushing your lips just behind his ear, close enough that your breath ghosts warm along his skin. megumi exhales sharply at the contact, the sound torn from him before he can restrain it, quick and exquisite, and you feel it resonate through you, a vibration that settles low as you take him in like this, so near, framed between your knees, the heat of him unmistakable.

your fingers lift to his chin, guiding his face back toward you with a gentleness that belies your intent, thumb resting at the corner of his mouth.

“tell me, my knight,” you whisper, the words shaped carefully, breath-soft and dangerous, “are you here to serve your lady…” you nip lightly at the shell of his ear, a brief, daring touch, and finish in a murmur meant for him alone, “or ruin her?”

the color blooms at the tips of his ears at once, vivid and unguarded. his jaw tightens, and yet he does not look away.

“i am sworn to you,” he says quietly, the vow steady and unembellished. “and i will bear what that oath asks of me.”

his mouth returns to yours like he cannot stay away. each kiss arrives slower than the last, longer, drawn from some deep reserve he has kept sealed for years. his hand rises, cupping your cheek, thumb sweeping your temple in a soothing arc as though to anchor both of you to the moment.

the kissing remains unhurried, deliberate, a patient claiming that leaves you breathless just as he draws back, only just enough to see you, enough to hold your gaze. his fingers trail down, tracing the edge of your thigh where skin meets the fine linen of your nightgown, the fabric gathered high from where you sit, his touch respectful and intent all at once, the promise of what comes next suspended in the candlelit air.

“may i?” he asks, voice low, barely more than air. his eyes stay fixed on yours, searching. “i want to taste you.” there is no tremor in his tone, yet it carries the weight of restraint shaped over years.

a boy raised within the discipline of the lists and the chapel, taught the stance of a knight before he was taught ease, schooled beneath the watchful eye of the lord marshal, where correction came swift and praise came sparingly.

long before he bore your colors, he stood beside lord marshal gojo in the great hall and watched the princes of other kingdoms approach in turn, bowing low to press their lips to your hand in formal homage, the ritual kiss of fealty offered beneath hanging banners and the measured gaze of courtiers.

he was meant to study the posture of the knights flanking those princes, the angle of the spine, the placement of the feet, the stillness required of a sworn man, and yet, his eyes never left you. they could not leave you.

he learned early how to carry himself, how to be silent when silence was demanded, how to endure the long hours that forged boys into weapons. and even then, he found himself lingering behind the others as they returned to the quarters at dusk, slowing his steps so he might glimpse you crossing the cloister on your way to lessons in deportment.

he watched you plead with your handmaiden to delay them another day, your stubbornness bright and familiar, and he smiled to himself, a private thing he kept hidden.

that smile has never left him, returning even now when you lean close to whisper a remark at court, when prince suguru begins one of his careful speeches and the lord marshal echoes him like paired hounds baying in unison, and megumi bites at his lip to preserve the gravity expected of him.

he is sir megumi fushiguro, sworn knight of the realm, bound to the princess by oath and silence. the fool who has fallen in love with the princess. the hanged man, hands bound behind his back by devotion, suspended by longing, a quiet martyr to a cause that asks everything of him. he places his life at hazard for the mere grace of your touch, for the benediction of your mouth on his.

if he is to die tomorrow for treason to the crown, let the memory of your lips on his be the last blessed thing he carries from this life.

it is the gentle nod of your head, the soft murmur of “yes” that leaves your mouth, that tells him he has been granted permission, and the word settles into him like a final wish, something he had never dared hope would be fulfilled.

his thoughts reel for a moment, unsteady, as his hands guide your thighs apart and he lowers himself between them, breath catching at the sight of your skin bared for him beneath the wavering candlelight.

your thighs are warm beneath his palms, scented faintly with the rosewater and sweet almond oil utahime has tended you with since childhood, the same fragrance that has followed you through the keep like a quiet herald.

he presses a kiss to your inner thigh, then another, each one slow and deliberate, his lips sinking into the softness as though he has known this in dream and only now wakes to it in truth.

he lifts your nightgown further, pushing the fine linen up over the curve of your stomach, revealing skin untouched by any eyes save your attendants’. you watch him through half-lidded eyes, your breath unsteady, your fingers curling into the sheets as he uncovers your smallclothes, the delicate chemise linen thinned by wear and softened by lye and lavender.

he bends closer, worshipful, and places a kiss upon the dampened spot that has gathered at your mound, the wetness visible even through the fabric. the contact makes your breath catch as he inhales softly, as though committing the scent of you to memory, sliding the garment aside with careful fingers, exposing you to the cool air and to the warmth of his gaze.

his breath warms the tender skin he has bared, and when he lowers himself fully, his nose brushes the small tuft of hair that crowns your mound, soft and fine from the oils and unguents your attendants have worked into your skin since childhood.

the touch sends a tremor through him. he inhales carefully, as though the scent alone might undo the discipline carved into him through years of training in the yard and the chapel cloister. the faint tickle of that downy hair grazes his nose again when he leans closer, and you feel the delicate shiver that runs through him at the closeness of it.

his mouth finds you with a gentleness that borders on devotion. he spreads you with slow, reverent strokes of his tongue, tasting you as though this is a sacrament, his lips parting to gather the wetness he coaxed from you with his kisses and his vows.

the first pull of his mouth around the small pearl of flesh at the top of your heat draws a sharp, startled cry from you, your thighs tightening around his head in pure instinct.

he does not press you apart, instead, he holds you exactly as you come to him, his hands sliding beneath your thighs, fingers splaying across the warmed skin as though anchoring himself.

his tongue circles you with unhurried precision. the sucking is soft at first, cautious, his lips forming a seal around the tender nub and drawing it into his mouth with such care that your back arches from the bed. the silken sheets bunch beneath your fists as you grip them, the fabric slipping against your palms with every tremor that runs through you.

moonlight gathers across the room, falling through the arrow-slit window in a pale column that illuminates you both, casting the bed in a silvered glow that feels like the painted miniatures in the margins of illuminated psalters, scenes of lovers and saints alike bathed in holy light.

your breath comes unsteady, broken by soft cries he drinks down like prayer. his shoulders strain beneath the thin linen of his undertunic, muscles flexed as he holds your thighs wide, his forearms taut from the effort.

below you, between you like this, he looks nothing like the slight, disciplined knight you watch from afar at court feasts. he looks powerful like this, molded by desire and duty both, his brow furrowed in concentration as he eats you with a purpose that borders on fervor.

his tongue laves you again, broad and slow, followed by a delicate flick against the pearl of you that sends heat unfurling low in your stomach, your head falling back against the pillows, hair spilling across the embroidered cloth in waves.

you babble his name without thinking, the syllables tangled with half-formed pleas, the cadence of your upbringing surfacing in your desperation—“for mercy’s sake,” you gasp, “megumi, please—”

he answers you with his mouth, not lifting his head, his tongue stroking deeper, his lips drawing gentle suction that makes your stomach coil tighter as he holds your thigh with one hand and slides the other higher, his fingertips pressing lightly into the soft crease where your leg meets your hip, grounding you yet again.

megumi, your sweet megumi with his unruly hair and the too-long limbs shaped by years in hauberk and brigandine, your knight, your undoing, is as precise as he is tireless when he sets his mouth to you, an unexpected force, an underdog who rose from the training yard with a will tempered like steel, a trojan horse of quiet skill and hidden fervor.

he is relentless. devoted. steady as the castle stones beneath you both.

the pleasure builds in you slowly at first, then swiftly, gathering like summer storm clouds over the valley. heat curls through your belly and spreads along every limb until you can scarcely tell where your body ends and his devotion begins.

his tongue circles you again, careful and intent, and your breath stutters into a soft cry. your hips lift from the bed, guided by nothing but instinct, and his hands tighten around your thighs to steady you as he continues, his mouth closing over the tender pearl of flesh with patient precision. you feel your pulse beating there under his tongue, sharp and insistent.

your toes curl against the sheets. your fingers tug helplessly at the embroidered silk, pulling at it as though the fabric itself can anchor you.

the moonlight spills across the chamber floor in a pale ribbon, climbing the posts of your bed and catching the gleam of his dark hair as he works between your legs, the tension almost impossible to bear.

your back arches in a perfect bow, the sweep of your nightgown falling from your shoulder as your body strains toward him. the world narrows to the point where his mouth meets you, to the broad strokes of his tongue and the soft suction that undoes you utterly.

the climax hits like a drawn bowstring loosed from the archer’s hand, heat bursting through your limbs. almost as if your limbs belong to someone else entirely, your thighs clamp around his head, breath fracturing into a cry that almost certainly echoes off the stone walls. your body trembles in waves, each one rolling through you with a force you have never known.

megumi holds you steady as you shudder, his fingers digging gently into the soft flesh at your hips, his mouth still tasting you, coaxing every last tremor from you until you cannot bear a moment more.

you reach down blindly, fingers tangling in his hair, and tug him upward with a gasp. “stop—i cannot— please—” he pulls back at once, lips shining, breath unsteady, and kneels between your legs as though awaiting judgment.

“forgive me,” he says softly. “did i bring you pain, my lady?”

you shake your head, still trembling. “n-no,” you manage, voice small and uncertain, “it was… it was very good, but… where did you learn such things?” the question leaves you shy, your voice dipping as though fearful of being overheard by saints carved into the chapel rafters.

megumi’s cheeks flush crimson. he averts his eyes for a moment.

“i have never touched a woman,” he says quietly. “your brother and the lord marshal speak freely of their visits to the bathhouses in the south ward, where the women are paid to instruct men in matters of pleasure. i tried to follow what i believed would please you.”

you wrinkle your nose at that, some combination of amusement and affection warming your chest, and before he can withdraw further into embarrassment, you reach for him, guiding his face to yours and kissing him deeply, your taste still lingering on his lips.

he shivers when you draw your tongue along the seam of his mouth, his hands rising to cradle your waist, steady and adoring.

it is utahime who wakes you at first light, long before the castle cockerel cries, long before the bells toll for lauds. she slips into your chamber with the practiced silence of a woman who has served three reigns and kept more secrets than any chronicler would dare set to parchment.

she takes one look at you—hair mussed, lips swollen, gait unsteady as you shift beneath the coverlet—and she sighs softly through her nose, already knowing, already understanding, already preparing.

“my lady,” she murmurs, drawing open the shutters only halfway so the dawn does not wound your eyes, “i have set the copper tub by the hearth. the water is warm, steeped with lavender and comfrey. it will ease your soreness.”

you blush down to your collar and she pretends not to see it. she has known you since you were small enough to be carried on her hip. nothing in you is foreign to her.

she helps you into the bath, steadying your elbows as you lower yourself into the steaming water. the heat wraps around your hips, soothing the ache left by megumi’s mouth and hands, the ache you can still feel when you shift. your breath softens with relief as utahime kneels behind you and loosens your hair, her fingers deft as she works oil into the strands to restore their sheen.

when your eyes meet hers in the polished bronze mirror perched on the stool beside the tub, the two of you share a smile that needs no words. it is a smile of conspiracy, of sisterhood, of a secret held tenderly between women. she sees the glow in your cheeks, the languid heaviness in your limbs, the marks hidden beneath the waterline where megumi’s hands had gripped your thighs.

she says nothing of it as she brushes your hair with long, even strokes, the same way she did when you were a child frightened of thunder—yet her brow lifts with the smallest, most deliberate arch, a gesture that speaks in the quiet language of women who keep watch over girls they have raised.

“my lady,” she says lightly, as though mentioning the weather, “i trust no… consequences will come of last night’s folly?” her tone is mild, her expression serene, but the warning rests beneath her words like a hand placed gently atop yours.

your entire body heats at once, the steam of the bath no match for the flush rising up your throat. “o-of course not,” you murmur, voice barely above the lap of water against the copper. “i assure you, utahime, there shall be no cause for concern. sir fushiguro was… prudent.”

her lips purse, suppressing a knowing smile. “prudence is a virtue in a knight,” she remarks softly, “and a mercy to his lady.”

you sink further into the water, wishing briefly to disappear beneath it, mortified and warm and full of something soft that no scripture ever warned you against. utahime only continues brushing, gaze fond, as if she has watched a hundred young princesses bloom under the touch of love and still finds the sight unbearably dear.

the castle stones bear witness to nothing.

no guard patrolling the outer bailey knows why the princess swayed slightly as she crossed the cloister walk at dawn, her veil casting shadows over flushed cheeks.

no steward suspects why your voice faltered during the morning inventory of barley stores.

no courtier imagines the truth of the night spent behind the thick walls of the maiden’s chamber, where candle wax dripped slow and forgotten while a knight worshipped at the altar of your body.

only utahime knows.

and it is utahime who binds your hair in ribbons of silver and pearl on the morning of your betrothal to sukuna ryomen, king of the iron mountain, his hair as red as fresh-spilled wine and his temper as famed as his conquests.

she cinches your girdle with steady hands. she fastens the mantle lined with ermine across your shoulders. she places the bridal circlet upon your brow and whispers, “hold your head high, my lady.”

it is also utahime who tells your betrothed that you are unwell the day before, granting you a reprieve from the court’s scrutiny, knowing full well the source of your flushed cheeks and tender thighs.

it is utahime who touches up your hair after a certain knight, summoned to escort you to vespers, found reason to steal a final embrace in a shadowed passage. she swats him away with the tail of her ribbon, and megumi bows to her in apology, his face scarlet.

years pass, and yet it is still utahime who stands beside you at your lying-in, when you grip the carved posts of the birthing bed, sweat beading on your brow as the midwives urge you to bear down. she wipes your face with a damp cloth, murmuring prayers taught in her own girlhood.

the chamber fills with the scent of burning tallow and crushed herbs, and your cries echo against the beams overhead. when your daughter finally enters the world with a fierce wail and a head of suspiciously dark hair, utahime is the first to lift her, to place the swaddled babe upon your chest.

she stays in your household as your children grow, braiding your daughter’s raven curls each morning and humming lullabies while brushing them smooth at night.

when the little girl asks for stories, utahime tells tales of princesses in high towers and the knights who loved them beyond reason, of stolen moments behind tapestry screens, of romances whispered through arrow slits at midnight. she smiles as she spins these tales, remembering the true one she witnessed unfold over the course of many years.

and when your daughter asks, “nurse, could such things ever be real?” utahime smooths her hair with hands softened by decades of service and answers the same way she once did for you.

“the heart,” she says gently, “is stronger than any kingdom’s law.”

inukiiexe

PEAKK AAUUU THE ENDING 😭😭😭

brooklyncircus

❝ FLOWERS ❞

⤷ Where Inumaki Toge learns that even the saddest memories can, in time, become something beautiful… into flowers.

Flowers had always seemed delicate to him. They were small beings worthy of devotion rather than possession, not something to be violently torn from the earth and destroyed at the root. They appeared to dance, he used to think, watching with quiet fascination as they swayed gracefully to the music of the wind.

Ever since he was a child, Inumaki Toge had adored gardens. To him, they were magical places—as though they were fragments of paradise on Earth whose true magnitude only he could comprehend. Because everyone else, anyone who was not him or his beloved grandmother, failed to understand. They only saw plants.

He saw magic.

Those carefully laid stone paths, built with effort and patience, always led him to the beautiful fountain at the centre of the garden. Large and circular, something he used to describe as enormous and breathtaking. Now, grown older, it reminded him of his grandmother, of silences heavy with unspoken words, of small corners filled with peace beyond the chaos of family life.

If Inumaki wished, he could still picture the wooden bench where he used to sit beside her, watching blue butterflies flutter through the air, or admiring the majestic flowers as they danced their gentle waltz to the wind, observing how nature followed its course without ever asking permission. Or how she would tell him in sign language that nature was like love, that one could try to rip it out by the roots like a beautiful flower, creating the false illusion of death, but love would always grow back again, no matter what.

But Inumaki had been far too young to understand what she meant. No matter how hard he tried, his heart was not yet ready to bloom in the way he somehow knew it would one day.

Or so he believed... until he met you.

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