hello and welcome !! i’m sen, also known as sennie or sen sen ♡︎ (she / they)
mid twenties, virgo sun pisces moon cancer rising
my blog is 18+! minors and ageless blogs pls do not interact; i follow / will rb a bit of dark content on occasion (i do my best to tag it but am only human - lmk if i miss anything!)
☆ feel free to jump into my ask box or dms to thirst or chat ♡︎
꒰ synopsis ꒱ ✶ between managing dynamight’s image and cleaning up his pr messes, you think you’re pretty good at keeping things under control. unless it comes to your feelings—you definitely can’t keep those under control ; or: you are bakugou katsuki’s perpetually nagging publicist, and he’s your most troublesome client. for some odd reason, that’s exactly why you both work
── ✶ WORD COUNT. (tba. but estimated 40-50k words) ; holy fuck this is the longest thing i’ve ever written so far. plssss give it a chance though!!!
── ✶ BEFORE YOU READ. female reader + feminine clothing ; publicist reader ; quirkless reader ; pro hero bakugou ; bakugou and kirishima run an agency together ; workplace romance ; many chronically online social media references ; smut (please read warnings on individual chapters!) ; villain attacks ; injuries + blood (nothing gory though) ; canon compliant + contains spoilers for timeskip ; fluff + bantering ; arguments + minor angst ; happy endings! ; mostly proof read
꒰ commentary ꒱ ✶ omg. i have no clue how this small idea blew up into a whole series but here we are lolllll
꒰ upload schedule ꒱ ✶ chapters will be uploaded once a week on friday evenings cst! (the first 33k words are already written i swear the chapters are coming)
── ✶ PART ONE (coming may 29th)
── ✶ PART TWO (coming june 5th)
── ✶ PART THREE (coming june 12th)
more tba. (there will be at least one more part but it might be more. idk yet it depends on how many words the ending scenes will be as i only have them roughly outlined so far)
you haven’t heard from your situationship for a month after he ended it with you. you decide to drunk call him one evening.
NOTES: part of my GREYSCALE series. this can work as a standalone but would make more sense if you read the other parts. if you’re here after the last part, thank u so much the messages and theories and responses. they have been so thrilling to read. see this part as a FILLER CHAPTER!! i just wanted to write them.
TAGS: situationship. angst. after the breakup. jealousy. class dynamics. insecurity. cigarettes. alcohol.
a positive reason for dating apps is that you get to cross paths with people you would have never come in contact with outside of it. you didn’t grow up in the same area, don’t work in the same field or have mutual friends. you’re not similar with the details you’d write on your resume but similar in all the ways that matter. like humour, music, morals, kinks and love languages.
though this tends to mean that after you stop seeing each other, there is no way for you to cross paths again. you don’t go to the same supermarkets, nor the same library since he isn’t a student, you definitely don’t attend the same sunday morning flea market or farmer’s market on mondays.
this is how it would go if you dated a normal man. it’s definitely how it’s going for the man who rushed out of your apartment roughly… fifteen days from now, if you’re definitely not counting.
new tomato soup from that brand you kind of like, the local glasses shop has a deal on, the band your roommate loves is going on tour and a luxury underwear brand with number four hero bakugou katsuki as the face. sprawled out in only his undies on white sheets, tyra banks smizing at the camera.
you have half the mind to smash the glass and pull out that poster because how dare he break your heart and show up at your nearest bus stop every forty one seconds. not only that but he flickers on your television in his full hero gear whenever you go onto the news channel, helping out another children’s hospital. and your fucking phone is either listening to you or eating those cookies wisely because every other post and advert on social media is about dynamight. also known as bakugou katsuki. also known as your ex something. your could have been. your so close but not quite.
you think you hate him. his gorgeous gold tooth smile as he laughs on television, how you suddenly become unsure how to use the remote when they interview him. his grumpy resting face, furrowed brows and deep raspy voice appearing as he describes working with the kids is “better than any hero work he’s ever done.” you roll your eyes. swallow the lump in your throat.
you groan aloud when the youtube adverts in your phd lecture includes pro hero dynamight shrugging with a breakfast bar in hand. “d’you wanna eat a bar that goes boom?” then he laughs, his fake one. not like the one he’d do when he’d lay in your arms at night as you tell him a story about your childhood. you get your whole class staring at you but all you can do is clench your fists under the table. you last about twenty minutes before rushing to the bathroom to have a cry, a short one with no traces you ever did it.
if it’s not through a screen or a poster. bakugou katsuki is the guest star in all your dreams. you have three common themes. one where he’s having sex with you. usually in your bed, his head between your legs or when he’s thrusting from behind. both times you never see his face but you know it’s him. every time it’s a cruel joke, expecting to finally see his pretty ruby eyes beside you when you wake up.
there’s another where you go down to the bus stop advertisement by your house and every advert is a picture of him with a different woman. every single one looking nothing like you. you’re stuck to the ground unable to leave, forced to watch him laugh, sling his arms around and kiss someone else. but then you turn around and he’s always there to tell you it’s not real. he wants you.
and lastly, one where the argument was worse. he swears at you. tells you you’re incapable of love. ruined by the last guy. how you don’t deserve him after knowing how much he wanted you and you ignored it. whenever you get that dream, you’re grateful to wake up.
you sit in the pub garden alone, your phone shining up at you, full phone number filled in. you haven’t drank enough to be making drunken mistakes but every exhale, still after four weeks feels like fingers are clutching on your heart.
you thought he’d text you the day after. maybe even two days after. he’d ask when he could collect his three hoodies he left at your apartment and his tool box that he forgot to drop back into his car after he fixed your wardrobe hinge in the summer.
two days drifted into a week so with a face full of tears and throat full of hiccups from your cocoon hut on your bed, you blocked his number. if he doesn’t want to text you, well fine, now he can’t even if he wanted to. you know it’s a stupid move as soon as you do it. your roommate says a quote she read off tumblr about how love has no ego, translated into maybe you should text him first.
but all the walls you had built up before seem to be plated over with titanium. he left you. but he’s waited so long for you. you fucked up big time. but how did he leave after you bared your heart out to him? you still aren’t ready.
the harsh wind slaps across your face and you tug your jacket tighter around your body. a shiver shakes through you but it only reminds you to relight your cigarette, tapping off the ash on the glass dish on the table. your tights coated leg bobs, rereading his number over and over again. if you press green, you could talk to him. how fucking good would it be to hear his voice again towards you, instead of talking to a reporter, trying to sell your something or educate you on road safety. for bakugou katsuki to just say your name again.
you take a swig of your cider and punctuate it with a drag of your cigarette. this isn’t you, but somehow it feels like you have been cut into before katsuki and after katsuki. after katsuki you would call him. before katsuki you would tell him to fuck himself.
you exhale the smoke through your teeth.
love has no ego.
you press that green button and the cold screen presses against your cheek. fuck. fuck. fuck. you haven’t yet considered the possibility of him not answering, what if he doesn’t want to talk to you. what if he blocked your number too? but it rings. it rings long enough for you to create trillions of possibilities of why katsuki wouldn’t answer your phone call. maybe he’s…
your dynamight obsessed algorithm did show you a paparazzi photo of bakugou with a woman in the back of a cab. whispering something in her ear, lips pressed to her lobe as she blushes. that image made you gag, rush to your bathroom to dry heave.
three beeps. you tap your cigarette. a dull tone. he didn’t pick up.
“oh you fucking—,”
his number flashes on screen… he’s calling you. shit you see in your dreams, here right now. you swing back another gulp of cider, glancing back at the bustling pub behind you. katsuki’s calling you.
you look back to the phone, heart rattling against your chest like it’s magnetised to the one on the other side of the line.
you press the green button again, phone to your cheek.
“h—hello?”
“yn.”
you could sob. you swear you were fine, you haven’t cried in three days, you’ve thought about him about ten percent less than this time last week and— fuck, nothing has changed.
“hi katsuki,” you breathe and it’s as if all the neurons in your brain have been set alight. serotonin and dopamine and all the happiest chemicals shooting down your body at once. the nicotine makes your skin buzz, everything mixed together soothing you like a fluffy blanket or a pacifier.
“are you okay? are you safe?”
you stub out your cigarette.
you can’t decipher his tone. a mixture of irritated, panicked and beneath it all, you think you can recognise the relief somewhere mixed in. you’re not drunk enough for this, at all.
“good. i’m gonna hang up now. i couldn’t have fuckin’…,” he sighs deeply and you can imagine him running his hand down his face, “anyway, bye yn.”
“wait!” you screech. you could apologise, beg for him to come back, that you’ll do better, be better. that you’ll let him in completely. it feels as if you’ve run a marathon, heaving at the finishing line, “you couldn’t have what?”
there’s a pause.
katsuki curses. he sounds deeper, like he’s aged in almost two months apart, “if you were callin’ me for help and i ignored it. wouldn’t have been able to handle it.”
“oh,” you exhale, fiddling with the loose string on your skirt. you don’t exactly know what to do with that. “i’m at the pub… i probably would call emergency services if i had trouble.”
the pauses between every sentence are too long, no natural flow like there used to be. it’s like everything is glaringly obvious. maybe breaking up was a good idea. you miss him terribly. you wonder where he is, usually he’d be at yours at nine thirty pm during the week.
“that’s smart. a hero closer could help you.” you think he’s awkwardly rubbing his nose or his eyes. you hear a scratch of his stubble against the mic. “yn… i’m gonna go now yn—,”
you’ve never heard him say your name so much.
“are you dating anyone? i saw… i was wondering if you…” perhaps you were drunker than you thought.
bakugou grunts, pained as if someone jabbed him right in the stomach. “i’m not answerin’ that.” and tacked on at the end, you hear it, muttered under his breath, “jumpin’ to conclusions.”
embarrassment becomes energy that bursts through you like you ate one of his stupid sponsored bars.
“of course, i am! all i see is you saving children, trying to shove another product in my face and a picture of you with a woman! why won’t you tell me?” you’re on the edge of tears, shaky breaths to stabilise yourself as you pull a loose thread right out of your skirt. “i… i….”
i hate you. you can’t even say the words.
you imagine him leaning back on his office chair, phone to his ear as he looks up to the ceiling. it’s a split second where bakugou wonders whether he should make you wonder like he does every night, if you’re laying in bed with another, if you’ve moved on. it’s a thrill to know you’ve been thinking the exact same as him.
“fuck,” he grits his teeth. he cannot bare the pain in your voice. “i’m not datin’ anyone. that’s my publicist.”
you want to ask more. you thought he fired her? why’d he keep her? did he take her to a fancy ass restaurant and did she like it? she probably fit right in. he doesn’t need a publicist. or to be working with a woman that pretty.
you chew on your bottom lip, it’s probably red raw at this point. you wipe under your eyes swiftly.
“i still have your hoodies and your t-tool box.”
he hums sharply. he knows. “you can keep them.”
your heart feels as if it’s leaking. “katsuki.”
pleading for more. for something.
“i miss you,” you try, whispering the words like they’re a secret the wind might carry. the problem was you didn’t give, you didn’t give him anything before. you can change. “i want to see you again.”
he’s probably looking at his palm, as if the future is written in his prints.
“i need…,” he sighs, “yn, we need—,”
but he gets cut off when a familiar voice calls you. panic runs through your veins, like a kid getting caught with their hand in the cookie jar.
“yn, you better not be on the phone to that man,” your roommate stomps over to you, “how many drinks have you—,”
“i’m not!” you wave your hand at her before she can get too close, you need more time. you’re not sure when you’ll be able to talk to him again. another month? “i’m talking to that guy from my module, we have a project together.”
“what guy?” bakugou butts in, then another annoyed sigh but this time at himself, “don’t answer that. for fucks sake.”
you blink, unsure to focus on the literal man of your dreams over the phone or your roommate now taking a hands on the hips power pose. she holds out her hand for you to drop your phone on.
“gimme.”
“it’s just for the project. it’s forty percent of the final—,” you say to bakugou but your roommate gasps.
“aha! give it to me or say bye to katsuki,” she pushes, “you shouldn’t be talking to him after weeks drunk.”
“i’m not even—, hey! i’m not even d-drunk!”
bakugou wishes he was in a different life, where you guys never went sour and you were his girlfriend drunk calling to say how much you miss him. not whatever this is, even if it is slightly amusing.
“i’m gonna hang up now. get home safe yn.”
“w-what wait—,” the last syllable is forgotten as a new voice takes over the phone.
“bye katsuki. i’ll make sure she gets home safe.”
“thank you.”
comments and reblogs are appreciated! i delete comments asking for the next part.
⋮ 𓏲ּ𝄢 ┆your a dutiful princess sent to marry the barbarian dragon king of the scarlet region for the sake of an alliance, only to find yourself caught between your terrifying new husband and the fiercely loyal dragon hybrid who slowly becomes just as possessive of you as the king himself.
⧼ 🏵️ ⧽ ∿ pairings 。 ⸝⸝ katsuki bakugo x fem!reader x eijiro kirishima 𓄲 genre ⨾ tropes 。 alternative universe (au: fantasy), romance, arrange marriage, polyamorous romance, mature themes, explicit sexual scenes, pwp 𓏲 contains 。 ᵎᵎ nsfw, 18+ only mdni, language, some world building, barbarian/dragon king!katsuki, dragon hybrid!eijiro, princess!reader, political marriage slight misogyny, slight jealousy, smut, threesome, dirty talks, virgin!reader, dom!katsuki, softdom!eijiro, oral (m & f receiving), unprotected piv sex, multiple orgasm, size kink, praise kink, breeding kink, slight degradation, missionary, cowgirl, cuckholding, spit roasting, pet names (princess, sweetheart, queen, good girl) ꩜ ⋆.˚ word count 。 18.8k ꔛ
꒰ star speaks ꒱ ✮ this idea was originally supposed to be just katsuki x reader but considering kiri is katsuki’s dragon companion in the fantasy au made me want to add him. . . and a lot of you thought the same because kiribaku x reader won the poll ( thank you to everyone who voted btw ) 👀 also, this is my version of the fantasy au considering there is not that much lore behind it. this took forever so here it is, ya nasties, hope you enjoy! ‹𝟹
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you were a princess, born with noble and royal blood that carried the weight of generations before you. it was a quiet certainty that had never once been questioned as it settled into every part of your life from the moment you first opened your eyes.
as the youngest princess of the emerald empire, your place in the world had been decided long before you were old enough to understand what it meant, long before you could even speak your own name.
your older brother was raised to be the heir, the future king who would rule with authority and knowledge, taught to lead and command and carry the legacy of your family forward, while you were something else entirely. you were softer in appearance but just as important. a princess who would one day be placed where she was most useful, a piece in the quiet and constant game that was the monarchy.
you were loved, there was never a doubt about that.
it showed in the way your parents looked at you, in way your brother indulged you, in the way the entire palace seemed to soften around your presence. you were the only princess, the youngest child, and you were treated as something precious, something to be protected and cherished, and they spoiled you in ways that made your life comfortable and warm, but even in that warmth there were rules that never changed.
your family was traditional, deeply so, and their love never wavered from the expectations they held for you.
from a young age, you were taught what it meant to be a woman in your position, and those lessons were repeated so often that they became second nature, something you accepted without hesitation.
a woman’s first duty was to be a wife, to stand beside her husband and give him children, however many he desired, without complaint, without question, because that was her purpose. the second duty followed naturally, to be a mother, to raise those children, to nurture them while the husband worked and ruled and carried on the responsibilities outside the home.
it was a cycle that had existed long before you and would continue long after, and you saw it in the women who came before you, in your mother who carried herself with quiet grace as she fulfilled her role, in your grandmother, in your great grandmother, and every woman in your lineage who had done the same without hesitation.
you never questioned it, not once, because it was all you had ever known, and there was a kind of comfort in that certainty.
this is what you are meant to be.
the thought came easily and without resistance, and you accepted it as truth.
while your father spent his time guiding your older brother through the complexities of ruling, teaching him about politics, the history of their land, the alliances and conflicts with foreign nations, you were guided down a different path entirely.
your mother oversaw your upbringing with careful attention, shaping you into what she believed a proper royal woman should be. she taught you discipline, how to hold yourself, how to move, how to speak with intention and restraint, and she taught you grace, the kind that made every action appear effortless even when it was practiced a thousand times before.
you spent countless hours learning what was expected of you, your days filled with lessons in etiquette where every gesture mattered, where the way you held a teacup or greeted a noble could reflect not just on you but on your entire family. you learned to dance, not simply for enjoyment but as a skill, something that would be required of you in court and gatherings, your steps precise and controlled under the watchful eyes of your instructors. you studied cultures beyond your own, memorizing traditions, customs, and expectations of other lands so that one day you would not embarrass your future husband’s court.
and above all else, you were taught obedience. it was a necessity. it would allow you to become the perfect wife you were meant to be.
you listened, you learned, and you never resisted, because there was nothing in you that wanted to. you were good, you were proper, you were everything they needed you to be.
so when the time finally came, when you reached the age where marriage was no longer a distant idea but an immediate reality, you did not protest when the arrangements were made, you did not question the decision when your future was decided for you.
you were told where you would go, who you would marry, and what it would mean for your kingdom, and you accepted it with the same quiet understanding you had always carried.
that was how you found yourself leaving the emerald empire, the only home you had ever known, and being sent to the scarlet region.
the difference between the two lands was impossible to ignore, it settled into your senses the moment you crossed the borders, the shift so stark that it almost felt unreal.
the emerald empire lived up to its name in every sense, a land rich with deep green forests that stretched endlessly, fields of flowers that bloomed in colors that softened the eye, rivers that reflected the sky like glass as they wound through the kingdom. the air there had always felt light, fresh, filled with the scent of earth and life, and the palace itself stood tall and elegant among it all, a place that felt open and welcoming even in its grandeur.
the scarlet region was something else entirely.
it rose from the land like something carved from the bones of the earth itself, a kingdom built atop a massive dark mountain that seemed to loom over everything around it. the stone was not polished or soft in appearance, it was jagged in places, heavy as if it had been shaped by fire and force rather than careful hands. the ground beneath it was uneven, darkened by ash and heat, and the closer you came, the more you could feel the difference in the air. it was thicker, warmer, carrying the faint scent of smoke that never fully disappeared.
the mountain itself stretched high, its peak often hidden behind dark clouds that clung to it as if they belonged there, and somewhere deeper within. there was the constant reminder of the volcano that gave the region its name, a presence that could not be seen fully but was always felt. it was not a place of soft beauty, it was a place that demanded attention. it felt alive in a harsher, more dangerous way, and yet there was something undeniably powerful about it.
the fortress that stood upon it was just as imposing, built from the same dark stone, rising high with sharp edges and heavy walls that spoke more of strength than elegance. it was not delicate, not meant to impress with grace, but with dominance, with the kind of presence that made it clear this was a kingdom that did not bend easily.
this was where you were meant to belong now, far from the green and gentle lands of your home, in a place that burned in scarlet and shadow, where everything far less forgiving.
and yet you stepped forward without hesitation, because this was your duty, and you had always known that one day you would be sent away to fulfill it.
you knew since you were ten.
the memory had settled into you quietly, it wasn’t a shock to you, it was inevitable. it had always been waiting for you even before you were old enough to understand what it meant.
it had been a warm afternoon in the emerald empire.
you had been seated beside your mother, your hands folded neatly in your lap as you were taught to do, your back straight even then because discipline had already rooted itself deep into your bones.
your father and your older brother had been speaking across the long table, their voices calm but firm, their words carrying weight even if you did not fully grasp them at the time. you remembered the way your mother’s hand rested lightly over yours, a silent instruction to listen, to pay attention, to understand that what was being discussed was important.
it was then that you first heard of the treaty.
not just a simple agreement, not just a passing arrangement between two lands, but something far more binding, something that would shape the future of both nations and, though you did not know it yet, your own life.
the emerald empire, prosperous and abundant, a land overflowing with natural wealth, had long held resources that other nations sought after. among them, the most prized were the emeralds themselves, stones that were not only symbols of status and power but also held practical value in trade, crafting, and even in certain forms of energy use that had been developed over time.
the scarlet region, in contrast, was not a land of abundance in that sense, but it held something far more dangerous and far more valuable in times of unrest.
power.
military strength that few could rival.
the treaty, as it had been explained in terms that would later become clearer to you as you grew older, was both an agreement of peace and a formal alliance. it was structured with precision, written in language that left little room for misinterpretation, signed under the authority of both ruling powers to ensure its permanence.
the emerald empire shall supply the scarlet region with an agreed upon and consistent quantity of emerald resources, the amount determined through mutual negotiation and subject to periodic reassessment under stable conditions.
in return, the scarlet region shall provide military support to the emerald empire, offering protection, reinforcement, and armed assistance in times of conflict, threat, or war, under the obligations defined within the alliance.
it was balanced and it made sense, even to those who were not directly involved in politics.
one land provided wealth, the other provided strength. together, they ensured stability, or at the very least, the illusion of it.
but treaties like that were rarely sealed by ink alone.
they required something more binding, something that ensured loyalty beyond written words.
and that was where you came in.
the alliance was finalized not only through the signatures of two rulers but through a betrothal.
between you, the youngest and only princess of the emerald empire and the sole heir of the scarlet region, katsuki bakugo.
you did not know his name at ten in the way you would come to know it later.
back then, it had just been a name spoken among many others, one that held importance but did not yet carry weight in your mind. you had simply listened, your gaze lowered as expected, your fingers resting against your mother’s as she gently squeezed your hand once, a quiet reassurance or perhaps a reminder.
this is your duty.
as you grew older, the details became clearer.
the scarlet region did not follow the same traditions as your homeland. where the emerald empire upheld strict customs, where succession was determined by lineage and only passed on upon death to the oldest son, the scarlet region operated under a different set of rules, ones that were far less rigid and far more dangerous.
there, a ruler could step down whenever they deemed it appropriate. there was no obligation to rule until death. there was no enforced waiting.
at first, it sounded almost freeing, almost progressive in a way that contrasted your own structured upbringing. but as you learned more, as history lessons became more detailed and less softened for your ears, you began to understand what that truly meant.
power did not remain in the hands of those who were unwilling to give it up.
not for long.
stories, whispered at first and then later taught more directly, spoke of rulers who had been found lifeless in their chambers, their bodies still and cold before any official declaration of abdication had been made. others were said to have fallen ill suddenly, their decline too quick, too convenient, leaving the throne open for the next in line.
poison.
assassination.
betrayal.
these were not rare occurrence, they were part of the system.
the scarlet region thrived on strength, and strength was proven not just in battle but in the ability to take and to hold power by any means necessary. it was a land where weakness was not tolerated, where hesitation could mean death, and where loyalty was often conditional.
they were barbaric in nature, as many in your homeland described them, though never in official statements. it was a quiet understanding, one that lingered beneath formal diplomacy.
and yet, despite that, or perhaps because of it, they were powerful.
that power was what your kingdom needed.
that power was what secured your fate.
katsuki bakugo had ascended the throne in his early twenties, far earlier than most rulers in your own land would have ever been allowed to. but his case had been different.
his father had never wanted the crown. that much had been made clear in every account you had heard.
he had ruled because he had to, because the position had been his responsibility, but there had never been any true desire behind it. and so, the moment he believed his son was capable, the moment he was certain that the boy had grown into someone strong enough to take over, he stepped down.
willingly.
a rare occurrence in a land where most rulers had power taken from them rather than surrendered.
that was how katsuki became king.
young, powerful, and already carrying a reputation that spread far beyond the scarlet region itself.
they called him the dragon king.
the title alone was enough to spark curiosity when you first heard it, but the explanation behind it made it something else entirely.
he rode a dragon.
not just any beast, not just some distant creature tamed through force, but one bound to him in a way that was deeper, more personal, more dangerous.
eijiro kirishima is a dragon hybrid and katsuki’s right hand, his closest companion, his weapon, and his ally.
the stories described them as inseparable, two forces that moved as one, their presence on the battlefield enough to turn the tide of war before it had even fully begun. it was said that when the dragon king took flight, when the skies burned with the presence of that creature beneath him, there was no room left for doubt.
fear followed then victory followed short after… always.
and now, that same man was the one you were meant to marry.
though the pair interested you more than anything.
hybrids were rare.
even in lands filled with strange creatures, old bloodlines, and ancient magic that had existed long before kingdoms were ever built, hybrids remained uncommon enough to be spoken about with curiosity and caution. stories about them traveled across nations in whispers and rumors, changing slightly depending on who told them, but one thing always remained the same.
once a hybrid found the one they belonged to, their loyalty became absolute.
it was said they did not serve the way ordinary soldiers served a king. it went deeper than duty and far beyond simple obedience. the bond between a hybrid and their chosen master was something fierce, instinctive, almost animalistic in nature. once formed, it lasted for life.
they protected, obeyed, and stayed.
even death itself was said to struggle separating a hybrid from the one they devoted themselves to.
you had heard stories growing up in the emerald empire. servants whispered about dragon shifters in hushed voices while preparing your baths or brushing your hair. noble women spoke of them with fascination during gatherings while men discussed them as weapons that could change the outcome of wars. some stories painted hybrids as dangerous beasts pretending to be human while others claimed they were more loyal than any knight sworn by oath.
you had never seen one before.
not until now.
the realization settled into you the moment the large doors of the throne room opened.
the room was massive, carved from dark stone that stretched high above your head into towering ceilings supported by enormous pillars etched with old markings and scars from time. fire burned from iron braziers mounted against the walls, their flames casting flickering orange light across the gloomy chamber. unlike the bright halls of the emerald empire filled with sunlight and polished marble, this place felt heavy.
ancient.
the air itself carried the faint scent of smoke and iron.
your footsteps echoed softly as you walked forward.
the king’s council and court lined both sides of the long walkway leading toward the throne, their eyes fixed entirely on you. warriors stood among nobles instead of guards standing separately from politicians like in your homeland. here they seemed to blend together into one brutal court where strength mattered just as much as status.
you could feel their stares. some were curious. some judgmental. some openly assessing you as though trying to determine whether the foreign princess walking toward their king was worthy enough to stand beside him.
still, your posture never faltered. not once.
your head remained high, your expression calm and serene exactly as you had been taught since childhood. every movement was graceful and measured as you walked across the dark stone floor.
your dress stood out immediately against the dullness of the castle.
soft lilac silk flowed around your body with every step, the fabric delicate and elegant beneath the firelight. silver embroidery climbed along the sleeves and bodice in intricate patterns resembling vines and blooming flowers from your homeland. sheer layers of fabric draped from your arms and trailed lightly behind you across the floor.
in this dark place of stone and ash and smoke, the dress almost looked unreal.
the only other strong color in the room came from the red-haired hybrid standing beside the throne.
his hair was bright like burning crimson beneath the firelight, wild and striking against skin. large dragon wings rested folded behind him, the scales along them dark red and gleaming faintly. even from where you stood, you could see sharp scales trailing along parts of his neck and arms while red horns stuck on his forehead.
and his eyes never left the king.
you understood the stories then.
slowly, you reached the foot of the stairs leading toward the throne.
without hesitation, you lowered yourself into a proper curtsy, bowing your head respectfully. though you were royalty yourself, you stood in a foreign kingdom before another ruler. your mother had drilled that lesson into you countless times growing up.
respect the customs of the land you stand in.
your voice was soft and composed when you spoke. “my king.”then you lifted your gaze and finally saw him properly.
katsuki bakugo sat sprawled across the throne like he had been born for it… like the throne itself belonged beneath him.
his vermillion eyes locked onto yours immediately, sharp and intense enough to make your breath still for a moment. his ash blond hair looked messy and untamed as though no one would dare attempt controlling it.
he looked dangerous, beautifully dangerous.
his entire torso was bare, leaving every inch of hard muscle exposed beneath the firelight. scars littered parts of his skin, old marks that only made him appear even rougher, even more intimidating. his body looked carved from stone itself, broad shoulders leading down to a powerful chest and strong arms wrapped with strips of orange fabric around his forearms and hands.
a dark red cape lined with thick fur rested across his shoulders, the heavy material falling behind him while the fur framed his neck. black tattered pants hung low on his hips tucked into worn brown boots that looked made for battle instead of ceremony. and around his neck hung layered necklaces made from stone, jade, teeth, and rough beads that clicked softly whenever he moved.
beside his throne rested a massive broadsword. the blade alone looked large enough to split a man in half.
the room had gone silent.
completely silent.
your eyes remained locked with his as he slowly stood from his throne. the movement alone shifted the atmosphere in the room. he descended the stairs with slow swaggering steps, each one heavy against the stone floor. he did not rush. he looked like a predator approaching something that had caught his attention.
his eyes never left yours.
not once.
when he finally stopped in front of you, his body towered over yours easily.
you suddenly understood why stories about him spread across kingdoms because there was something overwhelming about him, something that demanded attention.
your breath caught quietly in your throat when he suddenly lifted a hand and pinched your chin between his fingers. his touch was rough as it was warm. he tilted your head upward slightly so he could look at you better.
the entire room seemed to hold its breath.
you could feel his gaze dragging across your face slowly, studying every detail in silence for several long seconds… then his lip curled.
“tch. at least they had the decency to send me a pretty little princess.” his voice was rough and deep, carrying easily through the silent throne room.
heat crept beneath your skin instantly.
before you could even react, he scoffed and released your chin before turning away slightly. “i might actually kill them then myself if they had given me one that looked like a mountain troll.”
a few people in the court laughed nervously.
you stayed perfectly still.
then katsuki waved a hand dismissively. “eijiro, send the woman to her quarters.”
the command was directed toward the red-haired hybrid beside the throne.
unlike katsuki’s permanent snarl and sharp gaze, the hybrid smiled warmly at you the moment his name was called.
and somehow, in this cold dark throne room filled with warriors and strangers, that smile was the first thing that felt welcoming.
you walked through the dark halls of the castle in silence, the sound of your footsteps echoing softly against the stone beneath your shoes as the heavy doors of the throne room closed behind you.
in the corridor, the walls were made from dark stone carved rough in some places and smooth in others as though parts of the castle had been built directly into the mountain itself. large torches lined the hallways every few feet, their flames flickering wildly and casting shifting shadows across the walls and floors. the firelight painted everything in deep shades of orange and gold, but it did little to soften the gloom surrounding the place.
there were no large windows letting sunlight spill through the halls. no fresh scent of flowers drifting through open corridors. instead the air carried traces of smoke, leather, iron, and something faintly earthy that reminded you of ash after rain.
in front of you, eijiro walked at an easy pace as he guided you through the winding halls just as the king had ordered.
your eyes drifted toward him quietly.
back in the throne room, nearly all of your attention had been trapped on katsuki bakugo himself. it had been impossible not to stare at him when he looked the way he did sitting upon that throne like some wild king from ancient stories.
now, with the two of you alone in the halls, this was the first time you truly got a proper look at the dragon hybrid.
your gaze slowly scanned over him.
like katsuki, his torso was completely bare beneath the warm firelight, exposing toned muscle across his back and shoulders that shifted with every step he took. his body looked strong in a different way than the king’s. where katsuki carried sharpness and intimidation, eijiro looked sturdy and grounded… protective.
metal pauldrons rested over his shoulders, dark and jagged in shape almost resembling broken pieces of rock layered over one another. leather bracers wrapped around his forearms while fitted leather pants and armored boots completed the rest of his attire. several knives rested securely along the belt around his waist.
but none of that held your attention for long. your eyes kept returning to the scales.
patches of deep red scales spread across parts of his arms and shoulders, blending into his tan skin naturally. more scales traced along the sides of his face near his jaw and temples, catching the firelight whenever he moved.
his hair was a vivid red that matched the horns protruding from his forehead. large leathery wings remained tucked behind him neatly despite their size, the dark red membranes shifting slightly every now and then as he walked.
you had never seen anything like him before.
your staring lasted just a second too long.
eijiro glanced over his shoulder before a grin spread across his face. “y’know, princess, if you keep staring at me like that i’m gonna start thinkin’ you like what you see.”
heat rushed to your face instantly. your eyes widened before you quickly looked away. “i’m so sorry,” you said softly, your voice embarrassed. “i did not mean to stare.” you hesitated for a moment before glancing back at him carefully. “it is just... this is my first time seeing a hybrid in person. let alone a dragon hybrid.”
eijiro let out a warm chuckle. “hey, don’t worry about it,” he said easily, waving a hand dismissively. “seriously. there’s no need to apologize. i get that a lot.”
his relaxed tone eased some of your embarrassment almost immediately.
you looked at him again, more carefully this time. “does it bother you?”
“nah.” he shrugged. “people get curious. especially people from other kingdoms. honestly, i’d probably stare too if i saw somebody with giant wings for the first time.”
you found yourself smiling faintly at that. the sight seemed to encourage him further.
“plus,” he continued with a grin, “you’ve been pretty respectful about it. some people act weird.”
“weird?”
“yeah.” he snorted. “either they’re terrified or they ask if i breathe fire.”
your brows lifted slightly. “can you?”
eijiro barked out a laugh so suddenly that it echoed through the hallway. “okay, see? that one’s fair.”
you lowered your gaze quickly, suddenly feeling foolish. “i apologize. that was inappropriate.”
“hey, no.” he shook his head immediately. “i’m messing with you. i do breathe fire. only on my dragon form though.”
his easygoing nature made conversation strangely comfortable despite how unfamiliar everything around you was. for a moment, the tightness sitting in your chest since arriving at the scarlet region loosened slightly.
“so,” eijiro said after a moment, glancing at you curiously. “what’s the emerald empire really like?”
your expression softened. “It is beautiful,” you answered quietly. “very different from here.”
you looked around the dim hallway before continuing.l “there are gardens everywhere. flowers grow along most parts of the palace grounds and the walls are covered with vines and roses during warmer seasons.”
eijiro listened closely. “sounds nice.”
“It is peaceful,” you admitted. “the air smells sweet during spring.”
“huh.” he smiled. “guess this place probably feels kinda… intense compared to that.”
you hesitated before nodding slightly. “a little.”
he laughed softly. “yeah, sounds about right.”
for a few moments the two of you continued walking while talking quietly.
you asked him questions about the castle, about the scarlet region, about dragons and hybrids. he answered all of them openly, seeming almost excited by your curiosity rather than annoyed by it.
in return, he asked about your home, what kind of things you liked, whether all nobility in the emerald empire were taught so formally.
“pretty much,” you admitted softly.
“that sounds exhausting.” eijiro said.
“it can be.” you let out the faintest laugh.
eijiro glanced at you again before speaking carefully.“you nervous?”
you knew immediately what he meant. your fingers tightened lightly together.
“about the king?”
he nodded.
you were quiet for a moment before speaking honestly. “i do not think he likes me.”
eijiro suddenly laughed. not cruelly, almost fondly. “trust me,” he said, shaking his head. “you’d know if katsuki doesn’t like you.”
“I would?” your brows furrowed slightly.
“oh, definitely.” he grinned. “he’s not exactly subtle.”
you thought back to the throne room. to the way katsuki had looked at you, the roughness in his voice, and to the way his fingers had held your chin.
your face warmed slightly at the memory.
eijiro noticed immediately and grinned wider. “see?”
you quickly looked away. “i simply assumed he was displeased by this arrangement.”
“well,” eijiro admitted, rubbing the back of his neck, “he definitely wasn’t happy about being forced into marriage at first.”
your chest tightened slightly, but before you could speak, he continued.
“katsuki’s just bad with people sometimes. especially women.”
you blinked. “women?”
“pretty women,” he corrected with a teasing grin.
you looked down immediately, embarrassed at his constant compliments towards you.
eijiro laughed softly again before continuing more gently. “seriously though, don’t overthink him too much. he’s rough around the edges but he’s a good person. you’ll see pretty soon how he actually is when he dislikes somebody.”
the conversation slowly drifted again before you asked quietly, “how long have you known him?”
eijiro’s expression softened immediately. “since we were kids.”
you looked up at him curiously while he smiled faintly down at you.
“hunters caught me when i was eight,” he explained. “dragon hybrids sell for a lot depending on where you are.”
your eyes widened slightly. you remembered learning about how hybrids treated in some parts. some were either killed and butchered to be sold for their parts, or they were sold for entertainment. hybrids were rare as it is, but dragon hybrids were even more rare making them more valuable.
“they kept me trapped for a while.” his tone remained casual but you still felt sadness curl in your chest. “katsuki found me,” he continued. “he was around eight too. little psycho fought grown men with a knife.”
you stared at him as you listened, trying to take it all in.
“seriously. kid was terrifying… and i was a kid!” eijiro laughed.
you could strangely imagine it. after seeing katsuki earlier, just from that brief interaction, you can already tell he was much of a menace at eight as he is now.
“he saved you.” you said.
“yeah.” his voice softened. “and i stayed with him after that.”
“you are loyal to him. i’m not surprised.” your gaze drifted toward his wings.
eijiro looked at you for a moment before nodding once. “always.”
something about the way he said it made the old stories about hybrids echo through your mind again.
once a hybrid found the one they belonged to, their loyalty became absolute.
eventually, the two of you stopped in front of a massive pair of doors at the end of a quieter hallway.
“welcome to your new quarters, princess.” eijiro pushed them open.
you stepped inside slowly and was met with an enormous room.
dark stone walls surrounded the space but heavy curtains in deep crimson softened parts of it while large fur rugs covered portions of the floor. a massive fireplace burned along one side of the room, filling it with warmth. shelves carved from black wood lined the walls while candles flickered across various surfaces. the bed itself was enormous, layered with thick dark fabrics and furs.
despite the roughness of the castle’s aesthetic, the room still felt strangely luxurious.
eijiro watched your reaction carefully. “i know it’s probably completely different from your home,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “but the king made sure your quarters were comfortable for you.”
your eyes widened slightly. “he did? really?”
eijiro smiled sheepishly. “well... not really.”
your brows lifted in confusion at that.
“but he approved of all the things brought to your room! so that’s something!”
you could not help the soft laugh that escaped you. he reminded you strangely of a large puppy, earnest and friendly.
“thank you, eijiro. truly.” you nodded politely.
his grin returned immediately. “no problem. you are the future queen of the dragon lord. i live to serve you for you are his.”
his.
he stepped back toward the doorway. “i’ll send your new servants in to help with your bath before you retire for the night.”
“thank you.” you nodded again.
“get some rest, princess.” with that, he stepped outside and slowly closed the large doors behind him.
silence settled over the room.
you stood there for a long moment before slowly walking deeper inside, taking every little thing in. finally, you sat down carefully on the edge of the massive bed. your fingers brushed against the heavy sheets beneath your hands.
it was soft, warm… and foreign.
your gaze drifted slowly around the unfamiliar room.
this is my home now.
and for the first time since arriving in the scarlet region, the reality of it truly settled into your chest.
the last couple of weeks quickly fell into a repetitive pattern that slowly wore away at your patience no matter how hard you tried to remain understanding about the situation.
every morning you would wake up inside your chambers high within the dark stone walls of the scarlet fortress and ask one of the servants or guards whether the king was available, only to receive the same carefully rehearsed answers in return.
the king was occupied. the king was handling important matters. the king had already left the castle grounds before sunrise.
after hearing those excuses day after day, you eventually stopped asking as often because humiliation started creeping beneath your skin each time another servant avoided your eyes while informing you that your own betrothed apparently had no time for you.
most of your days were spent alone inside your chambers afterward. you ended up reading nearly every single one of the books on your shelves out of sheer boredom.
the books inside the scarlet region were nothing like the gentle romances and elegant poetry collections kept inside the libraries of the emerald empire. these stories were brutal and excessive and strangely honest about the people who lived within this kingdom.
there were tales about ancient wars fought between dragon riders that ended with entire mountainsides collapsing beneath fire and bloodshed. there were stories about barbarian kings who conquered lands with their bare hands and queens who poisoned enemies during feasts. some books were so violent that you occasionally found yourself staring blankly at the pages afterward trying to understand how someone even thought to write such horrifying details.
others were scandalously inappropriate.
one evening you accidentally spent an entire hour reading a story about a warrior taking a noblewoman against a castle wall. one of your handmaidens nearly dropped a tray in shock after realizing what you were reading. afterward she refused to look you directly in the eyes for the rest of the night while you quietly closed the book and pretended not to understand why her face had turned bright red.
still, despite the strange books and lonely silence surrounding most of your days, there was one part of your routine that you genuinely began looking forward to.
eijiro.
the dragon hybrid visited you almost every single day without fail.
sometimes he would arrive during breakfast and keep you company while the two of you ate together inside your chambers. other times he would take you through different sections of the castle while explaining the history behind certain halls and statues carved into the stone walls.
he told stories easily and enthusiastically, often speaking with his hands while his large red wings shifted behind him whenever he became excited.
unlike katsuki, who felt sharp and difficult to approach, eijiro was warm in a way that made conversation come naturally.
he answered your endless questions without irritation.
he explained the volcanoes surrounding the scarlet region and the old traditions involving dragon riders. he told you about battles fought generations ago and pointed out ancient carvings etched into the fortress walls. sometimes he made you laugh without meaning to. sometimes you caught yourself smiling more around him than you had since arriving here.
over time, your nervousness around the hybrid slowly faded.
and if you were being honest with yourself, there were moments where you quietly wondered who exactly you were supposed to be marrying. because while katsuki bakugo remained nothing more than a distant shadow constantly avoiding your presence, eijiro kirishima was the one actually beside you every day.
by the time three weeks had passed since your arrival in the scarlet region, you realized with growing disbelief that your wedding was only a week away.
a single week and yet you still had not properly spoken to katsuki since the first day you arrived. the realization irritated you more than you cared to admit.
that evening you sat in front of the vanity mirror inside your chambers while slowly brushing through your hair with careful strokes. soft firelight flickered across the room while one of your handmaidens prepared fresh oils nearby. you were waiting for eijiro again because he promised earlier that morning he would visit after finishing training with the soldiers.
you had begun expecting him.
which was exactly why surprise shot through you when the chamber doors suddenly burst open hard enough to slam against the stone walls.
your head snapped upward immediately.
katsuki bakugo stood in the doorway.
for a second, the entire room felt painfully still.
his broad figure nearly filled the entrance as firelight danced across his exposed skin and the heavy fur draped around his shoulders. his ash blonde hair looked slightly messy like he had run his hands through it repeatedly and those sharp crimson eyes locked onto yours instantly with an intensity that made your breath catch inside your throat.
it had been weeks since you last saw him.
weeks.
slowly, you stood from your seat before lowering your head respectfully. “my king,” you greeted softly. “what an honor it is to finally be graced by your presence.”
katsuki stared at you for a moment before clicking his tongue. “quit talking like that,” he muttered as he stepped further inside the room. “you sound like one of those damn council fossils.”
you lifted your gaze carefully toward him. “forgive me. i was simply trying to greet my future husband properly.”
“yeah, well, stop it.” he said, and despite his harsh tone, his eyes remained fixed on you far too intensely for comfort.
you slowly set the brush down against the vanity table. “to what do i owe this sudden visit?” you asked calmly. “i assumed you were occupied with your duties… as usual.”
something unreadable flashed across his expression at that.
then you continued before he could answer.
“it has been difficult, i must say. when the king is always occupied with ‘state affairs’ and his right hand is the only one willing to provide a tour of the grounds.”
katsuki’s jaw immediately tightened. “hair-for-brains has been babysitting you?” he asked sharply.
you frowned slightly at the insult. “eijiro has been kind,” you corrected as you stepped away from the vanity. “he told me about the volcanoes, the dragon-kin, the hybrids, and the history of this region. he has been a better guide than my own betrothed.”
a rough laugh escaped katsuki though there was no real amusement behind it. he moved closer until the warmth rolling off his body surrounded you completely. “kirishima’s an idiot who gives away secrets for free,” he scoffed. “if you wanted to know about this kingdom, you should’ve come to the source, not the help.”
your eyebrows lifted slightly. “i tried,” you answered, your voice firmer than expected. “every time i approached your chambers, your guards informed me you were busy breathing fire at your generals. eventually i began wondering if you were hiding something.”
for the briefest second, something shifted across his face. his stare softened just enough to notice before the scowl returned again. “i wasn’t hiding,” he said roughly. “i was preparing. do you have any idea what it takes to merge an emerald seat with a scarlet throne? despite the treaty, the court is looking for a reason to tear you apart the moment you step onto the altar.”
the words struck harder than you expected. your breath caught quietly in your throat and for a moment, you simply stared at him.
you had known this marriage was political from the very beginning. kingdoms did not bind themselves together through royal blood for romance. this union meant trade routes, military alliances, security, power, stability between two lands that could strengthen each other greatly. you understood that. you had been taught that since childhood.
but despite understanding all of that, despite knowing nobles could be cruel and proud and difficult, a part of you still had not expected that there were truly people within this castle who looked at you and saw someone unworthy.
you had crossed an entire continent for this marriage, you had left your home behind, your family, your kingdom, everything familiar, and somewhere within these dark stone halls, there were people waiting for you to fail.
they were watching and judging you, hoping you’d slip and fall and break you neck on the way down.
katsuki reached toward you suddenly, his gloved hand hovered near your chin. for a brief second, it looked as though he intended to touch you. then his jaw tightened sharply and he pulled his hand back with visible irritation, almost seeming angry at himself for the impulse.
“i didn't have time for royal pleasantries,” he growled. “but since you and shitty hair seem to have hit it off so well, i suppose you’ve learned enough to hold your own.”
despite yourself, your lips twitched faintly. “i’ve learned that the king is temperamental, guarded, and apparently very jealous of his second-in-command,” you said softly, tilting your head.
katsuki froze, his eyes widened for the briefest moment before narrowing into dangerous slits, a low sound rumbled from deep in his chest.
it sent a chill crawling down your spine.
“jealous?” he repeated sharply. “don't flatter yourself. i just don't like what’s mine being lectured by a soft-hearted mutt.”
his words made something uncomfortable twist in your chest.
your his property.
slowly, you stepped closer toward him until barely any space remained between your bodies. you could feel the heat radiating from him like fire against your skin.
“is that all i am to you?” you asked quietly. “property?”
katsuki stared down at you, his pupils shifted strangely. the sharp crimson of his eyes darkened until the color looked molten beneath the torchlight.
when he leaned closer, your breath caught, his forehead nearly brushed yours. “you’re a week away from being the queen of the scarlet region,” he said in a low gravelly rasp. “you’re not property, princess.” his gaze dragged across your face slowly, too slowly. “you’re the only thing in this godforsaken fortress that isn't made of ash.”
your heart stumbled painfully inside your chest. before you could respond, he continued.
“and if you think i’ve been busy playing soldier, you’re wrong.” he leaned even closer, close enough that you could feel his breath against your lips. “i’ve been making sure that when you finally walk down that aisle, no one is left alive who thinks they can challenge us.”
us.
“eijiro kept you distracted,” he muttered. “i kept you safe.”
silence filled the room after that.
your mind struggled to keep pace with everything he was saying.
you had thought he hated this arrangement. thought he was avoiding you because he wanted nothing to do with you. yet now he stood before you speaking about protecting you as though it had become his responsibility long before you ever wore his name.
“there are truly people here who oppose me that much?” you asked quietly.
katsuki scoffed. “there are people here who’d oppose the sky if it changed color for too long.” he stepped back slightly before dragging a rough hand through his ash blonde hair.
“the scarlet court is full of old bastards obsessed with bloodlines and strength. you’re foreign, soft, and refined. they think emerald nobles spend more time playing music than surviving winters. despite the benefits this wedding can give our kingdom, they don’t think you’re fit to be queen.”
“that is not true.” your brows furrowed faintly.
“i know that,” he snapped immediately. “they don't.” his jaw clenched again. “they think you’ll break.”
something stubborn rose inside your chest at that. you lifted your chin slightly. “and what do you think?”
his eyes locked onto yours instantly, intensely burning. “i think,” he said slowly, “that anybody who crossed kingdoms to marry into this hellhole without crying halfway through has more spine than half the idiots sitting in my council chamber.”
heat rushed unexpectedly into your face.
before you could answer, katsuki abruptly turned away. “come with me.”
“what?” you blinked.
“you heard me.” he strode toward the door.
confusion crossed your face immediately. “your majesty, where are we going?”
“tch. just move.”
you hesitated only a second before following after him and the moment you reached him, his hand suddenly grabbed yours. your breath caught sharply. his grip was large and rough and overwhelmingly warm around your hand.
before you could react properly, he yanked you forward behind him. “quit dragging me,” you gasped softly.
“quit dragging your feet.”
the chamber doors burst open as he pulled you into the corridor.
the dark halls stretched endlessly ahead, lit by fire torches burning against black stone walls. shadows flickered across the floors as servants quickly moved aside at the sight of the king storming through the castle with his future queen in tow.
you struggled slightly to keep pace with his long strides. “where are we going?” you asked again.
“you ask too many questions.”
“that usually happens when someone drags another person through a castle without explanation.”
he shot you an irritated glance over his shoulder. “you wanted to know why i’ve been busy so badly, right?”
you blinked. “yes…”
“then shut up and keep walking.”
despite his harsh tone, he never let go of your hand, not once. and somehow that fact lingered in your mind more than anything else.
katsuki continued dragging you through the castle halls with long aggressive strides that forced you to keep close behind him if you did not want to stumble over the hem of your dress. his hand remained wrapped tightly around yours, rough and calloused from years of swordsmanship and battle, his warmth almost startling against your softer skin.
you tried not to stare too openly at everything around you, but it was difficult. the scarlet region fascinated you. even after weeks of exploring with eijiro it still felt foreign to you.
your eyes drifted upward as you noticed enormous carvings etched into the high ceilings.
“those are incredible,” you murmured softly.
katsuki glanced upward briefly before grunting. “hm.”
you looked back at him. “what do they mean?”
“they’re old carvings.”
“i can see that.”
his eyes flickered toward you and for a second, you thought you caught amusement there, almost hidden. “smart mouth,” he muttered.
“i was simply asking.” you blinked innocently at him.
he clicked his tongue before finally answering. “they tell the story of the first kings. every ruler in the scarlet region traces their bloodline back to them.”
you looked back toward the carvings again with interest. the dragons were enormous in the stone art, wings spread wide across the ceiling while warriors stood beneath them holding weapons toward the sky.
“so the real dragons did come first?”
“obviously.”
“you do realize not everyone grew up here, yes?”
“annoying.” he let out a sharp exhale through his nose. despite the insult, he still answered. “before the kingdoms were built, dragon ruled these mountains. then people started worshipping them. eventually the strongest warriors bonded with them.”
“bonded?” your eyes widened slightly.
“dragon pacts.” his grip tightened faintly around your hand as he continued leading you down another hallway. “some humans formed bonds with dragon-kind. loyalty for loyalty. strength for strength.”
your thoughts immediately drifted toward eijiro. “is that why hybrids exist?”
“partly.”
“you sound reluctant to explain.” you looked at him curiously.
“because you ask too many damn questions.”
“and yet you keep answering them.”
he shot you another look over his shoulder. this time you definitely saw it, the corner of his mouth twitched. gone almost immediately.
he’s enjoying this.
you followed him down a massive staircase leading deeper into another section of the castle. the air grew warmer the lower you went, enough that you could feel heat brushing against your skin.
“why is it hotter here?” you asked.
“lava tunnels under the mountain.”
your eyes widened. “there is lava beneath the castle?”
“we’re built into a volcanic mountain, princess. what did you think was under us?”
you stared at him. “rocks?”
he barked out a laugh suddenly, a real one. rough and sharp but genuine enough that it echoed through the corridor. “unbelievable.”
heat crept into your cheeks at the sound. you had not expected him to laugh, especially not because of you.
the two of you continued walking until the hallway opened into a massive chamber lined with weapons mounted against the walls. swords. axes. spears. shields. some looked old enough to belong in museums while others appeared freshly sharpened.
you slowed immediately. “this is beautiful.”
“it’s an armory.” katsuki snorted.
you stepped closer toward one of the blades hanging on the wall. the sword was massive, far larger than anything you had ever seen used back home.
“people actually fight with these?” you asked.
“what the hell do you think they’re for?” he spat, his eyebrows furrowing as he spoke.
you glanced at him carefully. “you truly speak as though every question pains you.”
“because half your questions have obvious answers.”
“for you, perhaps.”
he stared at you for a moment before crossing his arms over his bare chest. “you really know nothing about this place.”
there was no mockery in his voice this time. only observation.
you looked down briefly. “i was taught about diplomacy between kingdoms and trade agreements and court etiquette. not weapons and volcanoes and dragon pacts.”
silence settled between you for a brief moment.
then katsuki spoke again, quieter this time. “that explains a lot.”
“what does that mean?” you looked back at him.
he shrugged. “you walk around this place looking at everything like you got dropped into another world.”
“perhaps i did.”
his gaze lingered on your face longer than necessary. you felt suddenly aware of how close he stood, how large he was compared to you, and how intense his eyes became whenever he looked directly at you.
your fingers tightened slightly around the fabric of your dress, trying to steady yourself before you cleared your throat softly. “what are scarlet region weddings like?”
“why?” katsuki’s brows furrowed immediately.
“because i’m marrying you in a week.” you said with an obvious tone of sarcasm.
“unfortunate for you.”
you ignored that as you asked again. “i would like to know what to expect.”
he sighed dramatically before leaning against one of the stone pillars nearby. “there’s a ceremony.”
you waited for more, but he stared back blankly.
“…that tells me nothing.”
“there’s fire. vows. drinking. fighting.”
your eyes widened. “fighting?”
“friendly fighting.”
“those are two words that should not belong together.”
“depends who you ask.” he shrugged.
you could not help the quiet laugh that escaped you.
katsuki’s eyes flickered toward your mouth immediately at the sound. you noticed it again and suddenly forgot how to breathe correctly for a second.
“what about emerald empire weddings?” he asked abruptly.
you blinked at the sudden question. “ours are more formal.”
“sounds boring already.” katsuki rolled his eyes as if he regrets asking.
“there is music and dancing.”
“boring.”
“poetry readings.”
he looked at you, horrified.
you smiled despite yourself. “decorated gardens.”
“if anybody forced me into a garden for my own wedding i’d burn it down.” he said, his expression tight as if he was already picturing it in his head.
you laughed at the look on his face while katsuki stared at you like he had never heard that sound before, like he wanted to keep hearing it. the realization made warmth spread slowly across your chest.
maybe he truly was avoiding me because he did not know what to do with me.
and somehow that thought felt far more dangerous than hatred ever could have been.
a week passed after your walk through the castle with katsuki, and somewhere within those seven days, something between the two of you shifted. it was not a dramatic shift. there had been no grand confession or sudden tenderness that transformed him into a different man overnight.
katsuki bakugo remained exactly who he was. he was still rough around the edges, still aggressive in the way he spoke, still impatient whenever somebody irritated him which happened often enough that you were beginning to think irritation was simply his natural state of being.
but despite that, things changed.
he was still busy constantly buried beneath matters of court and military discussions and whatever else dragged the dragon king away for hours at a time, but now he made space for you within those busy days.
sometimes he would appear at your chambers without warning only to stay for a few moments.
you would be seated near the fire reading one of the strange books from the scarlet region shelves when the door would suddenly swing open, revealing katsuki standing there with his arms crossed over his chest.
“what are you reading?”
you had looked up in surprise the first time it happened. “a history book.”
he narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “why?”
“because i enjoy learning.”
“sounds miserable.”
yet he still walked over and glanced down at the pages resting in your lap before grunting.
another time, he had appeared during your evening meal and simply sat down across from you without invitation. you remembered staring at him while servants awkwardly scrambled to bring another plate.
“your majesty?”
“what?”
“you are in my chambers.”
“obviously.”
then he started eating your food as though he had always belonged there.
sometimes he barely spoke during those visits. he would simply sit nearby while you read or embroidered or drank tea. strangely enough, the silence never felt uncomfortable.
other times, he joined you and eijiro during your walks through the castle grounds.
those were perhaps your favorite moments.
eijiro would be speaking enthusiastically about some story from his childhood only for katsuki to suddenly appear beside the two of you with an irritated scowl already on his face.
“why the hell are you telling her that story again?” katsuki would ask.
“because she likes hearing it,” eijiro would laugh.
“your stories are stupid.”
“you listened to all of them too.”
“shut up.”
yet he would stay, always.
and slowly, without realizing it, you started learning him in pieces.
you learned that he hated overly sweet wine but liked stronger drinks that burned your throat. you learned that he became quieter whenever he was exhausted instead of louder. you learned that although he complained constantly, he still noticed everything around him with sharp frightening precision. you learned that whenever he was thinking deeply, his fingers tapped against whatever surface was nearest. you learned that he looked at you intensely even during moments when he thought you were not paying attention.
and before you fully realized it, the day of your wedding arrived.
you stood outside the massive doors leading toward the throne hall with your heart pounding heavily inside your chest. the halls around you glowed with torchlight while distant music echoed through the stone corridors.
your wedding dress felt heavier than anything you had ever worn before.
scarlet region wedding attire differed greatly from the soft flowing gowns worn in the emerald empire. instead of delicate fabrics and flowers, your gown was designed like something worthy of a queen standing beside a warrior king.
the dress clung tightly around your torso with dark crimson fabric embroidered with thin golden threads shaped like dragon scales. the sleeves draped long around your arms while black sheer fabric layered beneath the heavier crimson silk. gold chains decorated your waist and hips, hanging against the fabric with tiny ruby stones attached to them that caught the firelight whenever you moved.
the neckline dipped lower than dresses from your homeland normally allowed, exposing the tops of your collarbones where matching gold jewelry rested against your skin. even your veil was different. instead of white lace, dark red fabric trailed behind you like smoke.
you barely recognized yourself.
then, the massive doors slowly opened and heat rushed into the hall immediately.
inside, the throne room had transformed completely. huge fires burned from enormous iron braziers positioned throughout the chamber while crimson banners hung from the towering walls. drums echoed loudly through the room in a deep steady rhythm that vibrated through your chest. warriors stood lining the aisle holding torches while musicians played harsh beautiful melodies from instruments unfamiliar to you.
this was nothing like emerald empire weddings filled with soft music and flower petals.
before you knew it, you were walking down the aisle and all eyes turned toward you immediately. the eyes of court katsuki’s councilmen, foreign guests from distant lands, warriors dressed in heavy armor, and nobles covered in jewels and furs.
you spotted katsuki’s parents seated near the front. the former king looked relaxed despite the importance of the ceremony while his wife sat beside him watching everything sharply. you had met them during your first week in the scarlet region and quickly realized katsuki had inherited more from his mother than his father. mitsuki bakugo possessed the same fierce presence as her son though hers carried far more control.
your gaze shifted toward the opposite side where your own family sat. your mother already looked emotional, clearly trying not to cry. your father sat tall with pride written across his face. your older brother, however, looked like he was considering starting a war simply to drag you back home.
you almost smiled. when your eyes met his, you gave him a reassuring look.
i’m alright.
slowly, your attention moved again, then you spotted eijiro.
the dragon hybrid stood near the front dressed in dark ceremonial armor lined with crimson detailing. the moment he saw you looking toward him, his entire face lit up with the biggest grin.
it was so warm and genuine that you nearly laughed. you quickly hid the smile threatening your lips before finally looking ahead.
and there he was.
katsuki.
your future husband stood waiting near the throne platform.
for once, his chest was not bare. instead, he wore ceremonial battle robes made from black and deep crimson fabric layered with pieces of dark armor over his shoulders and forearms. fur lined the heavy cape hanging behind him while gold clasps shaped like dragon claws held it together across his chest. thick leather belts wrapped around his waist where a dagger rested beside an ornate sword.
he looked terrifying, beautifully terrifying.
his vermillion eyes locked onto yours instantly and as you approached him, you noticed his gaze slowly travel over your body, from your face, to your dress, to the jewelry against your skin, then back to your eyes again.
the look in his expression made heat crawl into your cheeks.
the ceremony began shortly after.
instead of gentle vows spoken softly between lovers, scarlet region traditions felt almost ritualistic.
the officiant stood before a massive fire while chanting ancient words in the old tongue of the region. wine was poured into ceremonial goblets. your hands and katsuki’s were bound together briefly with crimson cloth symbolizing unity through blood and kingdom.
through most of it, you barely listened because katsuki kept staring at you, and somehow, you realized you were staring back just as much.
the rest of the room blurred around you. time itself felt strange and distant. until finally the officiant spoke again.
“seal this union beneath fire and blood.”
eyes widened slightly and before you could even fully process the words, katsuki suddenly grabbed the back of your neck. a sharp breath escaped you then he pulled you toward him.
his lips crashed against yours.
the kiss stole every coherent thought from your mind instantly.
he kissed you firmly without hesitation, one hand gripping the back of your neck while the other settled against your waist. heat flooded through your entire body as his mouth moved against yours with rough confidence that left your knees weak beneath the heavy layers of your gown.
oh gods.
your fingers instinctively grabbed the front of his ceremonial robes. you could hear distant cheering erupting around the throne room, but it sounded muffled beneath the pounding of your heartbeat.
when he finally pulled away, your lips tingled painfully, you stared at him completely stunned. katsuki’s eyes looked darker somehow, his thumb brushed briefly against your waist before he stepped back.
the celebration afterward became a blur of noise and firelight and endless drinking.
true to scarlet region tradition, there were fights just like katsuki mentioned.
warriors and duelists stepped into the center arena one after another while crowds roared around them.
sero hanta from katsuki’s inner circle defeated one soldier after a brutal sword fight that ended with both men bleeding and laughing. denki kaminari won his own match shortly afterward while shouting obnoxiously toward cheering spectators.
eijiro fought next.
you found yourself watching in amazement as the dragon hybrid moved with terrifying strength and speed before ultimately defeating his opponent.
then came katsuki.
the entire room seemed to erupt when the king stepped forward. his opponent looked almost honored to stand across from him.
the fight started with swords.
metal clashed violently beneath roaring cheers while sparks flew from each impact. katsuki fought like something feral unleashed into battle. he was aggressive, brutal, and overwhelming.
eventually the swords were discarded. then they were on the ground beating each other bloody.
you sat perfectly composed at the royal table, but beneath it, your hands gripped tightly against your dress. stress twisted painfully in your chest.
suddenly, warmth covered one of your hands.
you looked beside yourself and found eijiro smiled reassuringly at you. “don’t worry,” he said gently. “katsuki’ll be fine. i’ve seen him survive worse.”
you swallowed slightly. “that is not comforting.”
he laughed softly. “when we were sixteen he fought three mountain raiders at once after getting stabbed in the shoulder.”
“what?” your eyes widened in horror.
“he won.”
“that really does not make it better.”
eijiro grinned at your expression of worry.
your eyes shifted back toward the fight where katsuki slammed the other man hard into the ground making you winced. “besides… it’s not him i’m worried about,” you admitted quietly.
eijiro blinked before immediately understanding, then he chuckled. “ah.”
you looked at him helplessly. “that poor soldier.”
“trust me, he’s honored.”
you stared at him incredulously, not entirely sure what to reply to his reassurance.
eijiro leaned closer slightly before explaining. “in the scarlet region, it’s tradition to fight for the person you love.”
your brows furrowed.
he nodded toward the arena. “me and the others fought earlier because we’re unwedded. it’s meant to show strength, protection, and devotion for our future partners.” then he looked toward katsuki. “but katsuki’s fight is different.”
“different how?” your stomach tightened.
eijiro’s smile softened. “the longer the fight goes and the more blood he draws from his opponent, the deeper the devotion is believed to be.”
you froze completely.
eijiro continued quietly. “he’s fighting for you, my queen.”
shock rushed through you instantly. you had never heard of this tradition before, never read about it, never learned it during your lessons back home. yet suddenly everything felt different watching katsuki fight down there beneath roaring firelight.
every brutal strike, every drop of blood, every second that continued was for you.
eventually the soldier finally collapsed from exhaustion and blood loss.
the room erupted into cheers.
breathing heavily, katsuki straightened before immediately turning his head toward you, his eyes locked onto yours across the hall then slowly, a smirk twitched against the corner of his mouth. he walked directly toward you afterward. you noticed the blood that stained his knuckles, his lip was split slightly, yet he looked almost pleased with himself.
once he reached the table, he dropped into the seat beside you and threw one arm casually across the back of your chair. “you look pale,” he said.
you stared at him. “you nearly killed that man.”
“he’ll live.”
“why does everything think that’s comforting?” you replied back.
he snorted then his eyes dragged slowly across your face. “you watched the whole thing?”
you swallowed softly. “…yes.”
“good.” his smirk deepened slightly.
the grand hall roared with celebration, the air thick with smoke from roasted meats, the bitter tang of ale, and the deafening clash of warriors re-enacting battles for entertainment.
you sat at the high table, your new husband beside you, a solid, immovable presence. katsuki downed the last bit of his wine, a deep, dark scarlet that matched the banners of his kingdom. he swallowed it like it was water, not savoring it, just consuming it. the heavy goblet clunked onto the wooden table.
then his arm, which had been draped loosely around the back of your chair, moved. his hand landed on your shoulder, a firm, heavy pat. once. twice. a third time, each impact a little heavier, a little more deliberate.
your shoulder tingled under the weight.
he stood up. the noise in the hall seemed to dip for a moment, the crowd’s attention shifting to their king. he held his hand out for you, palm open, fingers curled slightly while you looked at his hand, confused.
the festivities were still raging. it was relatively still early. then you turned your head to meet his eyes. dark red, like cooled lava, intense and utterly focused on you. in that instant, the confusion evaporated, replaced by a cold, clear understanding that rushed from your head down to your toes.
it was time. your duty. the consummation.
your fingers, trembling slightly, reached out and grabbed his hand. his grip was instantaneous, tight, almost crushing as he pulled you to stand. you rose, your wedding gown suddenly felt like a ridiculous, fragile costume.
as you stood, you noticed katsuki’s eyes flick to eijiro who sat on your other side, giving him a quick knowing look.
eijiro’s smile faded into a serious nod, his own crimson eyes understanding. they seemed to speak without words, a silent communication that made your eyebrows furrow.
what did that mean? what had they planned?
but before you could dwell, katsuki was pulling you away from the table, his stride long and purposeful. he didn’t walk with you; he dragged you.
your hand was captive in his, and he led you through the archway out of the hall, into the colder, darker corridors of the castle. the warmth and noise of the feast died behind you, swallowed by the silence of the passageways.
katsuki looked intense, his profile sharp in the torchlight. his jaw was set, his brows slightly lowered. he didn’t look at you as he walked, his focus was on the path ahead, on getting to where he needed to be.
silence filled the space between you, thick and heavy. it wasn’t peaceful. it was a tension that crawled over your skin, a prickling awareness of where you were headed, of what was about to happen in the dark, private heart of his domain.
he didn’t lead you to the wing where your chambers had been for the past few weeks. he turned down a different corridor, one guarded by two massive stone dragons carved into the archway. he stopped before a door of dark, aged oak reinforced with iron bands.
“this is my chambers,” he said, his voice a low rumble in the quiet hall. “now it’s ours. i had the servants move your things here this afternoon.” his tone was matter-of-fact, final. there was no discussion. this was where you would live… with him.
katsuki opened the door. it swung inward without a sound.
you were met with a room similar in structure to your old one but vastly different in spirit. it was bigger, dominated by a massive bed with a dark wood frame and black linens. the air smelled like him—like smoke, leather, and something wild. weapons lay around not as decoration, but as tools temporarily set aside: a sword on a table, its edge gleaming; a pair of axes leaning against a chest; pieces of armor on a stand. scrolls and maps were piled haphazardly.
it was chaotic, masculine, and utterly his.
“it’s very… you,” you said softly, stepping inside after him.
“it’s a fucking room,” he grunted, closing the door behind you. the click of the latch was loud in the silence. “it serves its purpose.”
you turned to face him, now alone in the intimate space. the tension from the corridors condensed here, in the few feet of space between you. he finally looked at you directly, his sharp eyes sweeping over your body in the elaborate dress.
“you wore this shit all day,” he stated, not a question. “must be heavy.”
“they told me it is the traditional gown of the scarlet region for a royal wedding,” you replied, your voice gentle. “they told me it represents power and prosperity.”
“it represents a lot of fucking fabric,” he said, a slight, sharp smirk touching his lips. “you look… good in it. but i’ll prefer you without it.”
your cheeks warmed at his blunt words. you didn’t know how to respond to such directness.
he stepped closer, until you were face to face. his warmth radiated against you. one of his calloused hands came up to gently play with a strand of your hair that had escaped its intricate styling.
the contrast was startling, the brute king touching you with such deliberate softness.
“do you know what’s about to happen now, hm?” he asked, his voice lower, gravelly.
you swallowed, your eyes wide. “i-i know my duty to my husband,” you whispered. “to… consummate the marriage. to bond both our kingdoms.”
his fingers continued their slow movement through your hair. “duty. bond.” he snorted softly. “i may be a brute, princess. i may be have a temper and called a barbarian. but i won’t do anything to you if you’re not ready.” the words were gruff, but the meaning underneath was startlingly clear.
he was giving you a choice, within the cage of this marriage.
your body reacted to his soft touches. a shiver went down your spine that wasn’t entirely fear. your eyes closed for a moment, feeling the rough texture of his fingers against the sensitive skin of your neck, behind your ear.
it was soothing and terrifying all at once.
you opened your eyes to find him watching your face intently, studying every flicker of reaction.
“i… i want to,” you promised him, your voice timid but clear. “i am ready.”
a low sound, like a grumble of satisfaction, emanated from his chest. his eyes darkened, shifting from assessing to predatory. his fingers left your hair and traced down your shoulder to the back of your gown, finding the complex laces of the corset.
“you love learning, right? reading those historical books,” he said, his voice now a seductive murmur as his fingers began to work the first lace. “so learn this. in the scarlet region, we don’t consummate marriages like they do in other kingdoms. it’s not clinical. it’s not prude.”
another lace loosened.
your breath hitched as the structure of the dress began to give way.
“they call us brutes. barbarians.” another lace. “and they’re right.” the final lace came free with a soft pull. “we fuck like animals. and tonight, i will make sure every single morsel and peasant in this kingdom knows what we’re doing. i won’t hold back.”
you shivered as his words washed over you, crude and thrilling.
the last of the fabric, freed from its bindings, pooled around your legs and slid to the floor with a whisper of silk. you stood before him, bare except for the delicate necklaces on your neck.
his eyes raked over your body, no longer obscured. his gaze was hot, possessive, and utterly focused. his warm, calloused hands followed his eyes, roaming everywhere—your shoulders, the curve of your waist, the outside of your thighs. his touch was firm, mapping you.
your breathing became uneven, shallow as you watched him.
“fuck,” he breathed out, the word almost reverent in its roughness. “look at you.”
then he grabbed you, not gently. his hands hauled you into his arms, your bare body pressing against the warm fabric of his attire. you felt the hard planes of his chest, the muscles of his arms. for a second, you were enveloped in his scent and strength before he threw you onto the bed. you landed on the black linens with a soft gasp, the cool fabric against your skin.
he hovered over you, still fully clothed, a giant silhouetted against the torchlight.
his eyes grew darker, hungrier. he didn’t bother with ceremony. his own clothes were removed with swift, efficient movements, the ornate jacket torn off, the shirt pulled over his head and discarded carelessly on the ground, the trousers shoved down and kicked away until he was bare like you.
you shyly eyed his body from where you lay on the bed. he was… gorgeous. carved from muscle, scars mapping old battles across his skin.
“see something you like, huh?” he growled, noticing your wide-eyed look.
“you’re… very b-big,” you whispered, your politeness clinging to you even in this raw moment.
“ha! damn right i am,” he said as he moved onto the bed, kneeling between your legs. his hands pushed your thighs apart, making you shyly whine at the sudden exposure.
your palms came up to push against his chest lightly, a reflexive gesture of modesty. “i… i haven’t done anything like this before,” you confessed softly, your eyes pleading for understanding.
katsuki’s eyes softened for a fleeting moment. he leaned down, not entering you, but lifting himself up to kiss you.
it wasn’t a gentle kiss.
his lips crashed onto yours, hot and demanding. his tongue invaded your mouth, a battle you couldn’t hope to win but were compelled to join. there were bites; sharp nips on your lower lip that made you gasp, and shared spit, and breaths that grew ragged. you whined into his mouth, small sounds of overwhelm that only spurred him on. he groaned, a deep sound from his chest, and the wrestling of tongues was wet, messy, and utterly intoxicating.
“gonna taste every part of you, wife,” he muttered against your lips before breaking away.
he moved down your body, his hands holding your hips firmly. his mouth found your core, and he didn’t hesitate. he ate you out with the same aggressive dedication he did everything else. his tongue was relentless, exploring, licking, pushing inside you while grunted against your skin.
“so fucking sweet… like a prize… all mine…”
“s-shit—oh! katsuki… so g-good…” you moaned, a high, shaky sound.
katsuki groaned in between your thighs, his mouth moving messily on your mound, swishing vibrations through you that amplified the pleasure he was already giving you.
your body writhed on the bed from the shocking, unprecedented sensations crashing through you. your hands gripped the black sheets. you were confused by what you were feeling; this building, tightening coil of pleasure deep inside you, something you had no name for.
“i… f-feel—nghh…” you gasped.
“let go,” katsuki commanded, his voice thick. “just let go for me.”
and you did.
the coil snapped, and a wave of intense pleasure broke over you, making you arch off the bed with a sharp cry. he kept working you through it until you collapsed back onto the linens, trembling.
he moved back up, his body aligning with yours. his cock, heavy and hard, pressed against your slit.
“i can’t fucking wait any longer. i need to be inside you… been wanting you since i laid eyes on you,” he said, his voice dark with promise. “i’m gonna enter you now and you’re gonna take all of me like a good wife, hm?”
you were delirious in pleasure. just from that one orgasm, you felt indescribable pleasure from your husband. slowly but surely, you wanted everything and anything he was willing to give you. “p-please.” you begged.
katsuki glided his cock into you slowly, an inch at a time. you moaned at the intrusion, a mix of pleasure from before and the new, stretching feeling. he grunted, his own control evident in the slow pace.
“so f-fuuucking tight… wrapping around me like a damn vice…” he breathed.
you held onto him, your arms around his shoulders as he slowly inched deeper until he was fully seated inside you. it was a fullness that stole your breath, gasping as you clutched onto him. “ha—”
“painful?” he asked, his eyes searching yours.
“a little… but… it’s fading,” you whined softly. “p-please… move.”
“how can i deny such an honest plea?” katsuki teased, chuckling at your expression before he began to move.
his thrusts started slow but quickly gained speed and force. he fucked you on your back with a driving rhythm that shook the bed frame. each thrust punched a moan or a whine from your lips.
“oh! ah—ngh… s’good.” you threw your head back.
“such a good little wife… taking her king so perfectly…” he growled, his praise landing on you like a brand, making you cling to him tighter.
he paused for a moment, looking down at where your bodies joined. “fuck… you’re so small… made for me…” his thrusts became deeper, more harder. “gonna fill you up… gonna put my heirs right in here.” his desire was raw in his words, each slam of his hips a promise of possession beyond tonight.
“katsuki… please!” you begged, your nails clawing down his back.
“please what? need more, huh? you gonna cum again fro me?” katsuki groaned as he continued to plow into you.
“i… i don’t know—f-fuck!” you bit down on his shoulder as you ground up at him, meeting his thrusts.
“you do know, baby. feel it. come undone for me again.” katsuki nipped at your ear.
and you did, another peak crashing over you as he drove into you relentlessly, his own release following with a roar that echoed in the dark chamber, filling you with his cum as he collapsed atop you, breathing heavily into your neck.
but he didn’t stop.
the moment your second orgasm faded into tremors, katsuki kept driving into you, his hips setting a brutal, possessive rhythm that stole the air from your lungs. each thrust was a deep, claiming slam that made the bedposts creak in protest.
“k-katsuki…” you moaned, the name a broken sound on your lips. your hands scrambled against his sweat-slicked back, fingers digging into the hard muscle.
“that’s it, we’re not done yet. just like that, baby—oh, fuck,” he grunted, his voice rough with strain and pleasure. “moan for me. let the whole fucking castle know who you belong to.” his own moans were guttural that vibrated through his chest into yours. “so fucking good. taking me like you were made for it…”
katsuki’s hands, which had been braced on either side of your head, slid down to grasp your thighs. his calloused palms caressed the soft skin of your legs as he held them open, his grip firm, almost bruising in its intensity. he used that leverage to pound into you harder, deeper.
you arched off the bed, a sharp whine tearing from your throat as he hit a spot inside you that sparked white behind your eyelids. “right there… oh, gods, right there!” you sobbed.
“i know. found your sweet spot, huh? that feel good?” he growled, a smirk in his tone. “i feel you clenching around me, princess. greedy little thing.”
the sound of your bodies meeting was obscenely wet, a rhythmic slap of skin on skin that underscored every groan and whimper.
then, with a sudden, powerful shift, he manhandled you. his hands left your thighs to grip your waist, and in one fluid, dominant motion, he flipped the two of you around. you gasped as the world spun, finding yourself straddling him, his cock still buried impossibly deep inside you. the new position made you feel him even more profoundly, every inch of him stretching you.
“ah! fuck!” you moaned, eyes wide, hands flying to his chest to steady yourself.
“look at you,” he rasped, his vermillion eyes blazing up at you. “riding your king as if you’re riding a dragon yourself. so fucking perfect for me.” his hands settled on your hips, thumbs stroking the bone. “c’mon. show me what my good little wife can do.”
you were obedient, eager to please. tentatively, you lifted yourself up, a slow, trembling movement that made you both moan as he slid partially out. then you lowered yourself back down, sheathing him fully, a grunt punched from his lips.
“fuck yes. that’s it… just like that,” he praised, his eyes watching your face with a dark, satisfied smirk. your expression was one of overwhelmed bliss, mouth slightly open, eyes glazed. he cooed at you, the sound strangely tender coming from him. “such a pretty queen. taking her king so well. now… set the pace f’me.”
your confidence grew with his constant praise. you started to bounce on him, slowly at first, then faster, finding a rhythm. each descent made your breath hitch, each rise brought a needy whine. your arched your back, your hair spilling over your shoulders.
“katsuki… it’s so… i feel so full…” you whimpered.
“you are full,” he agreed, his voice thick. “full of me. and you look so fucking small wrapped around me… perfect fit.” his lust for you bled into the words, the awe in his gaze as he looked at where your bodies joined.
but the heat from the friction on your inner thighs began to burn, making you slow your movements with a pout and a soft whine of discomfort.
katsuki chuckled, a low, rumbling sound. “tired already? my delicate little flower.” he cooed at you, his thumbs still caressing your hips. “it’s okay. let me help, hm?”
instead of bouncing, you began to grind on him out of desperation. circular motion drew a deep groan from him. then you leaned forward, collapsing against his chest, tucking your face into the hot skin of his neck. you were surrounded by his scent, his heat, and it was intoxicating.
“please… please, katsuki,” you begged, your voice muffled against him. “i need—fuck… i don’t know what i need anymore… need more.”
“shhh,” he cooed, one hand cupping the back of your head, his fingers tangling in your hair. the other stayed on your hip, possessive. “i know what you need.”
katsuki planted his feet firmly on the bed, gaining leverage. and then, with a single, powerful beat of his hips, he started ramming up into you. he was fucking up into you from below, each upward thrust spearing you deeply, knocking the air from your lungs.
“ah—ngh… yes! right there!” you shrieked, a sound of pure, unadulterated pleasure. your moans and whines became a continuous stream against his neck.
“just let me do all the work,” he grunted, his own breathing becoming ragged. “a king serves his queen… especially in bed.” his thrusts were relentless, powerful pistons driving you up and down on his cock even as you lay pliant against him. you were putty in his hands, letting him use your body exactly as he wanted, your face hidden in the safety of his neck.
the sounds filled the room; his guttural grunts, your high-pitched whimpers, the wet slap of his hips meeting yours, the creak of the bed, the filth coming out of your husband’s mouth. it was sinful.
“gonna breed you so deep—fuck—fill this perfect cunt with my heirs… mark you inside and out…”
your only replies were broken syllables, your desire for his praise making you sing with every rough compliment.
katsuki’s thrusts started becoming erratic, sloppy, losing their military precision as his own peak approached.
“i’m close… fuck, I’m so close,” you whined, your body tightening around him.
“i am too,” he gasped, his voice strained. he pulled back just enough to look at your face.
your expression was one of utterly ruined bliss. your eyebrows were drawn together, lips swollen and parted, eyes half-lidded and hazy. you looked so pretty to him, so perfectly claimed.
katsuki leaned up and placed a sudden, soft kiss on your forehead, a shocking gesture of tenderness amidst the carnal frenzy.
you clutched at his biceps, your nails biting into his skin. “k-katsuki… i’m gonna…”
he grunted, and with effort, he stopped thrusting.
before you could even whine in complaint at the denied release, his arms were scooping you up. katsuki stood from the bed in one powerful motion, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist as you clung to him, his cock still buried to the hilt inside you.
“wh-what…?” you gasped, startled.
“tch. patience,” he growled, his own need evident in the tension of his body.
he gripped your thighs firmly, his hands huge and warm. and then he began to move you himself, bouncing you on his cock as he stood there, using the strength of his arms and the leverage of his stance to fuck you onto him.
the thought of it… of him manhandling you so easily, picking you up and using your body like this, made you physically shiver. that shiver traveled inward, making your inner walls clench tightly around him, which drew a ragged groan from his throat.
“fuck… you just got tighter,” he breathed, his pace increasing. “you like that? like when i just take what’s mine and use you?”
“yes… yes, i do like it. please… i’m close again, katsuki, please—ha…” you begged, your head falling back.
katsuki hummed, coaxing you over the edge. “give me another one, my good girl. cum again for your king and i’ll give you a reward.”
that promise, coupled with the overwhelming sensation of being fucked in mid-air by your powerful husband, was too much. a coil tightened deep in your belly, winding to its breaking point.
“shit! i’m—fuck, i’m…!”
“that’s it. let go,” he commanded.
“k-katsuki…” you whine, the sound muffled, as another wave of sensitivity makes you clench around him, where he’s still buried deep inside you.
a low, guttural groan vibrates through his chest and into yours. “fuck,” he rasps, his voice wrecked. one large, calloused hand comes up to cup the back of your head, his fingers tangling in your disheveled hair.
“gonna make you cum again. come on, baby. come undone for me again. you want to, don’t you?”
you nod frantically, a desperate little mewl escaping you as you moved desperately up and down on him.
“say it.”
“yes—cum… gonna cum f’you. only you.”
he smirks, that feral, triumphant curl of his lips while his free hand grips your hip, fingers digging in, helping you find a rolling rhythm even as he holds you locked to him. the sound of your slick skin meeting his, the wet slap of each movement, fills the heavy air of the chamber, mingling with his grunts and your broken cries.
“so good for me.” thrust. “so fuckin’ tight.” thrust. “all mine.” thrust. “gonna keep you full of me.” thrust. “always.” thrust. “breed you so deep you’ll feel it for days.” thrust.
when the next orgasm rips through you, it’s slower, deeper, a molten unspooling that has you sobbing into his mouth, your body seizing around him in rhythmic pulses. he follows you over with a sharp, choked-off roar, his hips jerking up to bury himself to the hilt as he spills hot inside you, his grip on your hair tightening almost painfully.
before you can even form a coherent thought, he’s capturing your mouth again. this kiss is messy, sloppy, all hungry tongue and possessive pressure. it’s wet and it steals the air from your lungs. you can taste yourself on him, salty and sweet.
he pulls his head back just a few inches, his eyes blazing down at you, pupils blown wide with lust. his lips are swollen, his breathing harsh. “look at you,” he growls, the words rough with awe. “my perfect little wife. took me so damn well. fuckin’ gorgeous f’me.”
katsuki nuzzles into your hair, his lips brushing your temple. his voice is a low, satiated rumble. “since you’ve been so good… so obedient… you get your prize.”
prize? oh yeah, he said something about a prize. your hazy mind struggles to comprehend.
you feel him shift beneath you, still intimately connected, as he lifts his gaze from the top of your head to the chamber door.
“ei. get in here.”
your entire body goes rigid. confusion floods you, cutting through the blissful fog. your eyes fly open, wide and bewildered, staring at the carved wood of the door.
eijiro? as in kirishima? now? why? while we’re… we’re like this…!
“katsuki?” your voice is small, trembling. “what are you talking about?”
the door swings open silently. and there he is.
eijiro kirishima fills the doorway, his broad shoulders nearly touching the frame, his chest bare, the hard planes of his abdomen and the dark trail of hair leading downward on full display. his crimson eyes, usually so warm and friendly, are dark, intense, and they lock onto the two of you immediately… onto you, specifically.
was he outside this entire time?
you feel the burn of his gaze like a physical touch, sweeping over katsuki’s hands on your bare skin, over the curve of your spine, over the intimate join of your bodies.
a hot, shameful flush explodes across your face and chest. you try to shrink further into katsuki, but he’s already moving, walking with you still impaled on him, one arm hooked under your thighs. he walks you both towards eijiro, and the casual display of his strength makes your head spin.
“i’m not stupid,” katsuki says, nonchalant as if he wasn’t still buried inside you. he stops a few feet from eijiro. “saw the way he looked at you for weeks. like you were water in a desert. and you…” he glances down at you, his smirk deepening. “you greedy little thing got attached to your friendly dragon babysitter, didn’t you? spoiled princess.”
your heart hammers against your ribs. “i didn’t—i didn’t mean to make you feel—”
katsuki cuts you off with a low chuckle, his free hand stroking a soothing line down your sweat-damp back. “shh-shh. you didn’t do a damn thing wrong, princess. you just… showed me something.” his eyes slide back to eijiro, hungry and possessive. “showed me what turns my blood to fuckin’ fire. the depravity of it. the idea of him,” he thrusts up shallowly, making you gasp, “wanting what’s mine. touching what’s mine.”
he shifts his gaze fully to eijiro. “i’m right, aren’t i?”
eijiro’s eyes haven’t left you. a slow, deep hum resonates in his chest, a sound more beast than man. “i am bound to you, my king,” he says, his voice thicker, rougher than you’ve ever heard it. “my life is yours. my loyalty.” his tongue darts out to wet his lips. “and what is yours… is yours to command.”
katsuki’s grin is all sharp edges and dark promise. he looks down at you again, his expression turning curious. “so? is it okay with you, my greedy baby? if i share you? if he gets to have a taste of what belongs to me?”
the question is so blunt, so shockingly crude, that your mind blanks. but your body betrays you instantly. a violent, involuntary clench around katsuki’s still hard length, a fresh trickle of wetness that has nothing to do with fear.
katsuki grunts, his head throwing back with a sharp hiss. “fuck! see that, shitty hair?” he says, talking about you as if you weren’t clinging to him. “got even tighter just hearing it. her pretty little cunt’s begging for it.”
“seems eager to please,” eijiro murmurs, taking a step closer. the heat radiating from his body rivals katsuki’s.
“she’s a good girl,” katsuki agrees, his voice dropping to a coaxing rumble directly in your ear. “aren’t you? can you be good for me, hm? for us?”
the choice is no choice at all. not with katsuki’s seed still leaking from you, not with eijiro’s hungry eyes devouring you.
“yes, please. i’ll do anything for you.” you nod, eagerly, desperately, a whine caught in your throat.
“good,” katsuki purrs. he gives a single nod to eijiro.
in one smooth motion, katsuki pulls himself from your sensitive flesh, a gasp ripped from your lips at the sudden emptiness and the cool air on your wet skin. then his hands are on your waist, and he’s transferring your weight.
eijiro’s arms come up to catch you, and he is just as hot, just as solid as katsuki. you’re cradled against a chest that feels like carved stone, your bare skin flush against his, and you bury your flaming face in his neck, breathing in his scent of smoke, spice, and something wild.
katsuki strides over to a large ornate chair near the bed and sinks into it, sprawling with kingly indolence. he’s still gloriously naked, his cock hard on his belly. “alright,” he says, his voice a command. “i wanna watch. kirishima… eat her out. clean up my mess. then get her ready for you.”
eijiro lets out another one of those low, rumbling hums. “as my king commands.” he carries you to the bed as if you weigh nothing and lays you down gently on the rumpled silk. your eyes are glued to him as he hooks his thumbs in the waistband of his pants and pushes them down.
your breath hitches at the sight.
he’s… huge. thick and long, already fully erect, the tip flushed and leaking. the sight sends a jolt of pure, dizzying arousal straight to your already throbbing core.
“like what you see, princess?” katsuki asks from his chair, a dark amusement in his tone. he’s lazily stroking himself, his eyes glued to the scene.
“she’s blushing all over,” eijiro notes, his voice softening as he kneels on the bed between your spread legs. his gaze is a physical weight, traveling over every inch of your exposed body; your peaked nipples, the flutter of your stomach, the glistening, well-used flesh between your thighs, dripping with katsuki’s release. he leans over you, caging you with his arms, his face inches from yours. his eyes search yours. “can i kiss you, sweetheart?”
you nod, wordless.
eijiro no longer waits. his mouth immediately captures yours.
it’s nothing like katsuki’s kiss. where katsuki is fire and possessive, eijiro is deep, lingering warmth. it’s sweet, almost reverent at first. a soft press of lips that quickly deepens into something more devouring. his tongue sweeps into your mouth, tasting you slowly, thoroughly. it’s no less possessive, but it’s a different kind of claim.
“good girl,” katsuki grunts from the side. “let him taste you.”
eijiro breaks the kiss with a soft sound, trailing his lips along your jaw, down the column of your neck. “so sweet,” he murmurs against your skin, his hot breath making you shiver. “so perfect.” he moves lower, taking a nipple into his mouth, suckling gently before swirling it with his tongue. he pays equal attention to the other, his hands skimming down your sides as he kisses a path over your trembling stomach.
he doesn’t stop until his face is level with your aching core. the scent of sex and katsuki is thick in the air. eijiro’s eyes lock with yours, holding your gaze with an intensity that pins you to the bed.
“lick her clean, ei,” katsuki orders, his hand moving faster on his own length.
eijiro doesn’t look away from you. “with pleasure,” he rumbles.
his tongue was broad, hot, and surprisingly soft. it drags through your soaked folds in one long, deliberate stripe. he gathers katsuki’s cum and your own on his tongue, his eyes fluttering closed for a second as he savors it. a low groan vibrates from his throat into your flesh.
“fuck yes,” katsuki breathes. “doesn’t she taste so good?”
eijiro opens his eyes again as he hummed in agreement, watching your face as he does it again. and again. each slow, languid lap makes your back arch off the bed, a broken moan tumbling from your lips.
he’s cleaning you with a thoroughness that is obscene, worshipful, and unbearably erotic.
then he zeroes in on your clit.
his mouth closes over the swollen bud and he eats you like a man starved. his tongue flicks and circles, then presses hard and flat against you before spearing deep inside your entrance, fucking you with it, tasting both of you mixed together.
“oh gods—eijiro!” you cry out, one hand fisting in the sheets above your head, the other tangling in his red hair.
the sounds he was making were filthy. wet, sucking noises, his low growls of appreciation, your escalating whines and sobs.
“so good,” eijiro mumbles against your flesh, his words muffled. “taste like heaven. so fucking perfect.” he shifts, his hands sliding under your thighs to hike them over his shoulders, spreading you wider, opening you up for his devouring mouth.
“that’s it,” katsuki praises from his throne, his grunts joining the symphony. “make her cum on your tongue. show me how good my wife tastes.”
you tear your eyes from the ecstasy on eijiro’s face to look at your husband. katsuki is stroking himself in earnest now, his gaze locked on where eijiro’s head is buried between your legs. he looks utterly captivated, a smirk of pure male satisfaction on his lips.
“k-katsuki! eiji—ugh’ngh,” you wail, feeling the coil within you wind impossibly tight.
“cum for him,” katsuki commands, his voice rough. “give him your reward for being so patient.”
eijiro redoubles his efforts, sucking your clit into his mouth while thrusting two thick fingers inside you, curling them to stroke that perfect spot.
the dual assault shatters you. you scream, your body bowing off the bed as a brutal orgasm tears through you, your vision whiting out at the edges as you clamp down around his fingers.
eijiro rides it out with you, drinking every drop, until you collapse back onto the sheets, boneless and trembling. and when he finally lifts his head, his chin glistening.
“that’s it, baby,” katsuki’s voice is a low, approving rumble as you tremble through the last waves of your climax under eijiro’s mouth. “so good for us. but we’re not done.” he stood up from his seat before standing in front of you, his fingers, still tangled in your hair, give a gentle but firm tug, guiding your face up to look at him. his eyes are molten, dark with a possessive heat that makes your insides flutter anew. “up. on your hands and knees for me. show me how well my queen can listen.”
your body, still humming with pleasure, obeys before your mind fully catches up.
you push yourself up, limbs shaky, and maneuver onto your hands and knees in the center of the massive bed. the silk is cool against your flushed skin. you feel exposed, vulnerable, and utterly wanton.
katsuki moves with a predator’s grace. he moved to sit on the bed, positioning himself right in front of you. he shifts to sit up against the carved headboard, his back supported, his legs spread.
he’s the picture of royalty, a king surveying his spoils. and you are on display before him.
a moment later, the bed dips behind you. eijiro’s large, warm hands settle on your waist, his thumbs stroking the dip of your spine. he leans in, pressing a hot, open-mouthed kiss to the small of your back, then another higher up, his breath fanning over your sensitive skin.
a desperate, hungry sound escapes you, a whine that’s almost a sob. you push your hips back instinctively, seeking more of his touch, more of anything.
the refined manners of the emerald kingdom, the years of etiquette lessons, the poised grace of a princess—it’s all gone, incinerated in the scarlet heat of this room, of these men.
you are need and hunger given form.
katsuki watches you, a low chuckle vibrating in his chest as he thought of the same thing. “look at you,” he muses, his voice thick with dark amusement. “where’s my polite little princess now? huh? all those pretty curtsies and soft-spoken words… fucked right out of you.” he leans forward slightly, his gaze searing into you. “good. that girl belonged to them. this?” he gestures at you, trembling and eager on your knees. “this is mine. you’re my wife. my queen. and you’re in the scarlet region now. i could fuck you raw in front of my entire war council and not a single bastard would bat a fucking eye.” the sheer, brutal ownership in his words makes you clench around nothing, a fresh trickle of wetness slicking your inner thighs.
katsuki sees it, his smirk widening. “but i won’t do that. ‘cause this… this filthy, desperate, perfect look on your face… that’s for me. and for him.” he nods toward eijiro behind you. “no one else.”
his attention sharpens, focusing solely on you. his voice drops, softening into a coaxing, dominant croon that’s somehow more overwhelming than his shouts. “c’mere, pretty. closer to me.” you shuffle forward on your knees until you’re between his spread legs, his hard, thick cock standing proudly just inches from your face. the musky, masculine scent of him is overwhelming.
“i know you haven’t done this before,” he says, his tone surprisingly gentle, like he’s instructing you in a sacred rite. “that’s okay. i’m gonna tell you exactly what to do. just be my good girl and follow my words, yeah?”
“i will. m’good girl,” you nod, your eyes wide and fixed on him, on the ruddy tip already beading with pre-cum.
“yes you are,” he praises you. “first… just taste me. use that pretty little tongue.”
leaning forward, you tentatively extend your tongue and lick a slow, careful stripe over the broad head. the taste is salty, uniquely him, and it sends a jolt of pure lust straight to your core.
“fuck,” katsuki hisses, his hips giving a tiny jerk. “just like that. perfect. so fuckin’ obedient for me.” his hand comes to rest on the top of your head, not pushing, just holding. “now… wrap your hand around me. show me how big i am for my queen.”
you reach out, your fingers seeming so small as you wrap them around his girth. you can’t quite close your thumb and forefinger. a soft, awed sound leaves your lips. “… so big.”
katsuki’s chuckle is ragged. “see? you need both hands. go on.”
you bring your other hand up, stacking it over the first, and finally manage to form a loose ring around him. the heat of him is incredible, the skin like velvet over steel. you begin to stroke, up and down, watching in fascination as his expression tightens with pleasure.
“yes… just like that… f-fuck, your hands are so soft,” he groans, his head falling back against the headboard for a moment before he forces it up to watch you. “doing so good. such a fast learner for me.”
meanwhile, eijiro is worshiping your back. his mouth is everywhere, sucking dark marks onto your shoulders, licking a hot path down your spine, biting gently at the swell of your ass. each touch, each possessive mark, makes you whimper and push back into him, your strokes on katsuki becoming less coordinated.
“so eager,” eijiro murmurs against your skin, his voice a gravelly vibration. “so perfect for him. for us.”
emboldened by their praise, by the fire coursing through your veins, you lean in again. this time, you drag your tongue from the very base of katsuki’s shaft all the way to the tip in one long, slow, wet lick.
katsuki’s reaction is instantaneous. a sharp, guttural “hnng!” rips from his throat, and his hand fists in your hair. “shit! where’d that come from, you greedy little thing?” but he’s grinning, all fierce pride.
you don’t answer with words, instead you open your mouth and take the head of his cock inside, sucking gently as you had seen done in erotic book and illustrations.
“oh, fuck yes,” he moans, his fingers tightening on your hair. “just like that… take me deeper now. slow—just like that. good girl…”
you obey, sinking down inch by agonizing inch. he’s so big, stretching your lips wide, filling your mouth until you feel him nudge the back of your throat. your eyes water, but you hold there, breathing harshly through your nose.
“look at that,” katsuki breathes, awe in his tone. he glances over your head, his eyes meeting eijiro’s. “she’s taking me so well… now it’s your turn, ei. fuck her. fill her up while she sucks me off.”
eijiro’s answering growl is pure hunger. you feel the blunt, hot head of his cock nudge against your dripping entrance, still stretched and sensitive from before. “gonna put it in now, sweetheart,” he coos, his voice a rough contrast to his gentle warning. “gonna fill you up just like your husband wants.”
you moan around katsuki’s length, the vibration making him curse and thrust his hips up minutely.
the sensation is overwhelming. the stretch and burn as eijiro slowly pushes inside you from behind, and the heavy fullness in your mouth.
“that’s it… take him,” katsuki groans, his hand guiding your head down a little further, helping you take more of him. “ffuuuck, your mouth… so hot and tight.”
eijiro bottoms out with a deep, satisfied sigh, his hips flush against your ass. “gods… she’s s-so tight,” he rasps.
then he begins to move. slow and deep thrusts that have you seeing stars. each forward drive pushes you further onto katsuki’s cock, making you gag softly. each withdrawal pulls a desperate whine from your throat.
“listen to her,” katsuki pants, his own hips beginning to move in tiny counter-thrusts to eijiro’s rhythm. “listen to those pretty little sounds she makes for us. fuck her harder, shitty hair. make her fucking feel good.”
eijiro obeys, his grip on your hips turning vice-like. his thrusts become harder, faster, the sound of skin slapping against skin filling the room accompanied by his guttural grunts and your muffled cries. “so good… taking us both… our perfect queen.”
katsuki’s control is fraying. his thrusts into your mouth become less measured, more urgent. “gonna cum… fuck, you’re gonna make me cum down your pretty little throat,” he snarls, his voice strained. he fists your hair tightly, holding you in place as his pace turns erratic. “you want that? want me to cum in your mouth?”
you’re eyes stayed on his as you hummed in agreement.
“then earn it, baby. cum for eijiro while you suck me like the good girl you are.” katsuki says.
the challenge, the sheer depravity of it, ignites something frantic in you.
determined to feel that shattering pleasure again, to please him, you bob your head faster, taking him as deep as you can manage, hollowing your cheeks and swirling your tongue around the sensitive head on each upstroke.
katsuki throws his head back with a ragged roar, his entire body tensing. “yes! just like that! fuck, baby! i’m gonna—!”
the first hot, salty pulse hits the back of your throat. he holds you there firmly as he empties himself with sharp, jerking thrusts, groaning your name mixed with filth and praise. “take it all. swallow it… be a good girl for your husband…”
as you struggle to swallow, tears streaming down your cheeks, katsuki cups your jaw with his other hand, his thumb stroking your cheek. his eyes are blazing, demanding. “look at me,” he commands, his voice raw. “give me your eyes while you swallow my cum.”
you force your watery gaze up to meet his. the connection is electric, intimate and degrading all at once. you see the raw possession, the awe, the unadulterated lust as you gulp him down.
“so fucking good… perfect girl,” he whispers, his thumb wiping a stray tear. he glances at eijiro over your shoulder. “now make my wife cum.”
with a look from katsuki, eijiro changes his angle, driving into you with deep, punishing strokes aimed directly at that spot inside you that makes you see white.
you fall forward, your arms giving out, but katsuki is there. you collapse against his chest, your face buried in his neck as eijiro pounds into you from behind. “ah! hngh—f-fuuuck. m’close. so close.”
“that’s it… let go… cum on my cock,” eijiro grunts, his rhythm becoming brutal, relentless. “gonna fill you up… breed you…”
katsuki holds you to him, one arm wrapped around your back, his other hand stroking your hair. his mouth is at your ear, a constant stream of filth and praise. “feel him? feel how deep he’s fucking my cum deeper into you? you’re gonna be dripping with us for days… our perfect, shared little wife… come on… let me see you fall apart.”
“katsuki, eiji!” you scream into katsuki’s skin as an orgasm more intense than any before tears through you, a convulsing, mind-breaking wave that has you clamping down on eijiro so hard he shouts.
“fuck! she’s—!” eijiro’s thrusts become erratic, then he slams home one final time, burying himself to the hilt as he roars his release.
you feel the hot rush of his seed joining katsuki’s inside you, the overwhelming fullness making you sob through the last tremors of your own climax. “ngh… fu—no more. ah…”
katsuki holds you through all of it, whispering praises into your hair. “i got you. just ride it out… that’s my girl, took us both so well…”
slowly, gently, eijiro slips out of you, leaning forward to press a tender kiss between your shoulder blades. “you’re incredible,” he murmurs, his voice reverent.
you are utterly spent, a boneless, trembling mess between them.
katsuki shifts, lying back and pulling you with him so you’re sprawled half on his chest. eijiro settles behind you, his big body curling around yours, one heavy arm draping over your waist to splay possessively on katsuki’s stomach. you are sandwiched in their heat, in their scent, filled with their essence.
the last thing you feel is katsuki’s lips brushing your forehead and his final, drowsy murmur. “ours.” the last thing you hear is eijiro’s low, content hum of agreement against the back of your neck.
then the world dissolves into warm, dark, satiated nothing.
Content: contrary to popular belief, the fire lord can't have everything he wants. however, even he’d admit that what he wanted was troublesome in itself, which is why he forces himself to be okay with having you by his side as his advisor. [tw: MDNI, angst/fluff/smut, apothecary diaries coded, so much yearning and longing, porn with plot, there is no power imbalance he’s afraid of your father, zuko’s a little shit tho, we’re already married in his head] wc: 4.8k
m.list | chapter one | next chapter
“You want me to do your hair?”
His lips twitch, fighting back a smile. “Yes, precisely.”
You sigh as you step into the man’s chambers, walking up to the vanity that’s more fitting for a queen, in your opinion. If only people saw this side of the fire lord. Zuko, the pretty boy. He has zero insecurities over the scar his tyrant of a father left on his face, but he’d faint at the sight of seeing too much hair shed on the marble floors of his bathhouse.
“When you decide to have me summoned like this, do you ever wonder, hm— what would her father think?” you ask as you grudgingly pick up the boar bristle brush and begin to brush his hair.
“I do,” he dryly responds. “I like the way you do your hair, though, so I’d appreciate it if you didn’t tell on me. You wouldn’t want me getting in trouble, right?”
Zuko might be the fire lord, but he still has to watch his relationships with the other clans in this nation— especially with a certain hot-headed strategist that just so happens to be your father. You can only imagine his outburst upon learning that his daughter is playing with the lord's hair, rather than playing your role as his advisor.
Most fathers would be pleased by the information— not yours, he’s a little more… strict. He already doesn’t like him from a joke made over a decade ago, suggesting you’d make a fine concubine, which wasn’t taken lightly.
Your father threatened to usurp the throne, sending a chill running down a then 21 year old Zuko’s spine.
There was no way in hell he’d hand you off to the imperial palace to become a concubine. You’re the only child of his that inherited firebending. If your father had it his way, you’d be a warrior, for fucks sake.
Lord Zuko may have a dry sense of humor at times, but you have your doubts about how much of a joke that statement was, especially with how much he likes to bug you throughout the day.
Perhaps another conflict should erupt— the man has too much time on his hands. Maybe then you’d fulfill your fathers wish of finally working in the military— put your talents to use, as he’d say.
But would Lord Zuko allow the gentle hands running through his hair to commit such violence? Or would that be when he’d draw a hard line with the aggressive strategist?
As progressive as he is, you sometimes wonder just how much it extends to you. Even as children, he’d go easy on you during trainings. He’s only grown softer with you as the years passed. Despite not being a concubine yourself, you wouldn’t be surprised if he saw you as one of the flowers in his garden— one he’s not allowed to touch.
You slide the hair stick through his headpiece, securing the top knot he had you redo. It looks the same, but you hold off on making a comment. “Is that better?”
“Much better.” His eyes meet yours in the mirror, lips curving into a sly smile. “Now— what are we doing today?”
We. You hate how much he likes to emphasize that at times.
“Well,” you sigh. “Aside from the usual council meeting, nothing much. Perhaps you can visit one of your concubines today… for once.”
He huffs out a laugh. “Are you saying I don’t fuck my concubines enough?”
“Precisely,” you say almost mockingly.
It’s all they ever complain about, and honestly, you’re sure you would, too, if you were one of them. Having to wake up and sit around all day, waiting for a man who never comes. And on the rare occasion that he does, he doesn’t stay long. He’ll show up, fuck the shit out of you for a couple rounds, then leave right after. Allegedly.
“Don’t you want an heir?” you ask.
“Depends,” he hums.
With the way he’s looking at you, you can already tell what it depends on, and it has nothing to do with his current concubines. Lucky for you, he never gets the chance to actually say it because he gets interrupted right after, putting a conversation you’d rather not have to a screeching halt.
“The council is waiting for you, my Lord.”
—
The silk district was notoriously known for two things: brothels and bandits. It was the wild, wild west compared to the other districts in the capital due to high crime and the growing wealth gap. The governments always kept a watchful eye on it, which was never enough in your opinion.
Are you surprised to hear that an entire brothel, including the madame, was discovered to be slain and robbed in the early hours of this morning? Absolutely not.
“Send more military officers to patrol the area,” the chamberlain says without hesitation. “We’ve been too lenient with them. If they want bloodshed, we’ll give them bloodshed.”
Yikes, he wants to rule the area with an iron fist when they’re already clearly struggling. You can’t help but think of how much of a dictator this guy would be if he were in Zuko’s place.
You make eye contact with the lord, who’s sitting at the end of the table right next to you. In that brief moment, he notices the concern in your eyes and gives you a subtle nod.
“Perhaps we can send more public aid?” you suggest. “They’ve been testing out a new rehabilitation program in Republic City as well. I’m sure the Silk District could benefit from—“
“Nonsense,” the chamberlain cuts you off, wondering why you’re even here right now— he thought you only assisted in matters within the court, not outside of it. “I-“
“Careful,” Zuko interrupts the man rather playfully as he continues to read through the scroll. “That’s the military strategist’s daughter you’re speaking to.”
The comment makes you nearly roll your eyes, knowing the only reason why he said it was because you’re having to constantly remind him yourself when he gets too close.
The chamberlain, however, straightens up immediately. You have no idea why it took him this long to realize it. He’s been here for nearly over a year, but at least he knows now. The chamberlain can be quite rude at times, you wouldn’t want him to slip up with your father in the room. Not only would that earn him an earful of insults that are as creative as they are hurtful, but it’d also be embarrassing on your part.
That old man embarrasses you enough when he’s around. Following you around like a lost puppy after meetings, asking if you’ve eaten and if your superiors are treating you right, while side eyeing the fire lord himself. You’d agree so yourself that he has too much power in the court. He enjoys holding it over everyone’s head even more. It’s sickening, really.
You look at the chamberlain, who is now pouting, and offer an apologetic smile. “May I continue?”
“Yes, of course,” the old man nods, struggling to hide his shame.
Always one for games, Zuko finds himself suppressing a laugh, which in turn makes the chamberlain’s slouch worsen. He’s grown to find more and more amusement in his daily tasks, a trait his father would definitely disapprove of— good thing he’s not here anymore.
The rest of the meeting went by as smooth as it could be, with the fire lord, of course, praising the chancellor in the end for being so well behaved, pretending to wonder what could’ve changed his usual demeanor. The usual teasings, all while you once again found yourself thinking of how light he’s become. Even after receiving such upsetting news, he stayed calm while finding a solution.
A humane one.
No longer the grumpy, angsty boy you grew up with. He’s actually quite charming. But you keep that to yourself.
The palace grounds are empty, as they should be during the afternoon. Everyone’s off either eating, napping, or tending to duties such as cooking or cleaning. It’s quiet, surprisingly peaceful. Your footsteps echo throughout the breezeway as Zuko defies the basic etiquette of walking ahead of you as a ruler should. Instead, the bastard walks a little slower than you. If given the opportunity, he’d turn it into a mini competition of who could walk the slowest, up until you both come to a full stop, with him looking at you all smug.
“Your chambers are this way,” you remind the said bastard as if he’d already forgotten.
He doesn’t bother to look back as he responds, walking down a gravel path leading directly to the flower garden. “How about we take a detour today, hm?”
You watch him for a moment, waiting to see if he’d stop. He doesn’t, and you shouldn’t be surprised by it. You’re able to catch up with him in just seconds given his slow pace, this time not bothering to walk behind him as he’s clearly in the mood to be extra stubborn today.
You’re all alone and away from the hearing distance of anyone else, yet you still choose to speak quietly as you start to gently tease the man. “What a surprise to see the king taking some time to enjoy his garden.”
He lets out a soft laugh that fades into a hum. “Only around a select few.”
“Oh, wow,” you pretend to be impressed. “How charitable.”
“It’s an honor that you think so,” he says, placing a hand over his chest to add to the theatrics, trying not to laugh once again. “Tell me, when was the last time you walked through here?”
You hum as you walk further into the sprawling garden filled with wooden arches covered with green vines and flowers in full bloom. “Can’t say I actually remember when.”
“That’s a shame. I had the gardener plant new rose bushes,” he murmurs. “Wanted to ask what you thought of them.”
“I think they’re lovely,” you admit, softly pinching a petal, rubbing your thumb over the velvety skin.
He smiles. “I figured.”
They were your favorite after all.
Why is he like this? The garden’s already filled with enough flowers. A new section wasn’t needed.
Again, he’s just bored.
In an attempt to keep the conversation from getting any more personal, you change the subject. “Are you looking forward to your trip to Republic City?”
At the end of the meeting, it was decided that he’d visit with the purpose of getting more information about the new rehabilitation program the city was rolling out. While the chancellor wanted to take a more aggressive approach, he decided to take a more peaceful route. It’s admirable how hands on he’s chosen to be since taking his father's place.
“Mhm. It’ll be nice catching up with some old friends while I’m there—“ he cuts himself off and looks at you with slight suspicion, “you’re going, right?”
You never said you would, nor did you want to, honestly. It’d be nice to take a break. “I’m sure you and some of your subordinates can handle it.”
“Weren’t you the one who came up with the idea, though?” his tone slightly clips as he reminds you.
“I was,” you respond tentatively, taking back your thoughts from earlier as you look him in the eyes.
This man looks like he’s about to throw a fit.
Zuko opens his mouth again, already knowing he shouldn’t be this pushy towards you, of all people, but he is far from perfect.
So with a forced smile and all the resolve in the world, he murmurs, “you’re going.”
You smile back despite feeling an annoyed heat creep up your neck, heart starting to pick up. “Alright.”
—
Imagine being the fire lord, a literal ruler, and getting the cold shoulder from your own advisor. Every answer is so curt and clinical, and it’s going to drive him up the wall.
Yes, my lord. Of course, my lord. Apologies, my lord.
Give him a fucking break.
As if you weren’t punishing him enough, you went ahead and had two of his concubines “accompany” him on the trip. It’s not like he can say no to that, either, since it’s considered to be one of his duties. Not to mention they both come from high-ranking families that would not be very pleased to hear of their neglect.
So now he has to deal with two spoiled, pent-up brats hanging on him during the entirety of this flight, all while trying not to glare at the biggest brat of them all— you, as you sit directly across from him, reading probably what’s some pathetic romance novel.
This is fucking ridiculous. You haven’t looked at him once since you first sat down.
You’re no better than him. There was a strike of lightning in the direction you walked off in, and given how it was a perfectly sunny day, he’s pointing his finger at you for the damages done in the east wing, despite keeping his mouth shut on the matter. Complain about being dragged to Republic City all you want, but you still have it better than most. If you really did have it that bad, you would’ve been punished for such an offense.
Like, seriously? Blowing shit up, like a fucking child— a terrifying one, to be frank, you are absolutely your father’s daughter— just because you had to do your job? Grow up. His grandfather’s statue was shattered in the midst of it all, thanks to you. You’re lucky he never liked the bastard.
In protest, you’re dressed like a noble's daughter rather than a member of the court. Wearing the finest silk and adorned in gold imported from the Earth nation, quietly refusing to represent your actual nation as you claim to be representing your clan— proof that you have enough power on your own to be acting like he’s actively denying you of basic human rights.
As if he even cared about your attire. Be his guest! You look fucking hot. Someone might even mistake you for one of his concubines, and he might just not correct them, since you think you’re more petty than he is.
Zuko gets pulled out of his thoughts when Concubine Aika speaks, still leaning against him and rubbing on his chest. She asked what book you were reading, which is when you finally looked up from it.
“It’s sort of an adventure novel.” You look at the cover, speaking to her with a certain warmth you’ve been depriving him of. “It’s about a girl escaping an abusive orphanage once she turns 18 and follows her journey for the next 10 years.”
So now you’re fantasizing about leaving him? Good luck with that.
“You look troubled, my lord,” the woman to his right, Concubine Saiyo, says. She’s leaning against him as well, now tracing her fingers along his jaw. “Are you alright?”
“M’fine,” he murmurs, trying to fix his face as he takes a sip of sake. “It’s been a long flight.”
“There’s a private cabin you can retreat to, if you’d like,” you suggest, going back to your little book, missing the way you just made the lord’s eye twitch.
“I know,” he says.
It’s his airship.
Without warning, he gets up from his seat. Was it a little rude? Perhaps. But surely the two women beside him could understand what feeling hounded could do to someone. They don’t, they do their jobs and get up as well, which he understands. However, Zuko’s not in the fucking mood right now and waves a dismissive hand.
“No need,” he curtly says, making his way to the back of the airship. “I just want to close my eyes for a bit.”
. . . . . .
The trip starts off strong with a banquet being held in honor of the fire lord's arrival.
Contrary to Zuko’s wishes, nobody’s stupid enough to mistake you for one of his concubines. At least not within the circle of people you’re mingling with tonight, who all recognize your family's crest engraved on your hairpin.
They were an ambitious bunch that spread all over once Zuko came into power— reaching amongst the highest positions within the military, medicine, and even education.
Funny enough, your position in the court was nothing special in comparison to some of your relatives’ achievements. Some are even bothered by the fact. Being the first of all your cousins to master the art of firebending, being your grandfather's favorite solely for bending lightning with the same grace as he did in his prime, all while excelling in your studies.
All of that potential, just wasted on being the lord’s “pet”.
You don’t have much of an opinion on the disappointment some of them have expressed in the past, though it would’ve been nice if their words had stayed behind closed doors. You didn’t want to hear any of it. If you truly wanted to make use of that said potential, you would’ve worked directly under your father as his subordinate.
Maybe it was the result of growing up feeling like you were enough. You have nothing to prove, and quite frankly, you’re content with having a role that really only requires you to share your opinions with a ruler that shares the same ideals as you… for the most part.
If only he’d also agree that you two spend way too much time together.
Luckily, you’re not required to be by his side tonight since you’re attending the banquet as a representative of your clan— something Zuko had no clue about until the moment you stepped onto the airship, which had him looking like he was about to blow a fucking gasket. He absolutely sucks at masking his frustrations. You’re surprised his concubines still had the courage to cuddle up with him. He looked like he was 2.5 seconds away from throwing you off the ship mid-flight.
Zuko would never do that, by the way, but you’re sure he was daydreaming about it.
But even then, with all the distance between you tonight, you can still feel his eyes on you. Just watching and waiting for you to do something he didn’t like. Very masochistic considering how he wouldn’t confront you if you did end up doing something wrong in his eyes.
You spend the entire night avoiding eye contact, which isn’t too hard given how all you’ve done is catch up with old peers from school and relatives who’ve decided to move here to start new lives.
The relatives you got along with, that is.
You were enjoying yourself. Truly. Until Sokka called you over to their table.
Funny how Zuko wasn’t looking at you then and was instead stuffing his face with spicy dumplings, then downing it with whatever liquor was in his cup.
You walk over with two thoughts running through your head— please don’t let this man be as drunk as Sokka and Aang, and don’t let this be a conversation about how work was been. Sokka tends to ask those things at the wrong time, despite his heart being in the right place.
This time around, it’s not Sokka.
“How’s our flaming hot lord treating you?” Aang asks, throwing an arm around a very drunk Zuko, who’s laughing his ass off over the avatar’s words for once.
Your lips may have twitched a little, as well. Only because Aang gave even less fucks when in an inebriated state.
“Oh, you know— the usual.” You let out a lighthearted laugh, and only you notice the way Zuko’s face momentarily drops.
The air around him quickly screams ‘don’t fuck with me’, then settles back into something more suitable for someone who’s already had half their water weight in alcohol.
“C’mon, you can do better than that,” Zuko forces out a laugh, leaning back in his seat.
You laugh a little harder. “Can I?”
“Yeah, you can.”
Sokka lets out this weird, giddy gasp because he loves drama, and cuts in. “Are you two fighting?”
“No.”
“No.”
You and Zuko look at each other after shutting down Sokka’s question at the same time. The fake smiles you’re wearing are not helping your case at all.
“Where’s Katara? I’ve been wondering where she’s been this whole time,” you ask in an attempt to keep the energy between you from getting any more awkward than it already is
Aang grows a little pale— the instant karma feels nice. “She’s a little sick tonight.”
There’s a bit of fear in his voice. She’s totally pregnant. Not that you say that. Instead, you just point in some random direction behind you. “That’s terrible— my cousin actually just mentioned a bug going around. I hope she feels better soon.”
“Thank you,” the man lets out a sigh of relief, allowing himself to be delusional for just one more night.
“What about Toph?”
“Home. Asleep.” Sokka rolls his eyes. “She’s like a little old lady now. You’ll see her tomorrow, though, she’s been volunteering at the center.”
“Volunteering or beating everyone into submission?” Zuko murmurs, and they all erupt in laughter. “She probably runs that place like the military.”
You find yourself starting to zone out as the conversation moves on to a different topic. You’d like to blame some of the wine you’ve been sipping on throughout the night for that. Everything starts to melt together— the live music, the endless chatter in every which direction. The only thing that pulls you out of it is seeing another one of your cousins who had just arrived, waving at you, and you don't shy away from taking that as an opportunity to excuse yourself.
Aang and Sokka were as kind as usual when you said your goodbyes. Zuko, on the other hand, was harder to read through the pathetic excuse of a smile he gave you. One only meant to save face.
If only he knew just how much worse he makes things sometimes. Although they’re rare, this isn’t the first fight you two have been in. Perhaps you have been a little petty towards the man, but it’s not you who grows so frustrated at someone’s anger that you begin to hold a grudge yourself.
You arrive back to your room in the early morning with the regret of not cutting yourself off from the drinks sooner than you did. You wouldn’t say you were drunk, but you were definitely tipsy as you started to shed layers of clothes and jewelry to get in the hot bath that had been prepared prior to your return.
Aang may be childish at times, but fuck was he a great host. Or maybe it was Katara who had all of these amenities set up for you. Candles and bath salts— you could die a happy woman right now as you settle into the stone tub, taking deep breaths, letting your muscles relax.
Twenty minutes in, you hear rattling and heavy footsteps that seem to hit the ground with more confusion than the determination an attacker would usually have. It forces you to leave the warmth of your bath, slipping on a robe. Getting hit with annoyance rather than fear may be a little foolish. Overconfident, even. But there’s still alcohol running through your veins, and you aren’t the pride and joy of your clan for no reason— you can absolutely hold your own in a fight.
When you walk out of the bathroom, you come face to face with exactly who you were thinking of.
“Fuck,” he looks away for a moment, regretting his decision thinking it was okay to just walk in.
Zuko didn’t think you’d be bathing, for some odd, stupid reason. Judging by the fact that he’s still wearing his usual day clothing and his hairs not up in a bun, it’s safe to assume he went straight here after leaving the banquet.
You let out a long sigh. “God— what are you doing here?”
You don’t even sound mad— just disappointed that you have to see him once more before you lay your head to rest, which slightly hurts the man’s ego. Truth be told, he came here to argue with you, but even in his drunken state, he’s finding it quite difficult to do so since he looks like a fucking pervert now.
“Your comment from earlier— what the hell was that about?” Zuko sounds more wounded than anything right now.
You cross your arms, leaning against the door frame that connects the room to the bathroom. “What comment?”
“The usual,” he says with air quotes. “Do you not like me anymore or something?”
“You’re seriously asking me that right now?” Your face twists, just dumbfounded at this point. “You ask me that as if I don’t work for you?”
He scoffs. “So what, you’re saying I’m not your friend now?”
“I mean, yeah— you are, but I’m still your subordinate at the end of the day,” you attempt to spell it out for him, trying to get it through his brain that he can’t just act like you two are a pair of besties.
But he just continues to argue with you.
“Really? ‘Cause last time I checked, people don’t fight their superiors.”
No, they do not. You’re not sure why you even tried to make that an argument, the line between you has blurred a long time ago.
“You know what, just— forget it.”
The thing is, you're not the best at taking accountability. Most of the arguments you’ve had with him have been swept under the rug after a while. Zuko's not having that right now, though.
“Hm— actually, no— I don’t think I will,” he stubbornly says. “You have been punishing me for fucking weeks now and now you just want me to forget it?”
Punishing him?
You roll your eyes, muttering “oh my god” under your breath, not even bothering to look him straight in the eyes anymore as you walk to the nightstand and pick up a small jar of body cream.
“We have a long day ahead of us tomorrow,” you say dismissively, rubbing the jasmine-scented cream into your hands. “I need to go to sleep, and so should you, honestly.”
It doesn’t matter how well he can handle his alcohol— he reeks of it.
“I’m trying to talk to you right now so I don’t have to deal with your attitude tomorrow,” he says, as if he hasn’t had an attitude himself the last couple of weeks.
“Don’t worry, you won’t have to,” you murmur back.
What feels like minutes pass after your pathetic attempt to settle your issues with him. At first, he just lets out a sigh, trying to keep his composure, but then he laughs under his breath.
“So that’s it?” he asks in a condescending tone. “We’re all good now?”
“Yes. Goodnight, Zuko,” you hum.
More silence follows after. You can just feel his eyes on you despite still facing away, now reaching for some hair oil, waiting for him to leave.
He never does. Even after working the product into your hair, you have yet to hear the door to your room close, making you grow wary.
There are many things telling you not to turn around at the moment— your blurred mind and tensed body. But even you make mistakes, lots of them with Zuko, and so you finally turn around.
His lips are on yours.
You don’t know how long he’d been standing directly behind you, you never even heard his footsteps. All you know is his hands are snaked behind your neck and he’s kissing you and you’re letting him.
It takes you a moment to realize you’re kissing him back— too focused on how soft his lips are, how his tongue glides across your lower lip before slipping inside, so commanding yet so gentle.
Then you sober up— pressing your palm flat against his chest and pushing him back so you two can look at each other, eyes wide and filled with instant regret.
“What the hell was that?” you try to snap at him, but the sharp edge was dulled from the start, already fearing what’ll change between you from this moment forward.
“I— fuck,” he stutters, taking another step back. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”
Immediately, you cut him off. “No, you shouldn’t have and you know that.”
“I know.” It sounds like a plea coming from him as his chest tightens. “I’m sorry.”
Even you start to look apologetic, which breaks his heart a little since you did nothing wrong. The one who crossed the line was him, after all. “You should go. You’re drunk.”
He opened his mouth to respond, but then closed it shortly after. There was nothing to say.
And so he slowly nods and turns around, still in shock by his own actions as he begins to walk away, leaving you to deal with the aftermath of what the fuck just happened on your own.
This was going to be the longest work trip of your life.
notes: i hope u guys enjoyed this first chapter!! this was supposed to be a oneshot but then ideas kept popping up in my head and i thought, why don't i just turn this into a longfic like defiance lol. the plan is to follow these two around throughout a couple arcs, with the first one being them trying to navigate their feelings and attempting to go back to normal while trying to fix the shit show in the silk district.
it was just a gag gift at first. when denki gave bakugou a portal pocket pussy, he had planned to throw it away the first chance he got. but that never came. instead, it sits in the corner of his drawer at his office, tucked away and never once used.
that is until late one night when his patrol just ended, and his boner still hasn’t died down. might as well, he rationalises, there’s barely anyone anyway.
bakugou opens the drawer surreptitiously, as if he’d be spotted behind his own office door. he’s palming his bulge as he inspects it—warm and slightly wet. bringing it to his mouth, he gives the clit a small lick. sweet. he flattens his tongue, now swiping at the slit as juices flow down his nose. he gets really into it, his boner forgotten. the pocket pussy twitches and clenches around his tongue—he must have spent at least twenty minutes slobbering all over it.
finally, bakugou unzips his pants, giving his cock a few pumps before sliding across the hole, collecting wetness on his tip. he slowly slips inside, focusing on the way it stretches to accommodate his thickness.
when he finally bottoms out, bakugou lets out a guttural moan. his hands are wrapped around the pocket pussy, ready to hammer into it when suddenly, his door slams open with a crash, and in tumbles you, kirishima’s assistant, falling down onto your knees while the stack of papers in your hands fly all across his office floor. your pelvis is twitching endlessly, juices flow down your legs as you let out a high-pitched fuck!
the horror of having his long-time work crush see him with his dick out doesn’t really set in when he knows one thing for sure—you just had an orgasm.
falling in love with your doe-eyed coworker (he hates it)
contains: office AU, enemies to lovers, suggestive and not sfw language, mention of alcohol, mention of drugs (in a jokingly manner and not consumption), MSBY are terrible wingmen, this should have been a multichapter but i crammed it into an oneshot, everything is deeply unserious. i cannot begin to describe how silly this is
a/n: i really do want him so bad it makes me look stupid
you've heard of kinktober; now get ready for the spring special
hear what they're saying about spring fever:
"flowers arent the only thing that's blooming" - @knightofwands-upright
"you think the rabbits are bad - get ready-" @saffrondaddy
"you've heard of the birds and the bees -- now get ready for the sequel-" - @knightofwands-upright
honee says: "why wait until october? why not a year-long affair?"
✿ ᴡʜᴀᴛ'ꜱ ꜱᴘʀɪɴɢ ꜰᴇᴠᴇʀ? : honee's month-long writing sprints for the month of April ⇝ each day will be 500 -- 1000 words
✿ ᴄᴀɴ ɪ ᴅᴏ ᴍʏ ᴏᴡɴ ꜱᴘʀɪɴɢ ꜰᴇᴠᴇʀ? : of course!! do it on your blog, join me! join the freaks and let the voices run free <33 if you decide to do it, please tag me so i can see! also make sure you tag cw appropriately
✿ ᴄᴀɴ ɪ ᴊᴏɪɴ ʏᴏᴜʀ ꜱᴘʀɪɴɢ ꜰᴇᴠᴇʀ? : yes!! to join, please send me an ask with the tag #honeesspringfever and any trope/kink/character that you want to see me write about. i'll note it on the masterlist below!
✿ submissions to add to Spring Fever have ended, but submissions for Summer Heat are open! keep sending in those asks, but tag them #honeessummerheat, and i will add them to my list! ✿
✿ ʜᴏɴᴇᴇ'ꜱ ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ : as usual, this a strictly 18+ space, so minors MDNI. kink content/dark themes will be included.
✿ SPRING FEVER MASTERLIST✿ ⇝
✿ day 1 : corruption || matsuhana ⇝ ["take a slice" x glass animals]
✿ day 2 : blindfolding || akaashi keiji
✿ day 3 : somnophilia || sakusa kiyoomi
✿ day 4 : hate sex || kuroo tetsurou
✿ day 5 : semi-public/voyeurism || sugawara koushi
✿ day 6 : phone sex || miya atsumu
✿ day 7 : age gap || younger!suna rintarou x older!reader
✿ day 8 : friendly competition || bokuaka x reader
✿ day 9 : pillow humping || suna rintarou x chubby!reader
✿ day 10 : face sitting/eiffel tower || osakita x chubby!reader
✿ day 11 : thigh fucking || hinata shouyou x chubby!reader
✿ day 12 : inexperienced blowjob || kageyama tobio x reader
✿ day 13 : just the tip || sakusa kiyoomi
✿ day 14 : hair pulling || iwaizumi hajime
✿ day 15 : edging || tsukishima kei
✿ day 16 : teratophilia/bloodsucking || vampire!suna rintarou
✿ day 17 : nipple piercings || nishinoya yuu
✿ day 18 : handcuffs || bokuto koutarou
✿ day 19 : risky public play || suna rintarou
✿ day 20 : oral fixation || matsukawa issei
✿ day 21 : cumming untouched || suna rintarou
✿ day 22 : cockwarming || kageyama tobio
✿ day 21 : orgasm denial || atsuhina x reader
✿ day 22 : long distance cucking || tsukkikage x reader
✿ day 23 : overstimulation || iwaizumi hajime
✿ day 24 : platonic dry humping || hanamaki takahiro
✿ day 25 : sex tape || suna rintarou
✿ day 26 : kissing || hinata shouyou
✿ day 27 : possession || bokuto koutarou
✿ day 28 : food play || miya atsumu
✿ day 29 : free use || seijoh4 x chubby!reader
✿ day 30 : platonic breeding kink || suna rintarou
⟢ tags: abo dynamics, omegaverse, beta!reader, omega!phainon, mention of discrimination against betas, secondary gender stereotypes/roles, eventual smut (mdni), more fleshed out reader, much much unnecessary yapping about amphorean history
Back in your home village, betas were often regarded as unmateable—half-formed things left out of Cerces and Mnestia's blessings of perfect union. They could not carry on family lineage like alphas, nor were they fertile enough to command a bride price the way omegas did. They could not scent, could not bond, and were therefore regarded as socially worthless. You'd quickly learned not to expect—or desire—otherwise.
Or, on the journey to Loukas, an encounter with Phagousa's Soul-Purifying Spring causes everything to go sideways for you and Phainon—the most desirable alpha in the Eternal Holy City.
⟢ chapters: one | two
The road to Loukas exists less often than not.
Progress has been slow-going the past half a week, and it doesn't seem as though today is going to be any different. The sun's already nearing its zenith in the sky and you have yet to make any headway. Not for a lack of effort—the ground before you simply refuses to match the lines on your maps—but the outcome remains the same, regardless. Perhaps you were too generous in calling the loose stone crumbling beneath your feet a 'road' at all.
This relentless heat isn't helping your mood, either.
You finally give up poring over your maps, wincing at the stiffness in your neck as you look up. To your right, the cliffs rise upwards in jagged lines before falling away sharply, giving way to the Aegean sea beyond. Sunlight splinters over its waves like mirror shards scattered across phthalo blue.
Were this any other time, the sight might have captivated you. Instead, you turn your gaze inland, a hand raised against the sun's glare to scan the rocky slope.
It hadn't been your intention to split up earlier, but your companion had noticed your breaths flagging during the uphill climb and insisted you rest—here, beneath the shade of this fig tree—while he went ahead in search of your landmarks. A rocky outcrop in the shape of a clenched fist, the annotations stubbornly insist, in minute script crammed between the weaving ink lines of the coast. With how old these records are, you'll be surprised if he finds it still standing, if he finds it at all.
But Fortune favours the fair—and so, he does.
"I found it!"
You turn just in time to see a familiar white-clad silhouette crest a small rise. Phainon's hair is half-wild and tousled over his forehead—presumably the result of the balmy wind rising from the coast—but he doesn't seem to pay it much mind as he jogs over. The soles of his boots crunch over stone and dry scrub until he comes to a stop in front of you, panting lightly but grinning wide.
"I found it," he repeats, more clearly this time. You raise a brow.
"You found it?"
"I did. Just a short distance north of here, actually." Phainon hunches over as he confirms, both hands bracing on his knees to catch his breath before glancing up at you again. His blue eyes are bright behind his sweat-damp fringe. "It's crumbling somewhat, but definitely recognisable." His grin widens. "See? Told you there was nothing to worry about."
That's easy for him to say, when he isn't in charge of navigation. Still, perspiration beads along the line of his brow, sliding down the curve of his jaw. You retrieve your waterskin. It's heavy in your hand, probably filled about three-quarters or more. You hold it out to him.
"You've been gone less than an hour," you say.
"Hm?" Phainon's smile falters slightly as he takes it from you. "Am I such poor company you were hoping I'd be gone longer?"
You ignore his quip. "We've been scouring this area ever since sunrise."
"I… suppose so?"
"And yet the moment we split up, you find it within three quints?"
"Ah." Phainon pauses mid-swallow at that, his lips curling into a grin around the waterskin. "Well, when you put it that way, it does sound rather impressive."
You give him a decidedly unimpressed look.
He wipes at his dripping mouth with the back of his hand. "You seem as though you suspect foul play."
"Merely considering the statistical improbability."
His eyes brighten.
"Does that mean you're impressed?"
Trust Phainon to spin your words into something flattering. "No, it means I'm questioning whether you found the correct landmark at all."
"Wow. I return bearing triumph and victory only to be received with doubt and suspicion. I thought you'd be more relieved."
You are relieved—more than you appear to be, probably. Back in the days of the Era Bellica, the city-states of Amphoreus had been connected by proper stone-laid roads that had sustained trade in the region for centuries. But after Loukas fell to the Black Tide, the road that once led there had followed: first into neglect, then into ruin—slowly reclaimed by Georios over the years. What remains of it now is little more than fractured stone, its purpose long since crumbled back to dust.
Navigating by these centuries-old maps hasn't been the easiest undertaking, too.
"Alright, fine," you concede as Phainon returns your now empty waterskin. "I suppose I can confirm that we aren't lost, at least." And that you haven't been leading the two of you in circles for the past three days. Forget Phainon; you wouldn't let yourself live it down, if that were the case.
Phainon shrugs easily.
"Getting lost is just another term for scenic detour." His tone is expressedly serious, though the curl of his mouth and the quick flick of his eyes in your direction betrays him. "It's all a matter of perspective. Wouldn't you agree?"
You pinch your nose for good measure. Normally, you wouldn't pay getting lost much mind—you could always wait for night to fall, take your bearings from the stars—but Phainon's time is too valuable to be wasted tramping aimlessly across the Jerichan countryside. There are more important duties than safeguarding you waiting for him back in the Holy City, and the sooner you retrieve the documents Lady Aglaea sent you for, the better.
It's this thought that has you moving quickly to roll up your maps. "When we get back to Okhema, remind me to buy you a dictionary," you say dryly, paying additional care to their fraying edges. Phainon cocks his head, curious.
"What for?"
"So that you can start looking up the definition to words."
His laughter rings out amidst the scorched, dreary landscape. "That was rude." Phainon tries to sound affronted, but it's no use when he's smiling so widely. "Oh—and speaking of detours, I spotted a settlement to the west earlier." He hooks a thumb over his pauldron. "I couldn't make it out clearly, but it looked to be a small town. Not too far from here, I wager."
His offhanded tone tells you this is leading somewhere more. You narrow your eyes at him, feeling like a fish just shy of closing its mouth around a line.
"…And?"
"I was thinking we could stop by and ask the locals for directions." Phainon pauses just long enough for you to consider the suggestion before adding, "Perhaps get a drink to cool down too, while we're at it."
You eye his overly innocent look, his spread hands. "You're remarkably predictable, you know?"
"I'm nothing if not reliable."
"This isn't another one of those occasions where you've already decided and are now generously allowing me to pretend I have a say?"
Phainon puts up both hands as though you've accused him of a grave crime. "Preposterous," he insists, despite the faint smile tugging at his mouth. "I'd never attempt to manipulate you so blatantly. Naturally, we'll go wherever you decide."
"Mm, I'm sure…"
He's playing that little game of his again—mildly exasperating for you, endlessly amusing for him. Once, Phainon's habitual deference to you had kept you perpetually on edge—a trait so distinctly out of place on an alpha it'd bordered on unsettling—but now, it's become little more than a familiar song and dance after so many journeys together. You fight the urge to swat him with your maps—they're far too precious for that—and instead focus on tucking them carefully into your satchel.
When you glace up again, Phainon still has yet to say a word. His eyes seem to be smiling now, too.
You sigh.
"We could," you say at last, in an attempt to frame your words as ambiguously as possible. Phainon's grin widens.
"We could."
You shoot him a sideways look and start down the rocky slope without him. Phainon's laughter trails behind you like a loose ribbon caught in the wind. It takes him all of three strides to catch up, anyway, and you click your tongue as he falls into step beside you—Mnestia and their favourites—and resist the urge to quicken your pace.
The settlement Phainon spotted turns out to be a small town of sorts. A modest scattering of buildings sits tucked into the shelter of a hillside slope, humble homes with whitewashed walls reminiscent of those in Okhema, clustered around a central agora. And fish are everywhere—laid out on wooden boards, strung up to dry beneath shallow eaves. It's an common sight for a seaside community.
Next to you, Phainon wrinkles his nose as he passes by a particularly ripe market stall, before he hastily smoothens his expression back into one of polite interest. You hide your snort behind your hand. One of the few benefits of being a beta, you suppose.
Only a few townspeople are out in the sun at this time of day, and the pair of you draw a handful of watchful looks as they go about their business. It's only to be expected as strangers in a small municipality—it doesn't look as though this town gets much in way of visitors at all. The first establishment you come across is a simple tavern with a low loft built above it, and its door creaks faintly when you push it open.
A girl jolts from one of the tables by the entrance. She's young, by the looks of it—roughly your age if you had to hazard a guess—with a stained apron around her waist. Despite this, she blinks owlishly at you and Phainon as you enter, moss-green eyes flickering over your dust-caked boots and travel worn clothes before darting to the man at your side.
Her posture straightens almost imperceptibly.
You clear your throat. She startles again, cheeks colouring, and hastens behind the counter.
Phainon steers you over towards a vacant table beneath an arched window. Sunlight spills across its wooden surface through the shuttered slats.
"Try not to frighten any of the locals," he teases, the ghost of a grin on his face as he pushes you into a seat. "I'll take a look at what they have."
He's gone before the protest can even find its way to your lips. Left to your own devices, you sigh and lean back in your chair to take stock of the tavern. It's not too crowded—several groups of older men sit scattered about round tables nursing cups over low conversation, while a portly woman in the far corner shells a steadily growing heap of legumes into a wooden bowl. The air smells faintly of brine and watered down wine.
More than that, you feel the weight of curious stares on your back.
When your eyes search instinctively for Phainon once more, you find him leaning over the counter, seemingly engaged in easy conversation. It comes as little surprise—people have a way of warming to him quickly. Lady Aglaea likes that about him. Whatever they're talking about is too muddled to make out amidst the low buzz of the tavern, but you catch the way she stumbles over her words, the faint pink creeping into her cheeks as she speaks.
Omega, your mind supplies unhelpfully before you can stop yourself.
The Grove's research insists that there are no meaningful differences in appearance between alphas and omegas, save for reproductive anatomy. Theory, however, rarely survives contact with reality. You dislike relying on outdated and narrow-minded stereotypes—alphas are territorial and domineering, omegas gentle and naturing—but such ideas rarely arise without some basis. Besides, betas like you are completely pheromone-blind. Navigating society would be impossible, otherwise.
You occupy yourself with staring at the sun-baked streets just beyond the window. A few minutes later, Phainon returns, a large cup in each hand.
"I got us kykeon," he announces. Your fingertips brush when he slides one over to you. "Here. Drink up."
You hum your thanks and take a sip. The taste is both familiar and not at the same time: watered down barley with a hint of local herbs, creamy with goat's cheese but finishing wih a briny tang. You take your second mouthful more slowly, parsing the flavours as they settle across your tongue.
"It's… a little salty?"
Your comment comes out more inquisitive than you intend. Phainon smiles as he slides into the seat opposite yours, his coat tails brushing across the wooden floor. He seems amused by your reaction.
"They add seawater to the drink." He lifts his own cup to his lips. "It's a specialty here."
"Oh? According to who?"
"Leona."
Phainon nods over his shoulder at the counter. Leona. You turn her name over in your mind once, then twice. It shouldn't come as a surprise that he's already on a first name basis with her.
"You're making friends quickly."
He doesn't rise to the bait, disappointingly. "She was very friendly. Very helpful, too."
You note the way the serving girl continues to steal glances in Phainon's direction, even as she pretends to busy herself behind the counter. Fortunately—or perhaps unfortunately—the object of her attention seems to remain oblivious.
"I don't doubt it."
The topic ends up drifting, as it often does, back to the road ahead. Between measured sips of kykeon and the low murmur of the tavern, you fall back into the familiar rhythms of conversation—distances to cover, landmarks to confirm, the steady arithmetic of time and terrain. By the time the discussion turns to the restocking of your dwindling supplies, the two of you are bent over the maps spread out across the table, heads lowered in concentration once more.
"Distance wise, continuing down the coastal path would be the quickest route." You tap at a long, thin line that cuts across the land. It chases the curve and bend of the coast, forging upwards. "But Leanor's maps mention a river that swells in summertime when ice from the nearby mountains melts. It might be too wide for us to cross now."
Phainon's eyes track your finger dutifully as it traces across the topography of your maps, thoughtful and alert. Navigation has never been his forte but he's always eager to learn. You're about to point out a possible crossing farther downstream—a bridge you've seen mentioned in several of Kremnos' war annals—when a large hand suddenly plants itself between the two of you, thick fingers splayed across the vellum.
"Excuse me."
The two of you look up simultaneously at the interruption. Towering over your table is a heavyset man, tufts of dark hair bristling at his temples. His gaze sweeps over you and Phainon like a bear sizing up potential prey. For someone who's just asked to be excused, there is little way of apology in his expression.
"It's not often we get new faces around these parts, especially with the Black Tide spreading nearby," the man says, in manner of a greeting. His voice is a low rumble in the back of his throat. "What brings the two of you to this place?"
There's a wary note in his voice that he makes no effort to disguise—confrontational, almost tipping over into hostile. You've heard that tone enough times to become familiar with it. Most often, from the more aggressive alpha members of the Okheman council, when a debate sin't going the way they prefer. Lady Aglaea does a far better job at restraining herself, but sometimes you still catch the instinct beneath that water-tight composure slipping through.
A few patrons at the tables nearby pause mid-drink, heads lifting to catch the cloud of pheromones that must be flooding the air. Your own breathing quickens traitorously in turn.
Phainon, however, doesn't respond outwardly to the challenge. His posture stays relaxed and his expression neutral, though you notice the faint tightening of his hands and feet, like a blade settling into its sheath. Then he smiles, disarmingly polite.
"We're just passing through on our way to Loukas," Phainon replies. His tone skirts the edge of amiability while remaining uncowed. "We're on business for the Flame-Chase."
The mention of the Flame-Chase seems to have snared the man's attention. His eyes flick briefly to you, then back to Phainon. The suspicion in them is tempered by cautious interest.
"Loukas, you say? The Prison City?"
"The very one."
"It's nothing but a ruin now. The place is overrun with the Black Tide." He pauses. "Ain't that dangerous?"
Phainon inclines his head in acknowledgement. "We can handle ourselves," he says simply, without arrogance or boast. It's as though simply stating a fact. The man considers his claim for a long moment, carefully taking in the broad shoulders and untroubled confidence, before he lets out a grunt.
"Sorry about that," he says, and this time the apology sounds more genuine. "Like I said, we don't see many new faces around here, and the ones that we do are usually up to no good. You two are Chrysos Heirs?"
"Only him," you say, and he nods.
"Of course." Before you can ask what exactly that is supposed to mean, the man shifts his attention back to Phainon. "I'm the owner of this tavern here." Your eyes track the movement as he offers Phainon his hand—a brief clasp, palm to palm, the scent glands there brushing in passing. "I overheard you talking about restocking for your journey ahead."
A polite if blunt way of admitting he'd been listening in. Phainon seems to be frowning faintly, though he conceals it well. But he makes no mention of it and so neither do you.
"We were discussing the matter, yes."
The barkeeper seems to hesitate at that. He shifts his weight from his left foot to his right, the fingers of one hand twisting in the ties of apron. He looks as though carefully weighing his next words.
"I'd like to offer to supply you with whatever you might need, Chrysos Heir," he says, eventually. "If you'd assist us—the people of this town—with an issue."
You and Phainon exchange a brief glance. The two of you are in no dire need of coin—the Goldweaver supplies you with more than enough to cover your travel expenses—but it can't hurt to hear out his concerns if it affects the entire town. Phainon seems to reach a similar conclusion, because he leans forward, fingers lacing over his knee.
"What's the problem?"
The barkeeper drags a hand over the back of his neck, then sighs. "There's an old temple down by the coast," he begins. "It used to be dedicated to Phagousa, but it was abandoned ever since the Ocean Titan disappeared. I'd like for you to take a look at it."
Abandoned. Not an uncommon fate for shrines tied to fallen divinity, especially since the Daythunder Knight had first felled Aquila. Phainon's curiosity seems piqued, regardless.
"Is there a reason you're so concerned about this particular temple?"
The barkeeper nods reluctantly after a moment. "It's the source of this town's Soul-Purifying Spring."
Now that makes your eyes go wide. You can count the number you've seen on one hand—the rest are either dried up or long destroyed in wars of centuries past—so you never thought you'd stumble across one by accident. They're nowhere near as powerful as the fragments of Phagousa's chalice, but still, as a relic containing the power of a Titan…
Phainon glances over at you, not quite comprehending.
"This, uh, Soul-Purifying Spring is…?"
You open your mouth to answer, but the barkeeper beats you to it. "It's spirit water," he explains. "Blessed by Phagousa herself—the pride of our town." His chest puffs out a little as he says it, though a mote of worry lingers in his eyes. "The water flows from beneath thetemple grounds and into a fountain in the agora." His jaw tightens. "Or it did, until about a couple of years ago."
"You didn't send someone to investigate earlier?" you mutter, incredulous. The barkeeper's eyes dart to you, almost as though he'd forgotten you were there in the first place. The question seems to catch up a beat later, and he lets out a quiet huff.
"We did. But the younger lads we sent said they saw movement in the inner chambers—creatures resembling Black Tide monsters—and didn't dare venture further." He grimaces. "We're fishermen and salt traders, not fighters."
Phainon nods slowly, contemplative.
"I see."
When you glance over, Phainon's expression has gone thoughtful. The mention of Black Tide creatures has clearly caught his attention—he'll want to investigate, temple obligations or not. The sages at the Grove would value any information you can offer; accurate predictions mean better resource allocation, faster evacuations, more lives saved.
Across from you, the barkeeper straightens, pride and worry warring visibly across his face. The latter wins.
"So," he says, the edge in his voice faltering to a reluctant appeal, "would you be willing to help us, Chrysos Heir?"
He does not look at you as he says it. It has been quite clear, since the beginning, that he's seen only Phainon as someone worth addressing—the leader, the decision-maker, the alpha, the fighter—and you as little more than accompanying afterthought. It doesn't bother you very much. If anything, you might even prefer it this way. You've grown accustomed to standing just outside the centre of such exchanges, and besides, you already know what Phainon's answer will be.
Or, you thought you did. Instead, Phainon tilts his head. His ivory fringe slips into summer blue eyes, unreadable for the space of a breath, before he smiles.
"Oh, I'm not the one you should be asking." He glances at you, a brow raised. "I'm not in charge, here."
The map corner you'd been fidgeting with slips from between your fingers. You look up, bewilderment creeping in. The barkeeper's eyes meet yours, equally perplexed.
"Your companion?" Faint disbelief colours his voice.
You cut a sidelong look at Phainon only to find him already watching you. There's no trace of his usual lightheartedness in his eyes, although he maintains it in expression. You purse your lips, unsure what he's playing at, brows drawing together warily.
Drop it.
He doesn't. "My companion is the one with unparalleled expertise in ancient temples. I'm only here to swing my sword around and look intimidating."
You find yourself wishing that the two of you were in private company—then, at least, you would be able to freely elbow Phainon in the ribs. But if you were, then there would be no need for this entire conversation in the first place. Precisely why you prefer ancient ruins to most people…
After a silence that drags long enough for it to become uncomfortable, the barkeeper finally clears his throat. He turns to you.
"…Then," he starts, clearly deciding that the matters of the temple takes precedence, "will you take a look at our temple? At least find out what's blocking the spring?"
You bite back the sigh that threatens to slip out. You can already feel the shape of the detour settling into your originally intended route, your schedule, as persistent as the unwavering gaze coming from your left.
"…We will."
The discussion that follows finds its way back to Phainon despite his earlier insistence otherwise, but you find yourself unbothered—moreso than usual. Instead, you stare out of the window and sip at the remainder of your drink as they talk logistics and directions, more occupied with the odd discomfort that seems to have lodged itself in the back of your throat.
The barkeeper finally excuses himself to fetch a few things from the storeroom upstairs. The second he disappears out of the back door, Phainon pivots in his seat to face you, half-empty cup of kykeon raised high.
"Well, that was certainly unexpected," he muses. His easy charm has settled back as though it never left. "Here I thought you didn't care much for detours—"
"You shouldn't have done that."
"Hm? I haven't the faintest idea what you could possibly be referring to."
He looks too pleased with himself for your liking. Self-righteous fool. Mindsets like the barkeeper's are hardly uncommon, especially in more rural areas like this one. Perspectives on betas range far and wide depending on region, but they rarely stray far from the same conclusion: that betas exist somewhere outside of the neat social order built around alphas and omegas.
Back in your home village, betas were often regarded as unmateable—half-formed things left out of Cerces and Mnestia's blessings of perfect union. They could not carry on family lineage like alphas, nor were they fertile enough to command a bride price the way omegas did. They could not scent, could not bond, and were therefore regarded as socially worthless. You'd quickly learned not to expect—or desire—otherwise.
Something tells you that trying to explain this to Phainon would only make him double down, though, so you refrain. "It didn't bother me," you clarify, instead. "You didn't need to do anything."
"Oh?" Phainon leans forward, setting his elbows on the table to properly meet your gaze. "It bothered me, though."
You can't help but feel as though you've been here before. It's a conversation you've had one time too many. At least he isn't playing ignorant any longer. It doesn't suit him.
"Betas don't have scents. It's normal to be overlooked."
He arches a brow. "Is that so? I look at you all the time."
That silver tongue of his. He's going to give someone the wrong idea, one day. "You're abnormal. You don't count."
Phainon laughs at that, head tipping back just enough to reveal the dark band of his choker, stark against the pale line of his throat. "People often read too much into secondary gender. They see what they want to see." His chin shifts to prop itself atop his knuckles as he regards you, half-smiling. "It saves them the trouble of having to think any further."
You spend a moment attempting to decipher whatever meaning is veiled behind his words before giving up. It might be easier to reason with a mule, you think. At least it can't talk back.
"Next time, just answer on both our behalfs and spare us the unnecessary exchange."
Phainon shrugs. "If you insist, I'll keep that in mind."
Conversation seemingly over, Phainon leans back to take a longer, more leisurely sip of his kykeon. His chair tilts precariously on its rear legs. You watch him for a whole five seconds, frowning before you speak again.
"You won't, will you?"
His smile sharpens into a grin.
"No, I won't."
The barkeeper returns just as the two of you are finishing your drinks. He hands Phainon two maps—one, a simply guide marking the route down to the temple, the other, a rough charcoal sketch of its interior. The latter is clearly drawn by an untrained hand: its lines are smudged, proportions skewed, and it's not of much use. Fortunately, you've picked up in your time exploring the ruins along Milios' coasts. As long as the structures don't differ too drastically, it shouldn't pose too much of an issue for you.
The two of you are halfway out of the door when a voice calls out from behind.
"W—wait!"
The shy serving girl from earlier—Leona, if you remember correctly—hurries over. Her steps slow as she nears. She fumbers with a tightly wrapped bundle in her hands for a moment, fingers curling bashfully over the knot at the top before she holds it out to him. The faint scent of something warm and freshly baked permeates through the undyed linen.
Phainon looks genuinely startled. It's almost cute, how receiving unsolicited favour still catches him off guard.
"Apologies, this is?"
"S—Some bread," she stutters, ducking her head. It does nothing to hide the blush spreading over her cheeks, the colour of ripe nectarines. You wonder briefly if she smells just as sweet. "For, um, h—helping with the Spring."
Phainon looks at it. You think you catch a glimpse of some indecipherable emotion flickering behind the blue ocean-depths of his eyes, before it's quickly replaced by a courteously apologetic, pinned-together smile.
"That is very kind of you." His hands lift, hovering over her offering but not quite touching, as though he's unsure how to properly respond to her gesture. "But I couldn't possibly…"
"No, no, I insist—"
Titans above. Whether Phainon is simply being polite or deliberately obtuse is anyone's guess, and you're rapidly running out of the patience required to discern which it is. The two of you will be here all until nightfall if he keeps this coyness up, and besides, food is food. There's no reason to hesitate.
Before he can protest again, you step between them and intercept the bread. She startles, hands jerking back to her chest, eyes going as wide as silver coins as she stares at you.
"Thank you for your generosity," you force yourself to say, inclining your head in a courteous, if somewhat brief, bow. "We'll make good use of it."
Her gaze flicks to you, lips pursing. She appears almost indignant for a second before her expression dissipates into one of reluctant resignation.
"…Of course."
You don't wait for the exchange to continue. Turning around, you stride out of the tavern with the hurried sound of Phainon's footsteps quick at your heels, and back into the harsh afternoon light.
The temple of Phagousa is older than you expect.
Built directly into the cliffside, the entire structure is more carved than constructed. The limestone façade is darkened with centuries of exposure to salt and wind. It'd taken you and Phainon about an hour to reach the coast, and then another three quints to spot, its silhouette almost swallowed by the Parting Hour's shadow. By then, the darkening sky had only made your descent more treacherous, and Phainon had insisted on gripping your hand tight as he led you down the flights of crumbling stairs.
Now, what remains of the portico you're standing on juts outward over the sea. When you'd peered over the edge earlier, you could just barely make out great chunks of white marble beneath the foam swirling atop the waves. It's as though the entire structure is slowly crumbling into the ocean that had once defined its worship.
"So," Phainon calls out after several minutes of wordless pacing. "Your professional opinion?"
You glance up from a pair of heavy, rusted hinges. Your travel companion seems to have made himself comfortable atop a fallen column, one leg tucked beneath his thigh while the other kicks idly at the broken ground. He's also tucked the end of his cape into his belt—the wind would have a field day with it, otherwise—though it does little to spare his hair from being blown every which way.
He looks like he's just stepped out of a hurricane, or came out wrestling barehanded with Aquila and lost. Phainon frowns when he notices you glance to the side, his lips moving.
What?
"You look ridiculous."
Phainon's brows pinch together in visible confusion.
"Whaaaaat?"
You cup your hands around your mouth, raising your voice to be heard over the rushing of the wind.
"I said, this entrance is blocked!"
"Ohh!"
He hops off the fallen pillar easily, stepping over the scattered rubble to join you. You gesture towards the massive double doors you'd been examining as he draws nearer—more than twice your height and several wingspans across.
"The hinges are completely rusted through." You brush a hand along the weathered stone, and a thin layer of salt crystals come away on your fingertips. "Even if we did manage to get through the locking mechanism—which doesn't seem to be working either, by the way—the doors themselves wouldn't budge."
"Seriously?"
"Seriously," you echo dryly, if only to humour him.
Phainon lifts his head to study the door. His hands are planted squarely on his hips, as though he's sizing himself up against it.
"Even if I put all of my strength into it?"
You open your mouth, a confirmation hovering at the tip of your tongue only to pause. You've witnessed him perform feats that border on absurd—tearing apart several of Strife's corrupted Titankin with his bare hands, and lifting an anvil for the Grand Craftsman that you'd estimated to weigh about the same as a young dromas. Of Phainon's strength, you have no doubt. But even so—
"These doors can weigh up to about eight hundred Attic talents each." You lift a hand to rap your knuckles lightly against them for emphasis. They might be corroded and weakened from the seawater, but they're still made of solid stone. "They're mounted on internal pivot mechanisms that let them swivel open when properly unlocked. Not even ten Mountain Dwellers would be able to force them open otherwise."
Your gaze lifts.
"Besides, even if you succeeded somehow, you'd probably bring the entire temple down on top of us."
Phainon cranes his head back to follow your line of sight. He winces when he sees the crack stonework overhead, the fissures webbing across weathered lintel.
"I'd prefer not to make an acquaintance of Thanatos just yet," he agrees, though his gaze lingers on the doors for a few seconds before he glances at you, sidelong. "I suppose you know another way in?"
"Interesting assumption."
He just shrugs, still looking at you. "You don't seem too bothered by the main entryway being completely blocked off."
You cross your arms across your chest, raising a brow. What an astute observation. You're not entirely certain you appreciate being the subject of it. Turning on your heel, you nod towards the temple's shadowed depths.
"There's most likely a secondary entrance somewhere inside. Come on."
Phainon follows you past the portico and along the corridors of the peristyle. The howling of the wind gradually dwindles behind you until it fades to a distant whistle. Even in a state of abandonment, the temple's once-glory is evident—bronze basins filled with water line the walls, faded murals stretching across the inner corridors. Most of them depict Phagousa's infamous undersea banquets in jewelled shades of ultramarine and turqoise, their scenes brimming over with unrestrained indulgence and revelry. Her chalice gleams gold betwixt her pale fingers.
You gesture idly at one of the panels as you pass. "Mid-Bellican, most probably. It looks like the pigments were mixed with crushed mother-of-pearl. See the way it shimmers? Some scholars think it was meant to mimic the way light refracts beneath the sea."
Phainon listens with rapt attention. His gaze drifts from one mural to the next with open fascination as you speak. Once, you would have grown self-conscious the moment you realised you were rambling—a habit you'd unknowingly developed after wandering ancient ruins alone for years—and promptly cut yourself off mid-explanation. But over time, you'd come to recognise that Phainon's interest in the topic was genuine.
Now, it's often this sort of idle conversation that fills the silence during your long journeys together.
"How can you tell?"
"Tell what?"
"That it's Mid-Bellican." Phainon's brow furrows as he stares down one of Phagousa's many painted forms, as though she might yield the answer under sufficient scrutiny. His eyes are the same shade of blue as the waves glimmering along the murals. "I tried reading that compendium you mentioned, but I don't think there was anything about era-specific pigments."
You're faintly surprised. You'd only referenced it in passing while explaining about a Skyfolk Pavilion—you hadn't expected him to actually seek it out, much less read it.
"Oh. It's more of an inference on my part, actually. Mid-Bellica is the period where large-scale trade roads first began to appear, and Pyria was the only major exporter of maritime goods back then." A wry edge slips into your voice. "Coincidentally, it's also when Kremnos started lauching its first military campaign against the Seaside States."
You'd only added on that last part as a passing remark to yourself, but Phainon's head lifts.
"Castrum Kremnos?"
"Roads built for commerce also make it very convenient to transport siege engines and war supplies. Soldiers, too." After a moment's hesitation, you add, "I'm sure Lord Mydeimos would be more familiar with this topic than I am. You can ask him about it, if you're curious."
It's common knowledge in the Holy City—Phainon's longstanding rivalry with Kremnos' crown prince. You'd heard the stories of how they'd clashed for ten consecutive days and nights the first time they'd met; how an insignificant farm boy from some nameless, remote village had come within a hair's breadth to the heir of a nation forged by war for war. Now, both of them fight shoulder to shoulder for the Flame-Chase. Fate truly works in mysterious ways.
Phainon barks out a laugh at that. The sound travels down the length of the empty corridor, echoes back strange and distorted. "I could ask him, I suppose. Though I'm not certain if he'd entertain me…"
He scratches at the back of his head, a sheepish look spreading across his face. You send a faintly puzzled look his way.
"Aren't the two of you friends?"
He makes an odd expression at that. "We're on friendly terms. Mydei would probably disagree on the word 'friends'…" He trails off, frowning, as though the right description eludes him.
You return your gaze to the walls. You've heard other rumours as well—speculative whispers and tavern gossip about a bond that seems to run deeper than mere camaraderie. They're of no substance, of course, and you briefly consider mentioning them before you think the better of it. A pairing of two alphas is uncommon, but hardly unheard of.
Besides, whoever Phainon may or may not be involved with is none of your concern.
You quicken your pace. Your fingertips graze cool stone as your eyes scan the walls. If you listen closely enough, you can just manage to make out the faint trickle of running water… right about there.
"Allies? No, that's not quite it. Brothers-in-arms? Comrades?" Phainon hums under his breath. "Hmm… I guess comrades would be—"
"Here." You come to a sudden halt, and Phainon very nearly walks straight into your back. Only his quick reflexes save the two of you from colliding at the very last second. "Found it."
The two of you are standing before yet another door, though this one is significantly smaller. Inlaid within its surface is a series of concentric rings crafted from alternating gold and aquamarine, and at the very top, two carved fish. A shallow runnel spills from their mouths, trickles over stone. There's a clear resemblance to the door at the main entrance, though this one is, thankfully, far better preserved.
Phainon takes one look at it and sighs.
"Yet another one of those unsmashable doors?"
"There are only so many of these left across all of Amphoreus," you say, eyeing him as you return your attention to the door. "Please refrain from the urge to destroy every ancient relic you come across."
He sputters behind you.
"I was only asking!"
You turn away to hide the twitch of your lips. "Anyways, the inner sanctum should be behind this door." You drop into a crouch, tracing one finger along the carved grooves in one of the outer rings. It's bone dry, dust gathering along its tracks. When was the last time anyone made use of this entrance? "The grooves need to be aligned so that water can descend to the bottom. This might take a while."
You get to work in silence. The stone is cool beneath your palms, and each movement produces a soft, grinding click as ancient gears stir after years of disuse.
The mechanism quickly proves more intricate and challenging than you'd initially expected—the channels align and subsequently diverge, and one incorrect adjustment causes all the pooled water to drain uselessly into the sides. Things would be much easier if you could feel the flow of water like the priestesses of Phagousa back in your hometown did, you lament to yourself. Still, the lock is engaging enough, and it doesn't take you long to slip into a state of focus.
All the while, you feel a gaze resting intently on your back.
"I had a sudden thought," Phainon says.
"Don't hurt yourself," you reply absently, without looking up.
"Ha ha, very funny." Phainon ignores your jab and presses on. "Where did you learn to do all this?"
"All this?"
"All this… temple-related business." You pause, peeling your eyes from the mechanism. Phainon has positioned himself against the wall to watch you work, arms crossed loosely over his chest while one shoulder rests against stone. "You didn't study at the Grove, right? None of the schools there teach anything remotely similar, anyway."
Caprists, Erythrokeramists, Helkolithists, Lotophagists, Nodists, Venerationists, Nousporists. Phainon comes from the last and newest of them, if you remember correctly. Hyacine and Lady Castorice had, too.
You turn back to slide another ring into alignment. A thin stream of water trickles a little further along one of the grooves.
"Why the sudden curiosity?"
"It's hardly sudden. I've been trying to get to know you better for over a year now, in case you haven't noticed."
You huff out a breath that might pass for a laugh at his admission.
"And how is that going for you?"
"Terribly." You hear the sulk in his voice without seeing it. "Getting you to speak about yourself is harder than squeezing water from a rock."
He's one to talk. Phainon does speak—often, in fact,and to a remarkable degree—yet for all the words he offers, he reveals very little of substance about himself. Not deliberately, you think, because the man standing behind you isn'tone to withhold any part of himself if it would benefit another. And yet, somehow, conversations with him always turn outwards: to his hometown, to other people, anything that isn't quite truly about him. You're not certain if he's even aware of this habit himself, despite his considerable self-awareness.
Most of it is misplaced, anyway.
You decide to humour Phainon for once. "I didn't."
He perks up immediately, like a dog being thrown a bone.
"Didn't?"
"Didn't study at the Grove." Water slips along a newly aligned path, pooling in a crevice. Phainon remains silent but you can feel the curiosity radiating off him in waves. "The village I was born in was located in an area fraught with natural disasters, so they worshipped all three Titans of Foundation. The surrounding cliffs were littered with the ruins of their temples. I used to spend hours as a child playing there and talking to the gods, pretending they could answer me."
"Woah. You started out young."
You smile faintly at the sincere amazement in his tone. "I guess so."
"I remember running around Aedes Elysiae all the time with Cyrene too, when I was younger. We'd stay out past Descent Hour and our parents would find us sleeping in the wheat fields." The timbre of his voice softens. You don't have to turn around to know that there's a wistful, faraway look in his eyes. He always gets nostalgic whenever he talks about his home, and you briefly wonder what it must be like to miss your birthplace so fondly. "I bet you got up to all kinds of mischief too," he adds, the tail-end of a laugh snaking its way in.
"I did. The village elders used to make us kneel on Georios' temple steps as punishment." At the movement of another ring, a thin stream of water slips along the outer circumference. Oh, you're getting somewhere. "I almost missed it, after everyone started presenting."
"Oh. What happened?"
Phainon sounds a little more measured now. You don't spare much thought to it, mind and fingers occupied with the mechanism in front of you.
"My friends started attending courtship dances to find mates, or serving in the temples." Or at least that's what they'd said—but you'd always suspected that the truth was far simpler, and far less kind. "My village was small, so I was the only beta there at the time. They didn't kow what to do with a defect like me." You move another ring, and the water continues its slow descent down the door. "I stuck around for a year or two before I left to explore on my own. That's how I ended up in Okhema."
You keep working the door. When the silence stretches on for longer than you expect, you turn your head again, bemused.
"Phainon?"
Even in the dim light, you can just make out the tight set of his jaw. He's… unhappy, you think. About what, though, you can only guess. Hyacine once mentioned that Phainon's scent reminded her of summer warmth—vanilla and neroli and fresh linen left out to dry, sunlight distilled into something you could put in a bottle. You wonder distantly how that might change when soured by displeasure.
"I wish you wouldn't talk about yourself like that."
You blink, suddenly pulled from your musings. "Like what?"
"Like calling yourself defective." The words leave him in a rush, like he's been holding his breath. "Or anything remotely similar, actually."
"I am, though," you reply, more matter-or-fact than argumentative. "No scent glands or receptors, remember?"
A troubled look flickers across Phainon's face. His gaze darts over you, a migratory bird unable to settle—like he wants to say something more but cannot find the words. Eventually, he settles on, "You should have come to Okhema earlier. If you had, you would definitely have been accepted into the Grove. The sages would have been fighting over you."
You turn back to the door, snorting softly. Almost there.
"That's so silly. I'm just a nobody."
"You're not," Phainon insists. His footsteps draw closer. You can almost imagine the stubborn set of his expression even without looking. "We would have been friends."
The notion is so ridiculous you don't even bother dignifying it with a proper response. Phainon isn't just any alpha—he's highly regarded, well-built, intelligent and good-looking to the point of envy. To make matters worse, he's kind and respectful. Omegas would have flocked to him in droves. And you… you would have remained precisely where you always do—at the periphery, unnoticed and unremarkable.
No, you want to say. We wouldn't have been.
"Professor Anaxagoras would have liked you, I think. He's always taken an interest in other betas," Phainon continues without waiting for your response, unfazed. "He used to ask the strangest questions during lectures, the sort that would send half the class struggling to figure out what he meant. Sometimes he would just up and leave in the middle of them, too."
"Wow."
"His lectures could be rather esoteric, but I think you would have gotten him. You could have woken me up, too! I kept falling asleep during classes, and the professor would call on me at the worst possible moments."
"…Perhaps."
"Though the Nousporists' cohort was rather small at the time, so you might not have been very impressed by it…" Phainon hums, as though genuinely considering the thought. "Which school do you think you would have gone to?"
"The Venerationists, most likely." The answer slips out without your meaning to, and you pause. "…what are you doing, Phainon?"
Phainon holds your gaze. There is nothing overt in his expression—no usual teasing smile, no easy deflection—yet the attention in his eyes feels strangely intent. The sort of look that makes you suddenly aware of yourself, as though he's not merely looking through you but at you. You shift slightly, a strange unease stirring beneath your skin wherever his gaze lands.
Right before you can look away, Phainon drops his gaze first. "Nothing. Just wondering what it would have been like, if the two of us had been students at the Grove together. Oh!" He ducks his head to riffle through the satchel tied to his belt, fumbling for a moment before producing a pastry—some of the flatbread the serving girl had given him earlier. "I just remembered that you like this. Snack?"
Normally, you'd reach for pita without second thought. Now, there's something making you hesitate.
"…My hands are dirty."
Phainon beams. He holds it up to your mouth, excuse rolling off him like water off a duck's back. After a brief moment of reluctance, you lean forward and take a small bite.
It's good. Warm and airy and soft. You don't know why that's annoying you so much.
Between growing bites of flatbread and several more rounds of trial and error, you finally manage to coax the rings into proper alignment. When the last one slides into place, the water at the top finally begins to flow unimpeded, racing along the newly connected grooves to pour into the narrow channel at the base of the door. The mechanism within the stone whirs, so low you can feel it grating in the back of your skull. Faint blue light seeps through.
Soundlessly, the doors part.
You exchange glances, and Phainon reaches up to pluck one of the torches from its sconce. The two of you step through the doorway. The firelight flickers across the walls, revealing rows of pockmarked recesses—probably where jewels or inlays once rested, long since pried free. The work of temple robbers, most likely. Your footsteps echo softly as the passage opens into a small, gilded chamber.
Mounted upon the far wall is a massive fish-shaped gargoyle carved from pale stone. Its lips are parted over a shallow basin that looks bone dry, its surface cracked and dulled with age. It's as though the poor creature has been begging for water for years.
"That's it," you murmur, starting forward.
Phainon's hand closes around your upper arm before you can take more than a few steps. "Wait."
There's a sharp undercurrent in his voice that makes you halt at once, hands instinctively withdrawing to your chest. He's already still, head tilted ever so slightly to listen. You follow his line of sight despite seeing nothing.
And then, you hear it.
It starts off faint—so faint you could almost mistake it for breath, or a trick played on your ears by your hypervigilant mind—almost like what you would imagine whalesong to sound like. But this sounds less of a song and more of a wail. It echoes through the corridor in slow, undulating waves, rising and falling like the tide, gradually getting louder.
Getting closer.
"Abyssal sea sirens," Phainon echoes your thoughts. A pale glow gathers in his left hand, outstretched, his greatsword materialising within his grasp. The flickering flames catch in his eyes as he holds out the torch to you, and he smiles briefly, reassuring. "Stay behind me, alright?"
"I don't have a death wish," you mutter, but you take the torch anyway.
The words have barely left your mouth when monsters spill into the inner sanctum—amorphous, ink-dark shapes resembling all manner of marine creatures, illuminated by an eerie, violet glow. Titankin of Phagousa, gone mad in their search for the broken pieces of her chalice. They're nothing more than mindless Black Tide creatures now.
Phainon surges forward to meet them, a dam bracing against a rising swell head-on. Never before did you think that you would describe fighting as beautiful, until you'd watched Phainon fight for the first time. His greatsword cleaves through the tide in brutal, sweeping arcs, silent grunts slipping past his teeth with each strike. You remain pressed against the wall behind him, torch gripped tightly in your useless fingers. The rupturned Titankin crumble into brittle fragments that clatter against the stone ground.
He makes quick work of them. The sirens wail—thin, distorted echoes that ripple through the chamber—but their voices have since lost whatever power they once held. Their warped forms shatter beneath his blade until the ground is littered with lifeless stone husks, their eerie glow fading into nothing.
Only when the last of them breaks apart does the tension in Phainon's stance finally ease. He turns back to you almost immediately, the weapon in his hand dissipating into a scatter of fading light.
"Are you alright?"
"I'm fine."
You don't know why he bothered asking. Not a single Titankin made it past his guard. The torch in your hand wavers slightly, its light dancing across the slopes and planes of his face. The corners of your mouth dip into a frown when you catch sight of a thin scratch along his cheek.
"…You're bleeding."
It's minor, more the result of stray fragments than any real injury, but golden ichor still beads along the side of his face, the colour of ripened wheat under sunlight. Phainon lifts a hand; it comes away smeared on his fingertips.
You reach for your satchel. "I have a—"
"No need." He waves it off with a short laugh and, when your frown deepens, quickly continues. "We should hurry. There might be more sea sirens still lurking in the temple."
A protest lingers at the tip of your tongue, but he's not without sense. Yet the irritation remains. Phainon has always been like this since the first day Aglaea introduced you both—so quick to dismiss himself, his own well-being, as though he is the least important thing in any given situation. You're just about to give voice to the thought when your gaze suddenly lands on the fish gargoyle behind him.
A sudden idea sparks in your mind.
"I have an idea," you say, grabbing Phainon by the sleeve of his coat. "Come with me."
Phainon quirks a brow at you, clearly bemused, but he allows himself to be tugged over to the basin without protest. You drop his sleeve and turn your attention to the gargoyle, leaning forward to peer into the pipe hidden within the fish's mouth. The interior is cast into shadow, pale stone worn smooth by centuries of running water. At the moment, it's tragically dry.
You slide your hand into its maw. Your wrist and forearm disappear past its thick lips, shoulder twisting with the awkward angle. After a few seconds of rooting about the back of its throat, your fingers meet something solid.
It's clogged with debris, most likely. You're not certain how it got there, but the more pressing matter still stands: you don't know how to get it out. The channel is too narrow to properly dislodge by hand, andyou have no way of checking how far the blockage extends. If only you could get the water flowing once more, even for just a moment…
You exhale softly, withdrawing your hand to press a palm against the carved gills.
"Are you going to…?"
Phainon leans in almost unconsciously. It's as though the sight never grows mundane to him, no matter the number of times he's witnessed it. You push aside the sudden distraction of his attention, his proximity, focusing instead of recalling the words you've long committed to memory.
"O Oronyx, Lord of Time, Weaver of the Evernight Veil…"
For a brief instant, the air itself seems to still. A second of silence, and then a faint rattling begins to echo from deep within the pipe as the grains of Oronyx's hourglass flow back upwards. It's followed by a sputtering gurgle, the sound of trapped water attempting to force its way through, and Phainon bends over the rim to peer up into the fish's throat just as the final clump of debris collapses into another pocket of time.
Water rushes out in a sudden rush. It bursts from the gargoyle's mouth in a powerful stream, directly into Phainon's face. He sputters.
You drag him out of the way in alarm, but it's too late. Phainon stands before you, mouth slightly agape and completely drenched from head to toe. Water streams from his hair in steady rivulets, darkening the white of his coat to a dull grey, dripping from the tails. He blinks the wetness out of those too blue eyes before they fall on you. Your teeth catch your bottom lip on instinct, bracing yourself for the irritation that is sure to follow.
"I—"
Instead, Phainon just starts laughing.
"Was this the idea you had in mind?" Phainon manages between sputtering giggles as he scrubs a hand over his face. You hastily step forward to help without thinking, and he lowers his head to meet you halfway, eyes slipping shut while you wipe at his forehead and cheeks with your sleeve. A faint pang of guilt rises in your chest all the same.
"Ahh—no. Water blessed by Phagousa is meant to possess restorative properties…" A trace of embarrassment slips into your voice. "Apologies. I wasn't expecting the water to just surge out like that."
"No worries. It was my fault, sticking my head there like I did. Woah." Phainon's eyes flutter open again when you withdraw your hand. He lifts his own to touch the cut along his cheek—or rather, where it'd been. He rubs over the spot a few times, brows raised. "Restorative properties, you said?"
"The ancient texts say its supposed to soothe the soul. It mends minor wounds and cleanses the body, too."
"Well, I've definitely been cleansed." Phainon smiles around a humoured exhale, pushing back the damp hair clinging to his forehead. The two of you watch the gargoyle in silence for a moment. Water gushes now from its mouth in a steady stream, the sound of it echoing gently through the enclosed chamber as it pours into the basin. From there, it must flow down to beneath the temple grounds, and eventually, the Soul-Purifying Spring in the town.
You linger just long enough to ensure the flow remains steady, before turning to the exit.
"Let's get out of here."
That night, the town celebrates.
The people have strung up burning lamps along the perimeter of the square, their flames reflecting in the now rippling waters of the Soul-Purifying Spring. While the air still clings to the heat of the day, the temperature's dropped together with the setting sun, just enough to be pleasant. A pair of brewers had cracked open a cask earlier in the evening, too—vinted with water from the Spring," they'd proudly declared.
Now, that amber liquid swishes in your cup as you idle at the edge of the agora. Water spills endlessly over the lip of the fountain, as though it'd never ceassed flowing in the first place.
"I'm glad to see you stayed," a familiar voice says.
You look up just as Phainon lowers himself onto the diphros next to you. His own cup is grasped loosely between his slender fingers, eyes glimmering like cut sapphires in the firelight. There's already the beginnings of a flush high on his cheeks—the combined result of drink and spending the past hour fending off a crowd of admiring townsfolk. They'd swarmed him when you'd returned from the temple earlier, and it'd been almost amusing to watch his increasingly frazzled—and futile—attempts at redirecting the praise while you observed from a short distance away.
"It's not as though I had much of a choice." You return your gaze to the fountain, lifting your cup to take a measured sip. The honey brew is a tad smokier than what you're used to but goes down remarkably smooth.
If it had been up to you, you would have long retired to the rooms the townspeople had provided for the night. Or at the very least, spent the remainder of the evening sorting through the supplies they'd given you. As it stands, the townspeople had unsurprisingly insisted that Phainon join their celebrations. Phainon had all but begged you to join.
Well, the atmosphere is lively enough, and spirits are high. The drink is good, too.
"It's only right that you're here. You did most of the heavy lifting." Phainon leans over to nudge your shoulder with his. He seems to have shed both his pauldrons and his coat, leaving him only in his lighter underlayers. It makes him look lighter, you think. Less like the Chrysos Heir of Okhema and more like any other young man simply enjoying the evening. He glances sideways at you, a hint of amusement lingering in his eyes. "You vanished rather efficiently earlier, by the way."
"Easy to do when you don't have a scent. Watch."
You thrust out your free hand, wriggling your fingers in his face before you let it fall back into your lap. Phainon stares at you, clearly bemused.
"What was that supposed to do?"
"It's how I disappear. You can't see me any longer."
He stares down at your hand, then back up at you. The corner of his mouth twitches inelegantly.
"Oh, dear. Where did you go?"
"Precisely."
Phainon manages one—no, two sharp exhales through the nose, before his restraint breaks.
The sound of his laughter rings through the air, soon joined by the soft pluck of stringed instruments. A few musicians have brought out what seems to be lyres while someone starts an upbeat rhythm on the castanets. The music falls into a jaunty tune. It doesn't take long for the townsfolk to begin drifting towards the fountain, forming a loose circle around it for a dance.
It doesn't take long for someone to notice Phainon, either. The serving girl from the tavern spots him from across the square. She breaks away from the dance circle to make a beeline straight for him, catching him by the sleeve before he can react.
"Please, join us for a dance, Sir Phainon!" Her smile is still abashed but wide with expentance. Her early shyness has clearly been dispelled by drink and festive atmosphere. "You musn't refuse!"
She doesn't so much as spare you a glance. There are a pair of ribbons braided into her hair now, twin ends trailing down her shoulders. Silk, cornflower blue. Phainon blinks, visibly flustered by the sudden attention.
"Ah, I'm not sure if—"
"Everyone is excited to meet you," she continues brightly, tugging at his arm. "They want to hear more about that massive sword you carry!"
"I'm really quite terrible at dancing, so—"
"That doesn't matter! The fun of it is in the mingling, isn't it?"
She manages to displace him a few inches closer to the fountain, and Phainon glances back at you helplessly from the half-crouch he's risen into, his eyes a silent plea. He is, you've come to realise, remarkably terrible at saying no on his own behalf. Any other time, you would have found it faintly amusing, almost endearing, even. But now…
You banish that thought before you can finish it, tilting your cup at him with a raised brow. Go on.
Phainon hesitates, seemingly torn. Then, abruptly, he changes tactics.
"Come with me," he says. The blue of his eyes softens in the firelight as he looks back at you. He holds out a hand, fingers outstretched in invitation. "Just one dance."
"I don't dance."
"Neither do I. You can learn with me." There's something almost beseeching in Phainon's tone now. The same sort of careful persistence he's been directing at you for weeks, perhaps months now, that you've never allowed yourself to interpret. You drop your eyes back to the cup in your hands. "It'll only be for a little while. Please?"
"Don't worry about her, Sir Phainon," the serving girl interjects, already starting to pull at his sleeve again. "She'll be fine here."
"But—"
"You heard her," you cut in evenly. "I'll be fine here. Don't keep everyone waiting, Phainon."
Phainon's expression falters for just a brief second—something frustrated and unreadable flickering across his face—before it vanishes, like a trick of the firelight. When he turns back to the serving girl, he's traded his disappointed countenance for a polite, gentle smile, and he allows himself to be pulled over to the fountain. The dancers part readily to make room for him.
The music quickens, lapses into a vivacious triple-beat. You watch them circle the fountain without really observing, sipping idly at your honey brew. Phainon's not a practiced dancer—or any sort of dancer, for that matter—his feet shuffle awkwardly, the effortless grace he shows in combat entirely absent here. The serving girl spins him beneath the lamplight anyway, their feet moving in tandem across the painted flagstones. Her intent is unmistakeable in the way she moves—the subtle lean of her shoulder towards him, the light brush of her palm against his as she guides him through a turn. An invitation to scent, to mingle.
You lower your gaze to your cup. The drink is good—strong, heady, the taste of honey lingering uncloyingly on your tongue. And yet, for all its sweetness, it is a poor consolation for the situation you've put yourself in.
Phainon's voice carries easily across the square, and your attention betrays you by honing in on that sound with frustrating precision. It's as though some part of you has become irrevocably attuned to him without your permission, despite your knowledge that such a thing would be biologically impossible. And yet, you seem to notice him all the same.
He laughs again. You don't look up, raising your cup once more to drain it instead.
It's easier than putting a name to the emotion stirring inside your chest.
The two of you set off the next day as planned at the break of dawn, the sun hanging low in a sky the colour of overripe plum. The townsfolk are still fast asleep or only just beginning to stir, worn out from a night of dancing and revelry in Phagousa's honour that had stretched long past Curtain-Fall Hour. The road to Loukas stretches north, further than your eyes can follow, though the map assures you that the terrain should be mostly forgiving—wide paths, gentle inclines, a little more than the occasional ridge to break the monotony. An easy stretch of travel, all things considered.
Despite this, Phainon is drinking more water than usual.
Not excessively enough for you to remark on outright, but enough to noticeable. The two of you stop by streams and rivers more frequently than you're accustomed to, his water skin seemingly always emptying before yous. You also catch him wiping at his forehead with the back of his hand more often than should be necessary. The repetitive motion makes you frown.
At first, you manage to brush it off. Perhaps he simply had one cup too many last nights—he's always been terrible at holding his alcohol, and it wouldn't be the first time he's felt its aftereffects longer than he should have. But when the same behaviour carries into the next day, and then the one after that, that same reasoning begins to wear thin at the edges.
You confront him eventually one afternoon, rounding on him beneath the shade of an olive tree.
"Phainon."
"Yeah?"
"Are you feeling alright?"
"Hm?" He glances over, blinking once, then twice. "I'm fine. Why do you ask?"
"You don't look fine."
"That's not a very polite thing to say."
You gesture at the waterskin he's holding to his lips, ignoring his attempt at humour. "That's the third drink you've had in the past quint."
Phainon pauses as if to consider it. "I'm thirsty?"
"You're also sweating more than usual."
"I'd be surprised if I wasn't, with how the weather's cooking us alive."
You resist the urge to roll your eyes to Aquila. You don't know why you even bothered with questions—he'd give you the same answer even if impaled through the gut by a Titankin's arrow. You settle for studying him out of the corner of your eye instead. His complexion is slightly off as he continues to drink from his waterskin, a faint flush high on his cheeks that bleeds down his neck and beneath the collar of his undershirt. Aside from this, he seems lively enough to walk it off, so you decide to let it go—for now.
The road continues to wind steadily north. Along the way, you insist on longer breaks in the shade, inns over roadside camps. But despite your deliberate efforts to slow your pace, Phainon's condition only seems to worsen.
He comments on the heat more frequently. He's also taken to tugging absently at the collar of his shirt, whether he's in the sun or not, fingers dragging roughly over the sun-mark at the side of his neck. And yet, no matter how many times you bring it up, Phainon dismisses your concern with the same, stubborn insistence—I'm fine, just a little under the weather, it's nothing unbearable.
The more you push, the more determinedly Phainon shoves back. That much is predictable. But what really concerns you is the inexplicable shift in his temperament. Usually, Phainon is the one to converse with strangers—the obvious choice between the two of you—with his charisma and genuine warmth. Now, you're not so sure. At times, his replies have come out more clipped than yours—an achievement in itself—and he's even begun interrupting your conversations on occasion, something you have never known him to do.
You give him a pass the first time, then the second. He's unwell, and therefore more irritable. But the third time he does it, cuts short yet another harmless exchange for directions, your patience finally wears thin.
"Phainon!" you hiss, rounding on him once the confused traveler is out of earshot. "What are you doing?"
Phainon blinks before stiffening. His gaze still lingers in the direction the man you'd been speaking to left, eyes faintly narrowed. They drop to you when you plant yourself squarely in his line of sight, though, the sharpened edge of his expression faltering before he manages to paste a half-convincing smile over it.
"What do you mean? I didn't do anything."
You drag a hand through your hair and back, frustrated. You can't believe that you, of all people, are the one telling him this.
"You can't give people death stares for helping us."
His lips press into a thin line. "I was just watching him. He was standing too close to you."
"He was looking at the map I was holding."
A complicated expression mars Phainon's delicate features. His normally pleasant countenance falters, hands working into fists before he tugs at the edge of his coat.
"…He was trying to scent you," he mutters.
Now that takes you slightly aback. Scenting. It's always been a foreign concept to you, part of a world you've never and will never be able to understand. When you think back to the exchange, though, the man had been standing rather close, one hand resting lightly on your elbow as he leaned in to glance at your maps. At the time, you'd simply dismissed it as simple curiosity.
Had he been trying to scent you then? The thought of a stranger doing so without your notice is… uncomfortable at best. But that's not the point right now.
"Even if he was, it shouldn't matter to you." You cross your arms, heels digging in stubbornly. "I'm just a beta. Scenting doesn't mean anything—"
"It does!"
The force with which those words leave his mouth startles you both. Phainon falters almost immediately, brow knitting. A faint tremor runs through his hands before he curls them into tight fists at his sides.
"It meant that he wanted—" Phainon cuts himself off abruptly. His jaw tightens even as the rest of him seems to shrink in on himself. Vanilla and aternoon sunlight and sharp neroli. It's as though he can't decide whether to double down or swallow the thought back into his mouth entirely. "It meant that he was… interested."
In you, goes unsaid.
You stare at him, barely comprehending the words. You're still attempting to wrap your head around the intensity of his previous response. He's never raised his voice—not like that, at least—before.
"Oh. O—Okay…"
Phainon meets your uncertain look for a long, drawn out moment. There's a volatile tempest behind those too blue eyes, a whirlpool of emotion churning until the tension in his expression suddenly gives way.
"I'm sorry," he mumbles. "I just—I don't know why I did that either. I just…"
Phainon trails off, helpless. All his earlier defensiveness seems to have crumbled like poorly constructed stone fortifications, leaving him strangely disoriented. It's a jarring sight. Phainon normally carries himself with the effortless sort of confidence that makes everything seem easy. Seeing that certainty stripped from him is…
He tugs at his collar again, lower lip catching briefly between his teeth—an anxious tick you've come to recognise in him. All in all, Phainon looks downright miserable.
It's impossible to remain upset. You sigh, the last of your irritation dissolving in the face of his distress, and reach out to squeeze his wrist.
"It's okay," you say. You try to be gentle—you don't know if you manage. It's almost akin to soothing a spooked oryx—jittery, skittish, and all too ready to bolt. "But you're starting to worry me. If this, whatever this is, gets worse, we'll go to the healer the first town we come across. Alright?"
Phainon inhales an unsteady breath through his teeth. For a moment, you think he might still protest—the delay in the mission, that he can still go on—but he doesn't. The tension in his shoulders linger for a beat longer before he finally releases it, fingers curling loosely around your own.
"…Alright."
You wake the next morning to the insistent glare of morning sunlight.
You refuse to open them at first. They're unbearably heavy, as they often are after sleeping rough on the road, and you turn on your side with a groan in a futile attempt to hide from daybreak. Alas, sleep refuses to take you back into its embrace, the growing warmth and brightness too persistent to ignore.
You lie where you are for an indefinite span of time, half-awake but unmoving. The camp is oddly silent.
"Phainon?" you mutter, voice still thick with sleep. No response.
A faint crease forms between your brows despite the lingering grogginess. You push yourself up onto one elbow, lips parting midway between a frown and a yawn.
"Phainon?"
Still nothing.
That's strange. The sun is bright enough to pierce through the foliage—it must be well past Entry Hour now. Phainon usually wakes you before then, if not with a warm hand on your shoulder then with the sounds of him tearing down the camp, despite his best attempts to be quiet. You're almost certain he couldn't sleep in even if his life were to depend on it.
So, the only reason you could be waking up to sun instead of his usual, overly cheerful greeting is—
You kick off the threadbare blanket covering your legs and scramble to your feet. Your heart lurches into an uneven pound all the way up in your throat. The worry only eases somewhat when your eyes find his bedroll, with a familiar, Phainon-shaped lump beneath the loose drape of his coat.
You hurry over regardless, too impatient to pull on your boots. Loose sand and grit shifts beneath your feet.
Phainon is seemingly fast asleep, his back turned to you rising and falling steadily with each breath. You crouch next to him and grasp his shoulder, gently rolling him over with the intent to shake him awake.
Instead, you find him shivering.
Phainon's face is tight with discomfort, even in sleep, complexion flushed under the morning light flitering through the trees. Loose tendrils cling damply to his temples and the nape of his neck. Concerned, you press a hand to his forehead at once and a small moan slips past his lips as he leans instinctively into your touch, hands curling against his chest.
He's burning up. Your hand drops to his cheek, then to his neck. He's feverish everywhere, skin clammy with cold sweat.
You reach up to shake him. "Phainon," you repeat, more urgenly this time. "Phainon, wake up—"
His fingers close around your wrist. Before you can react, Phainon tugs, and you pitch forward with a startled gasp. The next thing you know, you're half-sprawled over him, one hand braced beside his head while the other remains caught in his grasp. His fingertips are searing points of heat against the skin of your inner wrist. There is only the distance of a hand's breadth between the two of you, and this close, the fever radiates off him like heat from a charcoal brazier, seeping through the damp material of his undershirt.
Phainon blinks down at you, gaze fevered and heavy-lidded. If he's aware of the compromising position he's put the two of you in, he doesn't show it.
"It's hot…"
You swallow hard at the peculiar quality his voice seems to have taken. Focus. The nearest town is still some distance away, and you don't know if Phainon can even stand, let alone walk there.
"Can you—"
You don't get to finish your sentence. Phainon drags you closer still, his other arm sliding around your waist. You're too disoriented to respond, mind empty of everything except the press of his chest against yours, the heat of his hand spread at your lower back. His face buries itself in the crook of your neck with a quiet noise that sounds almost like a whimper, the tip of his nose pressing against your jaw before tracing down your jugular, breath hot and moist against the sensitive skin there and you—
"Phainon!"
You wrench yourself back on instinct, one hand flying to your neck. Your entire face is hot. It's unmistakeable, what he'd been trying to do. Seeking for a scent gland there—where they would typically be on an alpha or omega—on you.
No one has ever tried to scent you there before. Not your own family when you were still young and unpresented, and not any of the few beta partners you'd taken into your bed since. The strangeness of it all leaves you more rattled than it should.
"You…" If you had any subsequent words, they fail you now.
Phainon clutches at his coat as he sits up fully, fingers digging like claws into the fabric as though it's the only thing anchoring him. It looks as though some awareness is returning to him, but his gaze is still unfocused, pale lashes trembling as he blinks. He shivers as though seized by a sudden chill.
'Sorry—" he starts, one hand coming up to clutch weakly at his collar. He tries to muster a smile but fails. "I—"
"Don't apologise."
"Sorry." He apologises again immediately before he cringes, shoulders curling inward. "I… I didn't mean to do that. I don't know what happened, I just…"
"I said don't."
You're struck with the sudden, almost absurd desire for Phainon to make a joke. Some ridiculous, inane remark that would have you hitting his shoulder and him grinnng playfully at you. It doesn't feel that long ago that the two of you were bickering over landmarks and maps, trading verbal jabs with familiar ease. How did things turn south so quickly, without warning?
If only you could bottle the water from that Soul-Purifying Spring. How inconvenient that it loses its potency once removed from its source. You purse your lips around a frustrated sigh.
"We're heading to town," you announce before Phainon can say any more. You're not in the mood to hear any more undeserved penitence from him. "Sit here. We'll leave once I'll pack up camp."
"But I—"
The look that you throw at Phainon shuts him up. He must really be feeling unwell, because he doesn't even try to insist on helping. Instead, he sits where he is, the lower half of his face pressed into his coat's collar as he watches you stamp out the remains of the fire with hazy, half-lidded eyes.
By some stroke of fortune, a merchant with a mule-drawn cart pass the two of you on the road to town. He takes one look at Phainon and immediately reins in, concern spreading across his face before you even have to ask.
"Thank you for stopping," you say, unable to keep the tight worry from your voice as he clambers down from his cart. He has a round face, soft eyes, a pleasant sort of smile that lingers as he takes in the two of you. His gaze flicks between you and Phainon.
"Your partner?" he asks curiously, as he dusts off the knees of his trousers. It takes you a moment to realise what he's asking.
"Oh—no, no. A friend."
The merchant nods easily and helps you load your things onto the cart. Phainon, however, seems to want nothing to do with him—each time the man comes too close, Phainon lurches away weakly, expression tightening like he's caught whiff of something unpleasant.
"Phainon," you whisper when the man moves to the front to soothe his mule, impatient with the delay. "What is with you?"
You feel more than hear Phainon swallow against your shoulder, fingers tightening in your sleeve. When he answers, his voice is small and muffled.
"…His scent."
"What about it?"
"It's making me nauseous."
Now, the man doesn't smell particularly pleasant—judging by the faint briny scent clinging to him, his line of trade is probably in fish and the like—but nothing that should warrant such a strong reaction. You frown, dismayed at his lack of courtesy and how much his condition seems to have deteriorated.
"You can't just say that he smells bad." It feels almost absurd that you have to say this at all. But Phainon just shakes his head, the movement tight.
"Not—Not his smell." He pauses, grimacing, as though struggling to find the words. "It's his scent." You're only slightly bewildered. What's the difference? "It's not that he smells bad, it's just that I can't—"
"I can ride at the front, if it makes him more comfortable."
Phainon's hold on your arm tightens to almost a vice grip. The way his fingers curl into the fabric of your sleeve is almost… possessive, if you had to put a word to it. You ignore that line of thought to turn to the merchant, a hurried apology already on your lips, but he only waves it off gently.
"Don't worry, I understand." He offers you a reassuring smile. "I'm an omega, after all."
You're not entirely sure what that is supposed to mean, but you don't have the luxury of mind to dwell on it. You help Phainon into the back of the cart as the merchant climbs onto his mule. The moment you settle on the thin straw mat that's been laid out, Phainon slumps heavily against you, the heat of his body seeping through both your clothes and his.
He's far too warm.
You manage to fish your waterskin from your satchel, soaking a handkerchief against your palm before pressing it carefully to his forehead. Phainon exhales softly at the contact. His head lolls whenever the cart rocks and sways along the uneven roads, eventually settling on your shoulder.
You almost think he’s fallen asleep when he suddenly pipes up, voice faint and slurred.
"I'm sorry..."
“I told you, don’t apologise.”
"Sorry..."
You huff out an exhale. "You sound like you're dying," you mutter instead, because it's easier than giving voice to the hundred other emotions you're feeling at the moment.
There’s a brief stretch of silence after that, broken only by the creaking of the cart and the uneven rhythm of Phainon's breathing. The wheels of the cart turn over the dirt road. He speaks again.
"The dancers by the founatin…"
You sigh. "Stop talking and go to—"
"I had fun dancing with them."
Something heavy in your chest sinks, a millstone vanishing beneath the dark water.
"Oh."
A pause. You can feel Phainon swallow where his face is half-hidden against your shoulder.
"…I wanted to dance with you, too."
"…Oh."
Phainon doesn't say anything more after that. He seems to have drifted off, breathing slow and uneven where it brushes the side of your neck. The sensation prickles faintly like warmed needles everywhere his breath touches. You fix your eyes on the road stretching out behind the cart and pointedly refuse to dwell on it.
"Seems to be a pretty bad one," the merchant says. You look up to see him glancing back at the two of you from the front, swaying with each slow plod of his mule. His warm brown eyes are soft with sympathy. "Take good care of him, eh?"
Your gaze drops involuntarily to the man next to you. His pale lashes lie against fever-flush cheeks as he sleeps, lips parting around each exhale.
"I will."
He doesn't have to tell you that.
a/n: this was my first time writing omegaverse and i feel like i may have made phainon a tad ooc with this one... that or his personality keeps oscillating wildly 😩 please forgive me for the awful writing </3 why does putting a strap in phainon come with so much grief 😔
ANON SAID: omg like college situationship w iwaizumi pls i beg i love the way u write
CONTENTS: iwaizumi x reader, slight matsukawa x reader, love triangle (ish), angst, situationship, college au, drinking, y/n has a praise kink, party, kind of unhappy ending, mdni
WORD COUNT: 4.5k
A/N: okay i got kind of carried away. thinking about making a part two?
You knew what you were getting into when you started this thing with him. You knew what it meant.
Iwaizumi sits up in your bed and pulls his shirt over his head. You watch as the muscles in his back contract and flex before the white fabric falls over them. When Iwaizumi stands to puck his jeans up off the floor, he doesn't turn to face you. "Do you have to go so soon?" you ask, the heel of your palm pressed into your cheek, muffling you words.
His answer is the same as it always is. You're not expecting anything different, but you ask anyways, because you just can't help yourself, when it comes to him.
Iwaizumi buttons his jeans. "Yeah, I can't stay," he says, and he doesn't offer an explanation as to why. When he finally turns to face you, there's no regret lingering on his expression. No unspoken desire or anguish or longing. He looks as he always does: indifferent.
You nod, like you understand, but you don't. "Okay," you say, voice tight.
And then he does something that makes you feel sick. He leans over the edge of the bed, places a gentle hand on the top of your shoulder, and he presses his lips against the center of your forehead. "See you later," Iwaizumi says.
He disappears then, leaving you alone to stare after him.
It's always been like this with Iwaizumi, ever since you met him a year before. You saw him for the first time standing with his arms crossed and a scowl on his face while his friends did something stupid at a stupid party with stupid people. And it occurred to you then, when you eyed the muscles in his arms and the slight frown twitching at his lips, that you would do anything for his approval. You wanted to hear praise spilling from his lips. You wanted to hear him tell you what a good girl you were.
Maybe it was a mistake to sleep with him the first night you met him. Maybe you should have been more coy, less obvious with your desire. Because it seems that Iwaizumi has always known, from that very first night, that you would let him do whatever he wanted with you.
He doesn't treat you terribly. Iwaizumi has never been anything but clear about what you are to him. It's just that when he says things to you like, "I'm just not looking for a relationship right now," you hear other, unspoken things. Like maybe, that's just for right now, and maybe, if you give him enough time, things can change. Like maybe, for you, one day, he will be ready.
So you keep letting him into your bed, giving him whatever he wants in hopes that he might tell you how good of a job you're doing, that he might just tell you how much he wants you, and you tell yourself that's enough, for now.
Your eyes linger in the space Iwaizumi just occupied. Your room always feels different after he's been in it. More charged. The air feels heavier. You inhale it deeply, wanting to fill your lungs with what remains of him. Eventually, you will have to get out of bed. Your day is slated with lectures and tutoring and assignments. There's no time to just sit there, and feel the way you do.
Things can't always be about Iwaizumi all the time.
Kiyoko eats her lunch diligently, like it's a job. You pick at yours, dissatisfied with the dining hall meal that you picked out for yourself. Food doesn't feel right on your tongue on days like today.
Kiyoko notices. She watches as you drag your fork over a steaming pile of potatoes. "You should really eat, you know," she says. "Your head doesn't work right when you don't eat enough."
Your response is a lazy hum. Your eyes are trained at the door, waiting for them to open and for Iwaizumi to walk through them. It's pathetic, but you do have a habit of planning your lunches around what little you know about his schedule. More often than not, it doesn't work out. And even when it does, nothing happens. Iwaizumi just sits and eats with his friends while you stare and imagine what it would be like to sit next to him, his arm thrown around your shoulder, declaring to the campus that you're his.
Kiyoko must know what you're doing. She gets lunch with you often enough to have pieced it together. She doesn't voice her disapproval, though you get the impression she wants to from her down-turned mouth and slightly furrowed brow.
She watches you watch the door. "Eat," she insists again, and to appease her, you shove a mouthful of food into your mouth, chewing slowly. Kiyoko doesn't look away. "Did he stay over again last night?" she asks.
You sigh. Longing oozes out of the noise. "Yeah, but he left first thing this morning. He kissed me on the way out, though."
Kiyoko raises an eyebrow. "Doesn't he always?"
You can't imagine Kiyoko in a situation like yours, desperate for someone who doesn't want her. Kiyoko doesn't want anything that's not good for her - not ever. You're a little jealous of her, if you're honest. You don't know how she does it.
"Not always," you answer, turning your attention back to your meal. You poke at some chicken. "Sometimes he just leaves."
She frowns. "I don't know how you do it."
You open your mouth to reply, but the dining hall doors open, and it catches your eye. You perk up like a dog hearing it's owner come home, and through the doors, Iwaizumi emerges.
All that runs through your head is how pretty he is. You can't stop yourself - Iwaizumi is handsome. Sharp edges and pretty eyes. Strong chest, strong arms, strong hands. More than you want to have sex with him, you want him to hold you in those arms. You want him to take care of you, make you feel safe. It's all you can think about.
Iwaizumi doesn't notice you, despite the way you stare, watching him scan his student ID and grab a tray. And you're so entranced by him you almost don't notice the people who trail behind him, until Matsukawa catches your eye. When Iwaizumi doesn't notice you, he does. Matsukawa gives you a soft smile, and a wave. You wave back, and feel something in your chest that's akin to disappointment.
When he turns away, you groan, flopping backwards into your seat, going limp, deflated. "Fuck, Kiyoko," you complain. "I'm hopeless."
Kiyoko reaches out to pat the top of your hand. "Yes, yes you are."
Iwaizumi knows you're there. He has a talent for that, for walking into a room and immediately knowing if you're there, whether it's a party or a crowded coffee shop or this terrible dining hall. Iwaizumi's always attuned to your presence.
Part of him feels bad for what he's doing. Part of him thinks he should stop. He almost has, many times over the last year. He's almost deleted your number and ignored your calls and skipped out on parties he knew you were going to. But he can't. Something just stops him. He pictures you, with wide, watering eyes, parting your lips to let out a faint, "please," and he can't do it. He can't force himself to let you go.
Iwaizumi doesn't know what you are to him, exactly. He hasn't really spent a lot of time trying to figure it out. He just takes you when he can, and thinks about you in all the space in-between. Oikawa calls him pussy-whipped.
You've stopped looking by the time he settles down with his lunch. He eats, and he tries his best not to look in your direction. Matsukawa nudges him. "Hey, Y/N's here."
Iwaizumi doesn't look up from his tray. "I know," he says. He always knows.
He can feel Matsukawa staring at him. "Aren't you gonna say hi or something?"
"Nope," Iwaizumi says with a quick shake of his head.
Hanamaki chuckles. "You treat her like shit, dude."
Iwaizumi doesn't say anything, because he's right. He does treat you like shit. Iwaizumi wishes there was a world where he didn't act like this, and he was able to give you whatever you needed, whatever you wanted. He locks his jaw. He doesn't know why he doesn't just do it in this one.
Oikawa gives Iwaizumi a big, phony pout. "Don't be mean to poor Iwa. Big boy feelings are hard for him."
Iwaizumi doesn't look up at Oikawa as he halfheartedly gives his arm and shove and says, "Fuck off," because out of the corner of his eye, he watches as you rise from your seat, abandoning your table and heading for your next class. He thinks it's Religion and Film.
It's only after you're gone that Iwaizumi raises his head, and stares at the empty table you occupied. There's a conversation going on around him, so he thinks no one notices. He doesn't realize until later that Matsukawa did.
────────
Iwaizumi knows what you like. He knows how to make you come undone on his fingers or on his tongue. He knows the pace you like and what spots to hit to get the most noise out of you. He knows how you like to be touched, whether it's him squeezing the flesh of your thighs with his large, calloused hands, or gently holding the back of your head as he rams his hips into yours. He knows how you like to be praised, how you clench around him when he calls you a good girl, when he tells you you're taking him so well. Iwaizumi knows it all. He knows you.
This is the third time this week Iwaizumi has found himself in your bed. He has other things he could be doing, He should be looking for a job for after he graduates. He should be studying. He should be doing anything else. But he's here, in-between your legs once again.
He leaves right after this time. You ask, "You can't stay?" like you always do.
Iwaizumi shakes his head as he pulls up his gym shorts. The truth is, he shouldn't have come in the first place, but when it comes to you, his self-control is hanging by a thread. It takes everything in him to say no. "I have to finish up some internship paperwork."
You nods, and Iwaizumi wishes you wouldn't look so dejected. He already feels like a piece of shit. "Okay," you say. Like you always do.
Iwaizumi sighs. He figures that there's a lot he could and should say, and he says none of it. He just looks at you, sitting up in your bed with a blanket pulled up to cover your chest, and feels something he probably shouldn't.
He pats the pockets of his shorts, ensuring his keys and phone are there. "Hey, Kuroo's throwing a party tomorrow. You should come."
You shift. "Am I invited?"
"Kuroo invited Oikawa, Oikawa invited me, and I'm inviting you," he says. "It's just a party. I'm sure Kuroo would be happy to see you."
It takes a moment, but you nod. "Yeah, sure, sounds fun."
Iwaizumi grins. A real one, a bright one. It makes you blush, and he feels satisfied. "Cool, see you there."
Iwaizumi leaves, and purposefully leaves his sweatshirt on your floor when he does.
You shove your hands deep into the pockets of your jeans. It's cold, and you've sacrificed warmth for the sake of your outfit. Kiyoko wraps a hand around your elbow as you walk down the street. You don't like going out without her.
"Are you okay?" Kiyoko asks, voice soft. "You've been quiet."
She's right, you have. You're in your head, overthinking. Iwaizumi doesn't normally invite you out like this. A lot of time, you just end up at the same place, because Iwaizumi is friends with Oikawa and Oikawa is friends with everyone. So you see him at a lot of parties and when you and your friends run into Oikawa, Iwaizumi is usually there. Being invited in something different.
And really, you always intended on showing up at Kuroo's, directly invited or not. You figured from the start that Iwaizumi would be there, and you'd never give up an opportunity to go home with him. But it feels different, now that he asked you to go. Something's different.
You shrug. "I dunno," you mumble and drop your head on Kiyoko's shoulder. "I guess I'm just nervous."
Kiyoko places a small kiss on the top of your head. "You have nothing to be nervous about. You've already slept with him, so the worst part is over."
You know she means it to be comforting, but it's not. It just makes you think of all the worse things that could happen. Nerves bloom in your gut. There's always so much that can go wrong with him.
Kuroo's apartment is already overflowing when you arrive. When you walk through the door, Kiyoko's hand slips down into yours, and she gives it a quick squeeze. "You okay if I go look for Tanaka?"
She's really asking, and you appreciate that about her. If you said no, Kiyoko would stay by your side all night. You smile at her. "Yeah, I'm good. I'm gonna go find Iwaizumi."
You part from each other. She heads for the living room, and you go for the kitchen. You'll find her again before the end of the night.
It's crowded, and you have to push and twist your way past throngs of people to make it to the kitchen. What you really need right now is a drink. When you finally squirm your way in there, you go straight for the vodka.
Matsukawa finds you first, while you're making yourself a drink with a very heavy hand. He calls your name, and you turn to face him. Matsukawa has this bright smile on his face that makes one grow on your own lips. He greets you with a small hug, using one arm to pull you into his side. "You came!" he exclaims.
"Yeah, here I am!" you reply. Matsukawa lets you go, but his arm lingers between you both, and when his fingers brush against your hip, you can't tell if it was an accident or not. "Just got here, like three seconds ago."
"Iwa's been looking for you all night," he says, carefully watching your expression. "He was starting to think you stood him up."
You're glad he brought up Iwaizumi first, so you didn't have to. You raise your up to your lips and quirk an eyebrow. "Oh yeah?"
Matsukawa nods gravely. "I mean, I was almost hoping you did. The asshole definitely deserves it."
You raise to your toes to look past Matsukawa. "Where is he? I should probably put him out of his misery."
Matsukawa looks over your shoulder, and rolls his eyes. "As if on fucking cue," he says, tossing a hand in the air.
You're confused for a second before there's an arm going over your shoulder. Your eyes go wide, and you look to your right to see Iwaizumi there, pulling you into his side. Your face gets hot. This is new.
"Hey," Iwaizumi says into your ear, quiet, so only you can hear it. "I was starting to think you weren't going to show."
There's no world where you wouldn't show after Iwaizumi invited you. You thought he should've known this. "So I heard," you reply, still not over the tight grip he has on your shoulder. You suddenly feel the need to get drunker. "I didn't mean to make you nervous," you tell him, teeth revealed in a grin.
Iwaizumi's ears turn red. It's cute. You think it might kill you. "I'm just glad you're here now," he says.
His cheeks are red too. You wonder if he's drunk.
You notice out of the corner of your eye, that Matsukawa is awkwardly shifting, turning to leave. It feels rude not to say anything to him, but Iwaizumi has his arm around you and this big dumb smile on his face, so you figure you'll just have to be rude. You let him go.
"You look good tonight." Iwaizumi says, leaning into you, his voice rising above the music. "Did you get dressed up just for me?"
He's definitely drunk. You definitely need to be drunker. You take another sip of your drink. "I'm actually trying to impress Oikawa. Have you seen him around? I'm hoping to get the chance to bend over in front of him."
Iwaizumi hooks his arm around your neck and pulls you under his chin, face pressed against his chest. "Oh, you're so fucking funny."
You laugh as you squirm your way out of his grip. He lets you go, but his arm finds you again, thumb hooking into the belt loop of your jeans, and holding you in place by his side. It makes you almost giddy. He's never like this.
And he doesn't let you go. You both stand there, entwined. He talks to you about anything, and he listens to your stories about the professor that has it out for you and how you hate your friend's new boyfriend (and Iwaizumi swears he hates him in solidarity, too). Other people come and talk to you both before flittering off again, but you two remain standing there in the kitchen, attached by belt loop.
You refill your drink a few times, and it doesn't take very long until your head starts to feel light and your ears become hot. You figure it's only fair. Iwaizumi's clearly not sober and his drink keeps draining. You're just trying to keep up.
You're in the middle of a conversation with Akaashi when Iwaizumi unhooks his thumb from your belt loop and rests his hand on the exposed skin of your hip. You inhale sharply as his thumb starts to draw circles on your skin. His touch is so soft, but you feel it deep within your gut.
You don't think you're going to last much longer.
Iwaizumi doesn't know what he's doing. He's just drunk, and doing whatever feels good. And right now, he thinks you feel the best. It's nice to touch you. It's nice to be near you.
It just feels good. Almost too good.
It feels so good, in fact, that Iwaizumi finds himself in Kuroo's spare room, pressing you against the door while his mouth moves against your neck. You're making the prettiest little noises, and it's going straight to his dick.
"Hajime," you moan as your hand tangles in the roots of his hair, and he thinks he's going to finish in his pants.
He lets out a low groan, and pulls away from your neck to face you. One of his large hands reaches up to the side of your face. You're eyes are wide. "My pretty girl," he mumbles, thumb pressing against your bottom lip. "You sound so good for me."
Iwaizumi lowers his head again, this time leaving kisses along you chest, mouth brushing against the low cut fabric of your shirt. His hands lower to your waist, pushing and bunching up your shirt. He wants it off.
"Am I?" you ask, and it doesn't break Iwaizumi's concentration. He nips at your chest. He doesn't notice the way the tone of your voice changes. You place a hand on the top of his head and push him away from you. He stares. "Am I, Iwaizumi?"
He blinks at you. "Are you what?"
Your stare hardens. He notices. It makes him feel uneasy. "Am I your girl?"
Iwaizumi falters. He doesn't know what to say, but you're staring at him like you're expecting an answer now. He's nervous, and he suddenly doesn't feel good anymore.
He rises up and lets go of your hips. Iwaizumi takes a step back. "You know what you are to me," is the best he can offer you.
You flinch at his words. "I don't think I do, because you tell me one thing, and then you act completely different."
"How am I acting different?" Iwaizumi questions.
There's a knock on the door behind you. You ignore it. "Holding onto me all night and not leaving my side, leaving your clothes at my apartment and not asking for them back, calling me 'your girl.' It sends kind of a mixed message."
Iwaizumi swallows. He doesn't know what to say because he knows you're right. He wants you by his side, your neck covered in marks he left. He wants you wearing his sweatshirts to classes and smelling like him. He wants to be all over you. He wants other guys to think of him whenever they think of you.
But that's all he wants. The thought of calling you his girlfriend makes his skin itch. The thought of taking you out on dates, walking you to classes, being completely committed and devoted, makes him nauseous.
It's not fair to you. He thinks, standing there in front of you, that he should have called this thing off months ago, before he was in too deep.
Because now you're staring and your eyes are beginning to water and he thinks there's nothing he could possibly say to save this sinking ship.
There's another three knocks on the door. Iwaizumi thinks you might be holding your breath. "It's not like that…for me," he eventually settles on.
More knocking on the door. Someone yells, "Hey, no fucking in my apartment!"
"It's not like what, Iwaizumi?" you question, and it sounds like a challenge.
He thinks his hands might be shaking. "I don't…I don't want you the way that you want me."
Iwaizumi watches as your chest rises and falls with heavy breaths, as a tear rolls down your cheek. The knocking continues. You turn away from Iwaizumi, and rush out of the door, brushing past Kuroo as you go, who stands in the hall with a fist raised to knock again.
Kuroo stares after you, and then looks back at Iwaizumi. He puts it together pretty quickly. "I'll go get Kiyoko."
You don't know why you're crying. You knew what you were getting into with him.
It's fucking cold. You're sitting on the front steps of Kuroo's apartment, face pushed into your hands, crying. Your chest aches, you're still half-aroused from the way he touched you, and you feel too drunk to do anything useful.
You could've sworn something had changed. It was in the way he touched you, the way he looked at you. He called you his girl. His pretty girl. Thinking about it again makes you feel like you're going to vomit.
It would be smart to find Kiyoko and get the fuck out of there, but you're not feeling very smart. You're feeling drunk and stupid and like there's a growing hole ripping through your chest.
You hear a distant, "Hey," through your tears, but you don't think it's for you until there's a warm body sitting next to yours, thigh lightly pressed against yours. You don't look up. You want to keep crying.
"Iwaizumi's a dick," he says, and you recognize the voice to be Matsukawa. He places a hand on your back. "He doesn't deserve you crying over him."
You sniffle. "You're his friend. Aren't you supposed to be on his side? Bros before hoes, or whatever the fuck you say."
Matsukawa laughs. It's low and easy. "I didn't blindly pledge my allegiance to Iwaizumi. If he's acting like a dick, I'm gonna tell him he's a dick."
You raise your face from your hands and look at Matsukawa. He's got this expression on his face that makes you feel uneasy. "And did you tell him that he's a dick?"
His hand moves gently up and down your back. "Of course I did. Right to his face."
You wipe away a tear with the back of your hand. Your crying has slowed. "Thanks."
Matsukawa slides his hand from the center of your back to your shoulder, squeezing his hand as he does. It makes you feel warm. "You're too good for him. I've always thought so."
"Can we talk about something else?" you ask. You think you might cry again.
He lets go of your shoulder and drops his hands behind him. "We can talk about whatever you want. Classes, politics, bad art. We don't even have to talk about anything. We can just sit here."
That you find tempting. You miss the warmth of Matsukawa's embrace, so you drop your head on his shoulder. "We can just sit here," you say quietly.
Matsukawa hums in response, but doesn't say anything else. So you just sit there, your head on his shoulder, the hum of the party behind you, staring a the empty street in front of you.
You're not sure how much time passes, with you two just sitting there like that. It feels nice, despite the cold and the drunken nausea that's settled in your gut.
And it's strange, because you don't really know Matsukawa out of the context of him being Iwaizumi's friend. You've never really hung out. You've never really done anything together. But it's easy to sit there with him, no words between you. It's just easy.
"I'm sorry this is where you ended up spending the night," you say at one point. "I'm sure you'd rather be so drunk you're throwing up in Kuroo's plants."
"Nah," Matsukawa disagrees. "I don't do anything I don't wanna do."
His statement makes you oddly nervous. You fall back into silence again.
You're not there for much longer, though. It's only about five minutes after that when the door opens behind you, and you turn to see Kiyoko, expression wide with worry. "Oh fuck, thank god. I was looking for you everywhere."
"Sorry," you apologize, a bit sheepish. "I was just here."
Kiyoko looks at you, and then looks at Matsukawa. For some reason it makes your cheeks hot. "Do you want to go home?"
You were enjoying your quiet time out of the cold, but you know you can't sit there with him all night. You rise to your feet. "Yeah, let's go," you say, and then turn to Matsukawa, "Thanks for um, everything, I guess."
Matsukawa stands, and then he places a hand on your arm. It's an odd gesture. You don't know how to feel about it, and the slight grimace on Matsukawa's face makes you think he's equally unsure. "Always here for you," he says, and drops his hand. It's an strangely intimate statement, said in a tone that sounds like it was forced to be casual.
You give him a smile, and with Kiyoko's presence looming, you suddenly cannot wait to go home, and forget about Iwaizumi.
>> sleepy, platonic dry humping with best friend!tsukishima
>> part two
>> here's part one for you!
tags: grinding (dry and wet), a "use" kink (idek what to call this??? is this considered free use????), a wittle bit of fingering, a wottle bit of fuckin, tsukki who begs :'))), 2.1k of straight up NONSENSE
you dont talk about it.
you dont talk about how, when you both wake a few hours later, tsukki just climbs out of bed and reaches into his designated section of your closet, tugging out a fresh pair of boxers and sweats. how he just silently rushes to your bathroom to shower, his ears burning red and his shoulders tense.
you dont talk about how he barely meets your eyes, how every time you look at him as he's leaving (smelling like you, but you cant think about that, too), all you hear is the sound of him grunting and swearing in your ear as he comes in his pants.
you dont talk about the bulge you can see forming in his sweats, even now, as he's grabbing his keys and wallet and muttering 'see you' before all but running from your apartment.
you dont talk about it.
you just go to work and pretend that your brain isnt empty of everything but tsukishima kei bending you in half and rutting against you until he cums. of your best friend using you and of you using him. of how much you'd loved it.
of how badly you want to do it again.
he doesnt come over again for a few days, despite usually stopping by every night to complain about work and watch your show together.
and neither of you texts or calls, despite years of your phone buzzing constantly, because hes a double-triple-quadruple texter and you're just as bad.
by the time that nearly a week has passed, youre a mess of anxiety and the looming dread that your best friend will never speak to you again.
and then he's there, at your door, with a bag of takeout and a shameful blush dusting his cheeks.
you dont know what to say, so you say nothing at all, just letting him in. he sits where he always does and pulls containers of food out — food he always gets, because he's a picky eater and because he knows your orders by heart. and then he turns on the show he always does, giving you the same look he always has when he's waiting for you to join him so he can press play.
you dont talk about it.
you just watch your show, laugh at all the right times, kick your feet up and relax into the cushions in all the right ways. and you do your best not to think about the fact that your panties are soaked, that they have been since he'd shown up at your door looking like he always does, smelling like he always does.
you do your best not to think about the fact that he's hard. that you can see the tent in his pajama pants, that you notice when he shoves a throw pillow over his lap to hide it.
that he's wearing pajamas, which means he plans on staying.
he stays until it's too late to leave — you watch the clock next to the TV, watch as it passes his usual time to pack up and go home — and then he mumbles under his breath.
"want me to sleep on the couch?"
your heart jumps, because you recognize what this is. that he's giving you one last chance to leave things here, without ever moving forward. that it would be okay if you want him to stay here tonight.
your heart jumps, because you know what it means if you say no.
you swallow and stand, stretching in a way that you hope doesn't show how shaky you are, and move down the hall, praying it looks casual.
"no, it's fine. the couch isnt comfortable, anyway."
you dont let him know that you can hear when he breathes out a quiet 'fuck' and moves through the room faster than he usually does.
you dont sleep. you just lie there, facing away from him and staring at the wall. waiting to hear his breath even out, waiting to know that hes asleep.
it never does.
every time you think he might be asleep, he shifts, and your heart flies into your throat. and you know that tricking him into thinking youre asleep wont work, because your breath keeps hitching and your heart keeps pounding so hard that theres no way he cant feel it through the mattress.
you stare at the wall until streaks of sunlight start to fall against it.
thats when his fingers brush against your back, gentle and cautious.
your skin breaks out into goosebumps wherever he touches. he takes it as permission.
when his chest presses against your back, it's with a shaky breath and trembling fingers on your waist. he doesnt ask if this is okay, and you dont tell him that it's so much more than that.
he just presses his hips against the curve of your ass, and you just gasp, because he's still hard, even after all these hours.
but you shouldnt be surprised, because youre still soaked, the desire for him feeling more and more like a craving, a desperate need.
tsukki buries his face in your hair, letting out an uneven sigh when he rolls his hips forward against your ass. you arch your back, pressing into him gently.
"fuck," he whispers, sliding his arm under and around your body and pulling you flush against him. you whimper, pushing back and enjoying the feel of him.
and then you choke out a moan, because he's slipping his other arm over your waist and shoving his hand down your pants.
"o-oh, my, god-" your voice breaks when his fingers — ice cold and trembling with nerves — push past the band of your underwear and land right where you need him, swiping one circle over your clit and then one more.
his hips jerk forward, breath heavy against your neck when he slides his fingers through your folds. "so fucking wet f'me," he groans. "just like last time."
you cant answer, too busy trying to find the breath in your lungs. hes rocking his hips the whole time, always managing to bump you forward against his fingers, stars bursting behind your eyelids whenever he pushes down on your clit.
"tsukki-"
you dont need to say anything else. he understands.
it's no more than a jagged inhale and his hand ripping out of your pants before you find yourself on your back.
your pants and his pants missing.
your underwear soaked and his boxers tented and wet with his own pre-cum.
when he grinds down on you, way less fabric between you than the first time, his moan is low and drawn out, echoing in your ears and forcing you to whimper in response.
he bends you in half again. you mewl embarrassingly loudly, the thought of being used smacking around inside your brain and setting your skin on fire.
he grunts in response. "you liked this last time, too." the shallow rut of his hips makes you bounce, and you hear when he moans in the back of his throat. your shirt is dragged up and over your chest, the hem pushed up to your lips. he doesnt tell you to bite, but you do anyway, the fabric soaked with your drool the moment you piece together that he wants to watch your tits bounce while he grinds against you.
he swears under his breath, both hands coming up to cup your breasts, his hands so big compared to yours. he kneads them under his fingers, calloused and rough, and you whine, your hips wriggling against his in response.
you dont need to tell him what you want — that this feels nice but you need him to refocus. he just gets it, either by the look in your eye or by the way your hands reach down to tug on his boxers.
when his fingers clamp down on the backs of your thighs and your knees end up closer to your face than anyone else has ever been able to get them, the shirt drops from your mouth, because youre letting out an echoing, needy sound that youve never made before.
he slams his hips down against yours, again and again and again, grunting and moaning and biting down on his bottom lip to keep the sound trapped in his throat. and then he huffs out, breath ragged, and takes in the sight of you properly.
"fuck, y/n, whats all this about?" his voice is rough, and hes sweating and flushed, and his hands are gripping your thighs tight but trembling nonetheless. "what is it, huh?"
your answer comes out in broken pieces, matching the rhythm of his hips. "us-ing-me-nngh-"
he stops. you cry out, tears pricking at your eyes. he just stares down at you, eyes wide as he examines the frustrated look on your face and the humiliated burn on your skin.
you start to cry, barely noticing when he uses one hand to brush the tears away, his thumb rough on your cheek.
you barely notice, because he covers it up by reaching down and tearing your panties off of you in one smooth motion.
you gasp when your body jostles against the mattress. you stop breathing entirely when he shoves his boxers down to his thighs.
"want me to use you?" he mutters. "okay. i'll use you."
you dont respond, just staring down at his cock and trying to process that that is never going to fit inside of you.
but he even doesnt try.
he just lines his cock up against your folds and slides through them slowly.
your head falls back and a cracked, broken moan falls past your lips. he doesnt sound much better, his breath sharp and his grunt tense in his throat.
"fuckin'-" he slides against you again, choking. you cant breathe. it's so hot and hard and nothing like anything youve ever felt before. "so fuckin' good," he breathes. "you feel so fucking good-hah-"
and then he leans forward, putting all his weight on the backs of your thighs and folding you in half, just like you like it.
his lips fall on yours like he's in love.
you kiss him back like you are, too.
the pace he finds is brutal, but he doesnt keep it for long. between kissing you and mumbling about how good you feel, his hips are unsteady.
which is exactly how the tip of his cock ends up catching on your entrance, slipping in just far enough for you to feel the stretch.
"oh-fuck-fuck-" he chokes, his eyes flying open and his hands slipping clumsily off your thighs and slamming into the mattress on either side of you. "fuck-y/n-"
your back is arched, chest pressing against his and your breath stuck in your throat. you stare up at him, unseeing, heart pounding in your ears.
"tsukki-"
he hears it again. what youre asking. but for your sake, he pretends it's his idea.
"c-can i-" he stumbles. "just a little?" he still hasnt slipped out, so he feels when you clench around his tip, dragging him in just a little more. he drops his head, groaning low and watching where your bodies meet. "fuck. fuck. i-please, y/n-" he lifts his eyes, staring down at you, his gaze wild and his arms shaking and his face radiating waves of heat. "please?"
there are more tears rolling down your cheeks, burning as they go, and you can only nod frantically. "please, tsukki. need you to-"
-use me.
he breathes out a quiet "oh, fuck," and starts to roll his hips in, soft "fuck, fuck, fuck"s falling past his lips the further in he pushes. the more he stretches you around his cock.
you're letting out embarrassing sounds, ranging from simple moans to humiliating chants of his name and the words "more" and "please" and "yes, fuck", all slurred and babbled together.
you dont even realize he's fucking you into the mattress until you hear the headboard slamming against your wall, over and over and over again. until his voice is right next to your ear, his chest pressed to yours and your thighs gripped tight in his hands.
"thank you," he grunts. "fuck, thank you. thank you."
you feel when it pushes you right over the edge, feel yourself mouth the words "yours" and "take it" and "please" against the shell of his ear, your walls squeezing tight around him as you come.
the noise he makes rumbles low in his chest and feels primal, and suddenly your headboard is hitting twice as fast and youre feeling his cock smack up against a spot you'd never realized was there.
when he comes, it's with your name on his tongue and his cock buried deep inside you, warm and pulsing and filling you just right.
you fall asleep like that, and he does, too. just like last time.
» There's a knot under your throat that you can't seem to get rid of when he's around. It turns out he's the only one who knows how to untie it. «
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TAGS: childhood friends to lovers, one-sided enemies (?) to lovers, stoic ushijima x constantly confused reader, Alders!Ushijima x PR!reader, penetrative sex, semi-public sex, side friendship yachi x kageyama is my favorite thing ever
a/n: when i tell you guys that before writing this i was not an ushijima girl,,,, and now i have my eyes WIDE OPEN,,,,, everyone please thank @sweetberrypies for this commission!!!!
[commission honee here!]
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Ushijima Wakatoshi is the embodiment of confusion.
He's three, and you're three, too. At that age, he shouldn't confuse you, but he does. He should just be the boy next door with the ball that he keeps rolling around and picking up and setting down, but he's not. He frowns at it, like he's very upset — you don't know it yet, but you'll come to understand over the years that that's what he looks like when he's concentrating on something that matters to him — and when you try to join him, crawling through the hole in the fence to play with him, he frowns at you, too.
In twenty years, he'll confuse you just the same. Frown just the same, stare just the same.
But you don't know that, either. For now, he's just the little boy who always seems upset, and you're just the little girl who wonders if he's mad at you.
Confused.
—
"Y/n… that boy is staring again…"
You turn over your shoulder, following your friend's concerned gaze to the school gates. He's there, just like he always is, eyes trained on you.
He's ten, and you're ten, too.
"Ah," you say, adjusting your bag on your shoulders. "I should go."
Your pig-tailed friend tugs on your sleeve. "Aren't you weirded out by him?"
Yes.
"No," you sigh. "That's just how he is."
When you approach him at the gates, it's with raised eyebrows. "What is it, Toshi?"
You frown. "I was talking to my friends…" When he doesn't seem to understand, you look away. "You can leave on your own, y'know. You don't have to wait for me every day."
He shakes his head. "Mom says we're too young to be walking home alone. I'm supposed to stay with you."
You turn away so he doesn't see how you roll your eyes. "Okay, fine." You start to walk away, but he sticks his hand out in front of you.
"We're supposed to hold hands."
Your face burns, because there's a group of boys walking past laughing at you. Their teasing 'ooh's are impossible to miss, and one of them even says 'yeah, Y/n, hold Toshi's hand'. You grit your teeth, eyes flying up to Ushijima's.
"That was just something our moms said. We don't actually have to."
He shakes his head again. He loves doing that to you. "I have to keep you safe. You could get taken when I'm not looking." When you only glare at him, he tilts his head. "What's the problem? We did it yesterday."
"I thought that-"
"And the day before-"
"No, I know. I thought-"
"And the day before-"
"I know. I'm just sayi-"
"And the day before-"
"Stop!" You stomp your foot, snatching his hand out of mid-air and dragging him through the gates. "Let's just go!"
He doesn't say anything else, quiet as you lead him down the familiar neighborhood streets. At an intersection, you start to cross, still angry, and then you're yanked back to the sidewalk.
A car speeds past right at the moment that you would have been in the road.
"See?" Ushijima says. "This is why we hold hands, too. I have to keep you safe."
You throw his hand down roughly. "Stop mocking me! I was only about to cross because I was distracted by how angry I was-"
He just takes your hand again. "I know. More reason to hold hands."
You're silent, letting him lead the way as you try to process how someone can be so stubborn.
"You don't have to take everything so seriously," you finally say, quiet and contemplative. "The kids at school are teasing us because you're always so serious about me."
He turns his head slightly but doesn't fully look at you. "What's wrong with being serious about you?"
You try not to let your blush show. "Nothing. Nevermind."
The rest of the walk home is silent, your head rattled with thoughts of confusion and the inability to understand him.
When you get to your neighboring homes, he lets you go. But before you enter your gates, he clears his throat.
"Y/n."
You stop, turning back to him. Tired, because this feeling of frustration is common around him.
He's staring right at you. "I have practice tomorrow. Wait for me."
You scoff. "I'm not waiting two extra hours, Toshi. I'll just-"
"Wait for me. Please."
You frown, your mouth twisting up and your pout emerging. Because you know you will, no matter how much you gripe about it.
He takes your silence exactly as it is, nodding and starting to walk away.
"Wakatoshi."
It stresses you out when he stares at you like that. It always feels like he's mad at you, even if you know he's not.
You swallow. "Thank you. For earlier."
He just blinks. "I told you. I have to keep you safe."
"You don't, Toshi-"
"I do." He holds out. "I do."
You stare at each other. There's a feeling in your chest that you always get with him. A knot that you can't untie, no matter how hard you try.
You get the feeling that only he can.
—
High school isn't any better.
He becomes something of a legend in the world of high-school volleyball, and you become something of an Ushijima Whisperer to anyone who wishes to understand him. Despite how many times you say that he's a lost cause even to you.
Your time in middle school spent waiting around for his practices to be over carries on to high school, your disgruntled presence lingering on the sidelines until Washijo finally points a wrinkled finger in your face and declares you manager.
You tend to just fall into roles whenever it concerns Ushijima Wakatoshi. Tend to fall into place, wherever he makes room for you.
The dating rumors are both expected and baffling, because you can't possibly fathom how someone could see your dynamic with him and assume it's anything but hopeless.
He's already grown into a boy of few words, his teammates learning his limited communication like a mystical code. But with you, he's worse.
Where Semi will comfortably offer help setting up the nets, easy conversation flowing between you, Ushijima prefers taking the poles from you wordlessly, barely a glance spared in your direction while he talks to someone else. You always end up snatching them back, ignoring the single, dark brow he raises in response.
Where Goshiki will bow deep and thank you repeatedly for things that are objectively your job, Ushijima tends to take the towel and water bottle from your hand with only an examining stare, one that feels far too much like a glare. You're quick to glare back.
Where Satori is playful and teasing when he begs for help with his finger wraps, Ushijima only barks your name from across the room, the request unsaid. He only holds out his hand and the tape when you stomp up to him, and you feel when he just stares down at the top of your head while you wrap his fingers, grumbling the whole time. He always manages to find something to silently critique when it happens, his free hand tugging on strands of your hair and fixing them, as though there was anything wrong to begin with.
There is no world in which you can understand how people think you're dating him.
Except for the instances, more common than you're comfortable admitting, when he says or does something that leaves you confused without fail.
Where Semi can get a bit heated, kicking things over when he messes up and not realizing that it's you who has to pick it up, Ushijima is almost always the one to do it, his sharp eyes finding Semi's so fast that you barely have time to be upset about the mess before the boy is at your side with an apology.
Where Goshiki can be a bit zealous, overshooting his spikes and sending the ball spinning right at your head, Ushijima always appears at the very last moment, his hand or back in your face as he takes the full force of the hit with no more than a quiet grunt. It's always over before you even register that you should've been afraid, and he's always gone before you can think to thank him.
Where Satori can overstep your boundaries — a joke taken too far, a playful squeeze of your cheeks or ruffle of your hair on a day that you're really not in the mood — Ushijima is a towering shadow, an unseen glare sending Satori away whistling or a hand wrapped tight around the boy's wrist, dislodging it without a word. You're never able to figure out how Ushijima had noticed your mood before anyone else.
Unsurprisingly, he drops one last confusing moment in your hands the night that you graduate — the night before he leaves the country for college in America.
—
The walk home is silent, just like almost every walk home before it. You turn your diploma over and over in your hands, not really examining it at all. Just listening to the silence, his footsteps matching the rhythm of yours.
You feel strange. You've been feeling it for months, ever since he'd announced he'd be leaving. It's exactly the same now as it had been then. Satori had joked at the time that you must be excited to have your shadow gone, but that excitement had never come. You'd only felt the tug of that knot, the one that had sat in your chest from the moment you'd realized Ushijima Wakatoshi was permanent.
The knot hurts now. It hurts a lot, so much that you can't find your voice. Silenced, same as the part of your brain that wants to celebrate the freedom.
Your gate looms ahead, and you realize that this is it. He leaves at three in the morning, so this really is it. You're not sure where you'll be — who you'll be — when he comes home in four years. If he comes home.
You stop in front of your gate, staring down at the metal and feeling the creak of the neighboring gate as he pushes it open. Feel the creak in your throat, right under that knot.
But then it stops.
When you look up, he's looking back at you. Waiting. He doesn't ask what's wrong, but you hear the question deep in the pit of your stomach — in the way he blinks down at you, in the way his hand slides off of his own gate. In the way he says your name, only ever that. Nothing else.
"Y/n."
Your eyes burn. It's too late to be realizing that you might feel lost without him, after so long of wishing for exactly that.
"Wakatoshi."
He tilts his head. You only say his name like that —
"Cut it out, Toshi!"
"Jesus, you scared the fuck out of me, Toshi."
"I'm serious, Toshi, you're pissin' me off!"
"Thank you, Wakatoshi. For earlier."
— when something doesn't feel right. When you don't feel right.
"Will you come back?"
He doesn't know where the question comes from. You know that, because you're unsure, too.
"Yes," he says plainly. "I have to."
You lift your brows. "You have to? I'm sure any country would kill to have you-"
"But you won't be in 'any country'," he cuts you off. "You'll be here."
You have no idea what that means. "So?"
He doesn't answer you, asking his own question instead. "What will you do at Tokyo? Communications?"
You'd certainly considered it. "I think so. They have a strong department."
"What will you do with it?"
You warm, not wanting to answer. You'd had the feeling for a while, but you hadn't said it aloud.
As usual, he waits you out. Eventually, you sigh.
"I was thinking about PR."
The only signal he gives that he's surprised is the shift of his weight, the slight widening of his eyes before they fall flat again. "For volleyball."
It's not a question.
"For volleyball," you echo anyway. "But, you never answered-"
"I go where you go," he says. Like it's a fact. Not a possibility, a fact.
"What-" you laugh. "What're you saying? That you'll be back just to work with me?" When he only nods, you laugh again. "How are you going to make that happen, Toshi? You don't know what team I'll be working for. What if they're not the right fit-"
"I go where you go." He puts his hand back on the gate. This conversation is over. "Always."
You furrow your brow, frustration growing when you realize that this is really it. He pushes the gate open, and you stumble forward, suddenly upset beyond comprehension.
He's eighteen, and you're eighteen, too. You might never see him again.
"Wakatoshi."
He turns, surprise flying across his face and a grunt leaving him, because you're throwing your weight against his, arms tight around his neck.
There's something you want to say — but it's trapped under the knot. You can't get it out.
He's unmoving for a moment, and you think that's it, so you start to pull away.
His palms press against your back, pulling you back to him. They drop to your waist, his diploma clattering to the ground as he hoists you up and belts his arms tight around you. You wrap your legs around his waist, and he keeps you there. Keeps you safe.
The knot loosens slightly.
You suck in a breath, taking the chance.
"You don't have to come back. You shouldn't, if it's not what's right for you," you choke out. "But if you do, I'll be-"
The knot tightens.
-here.
-waiting.
You swallow around it, eyes pricking with tears.
Your shadow's hard to get rid of, it seems.
"Okay."
He lowers you to the ground gently, arms sliding away from you as he steps back. There's a look in his eye that you can't place, but that frown is familiar. You cling to it, remembering yourself.
"Okay," you whisper. "Be safe."
He watches you a moment and then nods, turning on his heel and disappearing into his house.
Something taps against your foot. His diploma. You pick it up, examining the tube that matches yours, his name etched along the side.
You carry it inside, laying it on your desk beside yours.
—
You don't speak to him for four years.
When your PR classes use examples of news coverage from volleyball, professors gravitate to Ushijima Wakatoshi. You keep tabs on him through a screen. Learn about him, through the eyes of someone who doesn't know him the way you know him.
The boy next door. Your shadow, up until the day he left.
You graduate, twenty-two now. His diploma still sits next to yours in a box, remembering when he was eighteen.
You interview for and are hired by the Schweiden Adlers as a general PR agent. You train with them for six months, awaiting the day that comes at the end of it when they assign you to a specific player as their personal representative.
—
"Are you excited?" Yachi asks, chewing on the end of a pocky stick. She'd been hired at the same time as you and had quickly become a close friend, but she'd been assigned to Kageyama Tobio the moment he'd been signed on, because he'd requested her. It apparently had been their plan, their friendship strong from high school and the trust between them quite high.
You nod, a warm grin flashing across your face as you take one of the snacks from the box on her desk. "I've been waiting for this day for forever. I'm nervous, though."
"Why?" she whines dramatically. "This is a momentous day!"
"I know," you whine back, her energy infectious as ever. "But what if I don't get along with him?"
"Of course you will!" she argues. "I have the best time ever!"
You roll your eyes. "That's because it's Kageyama. He's, like, your closest friend."
She leans forward, her eyes sparkling. "Exactly. It's Kageyama. I know you know what a pain in the ass he is with public matters." She's not wrong, you think. "If I can do it, then you can, too."
Your computer lets out a soft ding, your email refreshing and reloading with a new message. You both lean forward, seeing the words 'player assignment' and 'conference room' in the preview.
Yachi smacks your arm. "It's go time!"
You stand, straightening your pencil skirt and blouse wih a nervous sigh. "Wish me luck," you say, squeezing her arm as you pass.
"You got this!" she calls. "You can do anything!"
"You can do anything, you can do anything, you can do anything," you mumble, repeating it the entire walk to the conference room.
When you push the door open, you plaster a PR-approved smile on your face.
It falls.
He's twenty-two now, too. It's the first thing you notice.
Bigger, taller, broader. Older.
His frown is the same, though.
"Y/n!" your manager says, standing from the table, where he'd been sitting beside Ushijima. The man beams down at you, grabbing you by the shoulders and leading you to where Wakatoshi's sitting. "Say hello to our newest recruit, the one and only Ushijima Wakatoshi! Isn't this amazing?"
Ushijima's got his eyes trained on the spot where your manager grabs you. You know he'll figure out soon that the man is too touchy, too close to the female PR agents all the time. But he doesn't need to know it now, especially because you can see his jaw shifting.
He's annoyed.
You can still read him.
"H-Hi."
His eyes fly up to yours, his expression relaxing. He stands from his seat, and you feel your head tip back as he towers over you. It's been so long that you'd forgotten.
He's twenty-two now, too.
"Y/n."
Your name, nothing else.
Your eyes water. His smile is almost unnoticeable, in his eyes more than anything else.
"Hi," you whisper back, just as dumb as before.
Your manager glances between you. "Oh, you know each other!" The man examines you closer, in a way he never has before. "I didn't realize that." He examines Ushijima now. "I see why you requested her."
You don't say what he's actually thinking.
I see why you chose us, even though you had six other teams fighting for you.
"Well," your manager says, clapping his hands together. "Shall we get to the details of the assignment?"
You sit beside Ushijima, flustered by every movement he makes. Flustered by the way he sips his water, listening plainly while your manager explains your role in his career. Flustered by the way his body heat radiates off of him and washes over you. Flustered by the way he shifts in his seat every so often, his knee bumping against yours.
"Y/n, you are expected to remain available for Ushijima 24/7. This means leaving your phone on at all times and answering calls and texts in a timely manner." The list of responsibilities is being read to you off a script, but you know exactly what this assignment entails.
Be with Ushijima at all times, except when he's at practice.
Answer all of Ushijima's calls, even in the middle of the night.
Making Ushijima look as good as possible, tracking fan opinions online and negotiating with news outlets on his behalf.
Maintain a professional relationship with Ushijima, at all costs.
For some reason, that last part doesn't feel possible.
"Any questions?"
You blink, meeting your manager's eyes and then Ushijima's. He's shaking his head, and you know that's all you'll get from him.
"No," you say quietly. "I understand."
"Okay, then," your manager says, standing and shaking Ushijima's hand. You stay seated, staring at the table like an idiot. "Welcome to the team. I'll leave you two to get acquainte-er… re-acquainted."
The moment he's gone, you're being yanked out of your seat by a hand wrapped around your bicep.
He feels the same, arms belting around your waist and hoisting you up.
You don't wrap your legs around his waist this time, but you refuse to admit it's only because your pencil skirt won't let you.
You bury your face against his throat, breathing him in.
He feels the same.
"Hi," he says, his voice bass-y and echoing through your bones.
The knot hasn't felt this tight since that night.
"Put me down," you croak. "This is unprofessional."
"I don't care." He talks a little differently now.
You don't. "I do. Put me down."
He sets you on your feet gently, hands on your waist gentler.
"I wasn't expecting you," you admit. "I thought you'd choose a different team."
He tilts his head. You miss reading him like this.
"I thought I was clear that night."
He was. You just hadn't let yourself hold onto it.
"Was this the right fit for you?"
His eyes flick between yours. "Yes." He nods. "Yes."
You don't know if you believe him, but you don't ask again.
"When did you get back?"
"Two days ago."
You laugh and shake your head. Of course he did. "Where are you living?" When he tells you the address, you stare up into his face, deadpan. "Are you stalking me?" He blinks, confused. You sigh. "That's next door to me."
He stares. And then he laughs, a scoff pressed against his fist as he turns away.
You've never heard him laugh before.
"That was an accident. I promise."
You just sigh, trying not to laugh yourself. "Are you all moved in? Do you need anything?"
"… Lunch?"
"We can't," you say, pursing your lips. "We can't be seen together like that. It's too casual."
He frowns. "Kageyama and his PR agent get lunch together all the time."
You don't know how to tell him it's different. This is different. "I dunno, Toshi…"
"You have to accommodate all of my requests, right?"
The roll of your eyes makes him smile, almost unnoticeable again. "Whatever," you grumble. "Let's just go."
—
It's easy to fall back into line with him, wherever he makes room for you.
You help him finish moving into his place, providing paparrazzi with the professional answers you'd concocted so that you're allowed to be this close to him. This close to him, even though players and their agents typically aren't.
"Ushijima has just returned to Japan from the United States. He is adjusting to home life, and as his agent, I am assisting in that process."
"No, we did not plan to live next door to one another. Yes, it is indeed a happy coincidence — I believe this will allow me to perform efficiently in this role, as I will be able to better assist him in his transition to the Adlers."
"Yes, we have known each other since childhood. No, it did not in any way impact his decision to join us, nor did it influence my employment with the Schweiden Adlers. Life is funny like that, wouldn't you agree?"
Ushijima always watches, eyes trained on the side of your face while you talk to the press that lingers outside his house.
His apartment is a carbon copy of yours, and you find yourself accidentally arranging furniture and decorations the same way. He simply lets you, adding his own touches in the spaces you leave — where you make room for him.
He trains incessantly, just as he had in high school, so you find yourself at the office a lot, your phone propped up so you can see the moment he texts or calls.
[1:07 PM]
Toshi: PT at 2
You: okay. need me?
Toshi: no.
[10:27 AM]
Toshi: scrimmage at 4
You: where?
Toshi: [location attached]
You: okay. need me?
Toshi: no.
[4:49 PM]
Toshi: paparazzi wont let me get to my car
You: omw
Toshi: no.
You: ????
Toshi: handled it. just lyk.
You: why am i getting back to back calls from different magazines, wakatoshi.
Toshi: handled it.
You: you broke a camera???
Toshi: yes.
You: dont do it again.
Toshi: okay.
[5:19 AM]
Toshi: why didn't you pick up my call.
You: IM SLEEPING YOU FREAK.
You: WHAT DO YOU WANT.
Toshi: going to the corner store. out of protein powder.
You: OKAY. DO YOU NEED ME.
Toshi: no.
You: im gonna kill u.
There's a large part of you that wants to hate it. Hate him. Because your days consist of this, of the constant messaging and the constant calling and the constant contact, despite never needing anything from you. But there's another part of you — three, and then ten, and then eighteen — that knows this back and forth very well. Missed it, even. And it grows as the weeks go on, the chaos evening out and your days melting into something akin to normal.
And then he ruins it, about six weeks into this new routine.
—
You groan, rolling over in your bed and reaching for the bedside table. Your phone is ringing — not just vibrating, because you have to keep your phone on at all times — and you know exactly who it is.
"What?" you grumble, eyes still closed.
"Were you sleeping?"
You pull your phone from your ear, checking the time. "It's three in the morning, Toshi." When he doesn't respond, you bite out an answer to his question. "Yes. I was sleeping."
"Oh. Okay. Goodnight."
"Wh-"
He hangs up.
You stare at the ceiling, wondering if the world would know it was you if he happens to be dead in the morning.
You call him back. He picks up after two rings.
"Hello?"
"What do you want?"
"Oh. Nothing."
You take a deep breath. "Then why did you call me?"
"You called me."
You could kill him. They wouldn't know. You'd find a way. "Wakatoshi."
It's silent on the other end for a moment. "I can't sleep."
He doesn't say anything else. You know what he's asking, but it feels strange, because he's never asked this particular question before.
You don't know what to do about the nervous flip of your stomach, the shiver that flies down your spine.
You swallow around the knot. "If I get caught coming over there, there's going to be a scandal."
"… Okay. That's okay." He hangs up.
That should be it. That should be the end of it.
So then why are you already out of bed and shoving on a pair of slippers? Why are you wrapping a robe around yourself and grabbing your keys?
It's easy to avoid the streetlights, easy to snake around the side and approach the back door instead of the front. Too easy, in fact. Easy to do, easy to repeat.
He's already at the door when you arrive, almost like he'd known you would come anyway, despite the risk.
You want to hate him. You used to.
For now, you just push past him and pad silently to his bedroom, your shoes and robe left at the door. You sit at the edge of his bed, bouncing your knee anxiously, and look around, making sure the curtains are closed and there's no way to see into the room. Ushijima presses the door closed quietly with his back, leaning against it and peering down at you.
You should ask why he's requesting this of you. You've never been this way — never done this kind of thing together. You wonder if anyone else could have read what he needed, the way that you did. If anyone else could be in this situation, locked in a lifelong game of confusion and understanding, silent all the way to the end.
You're not sure anyone else could do the things you're willing to do for Ushijima Wakatoshi.
He watches you carefully, eyes tracing your face and examining your expression. You stare back, knee bouncing and ears ringing and nerves flipping over and over in the pit of your stomach, because you know you should ask but you don't want to. You know you should question this, question him about why he thinks he's allowed to ask this of you.
You know you should hate him. You used to.
But you don't question it. And he doesn't explain.
He just crosses the room in two steps and then pulls you to your feet. Hoists you up. Belts his arms around your waist. Says nothing of the fact that you're trembling in his arms, that your legs are trembling when they wrap around him.
He lowers you to the mattress carefully, laying you down and laying himself over you. Adjusting so he doesn't crush you, but laying himself over you nonetheless.
The sigh he lets out when he finds a spot that works for him is audible, but only because of the spot he'd chosen — body half-covering yours, one hand gripping your waist, the other sliding up your spine and palm pressing between your shoulder blades. Face buried in your neck, breath grazing the shell of your ear, hair fanning out over your cheek and lips. Heart racing, felt through his chest and against yours.
He doesn't ask if this is okay, but the twitch of his fingers on your body tells you he's nervous.
You hate being able to read him this well. Part of you wishes you could go back to not understanding. To confusion.
But you do. You do understand him. And maybe that's because you've spent so long around him. Or maybe it's because you feel the same way.
Maybe that's why you finally wrap your arms around him, too. One hand pressed between his shoulder blades, admitting silently that it's okay to hold each other like this. The other curled into the hair at the base of his neck, nails scratching lightly against his scalp. Admitting that it's okay for him to shiver and sigh against your throat, because you say nothing when he does exactly that.
He falls asleep within minutes. Part of you wonders if he ever had any sleeping issues at all, but the rest of you knows that he wouldn't lie, not to you. That there's something happening here that he can't name and that you choose not to.
His alarm goes off at 5am.
You groan quietly but let your hands fall away from him, because you know it's time for him to go on his morning run. When he rolls over to turn the alarm off, you start to rise, disheveled and exhausted but ready to go back to your apartment.
You're not ready for the hand, large and sleep-warm, to flatten against your chest and press you back into the mattress gently. You blink once, twice, and then turn to look at him. He's already wrapping himself around you again, the rest of him just as sleep-warm.
"Toshi?" you mumble, confused but your arms circling him again, anyway.
He just grunts, pulling you close. Your nerves jump, because his lips are skimming your throat when he whispers "comfortable" in response.
"Don't you have to go?" When he shakes his head, you swallow. "Why?"
"You won't be here when I get back."
You wonder if he can feel the way your heart races.
He nudges his nose against your pulse point.
He can definitely feel it.
You turn your head away, trying to put some distance between you, but he just slides his palm against your jaw and brings you back to him.
You feel like you're suffocating. The knot is too tight again.
"Just one more hour," he mumbles. "Just one."
You blink rapidly up at the ceiling, streaks of sunlight bleeding across your vision. You don't understand. You never understand. And yet, you're still here.
It hurts to realize that life with Ushijima will continue to be this. Confusion and understanding, an endless cycle.
It hurts to realize that you want it this badly.
—
"I don't know," you groan, walking beside Yachi at a snail's pace. She grabs you by the arm, dragging you along the hall of the Adlers' gym. You're on your way to a press meeting, where you and the other agents will stand along the side of the room and step in if necessary.
"I know you don't know," she giggles, lowering her voice and making sure none of your co-workers can hear. "But he asked you to sleep in his bed and then broke his own discipline to stay in bed." She grips you tighter. "And you let him." When your face warms, she beams at you. "He likes you. And you're not innocent, either."
"I thoroughly reject that idea," you argue. "I can't afford to have that thought floating around in my head. That's the fastest way to get fired. I need my job-"
"Oh, fuck the job," she whispers fervently. "You can figure out how to sneak around." When you glare at her, she grows more excited. "You've been friends for twenty years. Your relationship comes first."
You don't answer her, just letting yourself be dragged into the press room and against the wall.
When the Adlers enter the room, their coach leading, your eyes scan for him. He's next to Kageyama, who's equally stoic and disinterested as they take their seats. The younger man glances at the line of agents, and you watch him find Yachi. She drags her thumb across her throat in an obvious threat, and he has to cover his mouth with a hand to hide his grin. When you give her a wild look, she shrugs.
"He's been running into trouble with etiquette and tact recently. I told him to be nice today or he'd catch a knife when he's not looking."
You huff out a laugh, turning back to the players.
Ushijima's eyes are already on you.
The memory of his body heat isn't even a week old.
You don't have time to wonder if you have feelings for him. You don't have time to think about this at all. So you turn away, keeping your attention on the introduction that the coach is making.
The press conference lasts an hour, the team's overall strategy discussed and then different players asked about their private marketing and sponsorship responsibilities.
A reporter from a small paper stands when he's called on. "For Ushijima Wakatoshi, please." You straighten, your PR mode locked onto the interaction. Ushijima's eyes flick to you and then back, and he nods once. "We hear that you've been selected for the next cover of Japan's Hottest."
You're both familiar with it. His photoshoot for next month's issue is in two hours. Ushijima leans into the mic.
"That's correct." He glances at you, so you gesture that he should say more. "It's an honor."
You bite back a laugh. You highly doubt he cares about any of it.
The reporter nods. "Are you excited about what doors it could open for you?"
Doors? It's a thirst trap magazine to showcase Japan's sexiest athletes, and no one's exactly surprised that Ushijima's next on the list, especially given his recent return.
You meet his eyes again. It's clear he's thinking the same thing. Still, you nod encouragingly, and he echoes the nod in the reporter's direction.
"Yes."
You sigh and write 'work on media presence' on your ipad, in the margin next to his schedule for the day.
The reporter glances back at you, as do several others, because he hasn't been subtle in any way about needing your help.
"Er, one last question," the reporter says. Ushijima just nods. "How has adjusting to life with the Adlers been? Are you and your PR agent getting on alright?"
Your eyes widen, and you're suddenly panicking about what he could possibly say.
He leans into the mic, blinking emptily. "Y/n is my best friend. Always has been. Life with the Adlers is good."
You stare at him, frozen in place and only able to recover before the cameras start flashing because Yachi's elbowing you hard.
The reporters all try to ask follow-up questions, but you're shaking your head aggressively at Ushijima, so he just leans back in his seat and looks to his coach. The older man manages to corral them after a few moments, and the conference continues without incident.
Only when you get in the back of a car with Ushijima does he finally speak to you.
"Did I say something wrong?"
You just stare straight ahead, your own reflection clear in the divider between the driver and yourselves. "No, Toshi. That was fine."
"The reporters reacted strongly."
"The rumors will start," you say, sighing. "That's all."
"What rumors?"
When you turn to him, you find that he's actually confused, looking to you for answers because he's never been good at this. At people.
"The dating rumors, Toshi."
You watch in real time as he understands, dissociates, and then flushes — his face starts to burn, heat flooding his cheeks and ears, and all he does is stare right through you.
"Oh," he finally says, turning away.
The drive to his photoshoot is completely silent.
—
The stylists at Japan's Hottest have gotten wind of how things went at the press conference. You'd known it would get out quickly, but you're unprepared for the playful side glances from the hair stylist and the meaningful lift of the makeup artist's eyebrows.
You sit in the corner while Ushijima is dragged through the ringer — outfit changes, photoshoot, hair and makeup changes, photoshoot, more outfit changes, more photoshoot.
You're in the corner for three hours, working silently on your laptop and watching him get pulled this way and that.
Until, in what can only be an intentional maneuver, the shoot director enters the makeup room and claps his hands a few times.
"Okay, everyone," he says. "Great work so far — only one more concept!"
You frown at your ipad. There's still time left for one concept shoot, but you only have four shoots on the schedule, not five.
He doesn't look at you, but you feel that this is targeted. "Ushijima, let's get you in something a little more revealing. I'd like to do a lipstick montage."
You stare at the director, putting his words together slowly. A what?
Ushijima just looks at you, almost like he's checking if this is right. You clear your throat, standing and smoothing out your slacks while you approach. "Excuse me. How revealing are we talking here? I'm not sure Ushijima would be comfortable with anything below the belt."
The director looks you over, a smile spreading across your face. "Did Ushijima tell you that?"
You don't know how to tell him that speaking isn't necessary between the two of you. "I know my player well."
If Ushijima didn't want you to see how he shifts in his seat when you say 'my player', he fails.
The director only beams down at you. "Okay, then. Nothing below the belt. But since you know him so well…"
Uh, oh.
"Why don't you do the lipstick stains for him?"
"What?" you say right away, blinking and looking around. "Why me? Can't the makeup artis-"
That woman is conveniently needed in another room at precisely this moment, just smiling at you in a way that is way too guilty.
In fact, everyone is conveniently needed elsewhere, the room emptying suspiciously fast.
The director's the last one left. He smiles down at you, far too pleased for your liking. "That's that, then! Choose a nice, deep red, okay?" He starts to leave, turning on his heel at the door. "Don't forget the lips!"
The slam of the door echoes off the walls.
You stare at it, barely noticing when Ushijima gets up and crosses the room.
"I think these are the clothes."
You turn, ears ringing and face burning. He's holding a white button-down and a pair of jeans.
"Okay," you say hollowly. "Get changed, I guess."
You try not to focus on the sound of him stripping behind the privacy screen, staring down at the many tubes of lipstick on the vanity. You stare so long that you don't even notice when he finishes, only rebooting your brain when his arm reaches past you.
"I like this one," he says quietly, the bass of his voice shaking your nerves. He plucks a dark red lipstick from the set, placing it gently in your palm.
You take a shaky breath. "Okay." Then you turn.
He's too close.
You jump, bumping against the vanity in your unconscious scramble to put space between you. He takes a step back, examining you.
His shirt is buttoned to the top and his jeans are high on his hips. You lament the fact that you're going to have to fix this.
"You have to leave it open," you say, gesturing for him to unbutton his shirt while you turn to the mirror and start to smooth the red tint over your lips. You watch him undo it, forcing your eyes not to linger on the broad expanse of his chest and the lines of his abdomen, the ones that speak of discipline and a very serious excercise regimen.
You try especially hard not to stare at the two lines that converge under the band of his jeans — the lines that are shaped like a V and accented by the strip of dark hair that runs between them.
You press your lips together to spread the lipstick around, refusing to admit that your mouth is watering.
When you straighten, breathing shakily, he's already watching you in the mirror. You turn, trying to look as aloof as possible when you examine him.
Unfortunately, you know what the director wants. What people will want to see when next month's cover drops.
You sigh, stepping toward him. "These need to be lower," you mumble, hooking your fingers through his belt loops and ignoring when the muscles of his abdomen jump in surprise. You tug on his jeans, tug until the band of his underwear sits just under his hip bones and the jeans sit even lower.
When you glance at his face, there's a light blush sitting comfortably there.
"Now what?" he asks, his voice huskier than before.
You try your damn hardest to seem completely normal when you say—
"Now I kiss you."
Ushijima says nothing, just swallowing hard and looking away, his nod almost shy.
"Uhm," you start, looking around. "Okay. Sit here." You guide him to the vanity, forcing him to lean down onto it. "You're too tall."
He's still tall when he sits like this, and his legs are spread wide enough for you to step between them in a way that makes you feel funny.
"Okay," you breathe, more to yourself than to him. "Ready?"
He just nods again.
You place your hands on his chest and lean in, pressing your lips to his cheek.
He inhales hard, body shifting.
The next goes to his nose, and the next to his jaw.
When you press your lips to his throat, right over his pulse, he huffs out weakly. You feel a tug, realizing with a racing heart that he's hooked his fingers into the loops of your slacks, anchoring himself to you.
You keep going, mouth on each of his collarbones, over his heart, and down the planes of his chest. He's starting to breathe hard, his muscles twitching sporadically and his fingers holding tight to you.
When you drop to your knees to be able to get to his torso, his body jerks suddenly, and a sound falls past his lips.
Your brain goes blank, because Ushijima Wakatoshi's just moaned under his breath at the sight of you on your knees.
You stare at his stomach for a moment, watching it rise and fall sharply, and then your eyes flick up.
His face is burning red, and his eyes are glazed over, and he's looking down his nose at you like he's never looked at you before.
"Toshi?" you whisper. He curls his hands into tight fists, nails scratching on his jeans, and shuts his eyes.
"'m okay."
You can't catch your breath. "I don't think you are-"
"Keep going," he bites out, voice tense and strained. "Please."
Your hands find his thighs and you're sitting high on your knees before you even realize it's happening.
When your lips touch his abs, his fingers find your head, curling into your hair tight. Your heart pounds in your chest, your ears, your throat — everywhere.
The knot urges you to keep going. Tugs you down, down, down.
Your fingers curl into the band of his underwear, pulling it just low enough that a lipstick mark would peek out, right about—
You press your lips under his navel, just next to that patch of dark hair that's been on your mind this whole time.
"Ah, fuck-" He grips your hair tighter and keeps your mouth against his skin.
A shock of electricity washes over the crown of your head, turning your brain to static before flying down your spine. He's never sworn like that before. He's never sworn at all, actually.
When you pull away — when he lets you pull away — your face is burning and your ears are ringing and you can't feel your feet or your hands. And he looks exactly the same.
His chest heaves while he catches his breath, and he can only look down at you for a few seconds before his eyes are closing again and his head is leaning back against the mirror.
You stand, limbs numb and skin tingling.
"I-I have to-" You can't get it out. You can't say it.
He cracks his eyes open, gazing at you with a glazed-over expression, cheeks burning the most beautiful shade of pink.
He drops his eyes to your lips. "Okay."
The sound of his voice makes you shiver.
You step a little closer, tugging him by the open flaps of his shirt until he sits up, face right in front of yours.
"Stay still," you whisper. He just nods, eyelashes fluttering.
You cup his cheeks and lean in.
His lips are softer than you'd expected.
He listens to direction, staying perfectly still while you press the lipstick to his mouth. But he's breathing hard and his nails are scratching on his jeans again, and you're becoming lightheaded by the realization that this is happening.
This is happening.
You pull back, refusing to meet his eyes and just staring down at his mouth. A perfect imprint of your lips is plastered there, right on his.
It affects you more than you thought it would.
You take a single step back, panting. "Okay. I think you're-"
He wraps a hand around your wrist, yanking you back in.
The knot loosens.
Falls.
You melt into him, letting him do as he pleases. He tangles his fingers in your hair, holding you steady and pressing his lips hard against yours. His other hand finds your waist, dragging you close until you're draped over him.
You cling uselessly to him, tilting your head however he wants and pressing your body to his like he wants and opening your mouth when his tongue swipes along your lips, just like he wants. When his tongue slides across yours, you whimper his name and dig your nails into his thighs, overcome with desire.
With the need for more of him, because nothing has ever been enough for you. Not once in twenty years.
He grunts when your nails hurt, and suddenly you're being lifted and turned, your butt dropped on the vanity and your legs pried open by his. He towers over you, hands on the table on either side of you, and you can do nothing but wrap your arms around his neck and pull him closer.
He grabs your thighs, his hands big and warm and strong, and pulls them around his waist, stepping right up to you and lining his hips up flush with yours.
He's hard. You moan into his mouth, and he knows why.
The roll of his hips into yours makes you tremble, your breath choked out into his mouth when you whimper his name.
"Toshi," you try, nerves flipping over and over in your stomach. "We have to stop-" He jerks his hips forward, and you're embarrassed at the moan that falls out. "Please, Toshi. We can't do this here-"
"Need you," he breathes, and you're reminded of all the times, over all these weeks, that you've asked if he needed you and he's said no. He's said no, even though you know sometimes he really could have used your help.
He says it now. It scares you, because he must really mean it this time.
"Not-nngh-" He's pulling you closer, the bulge of jeans hitting that special spot you've been trying to avoid. "Not here, Toshi. Please."
There's a knock at the door.
Your blood freezes in your body.
You shove him back, watching as he barely moves, just staring down at you with heated eyes.
"Everything okay in there?" the director calls, and you can hear the smug edge in his voice.
Ushijima Wakatoshi has lipstick smeared all over his mouth.
You scramble off the vanity, searching for the tube of lipstick. "Y-Yes! He's almost done!" You snatch it off of the ground and turn to him, scrubbing your thumb across his mouth until the smudges are gone. And then you rush to put more lipstick on, your fingers trembling.
He stares down at you the entire time, eyes trained on your lips.
You pinch his arm, whispering "get it together" when he just lifts his brows, still distracted. And then you rise onto your tiptoes, pressing your lips hard against his.
It's still just as hard to pull away, even with someone waiting outside.
"Go," you urge, untangling yourself from the tight grip he has on you. "Go, Wakatoshi."
He listens this time, if only because you'd used his full name, and turns to leave.
You slump into the nearest chair once he's gone, staring down at nothing.
—
You avoid him.
You're not ashamed to admit that.
You avoid him, even though he calls and texts and knocks on your door at two in the morning. When the paparazzi ask if you've fought, he says no and that you're just not feeling well and he's worried. You feel relief, because he understands. Despite how confusing he is, he understands that this is important.
That this is between you and him and no one else.
Still, you avoid him.
For a week, you avoid him.
And then the Adlers win a game, and the coach calls for celebration and invites everyone to a new club that's just opened in town.
You have to go. It's your job.
—
"You can't stick by me the whole time!" Yachi yells in your ear.
"Yes, I can!" you yell back.
"I agree with Yachi!"
You turn, glaring up at Kageyama. He sips on his fruity cocktail, pleased with himself.
"Go away!"
"No!"
You bare your teeth at him, growling like a trapped animal. He just laughs in your face.
Yachi groans, tugging you close. "You have to talk to him! You guys humped in a dressing room like teenagers with ten years of pent up sexual energy. You can't avoid him!"
Your face burns, and you glance up at Kageyama. He looks just as embarrassed as you.
"Shut up, Kageyama."
His eyes are wide, offended. "I didn't even say anything!"
Yachi pushes his arm. "Go away, it's girl time!"
He narrows a glare at her, leaning down to match her height. "Fine," he says, his tone evil. "But I'm going to stand with Ushijima."
He's gone before you can pounce on him in a rage.
"Oh, my god," you whine, face buried in your hands. "I'm so done for. The world is gonna find out, and I'm gonna lose my job, and all his fans are going to send me death threats and egg my car-"
"Stop," Yachi says, shaking you. "You need to stop worrying about what the world has to say. None of them matter."
"I need a job! I need a career, and no one is going to hire me when they find out what I've done!"
"What have you done, Y/n?" she argues, lifting a single brow. "Fallen in love with the boy next door? Who just happens to be a celebrity athlete?"
You stare. "I'm not in love."
"Yes, you are."
You know you are. You know.
"Y/n, listen to me," she starts, grabbing you by the arms and holding you steady. "You can worry about the press and the fans and your job. But you're going to lose him." She turns you in the direction Kageyama's just gone.
He's standing with Ushijima, their heads bent together as they talk. Ushijima is saying something with a stoic face, but you can tell. You can see it in ways that no one else in this room can. You can tell by how fast his mouth is moving and how he's shifting his weight and how he keeps crossing and uncrossing his arms.
He's stressed. He's stressed and worried and anxious and everything you are, too.
"You're going to lose that boy next door," Yachi says in your ear. "And I don't care how much you complain about him. I know you won't be able to survive that."
Kageyama says something back.
Ushijima's face floods with heat, visible to you even from here. And then his eyes flick across the room, right to yours.
Only you can see how much he doesn't want to lose you, too.
Fuck.
"Okay," you mumble. "Okay."
She squeezes you. "Go get him." And then she giggles. "And try not to get caught."
You get the feeling she's not talking about holding hands.
Things haven't been that simple since you were ten.
Your feet carry you across the room, but you don't move toward him. You drift off to the side, toward a long hallway that can only lead somewhere more private than this crowded club.
When you meet his eyes, halfway there, you can see he understands. Nothing about his face changes, but you just know.
You should have figured this out years ago.
You shut yourself inside a single-user bathroom, pacing the small room and shaking your hands out. The club music pounds all around you, and you can barely hear yourself think.
He doesn't knock. He just pushes the door open with his shoulder and shoves it closed, leaning back against it and staring down at you, like that night in his bedroom.
The space between you is completely silent. Just muted club music and your breathing, harsh and sharp.
You cross the room in two steps, like he had that night. Push up onto your toes and wrap your hands around his neck, yank him close. Just like he'd done to you less than a week ago.
He tastes like Kageyama's fruity cocktail.
Your back hits the opposite wall, and you're lifted right off your feet, Ushijima's hips pinning you in place.
"I'm sorry," you pant. He just shakes his head. "I shouldn't have avoided you." His hands are everywhere, on your waist and your thighs and the skirt of your dress, shoving it up and out of his way. "Toshi, please-"
"I know," he bites, strained and hoarse. "I know. Just-" He groans when you arch your chest into him and spread your legs wider so he can fit better. "Please."
You shiver, nodding. "Okay," you breathe. "Okay."
When he slips his hand between your legs and tugs your panties to the side, your heart slams against your chest and throat.
Your throat, which hasn't felt the knot tighten in a week.
The press of his tip past your entrance empties you of everything but him and makes you realize you might never feel the knot again.
He'd untied it.
The stretch of your walls around him makes him moan, low and deep into your mouth, and you can only pant out ragged breaths. Your eyes roll back in your head, and your brain fills with static, and the sound of your name falling past his lips yanks you close to the edge, all too fast. When he throbs inside of you, you realize he's right there with you.
All too fast, because this moment is twenty years in the making.
"I'm sorry," he grunts. "I'm close, I'm sorry."
"Me, too," you pant. "Please, Toshi."
He seems embarrassed, because it hasn't even been a minute. It hasn't even been a minute.
He drives his hips up against yours, frantically trying to hold you closer and last longer and show you that this means something to him. But you can't lie, the fact that he's like this is only yanking you closer to the edge, because it means he's desperate, and you've never seen Ushijima Wakatoshi feel desperate about a single thing in his life.
The pieces fall into place.
"What's wrong with being serious about you?"
"I go where you go."
"I thought I was clear that night."
"I can't sleep."
"You won't be here when I get back."
"Y/n is my best friend. Always has been."
"Keep going. Please."
Oh.
Oh.
"I love you, Toshi," you whimper, burying your face in his neck. A sob falls out, and you cling tighter. "I love you."
He shudders, gripping you tighter. "What?"
"I love you," you cry, lifting up to grab him by the face and press your mouth. "Wakatoshi."
For one hundred and fifty years, Choso had nothing other than his eight brothers and the cold, oppressive darkness of the storage room in which they were trapped.
Then, during his one hundred and fifty-first year, he met you.
(Or: You're told to seal the death painting wombs that are kept in the cursed object warehouse. You come to love them instead.)
8.6k words of pure romance! warnings for themes of csa (implied and off-screen, not romanticized) and complicated family relationships. choso conflates romantic love with familial love bc his love for his brothers is the only love he's known for 150 years, but there is no actual pseudocest. also this is literally several thousand words told from the pov of a pickle jar; it's a really weird fic.
For one hundred and fifty years, Choso knew nothing but darkness and his brothers' voices.
Before this darkness, he'd known of his father. He knew of being wrenched out of his mother's body—her womb cleaved open, rotting from the poison of his blood. He knew of his father putting the malformed thing that was his body into a glass prison, preserving him in amniotic fluid. He heard his sire naming him. Kamo Noritoshi had a sick sense of humour, Choso learned. His mother's body decayed from her successive pregnancies, her flesh not made to bear such monsters, and her children were named after the stages of her decomposition: Choso, Eso, Kechizuso, Noranso, Shouoso, Tanso, Sanso, Kotsuso, Shoso.
It was after Shoso that their mother's body finally gave out, parched into dust.
For one hundred and fifty years, the nine of them only had one another. Choso only had the warmth of their cursed energy, the chattering hum of their thoughts, their terror as the shadows of the storage room pressed in on them. He could not blame them for being so afraid: children are naturally frightened of the dark. And just as naturally, he could not allow himself to be so frightened.
He was the eldest. He had to be brave for them.
He was brave for Eso, who loved to show off because he was so insecure. He was brave for Kechizu, who looked up to his two older brothers with wonder. For Noranso, whose soul trembled often with tears his fetal body could not shed. For Shouoso, who bickered terribly but loved tenderly. For Tanso, who always sought attention as a middle child. For Sanso, who was always annoyed with Tanso, but also always made up with him. For Kotuso, who had been the only one of them to be held by their mother, and now always longed for her touch. For Shoso, who was the most fragile-hearted of them all—the baby of the family, the one whom they all comforted most.
For one hundred and fifty years, Choso took care of them. Raised them. Nurtured them as best as he could from within his glass prison. Talked to them to distract them from the aching cold. Weaved them stories based on scant knowledge of the world inherited by their father's blood—visions of what it would be like to leave this place and feel the warmth of sunlight (how lovely that must be), listen to human music (whatever that might sound like), feel the earth of gardens beneath their feet (see the flowers fed by their mother's corpse).
For one hundred and fifty years, Choso had no one other than his brothers—
—and then, during the one hundred and fifty-first year, he met you.
The death painting wombs changed hands once before they entered their final home. Choso could see, with his half-formed eyes, sorcerers entering their dark chamber, letting sunlight flood through the open doors. He blinked slowly, unused to it. Were he a fully formed being and not an embryo, he'd have stood between the intruders and his brothers. He'd have used his blood to kill them all, maybe.
The intruders were curious about about the six youngest brothers. They were afraid of the three eldest—Choso most of all. They said they were ugly, pitiful things: abominations that should be killed out of mercy. What's an abomination, big brother? Shoso asked, and Choso did not have the heart to guess—although all nine of them could tell that in the eyes of these men, they were not fit to live.
The sorcerers used their techniques to shear at them, cut them, shatter them, but this was an exercise in futility. Choso's cursed energy shielded him, impenetrable, and Kechizu and Eso imitated him. They protected their weaker brothers. In the end, all nine of them were taken into a corridor hidden behind a thousand doors, and they were left alone for another hundred years.
It was there that you came to them. Choso's eyes were not developed enough to make out the details of your face, but he understood the lines of your silhouette: you were young, probably, with a straight back and energetic step. You had to stand on your toes to study the nine of them, and although he could not make out your features, he could hear your disgust when you said, "Yikes. These things are so grisly. And powerful. You want me to seal them?"
There was another presence beside you—taller, lanky, cursed energy enormous and oppressive. This man could not destroy the three eldest, but he could damage the six youngest.
Choso felt his brothers tremble, but he stayed still. Watching. He had to be brave for them.
If either of you noticed their fear, you did not comment.
"Yup!" the taller one of you said cheerfully. "Please work hard!"
"You're kidding me."
"Well, how are you ever gonna re-seal Sukuna's fingers if you can't handle these things? They're literal fetuses, you know. I don't even think they're sentient. I'm sure it'll be just fine!"
"Cursed wombs are not fetuses."
"They're not really cursed wombs. Just read the notes on them, yeah? And figure something out by next semester. Megumi's gonna start collecting the fingers in the summer, so we're gonna need replacements soon. Chop chop!"
"Next semester? You want me to figure out seals for these things by next semester? Are you paying me? Like, paying me a million yen?"
"I can treat you to a meal sometime."
"This is child exploitation, Gojo-sensei. There are laws against exploiting students like this."
"You're a legal adult now!"
"Then this is a labor law violation."
"Hm… well, yeah. I'll buy you tickets to the next Megan Thee Stallion concert, though."
"Oh. Deal."
The taller one departed. If they could properly breathe, all eight of his brothers would be sighing in relief—the looming presence was gone, the immense pressure of his cursed energy dissipated. They were all left alone with you, listening to the easy and idle melody of your humming. You were not weak, per se—Choso could sense that your cursed energy was just as vast as your mentor's—but there was something kinder about it. Something benign. Soothing and like it might lull him to sleep.
It felt warm.
For the first time in their long lives, Choso and brothers had human company.
Your presence was a stark contrast from their century and a half of existence. Gone was the constant darkness and terrible cold: the first thing you did when you began your work was complain about the temperature of their abode—'Does the Star Corridor not have central heating, or something? Ugh, I should get a kotatsu in here!'—and the second thing you did was drag in a space heater. It aggrieved you that you only had a couple of dim lights in the storage rooms—'Did the previous sorcerers who worked here have, like, night vision?'—so you brought in several lamps, too. You put up strings of lights, too—curious, new inventions that reminded Choso of his father's memories of festival lanterns. Fairy lights, you called them. Sometimes you flicked off every other switch in the room and kept only their subtle glow: 'For ambiance,' you once explained to Eso. 'If I'm gonna be trapped here for fourteen hours a day, I might as well make it look nice—right?'
This was probably your funniest habit, to Choso: you talked to him and his brothers. Or rather, you talked at them.
Shouoso thought you were crazy for this, but Eso was convinced that you were simply bored. The nine of them always had conversational partners in each other; you had no one but your inanimate research subjects. Choso thought privately that you also must have been lonely—sometimes your voice would sound wistful in a way that reminded him of Kotuso—but he did not mention it to his brothers. He did not want them to dwell on how alone they, themselves, were.
Well. How alone they were except for you.
You chatted at them frequently as you worked, reading their own records to them. Death Paintings'? you said. What a creepy name! This Noritoshi guy sure was something! Oh, it's a Buddhist thing… hey, guys, was your dad a monk?You fretted over Heian era textbooks that you could hardly read, so ancient was their script. I can barely make out the kanji for 'curse suppression', you once whined. Why can't Granny Tengen just teach me herself, instead of forcing me to read this?! She's immortal, so surely she can spare some time for me!
You cursed out Gojo, whom Choso surmised was your teacher. You moaned that your school was working you to the bone, but at least research assignments on seals were better than missions, during which you were simply useless. You complained often about your relationships and wondered aloud if you would ever find love or at least find someone who could 'blow out your back'. Choso understood what you meant by find love—this was a feeling engraved into him by blood, binding him to his brothers—but little idea of what your latter euphemism meant.
Between your monologues—which his brothers greatly enjoyed, for they had never had such lively entertainment—you studied the nine of them carefully. You looked at Choso the most; he was your most powerful specimen, and he would be the greatest challenge to seal.
Choso did not mind it, really. His brothers were anxious every time you picked him up, but your fingers were always so careful, and your cursed energy was always so gentle whenever you probed him. I'm always afraid I'll hurt you guys when I do this, you once said quietly to Choso, almost whispering. I know you're a special grade object and I can't destroy you anyway—but, like, you're human too, right? I mean… you look like a human baby… you can probably feel pain like one too.
His younger brothers trembled. Are we human, big brother? they'd asked after you left, and Choso had not known how to respond. He felt inadequate as the eldest, then: shouldn't he have all the answers?
You studied Choso every day for several hours at a time. Your cursed energy ran over him, a soft blanket. Sometimes you held him too, and he could feel through his glass prison the heat of your touch: something utterly foreign to him. His brothers noticed it too, obsessed over it, yearned for it. Your hold was the warmest thing they'd felt in one hundred and fifty years of existence, since they'd left their mother's decaying womb.
They asked him if they should try to speak with you, too fearful to do it on their own—worried about what would happen to them. If you would be repulsed by them. If you would ask your mentor to come back and seal them immediately, or discard them somewhere dark and cold for the rest of eternity.
It would have to be him. Choso always had to be brave for his brothers.
The day finally came when you reached out to him with your cursed energy—and he reached back.
You drew back, speechless.
"Holy shit," you said. "You guys are sentient."
Time used to be an endless, crawling thing. In the darkness of the storage room, Choso had no way of telling how many sunsets had passed nor how many moons had risen. Aside from his father's memories, he didn't even really have a sense of what the moon looked like, and he'd barely ever caught glimpses of the sun. He and his brothers often longed to see it, but now that you were here, there was less of a need.
You came every morning at around ten—you'd brought in an analogue clock and explained to them how modern humans kept time, splitting the days into 24 sections—and greeted them as Choso imagined the sun would.
Morning boys, you said. You talked to them now—not at, but to—and addressed them by name, treating them like people. How are you doing, Eso? Having a good morning, Kechizu? Did you sleep well, Noranso? Are you playing well with the others, Shouoso? Are you happy today, Tanso? Rise and shine, Sanso! Up and at 'em, Kotuso. What should we do today, Shoso?
Did you miss me, Choso?
Yes, Choso often wanted to reply. All of us did. But he never said it aloud, not wanting to spoil his brothers' delight at your attention—their cursed energy tremoring warmly as they spoke in turn. You could not understand their words, of course, but you could feel that they were responding to you, and it clearly made you happy.
Which fascinated Choso. The mere act of reaching for you with his cursed energy made you smile; he wondered what it would be like if he could instead move his underdeveloped limbs, grasp at you with his webbed fingers. But he was only a fetus, if even that—all he could do was tremble in his glass prison, listening to your laughter. The sound made him feel the way he did when he talked to his brothers about sunlight, music, and earth, when Kotuso talked about how gently their mother cradled his tiny body in her hands and begged Noritoshi not to take him away like all the others.
Longing, he believed the feeling was called. This word was faint but evident in the blood he'd inherited: you filled Choso with longing.
He and his brothers all longed to see you when you were gone, even though it was no longer so dark nor so cold in your absence: you kept the fairy lights on for them whenever you left, and it was warmer now, too. I can't leave the space heater on, so I asked Granny Tengen to turn up the temperature in this place, you said. She asked me why and I told her I can't let my pals in the storage room get too cold at night. She thinks I'm, like, crazy for befriending you by the way—but Granny indulges me, you know? Anyway, let me know if it's too hot.
Their cursed energy bubbled with delight—not because it was warmer now, but because you'd called them your friends, and we've never made friends with anyone before, big brother, isn't this exciting? Choso could make out the blurry silhouette of your grin as they chattered.
As the days passed, you only made their world brighter. You asked them what they were curious about, and they buzzed at your every suggestion, so you brought back every piece of the outside world that you could. You showed them magazines—Tanso adored the comics, Shoso the Natural Geographic, Eso the high fashion photography. Choso liked images of flowers, himself, so you brought them plants next. First succulents—stubby little things, with a waxy surface and muted colours—and then a thing called a money tree, with a twisted trunk and softer leaves. You brought in a lamp that shone bright with UV rays—you can think of it as a kind of sunlight, you explained—and all kinds of flowers, after that. Orchids and gardenias and lilies, and you took the nine brothers down from their shelf so they could sit on the desk instead, surrounded by brilliant petals as you worked quietly beside them.
You know, you said one day, people say that plants like music. Do you guys wanna test that theory? So you brought in speakers after that, and for the first time in one hundred and fifty years, they heard song. You cycled through countless pieces, explaining all the genres to the brothers as you gauged their reactions. Shouoso liked classical; Eso liked heavy metal; Kechizu liked punk. You grinned when you put on something that sounded cheerful, fun, had your body moving to its rhythm and your voice in its thrall. Shoso radiated with delight, and you beamed at him. You're a city pop fan, huh? Me too. Let's keep it on!
Sunlight, music, earth: you had brought with you all the things they'd longed for, Choso realised. It was no wonder that they longed so much for you.
For the slow crawl of time was now a rhythmic, exciting thing because of you, split into the sunrise of your smile and the moonrise of your farewells. It burst with colourful blooms and sweet melodies and warm touches. The ten of you spent months like that together, their days with you holding more beauty than all the past one hundred and fifty years combined.
Then the day came when you did not return.
Choso counted forty days before you returned.
You came to them ragged and wounded, gauze on your face, stitches on your hands. The death paintings had never experienced injury themselves, but Choso had inherited through his father's blood countless memories of carnage wrought by his curses. He could tell that you'd been close to dying in your absence, and his frail bones trembled as he envisioned your body in the death process, rusting with decay.
But you greeted them anyway. Said all your usual greetings to his brothers. How are you doing, Eso? Having a good morning, Kechizu? Did you sleep well, Noranso? Are you playing well with the others, Shouoso? Are you happy today, Tanso? Rise and shine, Sanso! Up and at 'em, Kotuso. What should we do today, Shoso?
You turned to him last, and he imagined that your smile softened just a hint.
"Did you miss me, Choso?" you asked.
Yes. Yes, everyday.
The brothers were panicked about the state you were in. Their cursed energy pulsed frenetically in the room, anxious, roiling. You could not hear their cries, their questions, but you could tell anyway what was on their minds: "You're worried about me, huh? I'm sorry for making you all so anxious. Promise I'm okay."
The words relieved his brothers somewhat, but Choso knew you were speaking falsely. He could always discern when his younger brothers lied to him—Tanso had a mischievous streak, and Shoso had a habit of covering up his loneliness—so he could easily hear your deception.
"It isn't a big deal what happened," you said. "I went on a mission. It went kinda badly. And the worst thing was—I ran into my family while I was on it. But that isn't such a huge deal. Gojo-sensei got me away from them pretty fast."
The brothers went quiet, listening. You had never talked about your clan before. From the sounds of it, you'd been raised by your teachers—Granny Tengen and Gojo-sensei and a fellow named Principal Yaga—so they'd all assumed that your birth family were gone. But here you were, voice heavy as you spoke of your blood kin.
"I won't get into it," you decided. "I don't wanna burden you guys with it." Then you reached out, brushed a finger over Choso's vessel. "'specially not you. You're worried the most about me, huh?" Your voice bloomed with fondness. "You strike me as the responsible type."
It's my duty as the eldest, Choso said, even though you couldn't hear him. I have to care for everyone here. I'd care for you, too, if I could. If you'd let me.
"I feel bad," you continued. "This is just what I get for slacking so much with my research. A seal is just an inversion of a barrier, y'know? In both cases you're imprisoning something. Nothing gets in and nothing gets out. If I'd figured out already how to seal special grade entities, I'd have just applied the same principles to barriers against special grades, and, well… I wouldn't have fucked up."
You're trying your best. You should give yourself a break.
You grew quiet. Avoidant. Paced back and forth, studied the row of them. Your cursed energy quivered, heartrending.
"You're the strongest cursed object in the room," you said, and Choso knew it was meant for him. "I just—I don't have any other test subject, you know?" Your voice was tight, gutted, swollen. Shoso always sounded like this before he cried, and Choso wished he could comfort you as he always did with his youngest brother.
"Can you forgive me for trying this, Choso?" you asked. "It wouldn't be for long. I promise."
I trust you, Choso could not say. You could only stand there, weighed by silence.
"I wish you could talk," you said, your hand cradling him.
Choso wished he could too—and he longed, more than anything, to cradle you as well.
You spoke to Choso as you laboured over your talismans. He could not see what you were writing, but from the movements of your hand, he could tell that your brushstrokes were careful. Precise. Practised. "It's kinda annoying writing in such tiny script," you said, tongue clicking. "But I'm used to it. I gotta do it on myself all the time. All along my own torso and down to my navel—gotta write backwards looking in a mirror, too. Sucks."
You were rambling. It was not the easygoing, delighted kind of chatter that he and his brothers were used to; this was fervent, scattered, distracted. Whatever happened on your mission had frayed you, and now your edges were unraveling before him. Tanso got like this, often. Over one hundred and fifty years, all of the brothers had at some point—except for Choso himself, of course. He needed to be strong for the rest of them.
But you were as fragile as Shoso, right now.
"A seal is meant to imprison something. If it's a weak curse, I can put it to sleep, but with a strong curse, I can only cage it. It's—awful. It feels awful when I do it to myself. Makes my skin crawl. I feel like I'm rotting from the inside. I can't stand it when people touch me either—since, you know, nothing gets out and nothing gets in. I'm surrounded by people regardless, but it's weirdly lonely anyway."
I know. I could sense you were lonely.
You picked up Choso's vessel, thumb stroking the label that bore his name. Distension. An ugly title for an ugly creature, something that everyone over a century and a half had wanted to kill. But your fingers trembled as you wrapped your talismans around him, and he could make out through the glass and amniotic fluid the way your lower lip was trembling. You held him like was precious—not a curse, but a treasure.
"Promise I won't let you stay lonely for too long," you told him. Your paper seals wrapped around his glass prison, blocking out all your lamplight and flowers and the music you had left playing for Tanso to help calm him as you took away his brother. Cutting Choso off from all the sunlight and life you'd brought into the room.
The world went dark.
Choso felt like he was sleeping, blanketed in silence and warmth. It wasn't unpleasant. But then that blanket began to suffocate him, his slumber dissolving into nightmare. He was in a void without sense, scent, sound, taste. He had no touch, either—and just a year ago that wouldn't have mattered to him, as he had never touched anyone in all his years of living anyway, but after feeling your touch, this was nothing short of agony. He was drowning in a hell without sunlight, music, nor earth.
Without his brothers. Without you.
You'd said it wouldn't be for long. If he waited, he'd be freed. But as time continued to crawl beyond this solitary space, an itch bubbled up in Choso's malformed body. How many minutes had passed? How many hours? Would you leave him there for days, weeks, months, years? Would your teacher return and take him away from you? Would you be sent on a mission and killed? Would his brothers be taken away in the meantime as well, would they be sealed by another sorcerer, would they be subjected to the tight grip of this hell? Would they feel the violent whip of electricity as they pushed and pushed and pushed—
Choso was fighting.
The seal—the barrier—resisted him. He pushed and lashed out with his cursed energy, but the seal retaliated—lacerations in his little body, blunt trauma to his aborted skeleton. Even in this insensate place, he could somehow feel pain. But he could not stop pushing at his prison walls, desperate to see light, and with each attempt to break free, he only wounded himself more.
Blood seeped into amniotic fluid. Poison converged into needles, rained against the walls. The glass trembled and nearly shattered, but stayed intact with the binding spell you'd placed upon it. Choso was not affected by his own blood, of course—but he was in so much pain that he felt like he was. He felt like he was rotting, festering, screaming, and then—
Light. Warmth. Flora. The talismans peeled away, and your face appeared before him. Fueled by panic and the sharp release of his cursed energy, his eyes were suddenly strong enough to make out your eyes in the sunlight you'd brought into their world.
You were very beautiful, Choso noticed. And you were crying.
"I'm sorry," you said. "I'm so sorry."
It's fine. I'm okay. But Choso realised you were not only talking to him; you were also speaking to his brothers, tears pearling as you placed his jar back into the shelf. The eight of them were wailing, and even though you could not hear them cry, you could feel the grief radiating from them.
It's okay, Choso said immediately. I'm okay. Your big brother's alright. There's no need to worry.
His siblings calmed. They buzzed with relief, but you either did not notice or you were not comforted by it.
"I'm so sorry I took him away from you," you said, voice very small. "You've always been together, haven't you? It must have been very scary."
It was, Eso said. But you returned him. That's all that matters.
Big brother was happy to help you get stronger, Kechizu reasoned.
I still can't believe you did that, Tanso ground out, tearful. What a horrible person you've turned out to be.
Choso shushed him. Be kind to them, little brother. They meant no harm.
"You love each other very much," you observed. "I don't think I could separate you all. I'm going to talk to Gojo-sensei and tell him I'll find some other way to replace Sukuna's fingers. I'll find a way to make him understand."
The group of them signed in relief, except for Choso. He'd intuited already that you would not be cruel enough for such a plan.
"I read in your notes that you were all birthed from the same woman," you continued. Your voice was frail. Choso watched you carefully. "That makes you brothers, right?"
His brothers forgot your betrayal, suddenly. Their energy grew warm and fond and excited. Yes! they chorused. We're brothers. We love each other. We only have each other. Choso's the oldest, you know. He's been taking care of us this whole time. Thank you for giving him back, thank you for giving up on your assignment—
But you could not hear their words. Perhaps you mistook their noise for mourning. Your voice swelled with pain, eyes squeezing shut.
"I'm sorry." Your voice tremored. "I have to go."
Your silhouette fled the room. Choso regretted his tiny, malformed body, wishing that he had hands that could reach you. He'd grab your wrist, pull you back. He'd anchor you there and tell you it was alright if you wanted to cry.
But all he could do was sit there, on that shelf—longing.
You did not open up to the nine brothers for quite some time after that. You returned as if nothing had ever happened, bidding them good morning as usual, bringing them new flowers and magazines. The younger ones were relieved by your cheer, but the older ones couldn't be fooled.
I'm worried about them, big brother, Eso said. I think they're still bothered.
Choso agreed. He could see the signs of someone obfuscating sadness, like Kotuso often did. Shoso, too, often became embarrassed of how often he cried. He didn't like to be babied now that he was older, but Choso couldn't help it: he was the baby of the family, and Choso had to take care of him most of all. Choso thought that if he were a full person, with a human form, he'd like to treat you just the same. Your voice sometimes quivered in a way that made it feel like you might break at any moment; Choso longed for hands with which he could catch the pieces.
You splintered a little bit in front of them, one day. It was after a rare two-day absence. You came to them with new flowers, apologetic, and held the pot close to them so that they could see the blooms. Choso's blurry vision was filled with a brilliant, red crush of petals.
"Carnations," you said. "They symbolize familial love. I saw them and thought of you guys." Your lips curved, a gentle slope. "You care about each other so much. Sometimes I'm a little jealous of you, you know."
Why would you be jealous? Choso asked gently. What happened? He wondered if you could tell that they were abuzz with curiosity, because you continued—voice subdued, smile waning.
"I have a brother too, but I don't have a very good relationship with him. He's a lot older than me. Doted on me a lot when I was young." You laughed a little. "Actually, he always worried after me—you kinda remind me of him, Choso."
But I wouldn't have turned my back on you. Why did he stop caring for you?
"It's kinda my fault that our relationship is so bad now." You looked down, fingers running through the blood red of your carnations. "When I was little, someone put themselves inside me. Another family member." You shifted back and forth on your feet; Choso wondered, for a second, whether you would turn heel and run again. "When I told people, my parents reacted very poorly. It was a big deal, y'know, a scandal—we're supposed to be a noble jujutsu family, and all. Though I think most jujutsu clans are kinda messed up anyway."
Choso thought of his cruel father, his decaying mother, his brothers who'd been trapped in darkness their whole lives. And he did not completely understand your modern idioms, what you meant when you said someone had been inside you—but he thought it must not have been too different from how Noritoshi Kamo planted rot inside his mother, placed nine curses upon her womb. He could not imagine someone inflicting such horror upon someone like you—someone who brought sunlight and music and flowers to beings whom the world viewed as aborted monsters.
But if your family were of the same ilk as the Kamo clan, then Choso understood completely.
It wasn't your fault, he told you simply—just as he'd been telling his brothers their whole lives. It wasn't their fault what Kamo Noritoshi had done to their mother. It wasn't their fault that she'd been cursed to die.
"Anyway, everyone in the family had a falling out because of it. My mother thinks I'm a liar, and my father blames me. He got so mad, he placed a fucking curse on me." You snorted, voice edged with such bitterness that Choso hardly recognised it, coming from you. But then you lost that sharpness, words soft and uncertain. "My brother's just sad about it, though. I don't really give a shit about my parents, but I miss my brother a lot."
I'm sure he misses you too, Choso said immediately, instinctively. You did not look at him.
"When we were little," you said quietly, "he told me he'd always take care of me—but I guess he'd been lying."
Choso could not understand it. He tried to imagine himself in your brother's position—you, his youngest sibling, another small and scared thing looking to him for guidance in a dark and cold place. How precious you would have been to him. How close he'd have held you to his heart. How much he'd have vowed to protect you, just as he'd vowed to protect all his brothers, and how he'd keep that promise until death.
I don't understand your brother, he said plainly, and his siblings all chorused in agreement.
"Anyway," you said, stretching, "it's all in the past now. Gojo-sensei got me out of there and Granny Tengen and Principal Yaga took me in. They're kinda my family now." Then you tilted your head, eyes gleaming with fondness. "And I have you guys, too."
Yes. You will always have us.
The thought came to Choso, unbidden, inevitable: if he were a full human, if he had a mouth with which to speak to you and hands with which he could hold you—then he, too, could have been your family.
Once, Choso and his brothers saw you weep.
From their father's memories, they understood what it was like for a fully formed human to cry, though they had not themselves experienced it: their bodies were not developed enough to shed tears. It took them all a moment to recognize what was happening: 1 o'clock in the morning, the sun lamps turned off, the carnations sitting quietly around them in the dark. You stormed into the storage room, slamming the door shut behind you; the dim, golden fairy lights chased shadows across your body as you moved.
The brothers were on the table that night—you'd left them there intentionally, because you'd realised that Eso enjoyed being surrounded by your flowers—and they could see you fully as you sunk into the floor, curling into yourself. Your face dropped into your hands; your shoulders trembled. You were in a state of half-undress, Choso noticed. A smear of black seals ran up and down the midline of your torso, all the way down to your navel.
Something was different about your cursed energy today: they were all intimately familiar with the pulse of your emotions, so they recognized it instantly. Beneath your usual warmth, something dark was stirring. It felt like rot, like decay. Like them.
It felt like you were cursed.
A fist slammed on the door outside. The force shook the walls; Shoso and Tanso trembled, although Choso was not worried for any of his brothers. He would use his cursed energy to shield them all. It was you for which he was concerned: someone was following you, someone with significant cursed energy. If Choso were a full human, had a mouth with which he could speak to you and hands with which he could protect you—then he would tell you that it would be okay, and then he would use his blood to pierce whomever was making you cry.
But you seemed largely unbothered by your pursuer. "Fuck off!" you yelled at the door. "How the fuck are you even here?"
"I'm not leaving you alone!" someone yelled. A man, Choso guessed, though it was hard to tell from the timber of their voice.
"Yes, you are. If you don't, Master Tengen's gonna kick you out. It's their domain."
"I don't give a shit about Tengen!"
"Too fucking bad!" you retorted, and sure enough, Choso felt the air shift and fold around them, the atmosphere shuddering as Tengen worked her sorcery. This entire room—the entire Star Corridor, as you often called it—was under her protection. She rejected intruders, hiding the space away from danger. When you were little and running away from your clan, you'd intuitively sensed the safety of her barrier and snuck your way into her abode, where she'd found you weeping.
I always feel safest here with Granny Tengen—and with all of you, you'd told them once. You'd smiled at them fondly, eyes lingering on Choso longest. I always feel like Choso is watching out for me.
It's my job as the eldest to watch out for everyone here, he'd said at the time.
But now that a threat had shown itself, Choso felt absurdly useless. It was Tengen who acted: the barrier rippled, and the man outside was cast away. You breathed a sigh of relief, and then you drew your knees to your chest, making a noise that might have been either a laugh or a scream. Maybe a sob. Choso listened quietly, counting the seconds between each of your breaths.
Are they hyperventilating, nii-san? Kechizu asked, worrying.
Give them some time, Choso said, stolid.
You calmed yourself, eventually. Breathed in deeply, rubbed your face. Kept your eyes to the floor. "I'm sorry you had to see that, guys," you mumbled. "I'm sure it was unpleasant."
It was Shoso who replied: Don't apologise. We're just glad you're safe.
Yes, Choso said. You can always come to us.
And you can always talk to us, Eso added.
Perhaps you understood them. You trembled as you studied them, fingers ghosting glass vessels, one by one.
"I was dating that person," you said. "It was going great, but—well. My father cursed me, remember? I've sealed it well, but whenever someone tries to put themselves inside me, the curse activates. I keep it contained in my body, but it's quite unpleasant. I can never enjoy it, and it disappoints people."
There was that idiom again. Inside me. Choso remembered the suffocation of being sealed, the violence he tried to inflict on his walls. He thought of the way his blood poisoned his own mother's womb as she carried him. Did you feel like that, when things were placed into your body?
"My father will never remove this curse. My brother could do it, but he won't consider it. He doesn't want to go against his family."
But you're his family, Choso replied, and it was only then he fully understood your situation—
Your brother did not see you as his family. All of your kin had rejected you, severed the blood that tied you together. Now all you had were your three teachers and a collection of aborted curses.
Choso's heart was a tiny, malformed thing—but it ached for you. Ached so deeply that he felt it in the marrow of his bones.
"I've always," you confessed, voice low, "wanted to fall in love. I like to tell myself I someday will, and someone will love me back, and it won't matter that my family doesn't love me, you know?" A noise left your throat, and Choso's heart trembled. "But I'm starting to think it won't happen. I can't get close to anyone with a curse like this."
That's not true. You can always be close to us.
You stared at Choso for a long time, and he wondered if you could hear his words.
"Do you think," you asked suddenly, "I could hold you, Choso?"
Of course.
You picked him so gently. Pressed him close to your heart, and he could hear it beat as blood pulsed through its chambers painfully.
Then he heard you.
Choso heard you, with his delicate, barely-formed ears, crying softly. Felt with the fragile barrier of his skin the curl of your cursed energy around him, lonely and grieving and wanting. His fingers—tiny, useless things—twitch, longed to wipe away your tears.
He thought once more about what it could have been like had he not been aborted and forced into this glass prison by his father. What it would be like to have a full-grown body, however distorted and cursed it may be. If Choso had arms that could hold you and hands that could reach you, he'd draw you close to him and let you cry into his pulse. And he'd tell you that he loved you—the kind of way he loved his brothers, the kind of way that would make him die for you. The kind of way you'd always wanted to be loved.
The kind of way you'd always deserved to be loved.
Not too long after that incident, the brothers were torn away from you.
Mahito came to them, human-shaped and cruel-hearted. His cursed energy did not have the warmth of yours; it was ugly and unsettling and left something crawling beneath Choso's skin. He did not like the inhuman touch pressed upon his glass prison; he liked it even less around Kechizu and Eso. But they were stolen away by him anyway, and then they were incarnated, one-by-one, into the bodies of full humans—bones cracking, sinew and muscle reshaping, blood filling with poison. Their minds were rewired with their brains, inheriting the sense and knowledge of their stolen fleshsuits.
When Choso laid his eyes upon his Eso and Kechizu, he knew this: human society would never accept them. The jujutsu sorcerers would hunt them down—curse them, shatter them, shear them. Call them abominations, just like they once had in that Star Corridor. What's an abomination, big brother? Shoso had once asked, after the humans had tried to destroy the nine of them—and now Choso knew.
And he had to carve out a place in this world for these abominations—his perfect, beautiful younger brothers. He had to be responsible for them, after all. He had to be brave for them.
"That cursed spirit, Mahito," Choso started, "his vision of the future is convenient for us. We'll help them realise it."
Eso and Kechizu were softer-hearted than him. They did not like the idea of killing humans, Choso could tell—both of them shifted uncomfortably, thinking.
"But nii-san," Eso eventually said, "they wish to make enemies of those Jujutsu High students—the ones from the place we were kept. That would include…"
That would include you.
Choso had already considered this. Had thought of you the moment he'd been incarnated, in fact. He thought of your music and sunlight and flowers, the lights you strung up for him and his brothers, the songs you hummed for Shoso, the photographs you always showed Eso. He remembered the way your heart beat against the glass barrier separating him from you, the way your body trembled, how he could do nothing but listen to you cry. He now had arms that could hold you and hands that could reach you, and it pained him that you were not within his grasp.
You would never be within his grasp. Mahito had told him so, soon after incarnating.
"When you took us from the Star Corridor," Choso had asked him, "were there any sorcerers who tried to stop you?"
"A couple of orderlies," the spirit had replied, blasé. Cruel. "They were easy to kill." Then he'd given him a curious look. "Why? Did you know them?"
"Not well," Choso had replied, carefully neutral. "I was only curious." He had kept you protected from this cursed spirit whom would have disdained you—tried to leave the memory of you behind, tucked away in the Star Corridor where you'd always felt safest.
But he still held onto you—thought of you everyday. It was inevitable. Whether he was feeling the sunrise on his skin for the first time, or breathing in the fragrance of carnations in Shinjuku Gyoen, or wandering the streets of Roppongi, listening through the bright melodies you used to play for his youngest brothers—he could not help but think of you. Even as he consorted and plotted with the very spirits who had killed you, he remembered the rhythm of your heart.
He still longed for you.
"When the humans and their hypocrisy are finally erased," Jogo declared one day, while they were all recuperating in Dagon's domain, "the world will be better for it."
"I still think we should keep some around to hunt for sport," Mahito said. "It's fun to watch them struggle."
Choso looked down, studied his fully formed fingers, his empty palms. The sun shone down on him, and the sand was warm between his toes—but all he could feel was a relentless, oppressive cold.
For one hundred and fifty days, Choso grieved.
As soon as he'd been born into this world, his loved ones had died: first you, then Eso, then Kechizu. All of you cleaved away from him, leaving him incomplete. But he could not falter, even though you were all gone: Choso was still the eldest brother, and he still had so many younger brothers to attend to. Noranso, Shouoso, Tanso, Sanso, Kotsuso, Shoso—and now Yuji.
Yuji, who was so strong yet tender-hearted, deep in his own grief. Yuji, who was the youngest and most fragile of his siblings by far. Choso had to be strong for him.
The two of them wandered the wreckage of Tokyo with nothing for company but monsters. Yuji had no wish to return to his friends in Jujutsu High, and it meant that they were utterly alone. Sometimes during the night, as they slept in the ruins of some abandoned apartment without heat nor light, Choso stared into the pitch darkness of Shibuya and felt like he was once more on the shelf of that storage room.
"Are you still there, little brothers?" he once murmured half-asleep, instinctively. And he heard no chorus of little voices—yes, nii-chan, we're here—but Yuji snored loudly, and Choso felt himself relaxing anyway. He had Yuji, and someday when he returned to the Star Corridor, he'd hear the rest of them, too.
But when the sun came up and he opened his eyes, he heard no cheerful good morning, did you miss me?—and nothing could chase away the ache he felt after. He would never hear your voice again, nor feel your touch again, nor hear your voice again. It scared Choso, the idea that he might forget your voice—or Eso's, or Kechizu's. Sometimes he laid awake the whole night, trying to remember the timbre of your laughter, sometimes thinking about the sound of your tears. He heard Yuji talk in his sleep during those moments, calling out for a Kugisaki, a Nanamin, a Junpei—thinking of his own loved ones, thinking of voices he'd never hear again.
For one hundred and fifty days, Choso and Yuji lived alone in the world, grieving their loved ones.
Then, on the one hundred and fifty-first day, they met you.
It was a human who led them to you.
He was a civilian. Some scrawny, starved teenaged boy who'd been wandering the hellscape of Ebisu with his little sister. The two of them had been separated at some point; by some miracle, she had survived on her own for several days, and he'd managed to find her again. He'd been waylaid by a massive curse, which Yuji had handily blown back with his fists, letting Choso deal the finishing blow with his piercing blood. The boy came readily out of hiding afterwards; it was Choso who had to coax out the younger sister. He'd crouched down, assured her that no harm would come to her. Yuji stared at him, his surprise visible as Choso managed to calm the child down, but Choso himself felt perfectly at ease. He'd been dealing with scared children his whole life, after all.
After several rushed bows, the boy begged the two of them to escort him back to some refugee camp he'd found.
The two of them frowned even as they walked him and his sister, uncomprehending.
"Refugee camp?" Choso asked.
"Who was able to get a refugee camp running here?" Yuji frowned. "The place is overrun with cursed spirits."
"Amazing, isn't it?" The man had barely escaped death, but he was cheerful as he spoke of this sanctuary, carrying his kid sister on his back. Choso smiled at the sight: he'd have done the same with Tanso or Choso, were they here with him. "Someone set up this huge barrier around an apartment complex… not even the biggest and scariest curses can get past it; they just get fried. Kinda like a bug against one of those electric flyswatters." He glanced at Yuji. "I think the person running the place wears the same uniform as you, actually."
"A barrier?" Yuji paused. "Must be my upperclassman."
Choso could not help it: he found himself thinking of you again. Hoping. Logically speaking, there'd have been no way you'd have escaped Mahito—he'd killed all the orderlies in the Star Corridor, which must have included you. Between your research and looking after Tengen, you spent fourteen hours a day in that place. But maybe—maybe—you had been sent away that day, and maybe you'd have been kept away from Shibuya during all the slaughter, and maybe—
"Oh," the boy said, "here it is!"
Choso felt the veil before he saw it. Recognized it.
Yuji walked up to it, oblivious. He rapped his knuckles on the barrier, which lashed out at him with electric fury. He did not flinch, but Choso knew it must have stung: seals are an inversion of barriers, and he could still remember the violence of being sealed by you. Yuji glanced at the mild burn on his hand, then nodded.
"Yeah, this is definitely my upperclassman's work." He shifted, frowning at the dark curtain before him. "I won't be able to go in past this point, so you can just head on in without us."
Choso paused. "You'd be denied by your classmate?"
"Not intentionally. Senpai's barriers never let any cursed spirits in and have extra resistance against special grades. And, well, with Sukuna inside me…" Yuji looked down. "Actually, it could be that they wouldn't want me around anyway, after everything that happened. We should probably get going."
Choso's feet were rooted to the ground. He found himself unwilling to move, even as Yuji turned around to retreat. His little brother's eyes were on the ground, head low, and it looked nearly like he was about to dart away and hide, but—
"Itadori! Itadori Yuuuuji!"
Someone came running through the pitch darkness of the veil, nearly tripping as they stopped. They were panting, dripping sweat, looking on the verge of hyperventilation, but they nearly dived for Yuji's arm, catching him by the wrist. Their features were hidden, and their voice was so hoarse from yelling that it was hardly recognisable.
But Choso remembered the silhouette that spent months talking and laughing with him and his brothers, and he thought—hoped—
"Senpai?" Yuji said, bewildered.
"Don't you dare leave!" you—or Choso hoped it was you, his longing so deep that it nearly ached—wheezed, glaring at him. "Megumi will kill me if I let you go! He's been trying to find you for weeks now. Why'd you run away, huh?"
His younger brother's expression crumpled. "You know why, Senpai. I mean—you must have heard the news, right? I can't go back… I'm a—"
"—you're my kouhai," you interrupted. "I don't wanna hear it til after you've showered and had something to eat. Come on. Let's go inside."
"But—"
"No buts. Seriously, you reek. I know you're going through a lot right now, but you have to take care of yourself. When was the last time you ate a proper meal?"
Yuji went quiet for a long time. Stared at you and asked, "You sure?"
"'course. You're always welcome with me. Any of your friends are, too." You peered around his shoulder, met Choso with a keen gaze. Perceptive, too. Most discerning sorcerers would be wary of Choso; he felt more like a curse than a human to anyone who studied him carefully. But you seemed unconcerned anyway, stepping forward and peering at him not with caution, but with overt curiosity.
Choso felt the warm, tender touch of your cursed energy, and he knew.
He reached out with his own cursed energy—not on decision, but on instinct—and your eyes went wide.
"Oh," Yuji said. "Sorry for not introducing you. This is—"
"Choso?" You stared at him, pupils dilating, irises bright. He recognised your eyes, even though they were no longer so sad. They were still beautiful, after all. "You're Choso, right? From the Star Corridor? Special grade, born in the Meiji era, oldest brother of—"
"—nine," he finished, and his lip trembled. "And you're—"
Arms around his neck, a body slotted tightly against his. Choso nearly stumbled back from the force of your hug. He returned it without thinking, with arms that could finally hold you and hands that could finally reach you, and he felt your warmth directly against his beating heart. You laughed as he wrapped himself around you, almost screamed when your feet left the ground, and you were still beaming when he finally put you down.
"Did you miss me?" you asked, glowing, and after countless days of longing, Choso could finally say—
"Yes."
end part 1
thank you for reading pickle jar fic!!! every word of this was a struggle alsdjflsdj it is definitely a departure from my usual writing style that I don't believe I liked rip. some notes:
the death paintings are a series of nine paintings in buddhist art depicting the stages of decay of a woman's corpse. I chose the title "still life" because it is sort of the opposite of a "death painting" in name, often featuring things that are literally alive (e.g., flowers).
the reader's weirdly detailed and traumatic backstory is setup for the romance in part 2, which strongly contains themes of familial relationships (that is, of course, the crux of choso's character!). I didn't love the info dump of their backstory; it's not my usual style, but it was kind of unavoidable with how this whole thing was written from choso's pov and how the reader kind of treats of him as a therapist to vent to. please forgive me... mea culpa
I do not know when I will get around to writing part 2, but trust and believe it is a happy ending filled with romantic nasty sex. i don't know what canon is, choso and the reader will get their life of romance!!!
there’s a ghost haunting your apartment. he’s beautiful, and lonely, and you should have known better than to fall in love with him.
alternatively, an investigation into the haunting of apartment 4B.
details: ghost!gojo satoru x fem!reader. 25.1k words. romance, angst, smut, hurt/comfort, frenemies to lovers, ghost/supernatural!au. profanity, masturbation, mentions of deaths, hauntings, somnophilia, implied voyeurism, toxic relationship, etc.
note: art by _3aem on x. thank you to @jeonwiixard for beta reading. happy spooky season!
desiderium (n.) – a strong longing or yearning, particularly for something that has been lost or once possessed.
You knew something was deeply, ostensibly wrong with your apartment when the kettle began floating in mid-air.
“Okay,” you said. “That’s insane.”
“Rude,” came a voice behind you.
You spun around so fast, your hip collided with the counter, sending a sharp jolt of pain through your side. The kettle remained suspended exactly where it had been—three feet above your stovetop, steam curling from its pout.
Behind you stood a man.
He was tall—absurdly so—with hair the colour of fresh snow and eyes that looked like they’d stolen every shade of blue from the sky and crystallised them behind his lashes. He wore what appeared to be traditional Japanese clothing, though the fabric moved wrong, rippling like water even though there was no breeze in your kitchen. Everything about him had a strange translucence to it, as if he’d been painted onto reality with watercolours that hadn’t quite dried.
You could see the outline of your refrigerator through his torso.
“You’re a ghost,” you said.
“And you’re staring,” he replied. “I mean, I get it. I’m devastatingly handsome even in death, but it’s still a little uncomfortable.”
Your eye twitched. Out of all the responses you’d expected from your first encounter with the supernatural—terror, existential dread, perhaps a mild panic attack—annoyance hadn’t made the list. Yet here you were, irritated at a dead man’s ego.
“You’re making my kettle float,” you said.
“I’m making your kettle boil,” he corrected. “You’re welcome, by the way. You looked like you needed tea. Or whiskey. Probably whiskey, actually, but I can’t manifest alcohol. Trust me, I’ve tried.”
The kettle drifted gently back down to the stovetop with barely a sound. You stared at it, then at him, then back at the kettle, trying to reconcile the absurdity of your current reality with the fact that you still had a presentation due Monday morning and absolutely no mental bandwidth for a supernatural roommate.
“This is a prank,” you decided. “Someone’s messing with me. There are holograms now, right? Very advanced holograms?”
“Holograms can’t do this.”
He reached out—or seemed to reach out—and suddenly, every cabinet in your kitchen flew open simultaneously. Mugs rattled, plates clinked, and a container of pasta you’d forgotten about tumbled out and scattered across the floor in a cascade of dried penne.
“Stop that!” You lurched forward, hands outstretched uselessly. “This place isn’t cheap. I don’t have the security deposit to cover damages!”
The cabinets slammed shut in unison. The ghost—because that’s what he was, you were being forced to accept this now—looked entirely too pleased with himself.
“See? Definitely not a hologram.” He drifted closer, and you noticed that his feet didn’t quite touch the ground. “Name’s Gojo Satoru. Well, was Gojo Satoru. Still am, I suppose. Death is weird about the technicalities of identity.”
“I don’t care about the technicalities of your identity,” you said, voice climbing an octave. “I care about the fact that there’s a dead person in my apartment. How are you here? Why are you here? Is this—am I dying? Oh, God, am I dead too?”
You grabbed your wrist, feeling for a pulse. It was there, hammering against your fingertips.
“Relax, you’re fine. Very much alive. You’ve got this whole living-person energy that’s kind of overwhelming.” Satoru waved a hand dismissively, the motion trailing faint afterimages. “As for why I’m here… that’s complicated.”
“Uncomplicate it.”
“Bossy.” But he was smiling, or something close to it. “I’ve been here for a while. This apartment, specifically. I’m what you might call anchored to it. Can’t leave, can’t move on, can’t even check out the apartment next door, which sucks, because their TV is definitely better than yours.”
You resisted the urge to throw something at him, mostly because you weren’t sure if objects could even hit ghosts and you didn’t want to break your own belongings to find out. “How long is a while?”
He shrugged. “Time’s weird when you’re dead. Could be months. Could be years. Could be decades, honestly. I stopped keeping track after the last tenant moved out screaming about demons.”
“Of course they did,” you muttered. “Of course I’m living in a haunted apartment. This is what I get for choosing the place with the lowest rent.”
“I’m not that bad as a roommate,” the ghost protested. “I’m quiet—well, usually. I don’t eat your food, I don’t hog your bathroom, and I’ve gotten very good at not accidentally possessing your electronics. Only fried your microwave twice this month.”
“That was you?” You’d thought that was faulty wiring. You’d nearly called an electrician.
“Could’ve been worse. The last person who lived here went through four laptops.”
You pressed your palms against your eyes, willing this to be a stress dream brought on by too much overtime and too little sleep. When you opened them, Satoru was still there, hovering near your kitchen table with an expectant expression.
“Okay,” you said slowly. “Okay. Let’s say I believe you. Let’s say you’re actually a ghost and not a hallucination brought on by a carbon monoxide leak—”
“Your detectors work fine. I checked.”
“—why are you showing yourself to me now? If you’ve been here a while, you could’ve stayed hidden. Why appear?”
Something shifted in his expression, a flicker of something almost vulnerable before his smile returned, sharper than before. “You noticed me.”
“What?”
“The other tenants, they sensed something was off. Got creeped out, moved out. But you—” He gestured at you with both hands, as if you were evidence in an argument only he understood. “You noticed. Little things at first. Items moving when you were sure you’d left them somewhere else. Cold spots that didn’t make sense. That one time you could’ve sworn someone was standing in your bedroom doorway at 3 A.M.”
You had definitely thought that. You’d convinced yourself it was too much caffeine and exhaustion. “So… what? You’re lonely?”
His expression did something complicated. “Maybe. Being dead is boring. Being dead and trapped in a one-bedroom apartment is excruciating. Do you know how many times I’ve reorganised your bookshelf just to have something to do?”
“That was you?” you said again. You’d thought you were going crazy, finding your books rearranged by colour one day, by height the next, and once, bizarrely, in alphabetical order by the protagonist’s name. “I have a system!”
“You call that a system?”
You glared at each other—or you glared at him, at least. He looked delighted, like you’d just given him the most entertainment he’d had in years. Which, you supposed, you probably had.
The kettle began to whistle.
“Your water’s ready,” Satoru said pleasantly. “Tea’s in the cabinet to your left, second shelf. The green tin, not the blue one. The blue one’s been expired for six months.”
“How do you—never mind.” You didn’t want to know how closely he’d been watching you. You grabbed a mug—your favourite one, with the chipped handle—and reached for the green tin, finding it exactly where he’d said.
As you poured the water, watching the tea leaves unfurl in the heat, a thought occurred to you.
“If you’ve been here the whole time,” you said, not looking at him, “does that mean you’ve been… watching? Like, all the time?”
“I give you privacy in the bathroom,” he said quickly. “And I phase out when you’re changing. I’m dead, not a creep.”
“How reassuring.”
“I thought so.”
It turned out that having a ghost for a roommate was mildly annoying at best and perfectly irritating at worst.
For instance, Satoru had a habit of walking through your body whenever he wanted your attention—which, given his personality, was pretty much all the time.
The first time it happened, you’d been sitting on your couch, laptop balanced on your knees, trying to finish the presentation due the next week. You were deep in concentration, adjusting a graph that refused to look professional no matter what you did to it, when suddenly everything went cold.
Not cold like stepping into air conditioning. Cold like being plunged into arctic water. Cold like your bones had turned to ice and your blood had forgotten how to circulate. It lasted maybe two seconds—two endless, horrible seconds where you couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, couldn’t do anything but exist in that awful crystalline emptiness.
Then warmth rushed back in, and you gasped, nearly dropping your laptop.
“Oops,” came Satoru’s voice from behind the couch. “Sorry. Still not great at gauging the whole personal space thing.”
You twisted around to glare at him. He had the decency to look somewhat apologetic, though the effect was ruined by the fact that he was upside down, hovering with his head where his feet should be and his hair defying all laws of physics by still falling upward.
“What,” you said through chattering teeth, “was that?”
“I walked through you.” He rotated slowly until he was right-side up again. “It’s faster than going around, and I thought you couldn’t feel it. Could you feel it?”
“Could I—yes, I could feel it! It was like being flash-frozen from the inside out!”
“Huh,” Satoru said, drifting closer. “That’s new. Most people just get a little shiver. You must be sensitive.”
“Sensitive to being violated by a ghost, apparently,” you said.
“Violated is a strong word—”
“You walked through my internal organs!”
“Technically, I walked through the space your internal organs occupy. It’s different.”
You pressed your hands over your face, counting slowly to ten. Your laptop had gone to sleep, the screen dark and mercifully free of that awful graph. Small blessings.
“Please,” you said, voice muffled by your palms. “Please just go around me like a normal person.”
“I’m dead.”
“Like a normal ghost, then.”
“That’s no fun, though.” But he sounded almost chastened, which you were learning was the closest Satoru got to actual remorse. “Fine. I’ll try to remember. No promises, though. Habits are hard to break, even in death.”
That should have been the end of it. It wasn’t.
Because Satoru, as it turned out, had the attention span of a caffeinated squirrel and the boundary awareness of a poorly trained puppy. He’d go hours respecting your space, drifting around the apartment doing whatever ghosts did when they weren’t bothering you—reorganising things, apparently, or staring out the window at a world he could no longer touch—and then suddenly he’d forget, and you’d be mid-sentence on a work call when that terrible cold would slice through you.
“Sorry,” you’d gasp to your confused coworker. “Sorry, I just—temperature spike. The AC’s broken. What were you saying about the reports?”
Or you’d be cooking dinner, knife in hand, cutting vegetables, when he’d pass through and you’d freeze up, the blade stopping centimetres from your finger.
“Satoru!”
“I said sorry!”
“You could’ve made me cut myself!”
It became a routine, this dance of irritation. You’d snap at him, he’d apologise with varying levels of sincerity, and then exactly three days later he’d forget again and do it all over.
But the walking-through-you thing wasn’t even the worst part.
No, the worst part was that Satoru was bored. Existentially, devastatingly bored. And a bored Satoru was a menace. You discovered this exactly one week ago into your cohabitation when you came home from work to find every single item in your apartment moved exactly five inches to the left.
Everything.
Your couch. Your coffee table. Your bookshelf. The TV. Your bed. Your nightstand. Even the posters on your wall had been shifted, leaving little rectangles of less-faded paint where they used to hang. It was subtle enough that at first you just felt vaguely unsettled, like something was wrong but you couldn’t figure out what. Then you tried to set your keys down on the console table by the door and missed completely because it wasn’t where your muscle memory expected it to be.
“Satoru!”
He materialised in front of you, grinning. “You noticed! I wasn’t sure you would. Most people aren’t that spatially aware.”
“Why?” You couldn’t even muster proper anger, just exhausted bewilderment. “Why would you do this?”
“I was bored. Also, I wanted to see if you’d notice. Also, it’s funny.”
“It’s not funny! It’s—it’s—” You gestured helplessly at your displaced apartment. “Do you know how long it’s going to take to move everything back?”
His grin widened. “Approximately four hours, give or take. Less if you don’t care about the posters being level.”
“You’re going to help me,” you said.
“I’m a ghost. I can move things, but it takes a lot of energy. I’ll probably dissipate halfway through and then you’ll be stuck doing it alone.”
“You moved everything yourself!”
“Over the course of six hours. You were at work,” he said. “I had to take breaks. Being dead is exhausting.”
You stared at him. He stared back, utterly unrepentant.
“I hate you,” you said.
“No, you don’t,” he said.
The terrible thing was: he was right. You didn’t. You should—any reasonable person would—but somehow over the past week, Satoru had become less like an unwanted supernatural infestation and more like an irritating fixture of your daily life. Like a radiator that clanked at odd hours or a neighbour who played music too loud. Annoying, yes. Hate-worthy? Not really.
You spent the evening moving furniture back, muttering under your breath while Satoru helped.
“A little more to the right. No, your other right. There, perfect. Actually, wait, it looked better before—okay, okay, don’t throw the pillow at me, it’ll just go through my face and hit the wall.”
By the time you finished, it was past midnight and your back ached and you’d discovered approximately seventeen muscles you didn’t know you had. You collapsed onto your couch—now back in its proper position—and closed your eyes.
“You’re mad at me,” Satoru observed. He was sitting beside you, or giving the impression of sitting, his translucent form settled into the cushions without actually touching them.
“I’m tired,” you mumbled.
“You’re mad and tired.”
You opened one eye to look at him. In the darkness of your apartment, he seemed to glow faintly, like moonlight given form. His expression was hard to read, something between playful and uncertain.
“Why did you really do it?” you asked.
Satoru was quiet for a long moment. Outside, you could hear the city—cars passing, someone’s music thumping bass through the walls, the distant wail of a siren. All the sounds of life continuing, indifferent to either of you.
“I wanted to see if you’d leave,” he said finally.
You sat up straighter. “What?”
“Everyone leaves. They get creeped out or frustrated or they decide I’m not worth the discount on rent.” He wasn’t looking at you anymore, his gaze fixed on the ghost of his own hands, translucent and unreal. “I thought if I did something really annoying, you’d leave now and get it over with. Like ripping off a Band-Aid.”
“That’s the stupidest logic I’ve ever heard,” you said.
“I’m dead. My brain doesn’t work properly anymore.”
“Your brain works fine, you’re just an idiot.” You leaned back against the couch, studying his profile. Even in death, even translucent and impossible, he was strikingly handsome. It was almost unfair. “I’m not leaving, Satoru.”
He turned to look at you then, his blue eyes wide. They caught the faint light from the street outside, turning them almost luminous. “You’re not?”
“No. I signed a lease, remember? And despite your best efforts to drive me insane, I actually kind of like this place.” You paused, then added quietly, “Besides, you’re not as bad as you think you are.”
“I walked through your organs.”
“Multiple times, yes.”
That startled a laugh out of him, sudden and bright. The sound filled your apartment like light, and for a moment you could almost forget he was dead.
“You’re weird,” he said, but he was smiling. “Most people would’ve called an exorcist by now.”
“I looked into it. They’re expensive.” You weren’t sure why you said what you said next, but it came out anyway, honest and unplanned: “And I think you’ve been alone long enough, don’t you?”
His smile faltered, replaced by something that made him look suddenly, devastatingly young. You wondered how old he’d been when he died. You wondered if you’d ever be brave enough to ask.
“Yeah,” he said softly. “Yeah, I really have.”
You fell asleep on the couch that night, too exhausted to make it to your bed. When you woke up in the morning, there was a blanket draped over you that you definitely hadn’t gotten yourself, and the apartment was quiet except for the sound of Satoru humming something off-key in the kitchen.
You smiled despite yourself.
On your way back home from work the next day, you decided to stop by the library. You weren’t sure if they had any books on real-life encounters with ghosts or spirits and whatnot, but whatever sparse information you’d found online had made Satoru dissolve into peals of laughter, so you figured that whatever you’d read on all those forums and discussion pages was nothing more than codswallop.
“Salt circles?” he’d wheezed, nearly flickering out of visibility from the force of his amusement. “You think salt would stop me? I’m not a slug!”
“The internet said—”
“The internet is written by people who’ve clearly never met a real ghost. Trust me, if salt worked, I’d have been banished decades ago. Your kitchen has sodium chloride everywhere.”
So: the library. Old-fashioned, tactile, and hopefully more reliable than AGhostSuckedMyTits69’s forum post about how to communicate with spirits using a Ouija board made from pizza boxes.
The building was one of those beautiful old structures that the city had somehow forgotten to demolish, all warm wood and high ceilings and the particular smell of aging paper that you’d loved since childhood. You nodded at the librarian—a woman with silver hair and reading glasses on a beaded chain—and made your way to the back, where the more esoteric collections lived.
Paranormal Studies was wedged between Philosophy and Religious History, a narrow section that looked like it hadn’t been touched in years. Dust motes swirled in the amber light from the window, and the books themselves had that particular shabby dignity of volumes that had been well-loved once and then forgotten.
You ran your fingers along the spines, reading titles: The Complete Guide to Hauntings, Spectral Phenomena: A Scientific Approach, Between Worlds: Understanding the Dead. That last one looked promising. You pulled it out, flipped through the pages and found yourself face-to-face with grainy photographs that made no sense whatsoever.
“Useless,” you muttered.
“Excuse me?”
You nearly dropped the book. The librarian had appeared beside you.
“Sorry,” you said quickly. “Just, ah, doing some research.”
Her gaze dropped to the book in your hands, then back to your face. Something shifted in her expression, a flicker of understanding that made you deeply uncomfortable. “Ah. Personal experience, or academic interest?”
“I—” You hesitated. What were you supposed to say? Actually, my dead roommate keeps walking through my internal organs and I’d like to understand why it feels like being flash-frozen? “Personal. Sort of.”
The librarian nodded slowly. “Follow me. The books in this section are mostly rubbish—ghost hunters and paranormal investigators writing sensationalist nonsense for money. What you want is in the archive.”
“The archive?”
“We keep the serious texts separate. Too valuable for general circulation, and—” she gave you a knowing look—“most people who come looking for ghost books want entertainment, not truth.”
You followed her through a door marked STAFF ONLY, down a narrow corridor that smelled of furniture polish, and into a small room that was little more than a large closet. Shelves lined every wall, packed with books that looked genuinely old—leather bindings, gilt edges, the kind of volumes you’d expect to see behind glass in a museum.
“Here.” She pulled down a slim book with a dark green cover, the title embossed in fading gold: The Resonant Soul: Understanding Supernatural Sensitivity. “Start with this. Chapter three in particular. And this one—” She pulled down another book, larger, bound in burgundy cloth. “Interactions Between the Living and the Dead: A Comprehensive Study. Chapter seven.”
You took them carefully. “Thank you.”
“Word of advice?” The librarian’s eyes were kind but serious. “If you’re dealing with something real, be careful. The dead aren’t always what they seem, and not all of them have good intentions.”
Your mind flashed to Satoru—his easy grin, his terrible pranks. “I think I’ll be okay.”
“If you say so,” she said, but she was smiling. “You have two weeks. Don’t break the spines.”
It was only when you turned around, the books clutched to your chest, that you realised the librarian had the same translucent shimmer as Satoru. You blinked, and she was gone.
You spread the books across your kitchen table as soon as you got home, Satoru materialising almost immediately beside you.
“What’s all this?” He peered at the covers, reading upside down.
“These,” you said, opening The Resonant Soul with careful fingers, “are actual research books. From the library’s archive. Which means they’re probably not complete nonsense like everything online.”
“The internet thing still isn’t funny.”
“It’s a little funny.”
He huffed but settled in beside you, watching as you flipped through the pages. You skimmed through paragraphs on spectral theory and ectoplasmic manifestation until you found chapter three: Supernatural Sensitivity in Living Humans.
Satoru leaned in, his shoulder passing slightly through yours—you suppressed a shiver—to read along with you.
It has long been observed, the text began, that certain individuals display a heightened sensitivity to supernatural phenomena. These individuals, whom we shall term “Resonants,” possess an unusual permeability between their physical form and the spiritual plane. While all humans exist simultaneously in both realms to some degree, Resonants occupy a unique threshold position – neither fully anchored to the physical world nor able to access the spiritual, but suspended between both states.
The primary indicator of Resonant sensitivity is the individual’s physical response to spiritual contact. Where non-sensitive humans may experience minor temperature fluctuations or vague unease when encountering spectral entities, Resonants report intense sensations: extreme cold, the feeling of being submerged in ice water, temporary paralysis, or in rare cases, brief moments of actually perceiving the boundary between life and death.
Your hand stilled on the page. “That’s exactly what it feels like, when you walk through me.”
Satoru was very quiet.
You continued reading: This sensitivity appears to be innate rather than learned, though it may remain dormant until the individual encounters a sufficiently powerful spiritual entity. Resonants often report having “always felt different” or experienced unexplained phenomena throughout their lives – objects moving without cause, sensing presences in empty rooms, or vivid dreams of deceased individuals.
A memory surfaced: you were seven years old, insisting to your parents that there was a woman in your bedroom who sang to you at night. They’d dismissed it as nightmares, an overactive imagination. The singing had stopped eventually, or you’d learned to ignore it.
“Huh,” you said faintly.
“You’re one of them,” Satoru said. “A Resonant. That’s why you can see me so clearly.”
“You are really here. Just… differently.”
“You know what I mean.”
You turned the page, finding more text: The relationship between Resonants and spectral entities is symbiotic in nature. The Resonant’s sensitivity allows them to perceive and interact with the dead more fully than ordinary humans, while the spectral entity gains a stronger anchor to the physical world through the Resonant’s awareness. This connection can strengthen over time, particularly if the Resonant and the entity develop emotional bonds.
“Emotional bonds,” you repeated. “So the more time we spend together…”
“The stronger the connection gets. Yeah.” Satoru had drifted back slightly, putting space between you. “That’s probably why touching you—going through you—feels so intense for you. Your whole being is reacting to mine because you’re sensitive enough to feel the actual transition between states. The living and the dead occupying the same space.”
You sat back, processing. The book lay open between you, its pages yellowed and fragile, containing knowledge that suddenly made your entire existence make more sense. All those times you’d felt watched, felt presences, felt like reality was slightly transparent—it hadn’t been your imagination.
“Does it say anything about…” You hesitated. “About whether it’s dangerous? Being a Resonant?”
Satoru reached over, careful not to touch you this time, and flipped forward a few pages. His finger hovered over a paragraph.
While Resonant sensitivity is not inherently harmful, practitioners should be aware of potential risks. Prolonged exposure to spiritual entities can result in the Resonant becoming “unmoored,” i.e. losing their firm connection to the physical world in favour of existing in the threshold state. Signs of unmooring include: difficulty focusing on physical tasks, feeling disconnected from one’s body, seeing spirits everywhere rather than selectively, and in extreme cases, accidental astral projection.
“That’s not terrifying at all,” you said weakly.
“It probably won’t happen,” Satoru said, but he didn’t sound entirely convinced. “I mean, I’m just one ghost. It’s not like you’re hanging out in a cemetery surrounded by hundreds of spirits.”
“Just one very annoying ghost who keeps walking through my organs.”
“I said I’d try to stop!”
“Try being the operative word.” You pulled the second book closer—Interactions Between the Living and the Dead—and found chapter seven: Physical and Emotional Manifestations of Spiritual Contact.
This book was even more technical, filled with diagrams of energy fields and charts documenting temperature changes during hauntings. But buried in the middle of the chapter was a section that immediately caught your eye: On the Phenomenon of Bilateral Awareness.
In rare cases, you read silently, Satoru reading over your shoulder, both the living Resonant and the spectral entity report experiencing sensations from the other party during moments of intersection. The Resonant feels the cold void of death; the entity, conversely, experiences a sudden influx of warmth and vitality – a brief, visceral reminder of what it felt like to be alive. For entities who have been deceased for extended periods, this sensation can be overwhelming, even addictive.
You turned to look at Satoru. He was staring at the page, his expression unreadable.
“When you walk through me,” you said slowly, “you feel something too, don’t you?”
He didn’t answer immediately. Outside, the sun was setting, painting your kitchen in shades of amber and rose. In that light, he looked almost solid, almost real, almost heartbreakingly alive.
“Yeah,” he said finally. “I feel… warm. Like standing in sunlight. Like remembering what it was like to have a heartbeat.” His voice dropped to barely a whisper. “It’s the only time I feel anything real anymore.”
“Satoru—”
“That’s why I keep doing it, even after you told me to stop. I know it’s selfish. I know it hurts you. But for those two seconds, I get to remember what it was like to be human.” He still wasn’t looking at you. “Pretty pathetic, right?”
“No,” you said firmly. “It’s not pathetic. It’s—it’s lonely.”
He laughed, but it was hollow. “Yeah. That too.”
You looked down at the books spread across your table, all this accumulated knowledge about the dead and the sensitive and the strange space between existence and absence. Somewhere in those pages was probably a warning about getting too attached to ghosts, about the danger of letting the dead anchor themselves to you.
You decided not to look for it.
“Okay,” you said. “New rule. If you need to—if you need to feel that, feel alive for a second—just ask first. Don’t just ambush me when I’m holding sharp objects or on work calls.”
Satoru’s head snapped up, his eyes wide. “You’re… you’re okay with it?”
“I didn’t say it was pleasant. But I understand now. And I’m not going to deny you the only thing that makes you feel human just because it’s uncomfortable for me.” You managed a smile. “Just… warn me. So I can sit down first. And maybe not be eating soup.”
“The soup incident was one time—”
“I had to change my entire shirt, Satoru.”
“In my defense, I didn’t know you’d flail like that.”
You threw a pen at him. It sailed through his head and clattered against the wall behind him. “Worth a try,” you muttered.
But Satoru was smiling now, really smiling, and something about it made your apartment feel warmer. Less like a haunted space and more like a home that just happened to have an unusual occupant.
“Thank you,” he said quietly.
You nodded, not trusting yourself to speak, and turned back to the books. There was still so much to learn, so much to understand about this strange new reality you’d found yourself in. But for now, with the sunset painting everything gold and a ghost smiling at you like you’d just given him the world, you thought maybe it’d be okay.
Sometimes, you wondered what Satoru was like when he was alive.
Objectively speaking, there was no doubt that Satoru was, for lack of a better word, hot.
It felt ridiculous to think about—shallow, even—but you couldn’t help it. The man was devastatingly attractive in a way that transcended the minor inconvenience of him being deceased. You’d caught yourself staring more than once, watching the way light moved through him, the way his hair defied gravity even in death, the sharp line of his jaw and the impossible blue of his eyes.
He’d been beautiful alive. You were certain of it.
The thought occurred to you on a lazy Sunday afternoon, three months into your cohabitation. You were sprawled on your couch with a book you weren’t really reading, and Satoru was hovering near the window, staring out at the street below with an expression you couldn’t quite decipher. Melancholy, maybe. Or just boredom.
The sunlight was doing that thing again—hitting him at just the right angle so he looked almost solid, almost real. You could see the elegant slope of his shoulders, the lean muscle that was still somehow visible despite his translucence, the way his traditional clothing draped over a frame that must have been impressive when it was corporeal.
“You’re staring,” Satoru said without turning around.
You didn’t even have it in you to be embarrassed. “Does being transparent mean you can see out the back of your head? Besides, I’m curious.”
“About?”
“What you were like. Before.” You set your book aside, giving up the pretense of reading. “You never talk about it. About your life, I mean.”
His shoulders tensed. “Not much to talk about.”
“Everyone has something to talk about. You didn’t just spring into existence as a ghost.”
“Didn’t I?”
“Satoru.”
He sighed, the sound more like wind through leaves than actual breath, and finally turned to face you. “Why do you want to know?”
“Because you’re here. Because you’re part of my life now, weird as that sounds.” You pulled your knees up to your chest, wrapping your arms around them. “And because sometimes you get this look on your face like you’re somewhere else entirely, and I wonder where you go.”
For a long moment, he just looked at you. Then, slowly, he drifted over to the couch, settling into the space beside you with that carefulness he’d learned—close, but not touching. Never touching unless he asked first.
“I was twenty-eight,” he said quietly. “When I died.”
So young, you thought, and asked, “How long ago?”
“I don’t know exactly. Time is weird when you’re dead—I think I mentioned that.” He tilted his head back, staring at your ceiling. “But based on some things I’ve seen through the window, the way the city’s changed… maybe sixty years? Seventy?”
Sixty years of being trapped in this apartment. Sixty years of watching the world move on without him. The thought was nauseating.
“Do you remember what happened? How you…?”
“Died?” he supplied. “Yeah, I remember.”
He was quiet for so long you thought he might not continue. You didn’t push.
“I was a sorcerer,” Satoru said finally.
You blinked. “A what?”
“A jujutsu sorcerer. Someone who dealt with curses—malevolent spirits born from negative human emotions,” he said, matter-of-factly, like he was describing a perfectly normal profession. “I was good at it. Really good. The best, actually.”
“Modest,” you said.
“It’s not bragging if it’s true. I was the strongest. Everyone said so. I could see things other people couldn’t, do things that should have been impossible. I had power that…” He trailed off, something dark crossing his expression. “Doesn’t matter now. Power doesn’t mean much when you’re dead.”
You chewed on your lip. Sorcerers, curses; it should’ve sounded insane, but after everything you’d learned about Resonants and spectral sensitivity, after living with a ghost for more than a few weeks, it was almost disappointingly logical.
“Is that why you’re stuck here?” you said. “Something to do with… jujutsu?”
“Probably,” Satoru said. “I don’t know the details. One moment I was fighting something—I don’t even remember what anymore, isn’t that stupid? I died and I can’t even remember what killed me—and the next moment I was here, in this apartment, and I couldn’t leave. I tried everything. Every technique I know, every bit of cursed energy I could muster. Nothing worked.”
“I’m sorry,” you said, because what else could you say?
“Don’t be. It’s not your fault I died in the middle of some random building that eventually became an apartment. Want to know the worst part?”
You nodded.
“I was supposed to be untouchable. Literally—I had this technique called Infinity. It meant nothing could reach me unless I let it. I was invincible,” he said bitterly. “Guess I wasn’t as invincible as I thought.”
The pieces started coming together. The way he walked through things instead of around them; the casual disregard for physical space. He’d spent his life being untouchable, and now he was a ghost who couldn’t touch anything even if he wanted to.
“Is that why you…” You gestured vaguely. “The walking-through-people thing. Because you’re used to nothing being able to touch you anyway?”
“Maybe. Probably,” Satoru said. “Everything about being alive was about boundaries. What I could touch, what could touch me, maintaining Infinity so nothing ever reached me. And now there are no boundaries because I’m not really here. It’s ironic.”
You thought about what you’d read in the library books, about bilateral awareness and how he felt warmth when he passed through you—a reminder of being alive, of being touchable and real. “You miss it,” you said. “Being touched. Being real.”
“Every second of every day,” he said. “You don’t realise how much of being human is about contact until you can’t do it anymore. Shaking hands. Hugging someone. Feeling the sun on your skin or the rain in your hair. Even stupid things like stubbing your toe or burning your tongue on hot coffee. I’d take any of it back if I could.”
“What were you like? When you were alive?”
He considered the question. “Annoying. Arrogant. Too powerful for my own good and aware of it. But I cared. About people, and about protecting them, even if I had a terrible way of showing it. I was a teacher, actually; I had students I was training. I wonder what happened to them. If they missed me when I died, or they were just relieved their irritating mentor was gone.”
“I’m sure they missed you.”
“You don’t know that.”
“No,” you agreed. “But I kind of know you, and annoying as you are, you’re kind of impossible not to miss.”
His eyes widened, surprise flashing across his face. For a moment, he looked heartbreakingly young—not the cocky, untouchable sorcerer he’d described, but just a twenty-eight-year-old man who’d died too soon and spent sixty years alone.
“I had white hair even when I was alive,” he said abruptly, desperate to change the subject. “In case you were wondering. It’s not a ghost thing, it was genetic. I was born with it.”
“I wasn’t wondering,” you said, smiling. “But thank you for that information.”
“And I was tall. Taller than this, actually—I think death compressed me a bit. I used to be one-ninety centimetres.”
“You’re still tall.”
“But not as tall as I was!” He was grinning now, that familiar cockiness sliding back into place. “I had to duck through doorways and everything.”
“Well, now you can walk straight through them,” you pointed out.
“Women loved me. Men, too. I was very popular.”
“And modest. Don’t forget modest.”
“That, too,” Satoru said, shifting and angling himself to face you more fully. The melancholy had faded from his expression, replaced by something lighter, something more like the Satoru you’d gotten used to. “I liked sweet things. Candy, cake, anything with sugar. I drove my students crazy because I’d eat their snacks.”
“Some things never change,” you said. “I’ve noticed my cookies disappearing.”
“I can’t even eat them! I just like moving them around to mess with you.”
“You’re the worst.”
“The worst,” he agreed cheerfully. “You would have hated me if you’d met me when I was alive.”
You observed him again. Satoru sat—well, hovered—at the edge of your couch, knees apart, elbows braced loosely on them like some echo of a living man’s posture. He’d gotten good at imitating the little gestures of the living. You wondered if it was a habit from his former life, or a way of making himself feel human again.
“You think I would’ve hated you?” you said.
He gave you a sly half-smile. “Most people did. At first. I had this… reputation. Too much power, too much ego. People love to build you up and then wait for you to fall.”
“Maybe,” you said, hugging your knees tighter. “But people can also be wrong.”
“You’re a strange one, you know that?”
“So I’ve been told.”
He leaned back against the couch as though it were solid. His hand hovered near your knee, just close enough to make the hairs on your arm prickle. You’d both learned this careful choreography over the past weeks—always almost, never quite.
“What about you?” he asked suddenly. “What were you like before all this?”
“Before all this?”
“Before me,” he clarified.
You thought about it: waking up alone, commuting to work, cooking simple meals in silence. “Normal,” you said. “I was normal. I went to work, came home, read books, and watched TV. Sometimes I went out with friends. It wasn’t exciting.”
“And now?”
“And now…” you said. “Now my life’s a little less normal. And a lot less lonely.”
“Lonely,” Satoru echoed. “Yeah. That makes two of us.”
You found yourself staring at his hands—long fingers, elegant, the kind of hands that must have been deft with weapons or chalk or whatever tools sorcerers used. You imagined what they’d feel like if they were real: warm, maybe a little rough at the fingertips. The thought made your stomach twist.
He noticed you looking. Of course he did; he always noticed. “You’re staring again,” he said.
You swallowed. “Do you ever—do you ever wish you could—”
“Touch you?”
Heat rushed up your neck. “I didn’t—”
“Yes, you did.” He was smiling faintly now. “And yeah. I do.”
Your heart was doing something complicated in your chest, and you couldn’t quite meet his eyes.
“I think about it,” Satoru continued, his voice softer now, almost contemplative. “What it would be like, if I could.” His gaze traveled over you—not leering, but curious. “I watch you sometimes. The way you move through the world, so solid and real. The way you tuck your hair behind your ear when you’re concentrating. How you bite your lip when you’re thinking.”
“Satoru—”
“I’m not trying to make you uncomfortable,” he said quickly. “I just… I can’t help noticing. You’re alive in a way I can’t be anymore, and it’s—it’s intoxicating. Being near you. Watching you exist.”
You should have felt creeped out, should have been disturbed by the confession. Instead, warmth pooled low in your belly, and you found yourself wondering what those phantom hands would feel like trailing across your skin, even if the touch would be ice-cold.
“If you could,” you heard yourself say. “Touch me, I mean—how would you do it?”
His eyes darkened, the blue deepening to something almost midnight. “You really want to know?”
You nodded, not trusting your voice.
Satoru shifted closer, still not touching, but near enough that you could feel the cold emanating from him like snow. The temperature drop made goosebumps rise on your arms, made you hyperaware of every nerve ending.
“I’d start slow,” he said. “Your face, maybe. I’d want to know if your skin is as soft as it looks.” His finger hovered a breath away from your cheek. “I’d trace your cheekbone, right here. Down to your jaw.”
“Your neck,” he continued, his hand drifting lower, mapping the air above your throat. “I’d want to feel your pulse. I bet it’s racing right now, isn’t it?”
It was. Your heart was pounding so hard you were sure he could see it, even without touch.
“I’d be gentle,” Satoru murmured. “I’d explore. Learn you. Your collarbone—” his hand traced the line of it through the air—“your shoulders. I’d want to know if you’re ticklish here—” he gestured to the curve where your neck met your shoulder—“or if you’d shiver.”
You were shivering now, and not from the cold.
“I’d take my time,” he said. “I’ve got nothing but time, after all. I’d memorise every inch of you. Every mole, every scar, every place that made you gasp or sigh. I’d learn what you liked, what made you lean into my touch or pull away. I’d be patient. I’d be thorough.”
“Satoru,” you breathed, his name coming out shakier than you’d intended.
“Your hands,” he said, his voice rougher now. “I think about them constantly.” His fingers aligned with yours, hovering just above, and you stared at the space between—so small, so vast. “I’d start with your fingertips. Trace each one. Learn their shape. Then your palm. I’d want to know if you’d curl your fingers around mine. If you’d hold on or let go.”
“I’d hold on,” you whispered without thinking.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“I’d want to touch you everywhere,” he continued. “Not just—not just sexual, though God knows I think about that too. But everything. I’d want to hold your hand while we watched TV. Rest my hand on your shoulder when I’m reading over it. Brush your hair back from your face. All those casual, thoughtless touches that people take for granted. I’d want all of them.”
“What else do you think about?” you asked.
He studied you for a long moment, something unreadable in his expression. “Are you sure you want to know?”
You nodded.
“Your lips,” he said simply. “I think about what they’d feel like, if they’re as soft as they look. If you’d let me kiss you. If you’d kiss me back or push me away. I think about it more than I should. What you’d taste like, how you’d sound.”
Heat flooded your face, your chest, pooling between your legs. This was insane. He was dead. This couldn’t go anywhere.
“I think about your body,” Satoru continued. “The curve of your waist, your hips. I watch you move around the apartment and I—I’m dead, but apparently that doesn’t kill desire. If anything, it makes it worse, because I can look but never touch. I can want but never have.”
“What do you want?” you asked.
“Everything. I want to touch you until you forget I’m a ghost. I want to kiss you until you’re breathless. I want—I want things I have no right to want from you.”
“What if I want them too?” you said.
Satoru went very still. “Don’t say that.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s cruel,” he said, and there was real pain in his voice now. “It’s torture to want something this badly and know I can never have it.”
“I’m sorry,” you said, but you didn’t look away.
“Don’t be sorry.” He drifted closer again, and the cold intensified, making you shiver. “Just tell me to stop. Tell me to stop talking about this. Tell me it’s creepy and wrong and—”
“It’s not.”
“It should be.”
“But it’s not.” You held his gaze, feeling reckless and desperate. “I think about it too. About what it would be like if you could touch me. If we could—”
“If we could what?” His voice was rough, almost demanding.
“Be together. Really together. Not just—” You gestured helplessly. “This.”
Satoru closed his eyes, his expression twisting into something between agony and longing. “You’re killing me. Again.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Stop apologising.” He opened his eyes, and they were blazing. “If I could touch you right now—if I were real and solid and alive—I’d pull you into my lap. I’d kiss you until neither of us could think. I’d touch you everywhere you’d let me, learn every sound you make, every way to make you fall apart. I’d make you come on my fingers, my tongue, my cock. I’d do it over and over until you forgot anyone else existed.”
Your breath left you in a rush. Heat was coursing through you, pooling between your thighs. You were wet, you realised distantly. Actually wet from nothing but his words and the intent behind them.
“I’d worship you,” he continued, relentless now. “Every inch. I’d kiss your neck, your breasts, your stomach. I’d spread your legs and taste you until you were shaking. I’d memorise what made you gasp, what made you moan, what made you beg. And then I’d give you everything you begged for.”
“Satoru—”
“I’d want to know what you sound like when you come. I think about it all the time. When you’re in the shower, when you’re in bed, when you’re just sitting here reading. I think about all the ways I’d touch you if I could. All the ways I’d make you feel good.
“Sometimes, when you’re sleeping, I lie down next to you. Not touching, just… there. And I pretend. I pretend I can feel your warmth, that I could reach out and pull you close. I pretend I could wake you up with kisses and touch you until you were wet and ready for me, and I could slide into you and make you mine in every way that matters.”
“Jesus,” you breathed.
“I know it’s wrong. I know I shouldn’t think these things, shouldn’t want them. But I do. I want you so badly it physically hurts, which shouldn’t even be possible because I don’t have a physical body anymore, but somehow you make me ache anyway.”
“I wish you were real,” you whispered. “I wish you were real and solid and warm and alive. I wish I could—”
“What?” He leaned in, as close as he dared without touching. “What do you wish?”
“I wish I could feel your hands on me. Your mouth. I wish—” Your voice broke. “I wish we could have this. Really have this. Not just wanting from a distance.”
Satoru’s expression crumpled. “Me too.”
You didn’t know who moved first—maybe both of you, maybe neither. But suddenly he was right there, his face inches from yours, the cold radiating off him was almost painful. You could see every detail of him: the impossible blue of his eyes, the sharp cut of his cheekbones, the soft curve of his mouth. He was beautiful and untouchable and you wanted him.
“If I could kiss you right now,” he said, “I would. I’d kiss you until you were ruined for anyone else.”
“I already am,” you admitted. “No one else could ever—”
He made a sound low in his throat, something between a groan and a curse. “Don’t. Don’t say things like that.”
“Why not? It’s true.”
“It makes me want to do things I can’t. It makes me wish I could walk through you right now, just to feel that warmth, even if it hurts you.”
“Then do it,” you said recklessly. “Walk through me. I can take it.”
“No.”
“Satoru—”
“No.” His voice was firm. “Not like this. It would just be another way of torturing ourselves.”
He pulled back, and the loss of even his phantom presence felt like a physical ache. You watched as he drifted away, putting distance between you, reestablishing the careful boundaries you’d both shattered with words alone.
“I need—I need to go. Think. Process. Something,” he said.
“Okay,” you managed.
“This doesn’t—I don’t regret saying any of that,” Satoru said. “But I need you to know that I don’t expect anything. This isn’t—you don’t owe me anything just because I want you. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“And if you want me to stop—if this is too much or too weird or if you need me to just be your annoying ghost roommate and nothing else—tell me. I’ll do it. I’ll go back to just moving your furniture and stealing your cookies and pretending I don’t spend every moment aware of you.”
“I don’t want that,” you said.
“What do you want?”
You looked at him, this impossible, beautiful, dead man. “I don’t know. But not that.”
He nodded slowly. “Okay. We’ll figure it out. Somehow.”
Then he was gone, flickering out of visibility like a lightbulb switching off, leaving you alone on the couch with your racing heart and trembling hands. The conversation had crossed so many lines, shattered so many boundaries. You should probably have felt ashamed or disturbed or something other than this desperate, aching want.But you didn’t. You just wanted him.
That night, after Satoru had disappeared to whatever corner of the apartment he retreated to when he needed space, you lay in your bed staring at the ceiling.
You couldn’t stop thinking about his hands.
Those long, elegant fingers that had once been solid and real. The way he’d mapped the air above your skin, describing exactly how he’d touch you if he could. The raw want in his voice when he’d told you all the things he wanted to do to you. Your body felt overheated despite the cool air, hyperaware of every point where your clothes touched your skin, every pulse point, every nerve ending crying out for touch.
This was stupid. He was a ghost. Dead. Impossible.
You tried to resist at first. You rolled onto your side, pulled the covers up to your chin, squeezed your eyes shut and tried to think about anything else. Work. Your boss’ toupee. That book you’d been meaning to finish. Anything but the way Satoru’s voice had dropped when he’d told you he wanted to taste you, the hunger in his eyes when you’d admitted you wanted him too.
But it was useless. Your skin felt too tight, too hot. Every time you shifted, the friction of your thighs pressing together sent sparks of need shooting through you. Your nipples were hard, aching, sensitive against the soft cotton of your sleep shirt. And between your legs—you were wet. Actually wet from nothing but words and wanting and the impossible fantasy of a dead man’s touch.
You lasted maybe ten minutes before you gave in.
Your hand drifted down your stomach slowly, hesitantly, fingers trembling slightly as you slipped them beneath the waistband of your sleep shorts. You thought about Satoru’s voice, low and rough with wanting. I’d start slow. Your face, maybe.
The first touch of your fingers against your clit made you gasp softly. You were already wet—had been since his confession on the couch, since he’d told you all the ways he wanted to touch you, taste you, make you his. Your fingers slid easily through your folds, and you bit your lip at the sensation.
I’d trace your cheekbone, down to your jaw. Your neck.
You touched yourself slowly, teasingly, the way you imagined he would: circling your clit with light pressure, then dipping lower to feel how wet you were before returning to that sensitive bundle of nerves. Patient. Thorough.
You imagined those phantom hands on you—cold at first, then maybe warming from your body heat. Would they feel like ice water or winter wind? Would the sensation make you shiver or burn? You pictured his fingers replacing yours, longer and more elegant, exploring you with that intense curiosity he brought to everything. Your heart was racing now, your breath coming shorter as you touched yourself. You pictured Satoru above you, his blue eyes dark with desire, his hands skating over your skin.
Your free hand moved to push your shirt up, baring your breasts to the cool air. You palmed one, rolling the nipple between your fingers, and imagined it was his hand. His mouth.
I’d touch you everywhere.
Lower, you thought desperately. Touch me lower.
You increased the pressure on your clit, circling faster now, and your hips lifted slightly off the bed. Your thighs fell open wider, shameless, and you wished desperately that he could see you like this, that he could watch you come apart thinking about him.
Maybe he could. Maybe he was somewhere in the apartment right now, aware of you in that uncanny way he sometimes was. The thought should’ve embarrassed you, but instead it sent a thrill of heat through you, made you move your fingers faster.
I’d want to know what you sound like when you come. I think about it all the time.
“Satoru,” you breathed into the darkness, testing how his name felt on your lips like this. It came out breathy, wanting, and you said it again, louder this time. “Satoru.”
You imagined his voice responding, that cocky confidence tempered with wonder. That’s it. Let me hear you. Let me know what I do to you. Say my name like that when you come.
You slipped a finger inside yourself, then another, and the stretch felt good but not enough. You wanted more, wanted him; wanted those long fingers curling inside you, finding that spot that made you see stars. You thrust your fingers in and out, angling them, searching.
I’d make you come on my fingers, my tongue, my cock. I’d do it over and over again.
“Oh, God,” you whimpered, your thumb finding your clit while your fingers worked inside you. You thought about what he’d said—that he’d taste you until you were shaking. You imagined him between your thighs, that beautiful face buried against you, his tongue doing what his fingers couldn’t. Would he be eager or methodical? Would he tease you or devour you? You imagined him looking up at you, those blue eyes meeting yours while he licked and sucked, watching your reactions.
I’d spread your legs and taste you until you were shaking. I’d memorise what made you gasp, what made you moan, what made you beg.
Your fingers moved faster, more desperate now. You were close, so close, but you wanted to draw this out, wanted to live in this fantasy a little longer. You slowed your movements, edging yourself, imagining Satoru doing the same—bringing you right to the brink, and then pulling back, making you beg for it.
“Please,” you whispered to the empty room, and then louder, “Please, Satoru.”
You imagined him responding: Please what? Tell me what you want. I want to hear you say it.
“Touch me,” you gasped, your fingers speeding up again despite your attempts to slow down. “Make me come. Please, I need—”
You curved your fingers inside yourself, finally finding that perfect spot, and the pleasure that shot through you made your back arch off the bed. You pressed down on your clit harder, circling frantically now, chasing the orgasm that was building, building—
I’d worship you. Every inch. I’d kiss your neck, your breasts, your stomach.
“Yes,” you moaned, not caring anymore if you were too loud, if he could hear you, if the whole building could hear you. “Yes, please, Satoru, please—”
You thought of Satoru above you, somehow solid and real, sliding into you with one perfect thrust, and that was what finally sent you over the edge. You came hard, crying out his name, your whole body tensing and shaking. Your fingers worked yourself through it, drawing out every pulse of pleasure, every aftershock.
But it wasn’t enough. Even as you were still trembling from the first orgasm, you knew it wasn’t enough. You needed more. Needed to imagine more. You didn’t remove your fingers, just kept touching yourself, oversensitive now but uncaring. You thought about what else he’d said, all those explicit promises.
I think about it all the time. When you’re in the shower, when you’re in bed, when you’re just sitting here reading.
You imagined him in the shower with you, the water running over both your bodies. His hands—real and solid in this fantasy—would soap you up, sliding over every curve. You imagined his mouth on your neck, your shoulders; his cock hard against your stomach, insistent. You imagined turning in his arms, kissing him desperately, water streaming over you both; imagined him lifting you, pressing you against the tile wall, your legs wrapping around your waist. The first press of him at your entrance, thick and perfect, and then the slide as he filled you completely.
Your fingers moved faster inside you, and you used your other hand to circle your clit, building towards a second orgasm already.
Sometimes, when you’re sleeping, I lie down next to you. Not touching, just… there. And I pretend.
You imagined waking up to him touching you; his hand sliding between your legs, finding you wet and ready even in sleep; his voice in your ear: Shh, it’s just me. Let me make you feel good; his fingers working you open slowly, patiently, until you were writhing and begging for more.
I’d slide inside you and make you mine in every way that matters.
You imagined him fucking you slowly at first, letting you feel every inch, every ridge. Then faster, harder, his hips snapping against yours with a desperation that matched your own. You imagined the sounds—skin on skin, your moans, his groans, the filthy wet sounds of him moving inside you.
I want you so badly it physically hurts.
“I want you too,” you gasped to the empty room, to the ghost who might be listening. “I want you so fucking badly, Satoru. I wish—I wish you were here. I wish you were real. I wish—”
Your second orgasm hit you even harder than the first, stealing your breath, making your vision go white. You came with his name on your lips again, your body arching, your fingers buried deep inside your cunt while your other hand worked your clit frantically.
This time, you imagined him coming too, his face contorted in pleasure, his voice rough as he moaned your name. You imagined the warmth of him spilling inside you, the weight of him collapsing onto you, both of you breathless and shaking and complete. The fantasy was so vivid, so real, that for a moment you could almost feel it—the phantom weight of him, the ghost of his touch. Your body shuddered through the aftershocks, and tears pricked at your eyes because it wasn’t real. It would never be real.
When you finally stopped moving, you lay there gasping, your body covered in sweat, your heart pounding. Your hand was still between your legs, fingers still inside you, but you were too exhausted to move. Two orgasms, and you still wanted more. It was insatiable, this need. Impossible to satisfy when the object of your desire was literally untouchable.
You pulled your fingers out slowly, wincing at the oversensitivity, and brought your hand up to look at it in the dim light. Your fingers were slick, glistening with evidence of your arousal, your wanting. You thought about what Satoru had said—that he wanted to taste you. Before you could talk yourself out of it, you brought your fingers to your mouth, licking them clean and tasting yourself. You imagined it was his tongue, his mouth, his absolute focus on learning every part of you.
“Fuck,” you whispered to the ceiling, to the ghost who was probably watching, judging, wanting just as desperately as you were.
For a long moment, you lay there, catching your breath and feeling the flush of embarrassment creep up your neck. You’d just gotten yourself off twice thinking about your dead roommate. You’d moaned his name loud enough for your neighbours to hear, and had begged him, even though he wasn’t there, even though he couldn’t give you what you needed.
That was… probably not healthy. Definitely not normal. But God, it had felt so good. Better than anything had in years.
You finally pulled yourself together enough to sit up. Your legs were shaky, your body hypersensitive, and when you stood to go clean yourself up, you had to brace yourself against the nightstand. Your sleep shorts were soaked through, and your sheets would definitely need washing.
In the bathroom, you cleaned yourself up with trembling hands, washing your face and trying not to meet your own eyes in the mirror. When you did finally look, your pupils were blown wide, your lips swollen from biting them. You looked thoroughly fucked, even though no one had actually touched you.
You changed into fresh underwear and a clean sleep shirt, then stood in your bedroom doorway, looking at the rumpled bed. Your body felt heavy now, satisfied in a way that was both fulfilling and deeply unsatisfied because it had been your hand, not his. It would always be your hand, because he couldn’t touch you, couldn’t make good on any of those promises his words had painted.
You wondered if he knew. If he’d been aware of you, could feel the echoes of your pleasure somehow through whatever connection you shared as Resonant and ghost. The books had said the connection could strengthen over time, that emotional bonds made the barrier between the living and dead more permeable.
Did he feel it when you came thinking of him? Did he know his name had been on your lips, gasped out and moaned? Did he hear you begging for him, even knowing he couldn’t answer? The thought was mortifying and thrilling in equal measure.
You climbed back into bed, too exhausted to change the sheets tonight, and burrowed under the covers. Your body felt languid now, but your mind was still racing, replaying every word of your conversation. You wanted him, and the worst part was knowing he wanted you, too, but that nothing could ever come of it. He was dead. Intangible. A ghost who could watch but never touch, want but never have.
It was cruel, really, to have met someone who understood you, who made you laugh and drove you crazy and somehow felt more real than anyone you’d been with when they were actually alive.
“This is so fucked up,” you whispered to the empty room.
Somewhere in the apartment, you felt more than heard a ripple of pleasure. Not quite laughter, not quite agreement, but acknowledgement. He was there. He’d probably been there the whole time, had probably heard every sound you made, every time you’d moaned his name.
Tomorrow, you’d look him in the eye and pretend your heart wasn’t racing, pretend you hadn’t touched yourself while imagining his hands, his mouth, his cock. You’d drink your coffee and go to work and come home to his teasing and pranks, and you’d both carefully avoid talking about what had happened on the couch and what had happened on your bed.
Sleep didn’t come easily. When it finally did, you dreamed of cold hands that somehow burned, of blue eyes that saw through you in every sense, of a voice that promised impossible things in the dark. You dreamed of being touched everywhere, of being known completely, of being ruined so thoroughly for anyone else that even death couldn’t separate you.
You woke to sunlight streaming through your window. When you opened your eyes, Satoru was there, hovering near the window as he often did in the morning, looking out at the city coming to life. But his shoulders were tense, his posture rigid in a way that was unusual for him.
He turned when he heard you stir, and the look in his eyes told you everything you needed to know. He’d known. He’d been there. He’d heard you moaning his name, begging for him, coming apart thinking about him.
“Morning,” he said, his voice carefully neutral but rougher than usual, strained.
“Morning,” you replied, your voice still gravelly with sleep and the memory of crying out his name.
“I saw four ghosts on the subway today, and one at the convenience store,” you said, setting down your bag and the stack of new library books on the kitchen table. “Also, the librarian gave me these books next. Did you know she was dead, too?”
Satoru materialised beside you so quickly it made you jump. “What?”
“The librarian. She’s a ghost. Has been for—I don’t know, she didn’t say. But she’s been running that archive for decades, apparently. She said most people can’t tell, but she knew I could see her properly,” you said, pulling off your coat. “Anyway, the subway ghosts were interesting. One of them was reading a newspaper from 1985. Another one kept trying to warn people about the closing doors, but obviously no one could hear him except me.”
“Stop.” Satoru’s voice was sharp, and when you looked at him, his expression was tense. “Stop talking like this is normal.”
You blinked. “What?”
“Four ghosts on the subway. One at the store. The librarian.” He drifted closer, his form flickering with agitation. “You couldn’t see any of them three months ago, which is how long you’ve known me. Maybe you would have gotten a vague impression, a chill, but not full visibility. Not enough to know what they’re doing or what they’re wearing or what year their newspaper is from.”
“Well, I’m a Resonant,” you said slowly. “The books said—”
“I know what the books said. I read them too,” he interrupted. “They said prolonged exposure to spiritual entities can result in becoming unmoored. They said you’d start seeing spirits everywhere instead of selectively.”
Your stomach dropped. “I’m fine.”
“You’re seeing ghosts everywhere. That’s literally the first warning sign.”
“It’s not everywhere. Just—more than before.” You set your coat down slowly, watching him pace. “Satoru, what’s wrong? I thought you’d be happy that I can see them. That I’m getting better at this whole Resonant thing.”
“Better at it?” He stopped pacing, turning to face you. “You’re not getting better at it. You’re getting lost in it. There’s a difference.”
“I’m not lost. I’m standing right here, alive—”
“For now,” he said defeatedly. “But what about next week? Next month? What happens when you can’t tell the difference anymore between the living and the dead? When you’re so far into the threshold that you can’t find your way back?”
You stared at him, your heart pounding. “That won’t happen.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I’m being careful,” you said.
“Are you?” Satoru’s voice was quieter now. “Because from where I’m standing—or hovering, whatever—it looks like you’re diving headfirst into the spiritual plane without any regard for what it might cost you.”
“That’s not fair,” you protested. “I’m researching. Learning. The librarian has been helping me understand—”
“The dead librarian,” he said. “You’re taking advice about staying connected to life from someone who’s been dead for decades. Do you see the irony there?”
You bit your lip, frustrated. “What do you want me to do, Satoru? Ignore it? Pretend I can’t see what I see? I’m a Resonant. This is part of who I am now.”
“It doesn’t have to be all of who you are,” he said, and there was something almost pleading in his voice. “You have a life. A job, friends. A whole world of living, breathing people who aren’t trapped between states of existence. Don’t throw that away.”
“I’m not throwing anything away. I’m just—” You stopped, not sure how to finish that sentence. What were you doing? Learning? Growing? Or was he right? Were you losing yourself to this strange new ability, this connection to the dead that seemed to grow stronger every day?
You looked down at the books on the table. Three of them this time, each one thicker than the last. Advanced Resonant Techniques. Bridging the Divide: Physical Manifestation of Spiritual Entities. The Corporeal Threshold: A Resonant’s Guide. That last one made your heart skip a beat.
“What are these?” Satoru had drifted closer, reading the titles over your shoulder. His voice had gone flat. “Physical manifestation? Corporeal threshold?”
“The librarian said these might be useful,” you said carefully. “Given our… situation.”
“Our situation,” he repeated. “You mean the situation where I’m dead and you’re alive and there’s an insurmountable barrier between us?”
“It might not be insurmountable,” you said, pulling the burgundy book towards you, the one titled Bridging the Divide. “According to the librarian, Resonants with strong enough connections to specific entities can sometimes—”
“No.” His voice was hard, final.
“You don’t even know what I’m going to say.”
“I know enough. You’re talking about making me corporeal, aren’t you? Temporarily solid?” When you didn’t answer immediately, Satoru laughed, but there was no humour in it. “That’s what this is about. That’s why you’ve been pushing yourself further into the threshold, seeing more ghosts, spending more time in that archive. You’re trying to figure out how to touch me.”
Your silence was answer enough.
“Jesus,” he breathed. “Do you have any idea how dangerous that is? For you, I mean. What it would cost?”
“I’m willing to—”
“I’m not. I’m not willing to let you risk yourself like that. Not for this. Not for me.”
“Don’t I get a say in what risks I take?” you said.
“Not when those risks involve you potentially losing your grip on life itself!” His form was flickering more rapidly now, agitation making him less stable. “Do you understand what you’re proposing? You’re talking about pulling me into the physical world, which means you’d have to step deeper into the spiritual one. You’d have to open yourself up completely, make yourself even more permeable to the dead. And every time you did it, every time you made me solid, you’d be taking another step away from life.”
“The book says—”
“I don’t care what the book says!” He was shouting now, something you’d never heard him do. “I don’t care if it’s possible or safe or whatever the dead librarian told you. I won’t let you do it.”
“You don’t get to make that choice for me!”
“And you don’t get to throw your life away because of some misguided idea that we can be together!” He stopped, his voice breaking on the last word. “Is that what this is about? Last week? What we talked about, what we—what you did?”
Heat flooded your face. “I don’t—”
“I heard you,” he said quietly. “That night. I was there. I heard you say my name, heard you—I’ve been trying not to think about it because it’s torture. But if that’s what’s driving this, if you’re trying to find a way to make that real, to actually touch me—please don’t. Please. I can’t be the reason you lose yourself.”
“You’re not. This isn’t just about that. It’s about everything. It’s about wanting to hold your hand. To hug you when you’re sad. To—” You stopped, blinking back tears. “I just want to touch you, Satoru. Just once. Is that so wrong?”
“When it might cost you everything? Yes.” His voice was firm, but his eyes were gentle. “I want it, too. You have no idea how much I want it. But not like this.”
You picked up the burgundy book, opening it to the page you’d marked earlier. “Just listen. Please. It’s not as dangerous as you think.”
“I doubt that.”
“The process,” you read aloud, “requires a deep harmonic resonance between Resonant and entity. The Resonant must open themselves fully to the spiritual plane, creating a bridge through which the entity can temporarily manifest in physical form. The duration depends on the strength of the connection and the Resonant’s ability to maintain their anchor to the living world.
“The first manifestation is the most dangerous, as the Resonant must learn to balance between worlds. However, with practice and proper preparation, the process becomes safer and can be maintained for increasing durations.”
“With practice,” Satoru said. “So you’d have to do it multiple times, each time risking that you might not find your way back.”
“There are safety measures. The book describes—”
“I don’t care.” Satoru drifted between you and the book, forcing you to look at him. “I don’t care what safety measures exist. I don’t care how many times you practice. One time is too many if there’s even a chance you could get lost in the threshold.”
“Why are you being so stubborn about this?” you demanded, your brows knitting into an irritated frown.
“Because I love you!”
The words exploded into the space between you, silver bells tinkling in the sudden stillness. You froze. Satoru looked stricken, like he couldn’t believe he’d said it out loud.
“I love you,” he repeated, quieter this time. “I’ve loved you probably since the third week you lived here, when you didn’t run screaming and you started leaving cookies out even though I can’t eat them. And I definitely loved you when you let me keep walking through you just so I could feel warm for a second, even though it hurt you. And I absolutely loved you when you said my name in the dark, like it was the only word that mattered.”
You could only stare at him while he continued, the words pouring out like some growing chasm had widened deep enough inside his chest for him to finally let it all out.
“I love you, and because I love you, I can’t let you do this. I can’t let you risk everything for the selfish fantasy of being able to touch me. Because if something happened to you—if you got lost in the threshold, if you became unmoored, if you died—I would spend the rest of eternity knowing it was my fault. Knowing I was the reason you lost your life.”
“Satoru—”
“I’ve already died once,” he said. “I can handle being dead. I’ve had sixty years to get used to it. But I cannot handle being the reason you die. I can’t. So please, please don’t ask me to.”
Tears were streaming down your face now, and you didn’t bother wiping them away. “I love you, too,” you whispered. “That’s why I want to try. That’s why I’m willing to risk it.”
“Then love me enough to stay alive,” Satoru said, his hands raising as though he wanted to wipe away your tears before remembering it was a futile endeavour. “Love me enough to stay in the world where you belong, where you have a future and possibilities and a whole life ahead of you.”
“What kind of life is it if I can never touch you?” you said.
“A living one,” he said, “which is more than I can offer you.”
You looked down at the book in your hands, at the careful diagrams showing how to bridge the divide, how to make the impossible possible. You’d been so excited when the librarian had shown you this section; you’d spent hours reading and rereading, planning how you’d bring it up to Satoru. You’d imagined his face when you told him there was a way, that you could make him solid, that you could finally touch him the way you’d both been desperately wanting.
You hadn’t imagined this. His fear. His refusal. “I need time,” you said. “To think about this.”
“Take all the time you need,” Satoru said. “But my answer isn’t going to change. I won’t let you do this.”
“You can’t stop me.”
“No,” he agreed. “But I can leave.”
Your head snapped up. “What?”
“If you try this—if you attempt to manifest me corporeally—I’ll leave. I’ll figure out how to move on, break whatever’s keeping me tethered to this place, and I’ll go. I won’t be party to your destruction, even indirectly.”
“You’re bluffing.”
“I’m not.” His eyes were steady, serious. “I’ll spend eternity as a ghost before I let myself be the reason you throw your life away.”
He meant it. You could see it in every line of his translucent form, in the set of his jaw, in the pain in his eyes. He would rather leave and condemn himself to whatever came after this liminal existence than watch you risk yourself for him.
“That’s not fair,” you said, your voice small.
“No,” he agreed. “It’s not. But neither is asking me to stand by while you potentially kill yourself.”
You sank into one of your kitchen chairs, suddenly exhausted. The books sat on the table between you, full of answers that now felt more like condemnations. You’d thought you were being clever, resourceful. You’d thought you were finding a solution to an impossible problem. You hadn’t considered that Satoru might not want the solution if it meant risking you.
“I just want to touch you,” you said again. “Just once. I want to know what your hand feels like in mine. I want to hug you. I want to kiss you. I want—”
“I know.” Satoru drifted down beside you, not quite sitting but giving the impression of it. “I want all of that too. So badly it makes me ache,” he said, an echo of his words last week, “which shouldn’t be possible because I’m dead and the dead don’t ache, but somehow you make me feel it anyway.”
“Then why—”
“Because wanting something doesn’t make it right. I’ve learnt that the hard way, with my best friend, and—” He stopped and looked at you, and there was such tenderness in his gaze that it made your heart hurt. “Because I’d rather spend forever wanting you from a distance than have one moment of touching you if it meant losing you entirely.”
You wiped at your tears angrily. “This isn’t fair. None of this is fair.”
“No,” he said quietly. “It’s really not.”
You sat there together: alive and dead, wanting and aching, lover and beloved, separated by an unbridgeable divide that you’d thought you’d found a way across. The books mocked you with their presence, their promises of possibilities now bitter in your mouth.
“The librarian said most Resonants who attempt corporeal manifestation are successful,” you said quietly. “The risks are manageable if you’re careful.”
“Most isn’t all.”
“Nothing in life is guaranteed, Satoru. I could get hit by a bus tomorrow. I could have an aneurysm. I could—”
“But you’re not actively choosing those things,” he cut in. “This is different. This is you deliberately stepping into danger.”
“For you. For us!”
“There is no us,” he said. “Not in the way you want. I’m a ghost, you’re alive, and that’s just… that’s how it is.”
“It doesn’t have to be,” you pleaded.
“Yes,” he said firmly, “it does. Because the alternative is you risking everything, and I won’t allow it.”
You wanted to argue more. Wanted to pull out the books and show him all the careful notations you’d made, all the safety protocols, all the evidence that this could work. But you were so tired. Tired of wanting. Tired of the constant ache of being near him but never able to touch. Tired of lying in bed at night and touching yourself while imagining his hands, knowing it would never be real.
“I need you to leave,” you said. “Just for tonight. I need to think.”
Satoru looked like he wanted to argue, but he nodded. “Okay. I’ll… I’ll be around. Somewhere.”
That night, you curled into the sheets and sobbed yourself to sleep.
It wasn’t the quiet, dignified crying you’d done before—those careful tears shed in the shower or into your pillow when you thought Satoru might be nearby. This was ugly, desperate weeping that tore from your chest like something vital being ripped out. Your whole body shook with it, face pressed into your pillow, hands fisted in the sheets so hard your knuckles went white.
You cried because he loved you, and you cried because you loved him, and you cried because love should have been enough, but it wasn’t, would never be enough to bridge the gap between life and death.
You cried because you’d been so close. Those books on your kitchen table represented hope, possibility, a solution to the unsolvable problem of wanting someone you could never touch. The librarian had looked at you with such understanding when she’d handed them over, her ghostly form flickering in the archive’s dim light.
“It’s rare,” she’d said, “for a Resonant and an entity to develop this kind of bond. But when it happens, when the connection is strong enough… well, let’s just say there are ways to make the impossible a little less so.”
You’d been so excited. You’d practically run home, the books weighing down your bag but your heart feeling lighter than it had in weeks. You’d imagined Satoru’s reaction—surprise, maybe, then cautious hope, and finally that brilliant smile that made him look so alive you could almost forget he wasn’t.
Instead, you’d gotten fear. Rejection. An ultimatum.
I’ll leave, he’d said, and you believed him. Believed that he would rather tear himself away from this place, from you, than watch you risk yourself for him. The thought of him gone—truly gone, not just invisible but absent—made your chest constrict with panic. But the thought of never touching him, of spending the rest of your life wanting something that would always be just out of reach, was its own kind of death.
You rolled onto your back, staring at the ceiling through blurred vision. The apartment felt emptier than usual. Satoru had said he’d be around, but you couldn’t sense that familiar cold that meant he was near. He’d actually left, given you the space you’d asked for.
How had this become your life? Three months ago, you’d been normal. Boring. You’d come home to an empty apartment and hadn’t minded because you’d never known that there could be something more. Someone more. You’d been content with your books and your job and your small, predictable existence.
Then Satoru had appeared—literally—and everything had changed. He’d made you laugh. He’d reorganised your bookshelf and stolen your cookies and walked through your organs and somehow, impossibly, you’d fallen in love with him. And he’d loved you back. He’d said it. Three words that should have been everything, but instead felt like a curse, because what good was love when you couldn’t even hold hands? When the closest you could get to intimacy was him passing through your body and both of you pretending it was enough?
Fresh tears spilled down your temples, pooling in your ears. You pressed the heels of your palms against your eyes, trying to physically push the tears back in, but they kept coming.
You thought about the books, about the careful diagrams showing energy flows and resonance patterns. You thought about the chapter on anchoring techniques that promised you could maintain your connection to life while temporarily pulling an entity into corporeal form. The librarian had made it sound manageable. Difficult, yes, but possible for someone with your level of sensitivity.
“The first manifestation is always the hardest,” she’d explained, her translucent fingers trailing over the text. “You’ll need to open yourself completely to the spiritual plane, create a bridge of energy between his existence and yours. It will feel like drowning and flying at the same time. Like every cell in your body is being pulled in two different directions. But if you can hold steady, maintain your anchor, he’ll solidify. Just for a little while.”
“How long?”
“That depends on your strength. Minutes, maybe. An hour if you’re very skilled. The connection will strain you, drain you, but it won’t harm you. Not if you know when to let go.”
Satoru had focused on the dangers, on the warnings about becoming unmoored, about losing yourself in the threshold. But those were risks for people who went too far, who kept pushing past their limits. You’d be careful. You’d set boundaries. You’d—
But what if he’s right? A small voice whispered in your head. What if you’re not as careful as you think? What if you get lost?
You’d been seeing more ghosts. That was undeniable. The four on the subway hadn’t even fazed you—you’d simply noted their presence and moved on, like they were just other passengers. The one at the convenience store had been rearranging bottles on a shelf, so lost in the repetitive motion he’d been doing for decades that he didn’t even notice you watching. And there was the librarian, of course, managing her archive like death was just a minor inconvenience to her work.
None of it had scared you. None of it had seemed dangerous. It had just felt… normal. Natural. Like you were finally seeing the world as it really was, in all its layered complexity.
But wasn’t that exactly what the books had warned about? That slow slide into accepting the dead as easily as the living, until you couldn’t tell which world you belonged to anymore?
You thought about your coworker, who’d asked you yesterday if you were feeling okay. “You seem distracted,” she’d said. “Like you’re looking at something the rest of us can’t see.”
Because you had been. There had been a ghost in the conference room—an old man in a suit from the 1960s, attending a meeting that had ended decades ago. He’d been so solid to you, so present, that you’d almost asked him a question before remembering he wasn’t actually alive.
How long before you did forget? How long before the dead became more real to you than the living?
A sob caught in your throat. You were so tired. Tired of thinking, tired of crying, tired of wanting something you couldn’t have. Your body felt heavy, exhausted from emotion, and your head throbbed from crying. But you couldn’t seem to stop. Every time you thought you’d cried yourself out, a fresh wave would hit. You cried for Satoru, trapped for sixty years in this apartment, unable to touch or taste or feel anything. You cried for yourself, falling in love with someone who could never truly be yours. You cried for the future you’d imagined but could never have—growing old together, building a life, all those mundane intimacies that people took for granted.
You’d never hold his hand while watching TV. Never feel his arms around you when you were sad. Never wake up to him beside you, solid and warm and real. Never kiss him in the morning or fight over dinner plans or do any of the thousand small things that made up a relationship.
Unless you tried. Unless you took the risk.
Your hand crept out from under the covers, reaching towards the empty space beside you. You imagined Satoru there, lying next to you like he sometimes did when he thought you were asleep. You imagined reaching out and finding him solid under your touch, his sharp intake of breath, the wonder in his eyes as you finally, finally made contact.
What would his hand feel like? His skin? Would he be warm or still carry the cold of death? Would he feel real, or would there be something indefinably wrong about the sensation, a reminder that this was borrowed solidity, temporary and incomplete?
You wanted to know. God, you wanted to know so badly, it was like a physical ache in your chest. But he’d begged you not to try, had threatened to leave if you did.
That was the cruelest part of all: that even if you were willing to risk yourself, you couldn’t risk losing him. He’d made himself the deterrent, the reason you couldn’t move forward. Because as much as you wanted to touch him, you wanted him in your life more. Even if he was intangible, even if you could never hold him, his presence had become necessary to you. Vital. The thought of him gone, of coming home to a truly empty apartment, of never hearing his laugh or his terrible jokes again—that was worse than never touching him.
He knew that. The bastard knew that, and he’d used it against you.
Fresh anger flared through your grief, hot and bright. How dare he make that choice for you? How dare he decide what risks you were allowed to take with your own life? You were an adult. You’d read the books. You understood the dangers, and you’d been willing to accept them for the chance—just the chance—of one moment of real connection.
But he’d taken that choice away.
“I hate you,” you whispered to the empty room.
The crying tapered off eventually, leaving you hollow and numb. Your throat was raw, your eyes swollen, your head pounding. You felt wrung out, as though all the emotion had been physically extracted from you, leaving nothing but an exhausted shell. You thought about getting up, getting water, taking some painkillers for the headache and washing your face, but moving seemed impossible.
So you simply lay there, staring at the ceiling, watching the shadows shift as cars passed outside. The city hummed with life all around you—people going about their evenings, living their normal lives, probably taking for granted the ability to touch the people they loved. You’d been one of them three months ago. You’d never realised how lucky you were.
Somewhere in the apartment, you thought you felt something. Not quite a presence, but an awareness. A cold spot in the air, a shift in the atmosphere. Satoru, probably, drawn to your distress but respecting your request for space, hovering somewhere nearby, unable to comfort you, maybe crying himself if ghosts could cry. The thought made something in your chest crack all over again.
“I love you,” you whispered into the darkness. “I love you and I hate you and I don’t know what to do.”
There was no response. Eventually, exhaustion won out. Your eyes slipped closed, your breathing evened out, and you drifted into an uneasy sleep. Your dreams were confused, fragmented things—reaching for hands that disappeared before you could grasp them, walking through crowds where you couldn’t tell who was alive and who was dead, drowning in cold water that felt like Satoru’s presence.
You woke sometime in the early morning, the sky outside just beginning to lighten from black to grey. Your pillow was damp with tears and possibly drool, your hair stuck to your face, and your body ached. But you were calmer now. Numb, maybe, but calm.
You rolled over and found him there.
Satoru was hovering beside your bed, his form more translucent than usual in the pre-dawn light. He looked tired—if ghosts could look tired. His eyes were gaunt, his posture slumped in a way you’d never seen before.
“Hi,” he said softly when your eyes met.
“Hi,” you croaked back, your voice rough from crying.
“I’m sorry. I know you said you needed space, but I—” He stopped, looking away. “I couldn’t stand it. Hearing you cry like that and not being able to do anything. Not being able to hold you or comfort you or make it better.”
“It’s okay,” you said, even though it wasn’t.
“It’s not.” He drifted closer, still maintaining that careful distance. “I hurt you. I know I did. And I hate myself for it, but I’d do it again because I—I can’t lose you. I can’t. You’re the only good thing that’s happened to me in sixty years, and the thought of you getting hurt because of me, of you disappearing into the threshold because you were trying to touch me—I can’t bear it.”
You looked at him—this impossible, beautiful, frustrating man who loved you enough to push you away. “I know,” you whispered. “I know, and I hate it, but I know.”
“So what do we do?” Satoru asked helplessly. “How do we… how do we live like this?”
“I don’t know,” you admitted. “I really don’t know.”
Two weeks passed in uneasy tension. You tried to go back to normal—or whatever counted as normal when you lived with a ghost you were in love with. You went to work, came home, cooked dinner that only you could eat. Satoru hovered nearby, making his usual jokes, moving your things around to annoy you. On the surface, everything seemed fine.
But underneath, something was fracturing.
You were seeing more ghosts. Not just occasionally, but constantly. Every subway ride revealed at least a dozen. The coffee shop on your corner had three: a woman from the 1920s eternally waiting for someone who would never arrive, a teenager who’d died in the ‘80s still trying to use a payphone that had been removed twenty years ago, and an old man who sat at the same table every day reading a newspaper that never changed the date.
You’d started recognising some of them. The businessman on the fifth floor of your office building who paced the same hallway over and over. The little girl in the park who pushed an empty swing. The couple in your apartment building’s lobby who walked through the doors every evening at six, dressed for a party that had ended fifty years ago. They were becoming familiar. Comfortable, even. More real to you than some of your living coworkers.
“You’re doing it again,” Satoru said one evening. You were sitting on the couch, ostensibly watching TV, but your eyes had drifted to the corner where a ghost—a woman in a nurse’s uniform from the 1950s—was standing, staring at nothing.
“Doing what?” you asked, blinking back to focus.
“Seeing something I can’t see.” He drifted between you and the corner, forcing you to look at him. “There’s someone there, isn’t there?”
You nodded. “A nurse. She’s just… standing there.”
“Can you see me as clearly as you see her?”
The question caught you off guard. You looked at him properly. “No,” you admitted quietly. “You’re… you’re more translucent than she is. She looks almost solid.”
Satoru’s expression went carefully blank. “How long has this been happening?”
“I don’t know. A few days? A week?” You rubbed your eyes tiredly. “It’s hard to tell anymore. They’re just… everywhere. All the time.”
“You’re getting worse,” Satoru said, his form flickering. “You know that, right? This is exactly what the books warned about.”
“I’m fine,” you said automatically, but even you didn’t believe it anymore.
“You’re not fine. You’re losing your grip on the living world.” He moved closer, and you noticed for the first time that you had to concentrate to see him clearly. When had that started? “When’s the last time you called one of your friends?”
You tried to remember. “I don’t—”
“When’s the last time you had a full conversation with someone at work that wasn’t absolutely necessary?”
“I talk to people—”
“When’s the last time you ate a meal without forgetting halfway through because you were watching a ghost?”
You opened your mouth to answer and realised you couldn’t. Last night’s dinner was still sitting in the kitchen, half-eaten and cold because you’d gotten distracted by the ghost couple in the lobby arguing about whether to stay or go.
“I’m managing,” you said weakly.
“You’re disappearing.” His voice cracked. “You’re slipping away from life, and I can’t stop it, and it’s killing me. Again.”
The nurse in the corner turned and walked through the wall. You watched her go, and it took physical effort to drag your attention back to Satoru.
“I don’t know how to stop it,” you admitted. “I don’t know how to unsee them. They’re just there, and they’re getting clearer while everything else is getting… hazier.”
“The living world is getting hazier,” Satoru said. “That’s the problem. You’re already halfway into the threshold, and you haven’t even tried the manifestation yet.”
You hadn’t touched the books since that night. They sat on your kitchen table where you’d left them, gathering dust, a constant reminder of the choice you’d made—or hadn’t made. The choice that was slowly being made for you anyway as you drifted further away from life.
“What if—” You stopped, afraid to say it.
“What if what?”
“What if we tried it?” The words came out in a rush. “Just once. Just to see if it works. If I’m already unmooring anyway, at least—at least I’d get something from it. At least I’d get to touch you, just once, before I—”
“Before you disappear completely?” Satoru’s voice was harsh. “That’s your argument? That you’re already dying so you might as well accelerate the process?”
“That’s not what I—”
“That’s exactly what you mean.” He was flickering rapidly now, his form unstable with emotion. “You think I haven’t noticed? You think I don’t see you fading? I saw you through the window yesterday, when you walked through a living person on the street because you didn’t realise they were there. You didn’t even notice. You just kept walking.”
You had done that. You’d walked right through a jogger on the footpath, and for a moment you’d felt that familiar cold, and you’d thought it was just another ghost before you’d realised what you’d done. The jogger had shivered and looked around, confused, and you’d hurried away before they could see you.
“I thought that was impossible,” you said quietly. “The books said the living can’t pass through each other.”
“The living can’t. But you’re not fully living anymore, are you? You’re stuck in the threshold. You’re becoming like me.”
“So what do I do?” Your voice came out small, scared. “How do I stop it?”
“I don’t know. The books—”
“The books say that once the process starts, it’s hard to reverse. That the only way to re-anchor yourself to life is through intense connection to living things. Relationships. Physical touch. Engagement with the world. All the things I can’t have because the person I want to connect with is dead.”
Satoru flinched like you’d hit him. “That’s not fair.”
“None of this is fair!” You were standing now, though you didn’t remember getting up. “I’m losing myself either way! If I try the manifestation, maybe I get lost in the threshold. If I don’t try it, I drift anyway, because I’m so focused on you, on the dead, that I can’t maintain my connection to life. Either way, I lose. At least if I try, I get something. One moment of touching you. One moment of real connection before I—”
Satoru was silent for a long moment. When he spoke, his voice was defeated. “You’re really that far gone?”
“I walked through a person, Satoru. I see dead people more clearly than I see you. I forgot to eat dinner three times this week because I was watching ghosts. I—” You inhaled, shuddering. “I’m scared. I’m so scared, and I don’t know how to fix this, and the only thing I want is you.”
He closed his eyes, his form shimmering like water. “One try,” he said finally.
“What?”
“One try. We attempt the manifestation once. Just once,” he said, opening his eyes. “If it works, maybe—maybe the physical connection will re-anchor you. Maybe touching something real, even temporarily, will remind your body what it’s like to be alive. Maybe it’ll pull you back from the edge.”
“And if it doesn’t work?”
“Then we stop. Completely. No more books, no more research. We figure out another way to anchor you to life, even if it means—” He stopped, jaw clenching. “Even if it means you need to distance yourself from me. Date someone living. Build a life that doesn’t revolve around a ghost.”
The thought made you want to vomit, but you nodded. “Okay.”
“And if you start to slip—if you feel yourself getting lost in the threshold—you pull back immediately. I don’t care if we’re mid-manifestation, I don’t care if we only get five seconds. If you feel yourself losing your grip on life, you let go. Promise me.”
“I promise.”
“Say it like you mean it,” he demanded. “Promise me that your life is more important than touching me.”
Your face was wet; you realised, belatedly, that you were crying. “I promise that my life is more important than touching you.”
He nodded slowly, looking like every word pained him. “When?”
“I need to prepare. The books say there are anchoring rituals, grounding techniques. Things I need to do to make sure I can find my way back.” You wiped at your tears with shaking hands. “Give me three days. Three days to set everything up properly.”
“Three days,” he agreed. “And then—”
“And then we try,” you said. “One try. Just once.”
“Just once,” he echoed, but there was something in his voice that said he didn’t believe it would be enough. That once you’d touched him, once you’d felt something real after weeks of drifting in this grey half-world, you’d want more. That stopping after one time would be impossible.
Maybe he was right. Maybe you were already too far gone, too desperate for connection, too in love with a dead man to save yourself. But you had to try; you had to know what it felt like to hold his hand, to feel his lips against yours, to have one moment of absolute certainty that this was real, that he was real, that you weren’t just slowly going insane in an empty apartment.
You took time off work for the next three days—told them you had the flu, which wasn’t entirely a lie. You felt sick, feverish almost, your body existing in a strange liminal space between here and there. You could feel yourself loosening, your grip on physical reality weakening with every passing hour.
The books became your bible. You read and reread the chapters on corporeal manifestation until you had them memorised. The process was complex, requiring precise control of your Resonant abilities and careful management of the energy flow between worlds.
First, you needed anchors: physical objects tied to your living self, things that would keep you tethered to reality even as you opened yourself to the spiritual plane. You chose carefully. Your mother’s necklace, worn so often it carried the warmth of life. A photo of you and your friends from last year, everyone smiling and solid and alive. Your apartment key, mundane but yours, a symbol of your place in the physical world.
You arranged them in a circle in your bedroom, following the diagrams in the book. Each object was placed with intention, charged with your living energy. They would serve as breadcrumbs, a path back to yourself if you started to drift too far.
Next, the grounding exercises. You practiced them obsessively—meditation techniques that focused on physical sensations, on the weight of your body, the rhythm of your breath, the beating of your heart. You needed to be acutely aware of your own vitality so you’d notice if it started to slip away.
Satoru watched you prepare with growing anxiety. He hovered nearby constantly, asking questions, double-checking your work, looking for any excuse to call the whole thing off.
“Are you sure about the placement of that anchor?” he’d ask. “The book says it should be north-facing.”
“It is north-facing.”
“What if the north wall isn’t actually north? What if the apartment’s orientation is off?”
“Satoru.”
“I’m just saying, maybe we should get a compass. Or wait until the summer solstice when the sun—”
“We’re not waiting until summer.” You looked up from the book you were rereading. “We’re doing this tomorrow night, like we agreed.”
He fell silent, his form flickering with nervous energy. You’d never seen him this agitated, not even during your fight. He was terrified, you realised. Not of the manifestation itself, but of what it might cost you.
“I keep thinking about what you said,” he confessed that evening. You were lying in bed while he hovered above it, maintaining his usual careful distance. “About losing yourself either way.”
“Satoru—”
“No, let me finish.” He turned to look at you, and even through his translucence, you could see the pain in his eyes. “If this doesn’t work, I want you to promise me something else.”
“What?”
“That you’ll leave. Move out of this apartment, cut all ties to me, surround yourself with living people until you remember how to be alive. Promise me that you’ll choose life over me. Every time. No matter what.”
You wanted to argue. “I’ll try,” you said instead. “That’s all I can promise.”
He nodded, accepting it because he had no other choice. “I love you,” he said quietly. “Whatever happens tomorrow, I need you to know that. I love you more than I thought I could love anything after death. You brought me back to life in every way that matters, and I’m so grateful for that, even if—even if this is where it ends.”
“It’s not ending,” you said fiercely. “Tomorrow, I’m going to touch you. I’m going to hold your hand and hug you and maybe kiss you, and it’s going to work. It’s going to anchor me back to reality because you’ll be real, finally, and that will be enough. It has to be enough.”
“Yeah,” he said, but he didn’t sound convinced. “It has to be.”
You stood in your bedroom, surrounded by your carefully placed anchors, the books open to the relevant pages, your heart pounding so hard you could feel it in your throat. Satoru was there, of course. He’d been there all day, unable to settle, flickering in and out of visibility.
“Last chance to back out,” he said.
“I’m not backing out.” Your hands were shaking as you lit the candles you’d placed around the circle. The books said they weren’t strictly necessary, but they helped with focus, creating a boundary between worlds. “Are you backing out?”
“I should,” he admitted. “Every instinct I have—or had, or whatever—is telling me this is a terrible idea. I should stop you, physically prevent you somehow even though I’m incorporeal. But—”
“But?”
“But I want to touch you, too. So badly I’d risk almost anything.” He drifted closer. “Just not you. I’m not willing to risk you.”
“Good think it’s not your choice, then.” You took a deep breath. The grounding exercises kicked in automatically—awareness of your body, your breath, your heartbeat. You were alive. Solid. Real. You needed to remember that, hold onto it, even as you opened yourself to the other side.
“Okay,” you said. “I’m starting.”
You sat down in the centre of the circle, crossing your legs, placing your hands palm-up on your knees. The position was meant to be open, receptive. You needed to be a conduit, a bridge between the living world and the spiritual plane.
Satoru moved to stand—hover—in front of you, just outside the circle. “What do I do?”
“Just… be ready. When I open the bridge, you’ll feel it. It’ll be like a pull, the books said. Like something tugging you towards solidity. Follow that feeling. Let yourself be drawn through.”
“And if something goes wrong?”
“Then I pull back, like I promised.” You met his eyes. “Trust me?”
“With everything I was and am and will be,” he said.
You closed your eyes, taking one more grounding breath, and began.
The technique was called “harmonic resonance,” and it required you to attune yourself to Satoru’s specific spiritual frequency. You’d been doing it unconsciously since you met him—that’s what the connection between Resonant and entity was—but now you needed to do it deliberately, completely, opening yourself so fully to his presence that there was no separation between where you ended and where he began.
You reached out with that sixth sense you’d developed, that awareness of the spiritual plane. Immediately, you were overwhelmed. Ghosts everywhere—in the building, on the street, throughout the city. Thousands of them, maybe millions, all clamouring for attention, all visible to you now that you’d opened yourself.
No, you thought firmly. Not them. Him. Only him.
You focused, narrowing your awareness, filtering out the noise until there was only one presence, one signature that felt like cold winter air and summer lightning and coming home.
Satoru.
You found him, locked onto him, and pulled.
The sensation was indescribable. Like diving into deep water and flying at the same time. Like every cell in your body was vibrating at a different frequency. Like you were being stretched impossibly thin, spread across two worlds at once. You felt yourself start to drift. The physical world grew distant—you could barely feel the floor beneath you, barely hear the sounds of traffic outside. Everything was fading into grey except for Satoru’s presence, which turned bright and cold and absolutely clear.
Anchor, you remembered desperately. The anchors. Hold on.
You grabbed for them mentally—the necklace, the photo, the key. They were lifelines, threads of connection to your living self. You wrapped yourself in them, let them remind you: heartbeat, breath, body. You were alive. You were here. You were—
Something shifted. The energy flowing through you changed direction. Instead of just pulling yourself towards the spiritual plane, you were pulling something back. Something cold and bright and desperately yearning. Satoru.
You felt him being drawn through the bridge you’d created, felt him solidifying as he moved from pure spirit to temporary corporeal form. It was working. It was actually working.
“Open your eyes,” you heard him say, and his voice sounded different. Fuller.
You opened your eyes.
Satoru stood before you, and for the first time since you’d met him, he wasn’t translucent. He was solid. Real. His white hair caught the candlelight, casting shadows across his face. His eyes were the same impossible blue, but now they had depth, dimension, life. He was looking at his hands like he’d never seen them before, turning them over in wonder, watching the way they caught the light, the way they moved in the air instead of through it.
“Oh, my God,” he breathed. “I can—I’m—” He looked at you, and his expression was pure awe. “I’m solid.”
You tried to stand, but your legs were shaking. The effort of maintaining the bridge was enormous—you could feel it draining you, pulling at your energy, your life force. But it was worth it. God, it was worth it just to see him like this.
“How long can you hold it?” he asked.
“I don’t know. Ten minutes? Maybe less.” Already you could feel the strain. “We should—”
“Yeah,” he said, understanding immediately.
He stepped forward into the circle, and for a moment you both just stared at each other. After months of wanting, of never being able to touch, he was finally, impossibly real.
Satoru reached out first.
His hand extended towards you, trembling slightly, and you lifted yours to meet it. Then his fingers touched yours, and the world stopped.
Warm. He was warm. Not cold like you’d expected, but genuinely warm, alive, real. His skin against yours felt like sunlight, like coming home, like every good thing you’d ever wanted condensed into a single point of contact.
“Oh,” you breathed, and then you were crying, tears streaming down your face because it was real. He was real. You could feel him, solid and present and absolutely there. Satoru made a broken sound and pulled you into his arms. He was warm everywhere he touched you—his arms around your waist, his chest against yours, his face buried in your hair. You could feel his breath against your neck, feel his heartbeat—no, wait, that was yours, or maybe both, you couldn’t tell where you ended and he began.
“You’re real,” you sobbed into his shoulder. “You’re really real.”
“I’m real,” he confirmed. “I’m here. I’m—God, you feel amazing. You feel like everything.”
You pulled back just enough to look at his face, to see the tears tracking down his cheeks, to marvel at the way his expression moved, the way his eyes reflected the candlelight, the way they gleamed in the dark.
“Can I—” you started, but he was already leaning in.
The kiss was gentle at first. A soft press of his lips, testing, exploring. His mouth was warm against yours, and you made a small sound of surprise and joy that he swallowed. Then his hand came up to cup your face, his thumb stroking your cheek, and he deepened the kiss.
You’d imagined this so many times, late at night, touching yourself, fantasising about what his lips would feel like, how he’d taste. But nothing could have prepared you for the reality. He kissed like he’d been starving for it, like you were oxygen and he’d been drowning. His other hand tangled in your hair, pulling you closer, and you went willingly, pressing against him, trying to eliminate every molecule of space between you. When you finally broke apart, you were both breathing hard.
“Wow,” you managed.
“Yeah.” His voice was rough. “That was—”
“Amazing.”
“I was going to say life-changing, but amazing works.” He rested his forehead against yours, his hands still cradling your face. “Thank you. Thank you for this, for—”
He stopped abruptly, his eyes going wide.
“What?” you asked, but then you felt it. The drain. The pull. The bridge was straining, requiring more and more energy to maintain. You could feel yourself weakening, feel your grip on physical reality starting to slip. The anchors were calling to you, but their voices were getting fainter.
“You need to let go,” Satoru said urgently. “Now. You’re fading.”
“Not yet. Just a little longer—”
“No.” His hands tightened on your face, forcing you to look at him. “You promised. If you started to slip, you’d pull back. You promised me.”
“Just one more minute—”
“You’re losing your anchor!” Satoru’s form was already starting to flicker, translucence creeping back in around the edges. “I can feel it. You’re letting go of life. Stop. Now.”
He was right. You could feel it—the seductive pull of the threshold, the temptation to just let go, to drift further into the spiritual plane where everything was easier, where Satoru could stay solid, where you wouldn’t have to constantly choose between worlds. It would be so easy. Just stop fighting. Stop holding onto the anchors. Let yourself slip all the way through the bridge until you were on the other side with him, until you didn’t have to worry about being alive anymore.
“Don’t you dare,” Satoru said, reading your thoughts in your expression. “Don’t you fucking dare give up. You promised me. Life first. Always life first.”
“I don’t want to let go,” you whispered. “Please.”
“I know. I don’t either. But you have to.” His hands were gentle on your face, even as his voice was desperate. “Please, sweetheart. Please don’t make me watch you die. Please choose life. Choose yourself.”
The endearment broke something in you. You’d never heard him call you that before—never heard him use any term of affection beyond your name. It felt precious. “Okay,” you said. “Okay.”
You reached for the anchors. They blazed bright in your awareness, lifelines back to the physical world. You grabbed hold of them, let them pull you back from the edge, and with enormous effort, you closed the bridge. The sensation was like slamming into a wall. One moment you were stretched between worlds, and the next you were compressed entirely into your physical body. Your body that was exhausted, drained, barely functional.
You collapsed.
Satoru tried to catch you, but his form was already fading back into translucence, his hands passing through you instead of supporting you. You hit the floor hard, gasping, every cell in your body screaming with exhaustion.
“Are you okay?” Satoru was hovering over you, fully incorporeal again, his voice panicked. “Please be okay. Please—”
“I’m fine,” you grit out. “Just… tired.”
“You’re shaking,” he said.
You were. Your whole body was trembling with exertion, your muscles weak as water. But you were alive. The anchors hummed around you, keeping you tethered, reminding you who you were.
“We did it,” you said, and despite everything—the exhaustion, the pain, the knowledge that it was over—you smiled. “We touched. We kissed. It worked.”
“It worked,” Satoru agreed, but he didn’t sound happy. He sounded terrified. “And you almost didn’t come back.”
“But I did.” You tried to sit up, failed, and settled for just lying on your bedroom floor. “I came back. I’m here.”
“This time,” he said quietly. “You came back this time.”
You both knew what he meant. You’d gotten too close to the edge. Another minute—maybe even another thirty seconds—and you might not have had the strength to pull yourself back. The anchors might not have been enough against the seductive pull of existing in a world where Satoru was solid and real and touchable.
“One try,” you reminded him. “We agreed. Just once.”
“Yeah.” He was silent for a moment. “Was it enough?”
You thought about his warmth. His kiss. The absolute rightness of being held by him. The way he’d looked at you with those bright, living eyes.
“No, but it has to be,” you admitted. Because the alternative was losing yourself completely. And as much as you loved him, as much as you wanted to touch him again, you’d made a promise. Life first. Always life first, even when life meant never touching him again. You lay there on your bedroom floor, surrounded by your anchors and dying candles and the ghost of the man you loved, and you knew: you’d have to learn to live with wanting. You’d have to find a way to be satisfied with almost, with nearly, with the ghost of touch instead of the touch itself.
It would have to be enough. It had to be.
Satoru stubbed his toe on the kitchen table’s leg. The sound—a solid thunk followed by a very creative string of cursing—made you look up from your breakfast three days later. You’d been staring at your coffee, trying to gather the energy to drink it, still exhausted from the manifestation. Your body felt heavy, drained, like you’d run a marathon and then immediately tried to run another one.
“Ow, fuck,” Satoru hissed, hopping on one foot. “That—wait.” He stopped mid-hop, staring down at the table leg. Then he looked at his foot. Then back at the table. Then at you, his eyes going wide. “I just—” He reached out tentatively and touched the table. His hand didn’t pass through; it rested solidly on the wooden surface. “I’m touching it.”
You sat up straighter, your heart beginning to pound. “What?”
“I’m touching it. The table, I’m—” He pressed down harder, testing, and the table stayed solid under his palm. “This isn’t—I’m not corporeal. You’re not doing the bridge thing, right?”
“No.” You weren’t. You’d been too exhausted to even think about attempting another manifestation, too focused on just trying to stay grounded in the physical reality. “I’m not doing anything.”
Satoru’s gaze snapped to you, and there was fear in his eyes now. “Come here.”
“What—”
“Come here. Please. I need to—just come here.”
You stood on shaking legs and crossed the small distance between you. Satoru held out his hand, palm up, and you stared at it. In the morning light, he looked the same as always—translucent, not quite there. But he’d touched the table. He’d stubbed his toe, which meant he’d made physical contact with something solid.
“Touch me,” he said.
“Satoru, I don’t think…”
“Please.”
You reached out, your hand trembling, expecting your fingers to pass through his like they always did. But the moment before contact, you saw his hand was solid; really, truly solid, and your fingers were about to— They touched. The sensation was immediate and shocking: warmth, texture, the gentle resistance of skin against skin. His hand was real under yours, and you could feel the faint tremor in his fingers, the slight calluses on his palm.
“Oh, my God,” you breathed.
Satoru’s hand closed around yours, gripping tight, and you felt it. You felt the pressure, the warmth, the realness of him. His eyes were wide, terrified and wondering at once. “This shouldn’t be possible,” he said. “I’m not corporeal. You didn’t do the bridge. This shouldn’t—”
“Maybe it’s lingering effects?” You couldn’t stop staring at your joined hands. “From the manifestation? Maybe some of the corporeality stuck?”
“That’s not how it works. The books said—” He stopped, his grip tightening. “Unless you’re slipping. Unless you’re so far into the spiritual plane now that you can touch ghosts like they’re solid.”
You jerked your hand back—or tried to. Satoru held firm. “Don’t,” he said. “Don’t pull away. Let me—” He lifted his other hand slowly and touched your face, his palm cupping your cheek. “Can you feel that?”
“Yes,” you said.
“Does it feel different than when I manifested?”
You thought about it. Three days ago, during the manifestation, his touch had felt warm, alive, almost feverishly so. This felt… similar, but not quite the same. Still warm, still solid, but there was something else. A faint coldness underneath, like touching someone who’d just come indoors from the snow outside.
“It’s similar,” you said slowly, “but not exactly the same. You’re… colder. Not as vital.”
“But still solid.”
“Still solid,” you confirmed. You both stood there in your kitchen, hands joined, his palm against your face. The manifestation was supposed to be temporary, a one-time thing. But here he was, three days later, able to touch physical objects. Able to touch you.
“We need to check something,” Satoru said. He released you and walked over to the window, reaching out and pressing his hand against the glass. Solid. His palm didn’t pass through. He tried the wall, the kitchen counter, your refrigerator. Everything he touched, he could feel. The apartment that had been a prison of things he could see but never touch was suddenly, impossibly, tangible.
“This isn’t lingering effects,” you said, your stomach sinking. “Lingering effects would fade. This is—”
“Getting stronger,” Satoru finished. He turned to look at you, and his expression was grave. “Every minute that passes, I feel more solid. More real. Which means either I’m somehow becoming corporeal permanently, or—”
“Or I’m falling completely into the spiritual plane.” You swallowed hard. “That’s why I can touch you. Not because you’re becoming real, but because I’m becoming less real.”
“We need the books,” Satoru said.
Twenty minutes later, you were surrounded by open volumes, searching frantically for any mention of sustained contact between Resonants and entities. Most of the texts focused on temporary manifestation or on the dangers of becoming unmoored, but none of them described this—this strange middle ground where touch was possible without active manifestation.
“Here,” Satoru said, jabbing his finger at a passage in The Corporeal Threshold. “Listen to this: ‘In rare cases, when the bond between Resonant and entity reaches a critical threshold of intimacy and the Resonant has significantly loosened their grip on physical reality, a phenomenon known as Equilibrium may occur.’”
“Equilibrium?” You leaned over his shoulder to read.
Equilibrium is characterised by the Resonant and entity existing in a shared state between the physical and spiritual planes. Neither fully incorporeal nor fully corporeal, both parties become tangible to each other while appearing unchanged to outside observers. The Resonant maintains enough connection to physical reality to remain alive and functional in the living world, while the entity gains enough corporeality to interact with the Resonant directly.
However, Equilibrium is an inherently unstable state. The Resonant exists perpetually on the threshold, neither fully alive nor dead, neither fully here nor there. While this allows for sustained contact with the entity, it comes with significant risks. The Resonant may experience difficulty maintaining relationships with the living, may continue to see and interact with other spirits, and may find themselves increasingly disconnected from the physical world. Additionally, the duration of Equilibrium is unknown – it may last days, weeks, years, or may suddenly collapse, forcing the Resonant fully into one plane or the other.
“So basically,” Satoru said, “you’re stuck between two worlds. You’ve become stable enough that you’re not immediately fading away, but unstable enough that you might still slip. And we have no idea how long this will last or what will end it.”
“But we can touch,” you said. “We can touch each other, and it’s not just for ten minutes. It’s—it might be permanent. Or at least long-term.”
“At the cost of you being trapped in the threshold.” He ran his hands through his hair, the gesture so familiar but now different because you could see the way his fingers actually moved through the strands. “This is exactly what I was afraid of. You’ve sacrificed your place in the living world for this.”
“I haven’t sacrificed anything,” you argued. “The book says I maintain enough connection to remain alive and functional. I can still live my life, I just—”
“Just exist half in the world of the dead,” he finished. “Just see ghosts everywhere. Just slowly lose touch with everything that makes you human.”
“But I get to touch you.” You reached out and took his hand again, marveling at the simple miracle of it. “Satoru, I get to hold your hand. Don’t you understand how incredible that is?”
“I understand that you’ve paid a terrible price for it,” he said, but he didn’t pull his hand away. If anything, his grip tightened. “I understand that you’re trapped now in this halfway state because of me.”
“Not because of you.” You squeezed his hand. “Not because of you.”
He looked at you for a long moment, his expression a complicated mix of love and guilt and wonder. Then he pulled you into his arms, and you went willingly, pressing yourself against him, feeling the solid warmth of his body against yours. “This is insane,” he murmured into your hair. “This whole situation is completely insane.”
“I know.”
“We should be trying to reverse it. To pull you back fully into the living world.”
“Probably.”
“But I don’t want to,” he said, his arms tightening around you. “I’ve spent three days thinking I’d never get to hold you again, and now I can, and I don’t want to give it up. I don’t want to be noble about this. I just want to be selfish.”
“Then be selfish. We both get to be selfish for a little while. We’ve earned it,” you said. You stood there in your living room, holding each other, and for the first time in months, you felt something like peace. Yes, you were trapped between worlds. Yes, you were unmoored, unstable, existing in a state that the books called dangerous and unprecedented. But you could touch him. Could feel his arms around you, his breath against your hair, his heartbeat—wait.
“Satoru,” you said slowly, pulling back to look at him. “Do you have a heartbeat?”
He frowned, pressing a hand to his own chest. “I don’t—I shouldn’t. I’m dead.”
You placed your palm over his heart, feeling for the rhythm you’d thought you sensed. There—faint, slower than a living person’s should be, but definitely there. A steady thump-thump-thump against your palm.
“You do,” you breathed. “You have a heartbeat.”
He covered your hand with his, pressing it harder against his chest. “That’s not possible.”
The days that followed had a dreamlike quantity. You learned to navigate your new existence—this strange Equilibrium state where you were alive enough to work and eat and function, but dead enough to see ghosts everywhere and touch the one that mattered most. Your coworkers noticed something was different, but they couldn’t identify what. You seemed distracted, distant, but not in a concerning way. Just… elsewhere.
They weren’t wrong. You were elsewhere, existing partly in their world and partly in another, and increasingly, that other world felt more real. But the ability to touch Satoru made everything worth it.
The first morning you woke up and reached out sleepily, forgetting for a moment that things had changed, your hand landed on something solid and warm. Satoru, who’d been hovering—lying?—beside you, made a soft sound of surprise.
“Hi,” he said, his voice rough with something like sleep, though ghosts didn’t sleep.
“Hi,” you replied, your fingers curling into the fabric of his clothing. “You’re real.”
“I’m really real,” he agreed, and pulled you closer. You’d spend the next hours just touching him, learning the landscape of his body through your fingertips—the slope of his shoulders, the hollow of his throat, the sharp line of his jaw. He let you explore, his eyes half-closed, something like bliss on his face every time you discovered something new.
“Your hair,” you’d mumbled, running your fingers through the white strands. “It’s soft.”
“Is it? I don’t remember.” His eyes had opened then, bright and blue. “I don’t remember what most things feel like. It’s been so long.”
So you’d touched him more, dedicated yourself to reminding him of physical sensation. The curve of his ear, which made him shiver; the ticklish spot on his ribs that made him laugh with actual, surprised laughter; the calluses on his palms that spoke of a life spent training, fighting, being something more than a ghost.
Now that Satoru could touch you, making coffee in the morning meant he could wrap his arms around you from behind, his chin resting on your shoulder, his hands covering yours as you worked. You’d lean back into him, and he’d say, “You’re doing it again.”
“Doing what?”
“Counting. You keep counting my heartbeats.”
You were. Your fingers would find their way to his wrist or his throat or his chest, seeking out that impossible rhythm. “Can you blame me? You’re not supposed to have a heartbeat.”
“And you’re not supposed to be able to touch ghosts. I think we’ve established that normal rules don’t apply to us.”
Cooking dinner became a shared activity. He couldn’t eat—that hadn’t changed—but he could help. He could chop vegetables with his solid hands, stir pots, taste things by pressing close and kissing you after you’d tasted them yourself.
“That’s not how taste works,” you’d laughed when he’d tried it the first time.
“I’m a ghost in Equilibrium with a Resonant. I’ll take what I can get,” he’d replied, and kissed you again, slower this time, and you’d forgotten about dinner entirely.
The kissing had become frequent. Urgent, sometimes, like you were both still afraid this would be taken away. Sweet, other times, just the gentle press of lips because you could. Because after months of wanting and weeks of denying yourselves, you’d found this impossible middle ground where touch was real and constant and yours.
One evening, you were curled together on the couch, your legs tangled with his, his fingers playing with your hair. The TV was on but neither of you were watching it. “I need to tell you something,” Satoru said quietly.
You tilted your head to look at him. “What?”
“I’m scared.” His hand stilled in your hair. “I’m terrified, actually, that this will end. I keep thinking that you’ll wake up one day and I won’t be solid anymore, or that the Equilibrium will collapse and you’ll either be pulled fully into death or pushed fully into life, and either way I’ll lose you.”
“Satoru—”
“Let me finish.” His fingers resumed their gentle movement. “But I’m also happier than I’ve been in sixty years. Maybe happier than I ever was alive, because being alive meant always being alone, always being untouchable, always maintaining that distance. And now I have you, and I can hold you, and even though I’m dead and you’re barely alive and we’re existing in this impossible state that could collapse at any moment—I don’t regret it. I don’t regret any of it.”
Your throat felt tight. “I don’t regret it either.”
“Even though you’re trapped? Even though you’ve given up a normal life?”
“Normal was lonely,” you said, and he kissed your forehead.
But the Equilibrium wasn’t perfect. You noticed the changes slowly: the way living people seemed to blur at the edges sometimes, while ghosts stayed sharp and clear; the way conversations with coworkers felt like they were happening through water, distant and muffled. You’d lose track of time, staring at nothing—or not nothing, at the spirits that crowded every corner of the city—and forget where you were supposed to be.
Your coworker pulled you aside one afternoon. “Are you okay? You seem… I don’t know. Distant.”
“I’m fine,” you said automatically.
“It’s just—you walked past me three times today and didn’t see me. And yesterday you were having a conversation with someone in the break room, but when I came in, there was no one there.”
“I was on the phone,” you lied.
“Your phone was in your pocket.” Their eyes were concerned. “Look, if something’s going on—if you need help—”
“I’m fine,” you repeated. “Just tired. I haven’t been sleeping well.”
That part was true, at least. You did sleep, but your dreams were strange now, full of ghosts and shadows and the constant sensation of being pulled in two directions. Sometimes you’d wake up gasping, unsure if you were alive or dead, and only Satoru’s presence beside you would remind you that you were something in between.
The ghost librarian noticed, too. You’d gone back to the archive, looking for more information about Equilibrium, and she’d taken one look at you and shaken her head. “You did it,” she said, and it wasn’t a question.
“We’re in Equilibrium now,” you said. “I can touch him.”
“And how’s that working out for you?” She gestured at the books around you. “Finding everything you need? Or are you looking for a way back?”
“I’m looking for information about how to stabilise it.”
“Stabilise it.” She laughed, but there was no humour in it. “Dear, you can’t stabilise Equilibrium. It’s inherently unstable. The books tell you that. You’re existing in a state that shouldn’t be possible, held together by nothing but desperation. Eventually, something will give.”
“Then I’ll make sure nothing gives,” you said stubbornly.
She looked at you pityingly. “You’re already more ghost than human. You know that, don’t you? You’re here, in my archive, reading my books, and you barely register as alive anymore. To other spirits, you look like one of us. You’re fading.”
“But I’m not dead.”
“Not yet,” she said. “But you’re not really alive either.”
That night, you lay in bed with Satoru, his arms around you, his chest rising and falling in an approximation of breathing that he didn’t technically need but did anyway because it made him feel more human.
“The librarian thinks I’m fading,” you said into the darkness.
His arms tightened. “Are you?”
“I don’t know. Maybe.” You pressed closer to him, seeking his warmth. “Does it matter?”
“Of course it matters.”
“But we have this now. Isn’t that enough?”
“Is it?” His voice was quiet, careful. “Is this enough for you? Existing half in death, losing touch with your old life, spending all your time with ghosts?”
You thought about it: your coworker’s concerned face, the way you’d forgotten to call your mother for three weeks. But you’d also stood on the subway platform yesterday and seriously considered whether that ghost from the 1950s looked more solid than the living woman standing next to him.
“I don’t know,” you said. “But I do know I don’t want to go back to how it was before.”
“Even if staying like this means losing yourself completely?”
“Would that be so bad? Being a ghost, I mean. Being like you. At least then we’d be in the same world.”
Satoru went very still. “Don’t say that.”
“Why not? It’s true. If I fully cross over—if I die or become a full ghost or whatever—then we’d be equal. We’d both be dead. We could be together forever without worrying about Equilibrium collapsing or me fading or any of it.”
“And you’d be dead,” Satoru said harshly. “You’d give up everything—your future, your life, any chance at growing old or having experiences or being human—just to be with me?”
“Yes,” you said. “In a heartbeat.”
He pulled away from you then, sitting up, and even in the darkness you could see the distress on his face. “That’s not love. That’s—I don’t know what that is, but it’s not love.”
“How can you say that?” You sat up too, facing him. “I love you. I want to be with you. Forever! How is that not love?”
“Because love doesn’t ask you to die for it!” he shouted. “Love doesn’t demand you give up your humanity, your future, your life! Love wants you to live and be happy and have everything good that the world has to offer!”
“The world doesn’t offer me you,” you shot back. “Not unless I’m willing to exist like this, in this halfway state where I’m neither alive nor dead. And if that’s not enough, if the Equilibrium collapses and I have to choose between being fully alive without being able to touch you or fully dead where I can, then I choose death!”
“Well, I don’t choose that for you! I don’t choose you dying. I don’t choose you giving up your life. I’d rather go back to never touching you, to spending another sixty years alone, than watch you throw away your humanity for me!”
“That’s not your choice to make!”
“And it’s not yours to make either! You’re not thinking clearly,” he said. “You’re so deep in the threshold now that you can’t see how wrong this is. You’re willing to die—to actually die—just to touch me forever, and that’s not healthy. That’s not love. That’s obsession. That’s—”
“That’s what you did to me!” The words exploded out of you. “You told me you’d rather spend eternity as a ghost than watch me risk myself. You threatened to leave if I tried the manifestation. You’ve been willing to sacrifice your own happiness, your own desire to be touched, for my safety. How is this any different?”
“Because I’m already dead!” His voice broke. “I’m already gone! I lost my chance at life sixty years ago! But you—you still have time. You still have possibilities. You could still walk away from this, find someone living, and build a real life with a real future. You could still be happy without me.”
“I don’t want to be happy without you,” you said, and you were crying now, tears streaming down your face. “I want you. Dead, alive, corporeal, incorporeal, I don’t care. I just want you.”
He stared at you, this impossible man who’d died too young and loved you too much, and then he pulled you back into his arms. You went willingly, pressing your tear-stained face against his chest, feeling his arms wrap around you. “We’ll figure it out,” he whispered. “There has to be a way.”
You wanted to believe him, but as you lay down on your bed, feeling his not-quite-alive heartbeat against your cheek, you couldn’t shake the feeling that the librarian was right. Equilibrium was unstable, and, eventually, something would have to give.
In the end, it happened on a Tuesday when Satoru asked you to do something silly, stupid: he asked you to dance with him in the kitchen, and when he kissed you, soft and sweet and tender, you screamed against his mouth.
CASE FILE #2847: APARTMENT 4B.
An Investigation by the Metropolitan Paranormal Research Society.
Published in the Journal of Unexplained Phenomena, Volume 34, Issue 7.
ABSTRACT
Over the past eighteen months, apartment 4B at 847 Seventh Street has become the subject of intense paranormal interest following the disappearance of its sole occupant and subsequent reports of aggressive haunting activity. This case presents several unique features that distinguish it from typical residential hauntings, including predictable temporal patterns of manifestation, dual entity presence, and an unusual level of emotional resonance that has resulted in complete tenant turnover within the first year of documented activity.
BACKGROUND
The apartment in question is a modest one-bedroom unit in a building constructed in 1950 and converted into an apartment in 1972. Historical records indicate sporadic reports of “cold spots” and “unsettling feelings” dating back to the building’s construction, though these were generally dismissed as typical of older architecture. The current manifestations began in October 20XX, following the unexplained disappearance of the apartment’s tenant, [REDACTED], age XX.
Ms. [REDACTED] was reported missing by her employer after she failed to appear for work and could not be reached by phone. A welfare check revealed her apartment was undisturbed – personal effects in place, no signs of struggle or forced entry. Her keys, wallet, and phone were found on the kitchen table. Security footage showed her entering the building at approximately 3:47 P.M. on the day of her disappearance but never leaving. She simply vanished.
The investigation into her disappearance remains open. No body has been recovered. No evidence of foul play was discovered. She exists now only in missing person databases and the memories of those who knew her.
PRIMARY MANIFESTATION: THE SCREAMING
The most consistent and disturbing phenomenon reported by all subsequent tenants is what has come to be known as “the nightly screaming.” Without fail, every evening at approximately 6:23 P.M., the apartment is filled with the sound of a woman screaming in extreme agony. Multiple tenants have described it identically:
“It starts as a gasp, like someone struggling to breathe. Then it builds into this horrible wailing sound—not like someone being murdered, but like someone dying from the inside out. It’s the worst sound I’ve ever heard. It goes on for minutes, sometimes ten or fifteen, and you can hear her trying to form words but can’t. The screaming gets thinner as it goes on, like she’s fading away. And then it just… stops.” — Tenant #3, resided 6 weeks
“I thought someone was being tortured in my living room. I called the police three times in the first week. They’d show up, find nothing, look at me like I was crazy. But I heard it every single night. And the worst part? I could feel her pain. Like it was radiating through the walls. Whatever happened to her, it wasn’t quick.” — Tenant #5, resided 11 days
“My girlfriend lasted exactly one night. She heard the screaming and refused to ever come back. I tried to tough it out for the cheap rent, but after two weeks I couldn’t take it anymore. I’d lie in bed every evening at 6:20, knowing it was coming, and the anticipation was almost worse than the sound itself. You can’t unhear something like that. It gets into your head.” — Tenant #7, resided 14 days
Acoustic analysis has been attempted multiple times. Recording equipment placed in the apartment captures the screams clearly, ruling out mass auditory hallucination. However, the recordings cannot be enhanced or analysed – the sound registers simultaneously too loud and too quiet, existing at frequencies that shouldn’t be possible for the human voice. The timing of the screams never varies. Several researchers have theorised this may represent the exact moment of Ms. [REDACTED]’s death – or transformation, depending on which theory one subscribes to.
SECONDARY MANIFESTATION: THE WHITE-HAIRED MAN
The second most commonly reported phenomenon is the appearance of a male entity, described consistently across all witness accounts.
Tall (estimated 6’2” or taller)
White or silver hair
Appears to be in his late twenties
Wearing what multiple witnesses described as “old-fashioned Japanese clothing”
Translucent, clearly non-corporeal
Most often seen standing at the living room window, particularly at sunrise
“I’d wake up early for work, come into the living room, and there he’d be. Just standing at the window, staring out at the city like he was waiting for something. He never acknowledged me. Never moved. Just stood there until the sun was fully up, and then he’d fade away. After a few days, I started feeling sorry for him. He looked so sad.” — Tenant #4, resided 23 days
Historical research into the building’s past has uncovered sporadic reports of a similar figure dating back to the 1950s, suggesting this entity may have been present long before Ms. [REDACTED]’s disappearance. What makes this manifestation particularly unusual is the entity’s consistent behaviour. Most ghosts, if one believes such things, are erratic – appearing and disappearing at random, behaving unpredictably. This entity follows a pattern: standing by the window at sunrise, approximately 6:00-6:45 A.M. He has never been reported as threatening or even interactive. He simply exists.
Some tenants reported feeling an overwhelming sense of melancholy when in his presence. Others described a strange compulsion to speak to him, though he never responded. One tenant claimed she said good morning to him every day for a week before realising he couldn’t – or wouldn’t – acknowledge her.
TERTIARY MANIFESTATION: THE DANCERS
Perhaps the most haunting reports come from those who have witnessed what investigators have termed “the dancing phenomenon.” This occurs less frequently than the primary manifestations, perhaps once or twice a week, always in the early evening hours between 5:00 and 6:00 P.M.
“I came home from work and heard music playing. Old music, like from the ‘40s or ‘50s. I opened the door and saw them—two figures, translucent, dancing in my kitchen. Slow dancing, barely moving, just swaying back and forth. One of them was the white-haired man. The other was a woman. She looked… God, she looked so happy. And so sad at the same time. They were completely absorbed in each other, like nothing else in the world existed. I watched for maybe a minute before they faded away, but I could still feel them there, somehow. I just couldn’t see them anymore.” — Tenant #8, resided 19 days
“It was the most beautiful and terrible thing I’ve ever seen. They were clearly in love—you could see it in the way they held each other, the way they moved together. But there was something desperate about it too. Like they were dancing because it was all they had left. I started crying watching them, and I don’t even know why. I moved out the next day. I couldn’t stay in a place that made me feel that sad.” — Tenant #11, resided 4 days
The woman in these accounts has never been positively identified, though several witnesses have noted she resembled photographs of Ms. [REDACTED]. If this is indeed her spirit, it suggests she did not leave her apartment after all – merely transitioned from one form of existence to another.
PHYSICAL EVIDENCE AND ANOMALIES
Beyond witness testimony, the apartment exhibits several measurable anomalies:
Temperature fluctuations: The apartment maintains an average temperature 8-12 degrees below surrounding units, regardless of heating settings
Electromagnetic anomalies: EMF readers consistently spike between 6:00-7:00 P.M.
Photographic evidence: Multiple tenants have captured orbs, shadows, and in three cases, distinct translucent figures on film
Time distortion: Several tenants reported losing hours while in the apartment, entering at one time and emerging to find much more time had passed than they’d experienced
One particularly disturbing report came from Tenant #6, who claimed to have woken in the middle of the night to find both entities standing at the foot of her bed, holding hands, watching her sleep. She moved out that same night, leaving most of her possessions behind.
ATTEMPTED INTERVENTIONS
The landlord, desperate to rent the apartment after sixteen failed tenancies, has attempted various solutions:
Three separate cleansings by religious authorities (Catholic priest, Buddhist monk, non-denominational spiritual healer): No effect
Electromagnetic dampening equipment: No effect
Complete renovation of the apartment: No effect; manifestations continued unchanged
Attempted exorcism: The presiding priest reporting feeling “overwhelming sadness” and refused to complete the ritual, stating the entities “didn’t want to leave and shouldn’t be forced to”
One particularly controversial attempt involved a medium who claimed to make contact with the female entity. According to her account, the spirit communicated that she was “exactly where she wanted to be” and had “no regrets.” The medium emerged from the session visibly shaken and refused to discuss details beyond that statement.
CURRENT STATUS
As of this publication, apartment 4B remains vacant. The landlord has ceased attempts to rent it, instead listing the property for sale – with full disclosure of the paranormal activity, as required by law following the Johnson vs. Riverside Realty precedent. There have been no offers. The screaming continued every night at 6:23 P.M. The white-haired man still watches the sunrise. And sometimes, if you stand outside the building in the early evening, you can hear music playing from the fourth floor, and if you look up at the window, you might catch a glimpse of two figures swaying together in the fading light.
CONCLUSION
Case #2847 represents one of the most well-documented and consistent hauntings in the city’s history. The predictability of the manifestations, combined with the emotional resonance reported by witnesses, suggests a level of consciousness and intention rare in paranormal phenomena.
Ms. [REDACTED] was officially declared dead in absentia in March 20XY. Her family held a memorial service, though no body was ever recovered for burial. Friends describe her as kind, quiet, and someone who kept to herself but loved deeply when she let people in. Her mother, in a statement to the police, said her daughter had seemed “different” in the months before her disappearance – distant, distracted, but also somehow happier than she’d been in years.
The question remains: Is this a haunting in the traditional sense, or something else? Are these entities trapped, or have they chosen to stay? Is this a tragedy or a love story? Perhaps it’s both.
—End Report—
Editor’s Note: This case remains under active observation. Readers with additional information are encouraged to contact the Metropolitan Paranormal Research Society. The author wishes to note that despite extensive research and multiple site visits, she will not be conducting any further in-person investigations of this location. Some places, she maintains, should be left undisturbed.
