🪻: "welcome to our coffee shop. feel free to look around. my darling will assist you in a moment."
"greetings, beloved customer! i'm kofi (18) welcome to our coffee shop! i see you've met my husband. (quite the looker, am i right?) oh right! i should take your order! ah, before you proceed i should warn you that most of our creations have dark ingredients. it's all listed below :D"
dark content warning! ingredients prominent in our cup of joes: yandere, stalking, cnc, incest, stepcest, obsessive and possessive behavior (worship), x reader fics only, blurbs... minors/if uncomf DNI.
🪻: "huh, so you are fine with it? alright then. take note that we don't take refunds though."
coffee notes ᯓ★
[🐦⬛] espresso ; dark. yandere, mdni etc.
[☂️] black ; bitter. angst, hurt etc.
[🫐] latte ; sweet. fluff, comfort etc.
request a personalized coffee? 𝐎𝐏𝐄𝐍 !!
under the read more is our rules and full menu.
‧₊˚ ⋅ 𓐐𓎩 ‧₊˚ ⋅📜 our menu 🛎️
rules to request.
i write gender-neutral and female reader content, with fem reader being my default. male reader content is not something i write. i focus on genshin impact and SAGAU, so please specify if you want SAGAU in your request. other AUs are also welcome if specified.
i write character x reader only, not character x character.
no super specific reader to the point it's an oc.
i will delete requests that i won't accept so it wouldn't pile up. my sched is kinda hectic, it's hard to tell when i will finish a request but more often than not, i indulge them.
i write: stepcest/incest, harem, aphrodisiac use, yandere (worship), possessive and obsessive behavior, killing for love, "idc who i have to get rid of so i can love you all to myself", porn w/o plot and vice versa, dubcon, cnc, etc.
i don't write: omegaverse, abortion, miscarriage, self-harm, overt gore, catgirl/hybrid reader (with exceptions, ex: reader suddenly turns a cat for a day), pedophilia, necrophilia.
in terms of wc, idrc how long your req is going to be as long as it isn't too specific if yw im saying. it can be as short as "scara worshipping us on the throne while the rest of the acolytes are gone" or sth more detailed.
that's all! thank you for choosing our coffee shop!
Synopsis. A jester marrying a princess? Not even in the most terrible joke.
Gojo Satoru has loved you ever since the first time he made you laugh, he’s loved you since you appointed him as your personal jester—and he’s loved you even when your royal engagement was announced.
But if only a prince can marry a princess…maybe a jester can wreck it.
Pairing. Gojo Satoru x Reader
Content. MDNI, fem!princess!reader, jester!Gojo, royalty AU, forbídden Iove, yearning, PLOT, hurt, best friends to Iovers, betrothaIs (not to Gojo), he’s so siIIy, and so in Iove, sad backstorìes, vìoIence and bIood (not to or from Gojo), rhymes, pranks, Naoya’s awfuI, hidden schemes, makeovers, masquerade baIIs, masks, somewhat CindereIIa-Iike, oraI (fem rec.), tongue f, fìngering, he’s PÚSSYDRÚNK, p taIking, pínching, bíting, spítting, ínappropriate use of the jester hat, he’s FÉRAL, raw, matíng presses, first times (for both), he’s BlG, making it fit, talking you through it, pushing down, dirty taIk, rhymes whilst he’s INSIDE, creampíes, cúmpIay, royal weddings, HAPPY ENDING, pet names, swéaring.
Word count. 16.8k
A/N. TO THE LOVELY BABYGIRLS THAT HAVE BEEN BEEEEGGING FOR THIS TROPE- and inspired by the very talented @/karolineprihodko on Tiktok <33
“A fool may sleep. A fool may sneer. A fool may ask why the princess is crying here?”
It’s so sudden that it stops your tears.
Crouched in a small passageway near the royal court. Between the gleaming armors upon display of Gakuganji the Great and Kashimo the Fierce. For a brief moment of madness; you think you must have imagined the lilting voice—almost melodic. Marvelous.
It’s one of the most beautiful things you’ve ever heard - even more so than the music wafting from the open doors of court, brought by the travelling circus that your palace was entertaining.
And then you’re hearing him again.
“Sob sob sob—for my princess is a crier. Dear Gojo here, shall set Yaga’s stache on fire—!”
That makes you finally lift your head out of your arms, with a laugh that is full-chested and unabashed. For the first time in a long…long time.
“What might your name be?” You ask the boy with the bright blue eyes, and an even brighter smile.
And that was the story of how you met Gojo Satoru - when you were eight, and he’d been merely ten. Though he didn’t look ten—he might’ve looked even younger than you.
White hair. Winks of dimples upon each cheek. His face was chalk-white from the make-up typical of jesters, even young ones, supposedly.
He was drowning in a faded red and blue jester outfit that looked as if it’d been dragged through multiple shows a night. It looked far too big to have been his originally. Even through the patched-up collar, his collarbones showed, and from the too-wide sleeves; his pale, near-skeletal limbs stuck out oddly.
His face was pretty, however, with eyes too large for his head.
Gojo’s cheeks were sunken in, yet his smile wasn’t the slightest bit smaller. That, too, looked too large to be his.
And you…
Crying outside the royal court, after your parents had declared you far too young to see the travelling circus. The acrobats. The sword-swallowers. And one little jester…that had gone missing during the processions.
Though, in time, Gojo took delight in weaving in additional parts of fighting off dragons and two haunted knight armors—enraptured courts that clapped and laughed as he sang of a white-haired fool and his crying princess. He’d whisked you off your feet and made you swoon in ways a princess utterly shouldn’t - and then produced you before your horrified father, His Majesty, as the sole suitor that made you laugh.
At least according to him.
Though one thing was true from that fairytale: Gojo had been the only person to make you laugh. The only one.
Previous jesters and palace acts wavered between confusing you with their overly long ballads, or enraging you - all because they assumed some little princess couldn’t handle humor. And maybe that was why - Gojo hadn’t underestimated you - that you’d gone right up to your father in the middle of a particularly splendid fire-breathing act, stood in the center of the lavish floor, and declared—
For Gojo to be released from the circus to become your personal jester.
As a royal jester he would be clothed, bathed, and tutored alongside you - so long as he kept you entertained with his rhymes (to which you had no doubt that he wouldn’t falter).
Not minister nor royal guest should lay a hand on him. He was to be treated as an equal member of the court, and should have titles bestowed upon him in due time—but for now, he will grow up as your best friend. Your only.
And whilst declaring this in about as much royal haughtiness as you could have managed, you looked over at Gojo. You don’t remember for what reason. You don’t remember what you were looking for.
All you remember is that Gojo’s eyes seemed brighter in that moment, like the night’s cloak of stars. There were tears in his eyes.
And he flashed you his crooked grin.
You grinned back.
His Majesty and the advisors didn’t take long to mull over the thought before asking the circus master to name his price for the boy. And Gojo had been small then - oh-so-small - a mere waif of a boy. He was clearly the youngest amongst these adults, and the circus master hadn’t even remembered he was part of the troupe.
He’d demanded two crowns and a bag of wheat.
To which The King had obliged with a simple wave of his hand—before freeing the other circus members, as well. He was merciful…most of the time.
And you’d been so overcome with joy that you ran to the jester and took his hands then and there.
Had it been in the little passageway where you’d met, then you might even have embraced him.
But perhaps you’d given the ministers enough conniptions for the day?
“Follow me.” You breathlessly whispered to the little jester that seemed far too shocked for words. “I shall summon the royal tailor whilst you take your bath- we have every fragrance in the land, and more than enough botanical springs.”
But the longer he stayed speechless and unmoving, the more self-conscious you grew.
Your fingers loosened around his, “That…that is if you wish to-”
“I do.” He stopped you from slipping away - he clasped your hands even tighter. Tight enough to nearly hurt—but you didn’t stop him. “I-I’d be honored, Your Highness.”
“You shan’t have to call me that.”
And though a few eavesdropping court ladies and gentlemen gasped at the destruction of long-held social etiquette, Gojo had merely smiled and nodded. And then you’d been the one to whisk him away.
You.
Gojo shared little about his upbringing that first day in the palace, and even less over the years. You knew that he’d been born into an average family just a kingdom over - Gojo itself was a fairly used name - but tragedy struck and his parents both passed away—although you never asked how, and he never shared why. It almost…seemed as if he didn’t remember. A part of him that had scrubbed out most of those years, like a bloodstain.
And he’d lived in the same lifeless home as them for five days. Trying to wake them.
No one listened.
No one arrived.
No one helped.
No one helped.
No one helped.
Driven by hunger and loneliness, Gojo finally left the house after those five days. And just his fortune, he hadn’t walked long before encountering the travelling circus—so many jugglers and jesters and acrobats and fire-breathers. And one master leading them from the front.
He’d been both enraptured and scared.
And hungry. So…so hungry.
Even the smell of the lion food was appetizing to him.
One acrobat passing by had spotted the boy watching wide-eyed from the side of the road, and seeing how desperate he was, shared her lunch and invited him to join. It was the biggest act of kindness he’d felt in five days.
And so he taught himself to rhyme. To joke. To smile.
And two years later was when you saved him- you told Gojo that it wasn’t so much as saving him than him saving you. But he denied.
“Thank you.” Gojo had whispered to you, almost fearful, during his first night in the palace. The Princess’s jester had been granted quarters right across the hallway from your own chambers—and yet, the first night was always the scariest, wasn’t it?
He’d given you quite the fright sneaking into your royal chamber after all the candles had been snuffed and your attendants had left. Soundless as a mouse—and looking just as unwelcome inside the gilded bedroom. But eventually, you welcomed him onto the lavish mattress far too large for even two.
Let alone two children.
Laid a fair distance apart, you faced each other.
“I forbid you to say those words again, Gojo.” You smiled. “And just for the one night, I trust?” You meant the bed-sharing; should your attendants walk upon this in the morning, then Gojo would be thrown into the dungeons faster than he can rhyme.
Gojo nodded, somewhat flushed. “Just for the one night.”
.
.
.
“Satoru-”
“Mmmm, puff pastries and wagashi.”
“Satoru.”
“Huh? Ohhh, sweet cheesecake.”
“Sato—” The exasperated call of his name doesn’t land before the kick does - square in the middle of Gojo Satoru’s broad back.
Sometime in the last few years, after he’d taken up training with General Yaga to keep himself fit for his dances, Gojo had started sleeping without his upper garments on.
And you couldn’t deny that it was a sight for sore eyes; his sun-freckled sun, the dips and curves of his muscles shifting as he did. The roundness of his deltoids. The sensual curve of his spine. The patterns of his scapulae, and lash marks that he wouldn’t explain. They moved like waves of an ocean, and they peaked and fell just as much. Some mornings you dared to trace every single one—just with your eyes, of course.
But of course, he was just your best friend - socially, your jester, at that.
Which is exactly why you’re kicking him off the bed the second you hear your morning attendants heading down the corridor. As soon as he’s out of sight, the double doors to your bedroom open—and they’re floating inside with steaming-hot trays of breakfast and new fragrances for your skin.
One of the attendants sets the breakfast tray down on your bedside table, and you sneak him a few of the blueberry-spotted pancakes. Though have to slap Gojo’s hand away from swiping the syrup, too, before one of them sees.
“Such a beautiful day, isn’t it, Your Highness?” Your head attendant, Utahime, trills as she throws the curtains open to let soft morning sunlight flood inside. “The perfect morning.”
“It is.” You’re nodding. You slap Gojo’s hand away from the syrup again.
“And we have no more than an hour to get you ready, Your Highness. So I beg you to finish your tea quickly.” Another attendant hands you your morning tea - just how you liked it. It smelled of something floral that reminded you of the royal gardens, and something else so utterly appetizing that you could feel Gojo huffin’ and puffing about beneath you.
Served him right for sneaking in again, you think.
You slap Gojo’s hand away again. Utahime continues speaking onwards obliviously, “—prepare for the guest.”
“A guest?” That piques your interest.
This time, Gojo steals the syrup. And it creates a loud clatter that draws the attention of all the attendants sweeping and scurrying about to pick out your gown for the day—you’re unceremoniously coughing to cover it up. You’re not sure it works.
Utahime crinkles her nose, “Nasty little ailment, isn’t it?” Her intelligent eyes dip down to the bed - though she keeps it discreet. Utahime, as well as being your head attendant, was one of your closest friends as well.
Close to you in age, you’d hand-picked her to be what was essentially your right-hand woman.
And she knew of the rather…close friendship that you and Gojo had; perhaps improper for court etiquette, but just right for the two of you.
From underneath the bed, Gojo snickers.
You bounce on the mattress, whilst Utahime kicks the bed post.
“Ah…this ancient bed.” You’re commenting once the other attendants look at you with raised brows, “Honestly, sometimes I believe it to be haunted.”
“Wake up to a mysterious figure at your bedside, do you?” Utahime eyes you. You avert your gaze from hers. “Well, we should do well to rid your chambers of that before the Prince arrives, Your Highness.”
“The Prince?”
“Prince Zenin Naoya, of course.”
Gojo knocks his head on the bed frame.
.
.
.
Prince Zenin Naoya possessed many titles; the latest one being the most unpleasant royal you’ve ever had the displeasure of meeting.
Which was saying rather a lot.
You’ve met many a-princess that were appalling to her attendants, and many princes that boasted their numerous wars. Your father himself fell into the latter group. And many, many more dukes and duchesses and marquis—and whatever other title had surfaced over the last few centuries and gotten latched-onto with rabid, golden-ringed claws. Had it not been for your duty to maintain a peaceful political climate, you would have forgone those social gatherings altogether.
Though your father was particularly careful not to repeat the border strife that had occurred not too long ago in your kingdom…some violence-seeped dispute over power.
And so you lifted your head and plastered a smile.
You managed to clamor through even the most painful of social obligations.
But this one…this one might just force you to rewrite all the royal rules that had been drilled into you since you were younger.
“It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.” You nod in acknowledgement as the Prince bows. His coronet was made of pure gold; a simple band with a blood-red ruby in the middle.
It flashed at you menacingly.
And so did his pearly-white smile.
“The pleasure is all yours, Your Highness.”
You’re taken aback at his choice of words. You meet Gojo’s eyes a little ways away from the court- and his read the same confusion. He shakes his head imperceptibly. Then Naoya turns to the King seated on the throne beside you instead. His smile leers, “My utmost gratitude for this invitation, Your Majesty. My parents send their regards.”
“Good people, good people.” Your father nods, “Their assistance during…those times of trouble shall forever remain in my memory.”
“Who are we if not united against the face of the radicals, Your Majesty?” Naoya graciously bows once more.
“Well said.” And then the King makes a sweeping gesture in your direction. “And in the future, it seems we shall be united once more.”
Naoya throws his gaze at you again, and the way he looks at you…it makes you hug your arms to yourself.
You’re unsure why your gaze had been upon Gojo at that very moment - they always did seem to find him - but you watch as his expression darkens. Darkens. Darkens. In a way you’ve never seen before, and then it’s hitting you—
“Father?”
But he ignores you, “Satoru—!” In the years that you’ve brought Gojo to court, your father had become rather fond of his rhymes and riddles as much as you were. So it wasn’t exactly surprising that he had been called upon, and Gojo’s expression switches instantly into one of foolish mirth. “Why don’t you share one of your amusing rhymes with our guest?”
“As you wish, Your Majesty.” He bows deeply. As he makes his way to the middle of the court, where Naoya and his entourage were gathered, the bells upon his blue-and-white garments jingle.
And before you know it, Gojo clasps onto Naoya’s shoulders and ensnares him with his words. “Naoya o’ Naoya, with your great riches and gait.” The corners of his lips twitch - something sharp. Gojo covers his mouth in a faux-whisper, though his words reach every single corner of the vast chamber. “Every lady here knows you take potions to compensate~”
Naoya’s face turns green then red. A furious red.
As if fearing the Prince would swing, Gojo jumps back- just in time for the hay-blond man to whirl around. “But oh, no potion shall make Prince Naoya’s rooster big—the most you ladies get will be the size of a fig~”
The jester laughs maniacally, and so does much of the court; you yourself can’t stop from letting out a startled laugh or two.
Your best friend never did hold back - perhaps because he was the only one allowed to do so without fearing the threat of the dungeons.
And Gojo watches as a giggle slips past the hand you’d brought up to cover your mouth- and his grin widens as he takes it as a challenge. Dancing around Naoya, he continues—
“Naoya is hated by the ladies of the court. Naoya is hated in his medical reports~” He trills gleefully, darting a hand out and knocking Naoya’s coronet off. “And all the ladies and all the healers, have never seen a cock this short~”
Red face now turning almost…a sickly yellow, Naoya attempts to fist-fight the jester. Though Gojo was far more agile than he looked, and he was dodging each hit with ease.
“Oh—have I offended you, Your Highness? Perhaps a change of pace…” Gojo crows. “For all Naoya hates women, he might as well court men-”
“You- you—”
“Easy, son.” Your father chuckles to himself as well, “You should do good to familiarize yourself with the Princess’s jester if you are to marry her.”
Gojo stutters- and his rhyme pauses. His eyes widen.
You feel the red, red carpet give out beneath you.
.
.
.
“I simply must…apologize for Sato- my jester, Your Highness.”
The clinking of silverware fortunately masked the waver in your tone. It was insincere and unapologetic.
Naoya maintains an expression as if he’d just smelled something unpleasant, perhaps as if it was on his very plate. The Prince cuts into his bird with far too much force than necessary, “Apology accepted.” Rather short.
Though you yourself didn’t care—you shoot a look at the ministers that were currently attempting to meld into the royal portraits on the wall.
With nervous smiles, they urge you to continue.
It was a poor imitation of a romantic dinner - as romantic as a political marriage could get.
The royal dining room had a table that sprawled nearly from one end-to-end. Polished mahogany. Intricately-carved legs. So thick that they didn’t buckle under the hundreds of dishes piled on top: soups to puddings to heart-shaped wagashi to those you couldn’t even name. Woven in-between were flickering candles and vases of red, red roses—sprouting confessions of love.
Some of those petals were even scattered across the floor.
Though the dining room could seat about four-hundred guests, right now it only seated him and you. You and your future husband.
Your future husband.
Your future husband.
Your future husband.
It still hadn’t sunk in, and you didn’t want it to.
Zenin Naoya takes a bite of his roasted bird and spits it back out. From his entourage, one of the Zenin ministers darts out with a dish to collect it.
You wrinkle your nose in distaste.
Two courts were watching this fallacy of courtship.
From your side, it was the entirety of your court save for some of the outer ladies-in-waiting and some gents, and your parents. From his side, it was Naoya’s entire entourage at his every beck, call, and swallow. Just waiting for the opportunity that their beloved Prince didn’t like anything.
Which seemed to be…everything.
You yourself can only pick at the delicacies on your plate - they’d done well to include favorites of both you and His Highness. And yet…
And yet, in the past eighteen years you’ve never sat through a dinner without Gojo at your side.
Always at your right-hand seat. Always chomping through his dinner with overexaggerated noises that made you laugh, and the ministers grimace.
How could you feel so alone surrounded by so many people, and yet lacking one?
You’re biting back a sigh.
“Pssst.”
Confused, you look up at Naoya- but he seems just as morbidly indulgent in his food as he was before. He was spitting out even more.
And so you look around—but none of the ministers nor advisors catch your eye, either.
“Psssssst.”
There it was again. Somewhat irritated and feeling your confusion growing - this dinner certainly hadn’t put you in a good mood - you’re about to excuse yourself from this social hostage-situation. Someone must be attempting to make a fool out of you. You’re resting your hands on the polished table and about to push off—
When you feel something…touch your wrist.
You’re about to scream-
“Tamper your screaming, please.”
Oh, well if they asked so nicely…
Wait-
Who?
Without making too much of a spectacle, you slide your fork off the edge of the table.
Naoya grumbles at the metallic ringing—and muttering a dainty apology, you’re leaning down to pick it up. Or so it seems.
Instead, you’re crouching yourself down and lifting the tablecloth ever-so-slightly. It’s a purple velvet, one of the finest in the land, and it opens up to reveal one of the greatest treasures this palace held. At least, in your opinion.
Gojo Satoru brings a finger up to his lips and winks. His make-up crinkling handsomely as he did so, “Do you frequent these parts?”
“I should ask the same from you.” You hiss, glancing around to make sure that no one was looking. “Satoru, what do you think you’re doing-”
“Exercising my culinary skills, my princess.” And he raises up a little velvet packet in one hand, shaking it around tantalizingly. He answers your question before you can voice it, “Just a little horseshoe, just a little wool from Yaga’s sweater, and perhaps the Prince that swallows this shall be a little sweeter~”
Your jaw drops. “You cannot be serious-”
“Never in my life have I been more serious.” Gojo replies solemnly, then with an innocent flutter of his lashes- “Forgive me for not sharing, my princess. But perhaps you would favor it as well?”
“It shan’t suit my palate.” You answer firmly.
“It’s far more palatable than what I did to the wine, trust me.” Gojo smirks.
“You rouge.”
He opens his mouth as if to say something more, but Naoya’s tone grates through the little bubble of mirth you’d formed—in less than a minute, no less. “Wife- wife.”
You and Gojo stare at one another in shock.
Wife?
One of your ministers coughs pointedly, and with a final glance at Gojo, you’re straightening in your chair. “Were you perhaps addressing…me, Your Highness?” And any smart man would have quickly backtracked at this opportunity to change their answer.
But you never claimed that Zenin Naoya was particularly smart. “My eyes don’t perceive any other woman here?” He scoffs, taking a bite of a chicken leg and then immediately spitting it out—“As for the engagement plans- eugh.”
You’re biting back a laugh as he drags out a string - seemingly from a wool…sweater…of Yaga’s - from his mouth and looks at his ministers in bewilderment.
“Th-the chef must have been in a state of pioneering.” You cough out.
Another bite he takes.
And another wad of wool he spits out.
You bring a hand up to your lips, “Perhaps you should wash it down with the wine, Your Highness? It had been brewed specifically for this occasion.”
And so he does - eyeing you all the while.
Naoya takes a big swig of his goblet and—shrieks as he finds half of a shoe inside.
One of Gojo’s very own.
That shriek is loud enough to make the walls of the dining chamber rattle; and Gojo shoots out from the side of the dining table, unable to keep his laughter in control, and dances away. “Twiddle dee, twiddle doo—Naoya coughed up a shoe~” Those double doors are still swinging as it sinks in what just happened- and your ministers and guards take a menacing step towards where the colorful intruder had disappeared.
You raise your hand to signal them to halt.
“This insolent—” Naoya was spitting with fury- unable to even formulate words. His mouth is a downturned slash, and he shoves the plate off the table. It shatters vociferously.
You notice that he’s turned a little green in the way he only seemed to do when Gojo was nearby. “My first order as King shall be to rid this incompetent kitchen-” He spits. “-and that godforsaken jester-”
Your fork clatters to the floor once again. “What’s wrong with Satoru?” You didn’t care if you sounded rather too offended by such a question. “Is it the practical jokes? I shall request that he ceases such-”
“What’s wrong? What’s wrong?” Naoya cackles to himself. “Woman, what is there not wrong about that goddamn fool? He’s- he’s—a fool.”
“For that is his duty, is it not?” You narrow your eyes at him.
“I suppose.” Naoya leans back in his chair, “But his duty is to the crown, and when I am King-”
“His duty is to me.” Before you know it, you’re standing. You’re breathing hard. You’re ignoring the ministers that attempt to hold you back. “He’s my best fri—jester.”
And you repeat…though you don’t know whether it’s more for yourself, Naoya, or the boy with the blue eyes that was once underneath the table.
“He’s mine.”
Those words fall like the blade of a guillotine.
Naoya’s eyes were spitting fire. “He’s…yours, is it?” He throws his cape back and stands, “Your Highness…I fail to understand why you entangle yourself with a mere jester?” Though the sentence itself wasn’t one particularly barbed, his distaste bled through every syllable.
“He- he is my best friend-”
“He is a jester.” Naoya says with a tone of finality. He pushes back, letting the chair clutter behind him- the brings up a palm to stop his ministers from righting it. “And a jester can never be anything to a princess. Never.”
Those footsteps of his resound louder than your heartbeat. Ba-dump. Ba-dump.
On the way to making his exit, he stops before the entrance and speaks. “We are to be engaged in six moons, and when you are my wife, I expect you to act like one.” Naoya’s gaze is deadly as he grips the door open, “My family earned our titles bringing down entire households- a mere jester is nothing to me.”
Another guillotine: this time, it’s the closing of the dining room doors.
“Your Highness-”
But you’re following Naoya out, and tears burn behind your eyes.
Just as luck - or perhaps fate - would have it, who else had been standing behind the doors listening to every word? None other than Gojo Satoru.
Though his face is downturned, and you can’t make out his expression, your heart soars at the sight of him. He’s pressed against one of the walls closest to the doors, and he clenches his fists at his sides. And you’re just about to reach out- to tell him that Naoya’s words didn’t matter- to tell him that Naoya didn’t matter—
But before you could, Gojo sharply turns to you and bows. Those bells atop his hat jingle as he does so, and he stays bowed as he asks, “This fool begs to be dismissed, Your Highness?”
Your Highness? “You…you may…” Your brows furrow, fingers trembling towards him. “But Satoru-”
And yet, he’s gone.
And you didn’t get a single look at his expression.
You wondered what you would see. You wondered what you would be hoping to see.
But no matter what it was, you knew that all you wanted to see - whether anger or mirth or irritation - was Gojo himself.
Your engagement was in six moons.
.
.
.
To your dismay, Gojo Satoru was avoiding you.
You should have realized that something was off that moment after the disastrous dinner—or perhaps when he didn’t join you to sleep, or perhaps when he hadn’t joined court in the following days. According to one of the palace staff, the jester was ill, but every attempt at a visit to his quarters ended up with you being rebuffed or diverted.
And how many opportunities for diversion there were.
The palace was a-flush with florists, and bakers, and candle-makers, and mask-designers—and orchestras upon orchestras practising for your engagement waltz.
One of those times you’d been dragged away to floral-picking for the grand engagement ball - the one that would announce your union to the entire kingdom. Another time it had been to pose for a portrait with Naoya (a particularly taxing endeavour). And another time it was to pick out the colors for your mask- this was to be an extravagant masquerade ball after all. And another time it had been to get fitted for the ballgown you’d be wearing for the night—like exactly right now.
This time, you’d gotten just past the guards stationed upon either side of Gojo’s chambers (both on his word, and to prevent the Princess from getting into any…scandalous affairs before the engagement).
And you’d cracked open the door - ever-so-slightly - only to find that what was inside…made you halt.
Gojo’s room was completely and utterly empty.
Not just of himself, but of his literature books, his shoes, his bells, his flower vases. Anything and everything that made the chamber so utterly Gojo’s, was gone. Even the braid of friendship you wove for him when you were twelve - that he kept at the very top of his jewelry box - and the flower crowns you made for him that he dried and hung from his windows—you made them rather often, before…Naoya.
He had intruded upon your idle dance between love and friendship - and you were still feeling bitter and confused as Utahime fitted you. As she wound up the hip springs of your corset- and tightened, and tightened—
“I just fail- hah, fail to understand.” You’re muttering, slightly out-of-breath.
Utahime looks up from the knots of your corset, “Your Highness?”
The royal tailor had just stepped out to aid in bringing the imported silk and cloth of gold up to your bed chambers, and in the meantime your attendants were helping tighten your numerous layers underneath. Your ballgown - engagement dress, more precisely - would be fitted on top of the base linen undergarments and the crinolines.
Tonight, you will be engaged.
And to a man that has never made you laugh once-
“Your Highness?” Utahime repeats, snapping you out of your little reverie.
“Oh- forgive me.” You nod at her in acknowledgment. “What I meant to say was, I just fail to understand what he’s thinking.”
She nods back - you didn’t have to specify who. “It is precisely as I have told you, Your Highness.” Utahime tightens a few more knots- knocks a few more breaths out of you. “That ol’ nuisance has not a single thought in his mind. You must not worry yourself too much about him.”
“Oh, but Utahime…how can I not?” You’re sure the flurry of other attendants surrounding you were listening in - smoothing down your layers, preparing your jewelry. But you didn’t care at the moment, if you did say so yourself.
“I believe it is just a little ailment, Your Highness. I fear I am not blessed enough for such a thing to prove fatal to that jester-”
You gulp. “I believe Satoru may be avoiding me.”
At that, even Utahime’s brows furrow. “Pardon?”
“His chambers have been emptied of even the flower crowns, and I haven’t even the faintest glimpse of him these past few days.” Speaking these words aloud seems to make them too real. “I believe I told you of how he overheard the conversation between Naoya and I?”
Utahime nods.
“Naoya had uttered some things- balderdash, if you ask me—” Your fists threaten to clench, but two attendants were working on your nails. Another was double-checking the measurements for your mask. Mask. “Yet I fear Satoru may have misconstrued some things…and I haven’t laid eyes on him ever since.”
There’s a silence.
Her fingers finish their final knot.
And then Utahime stands to look you squarely in the eyes. “This is Gojo Satoru we speak of, is it not?”
Slowly, unsure of where this was going, you nod.
“Then you have naught to worry about, Your Highness.” She flashes you such a beautiful smile, looking over your corset for imperfections - of course, there were none. “It is most likely that he’s skulking about these palace walls, looking for a minister to scare or a prince to embarrass.”
You’re letting out a soft huff of laughter.
“Or even…a princess to adore.”
Your eyes widen- and you’re snapping your gaze to hers. There’s a knowing expression that Utahime wears - one she often gets whenever she notices Gojo hiding in your room, or watches the two of you sneak out during royal balls.
This one, in particular, was about to be the most crowded and convoluted yet.
And you’re meeting her smile, eventually. “I thank you, Utahime…” You then look down as you hear the doors of the dressing room fly open, “But adoration cannot stop a royal engagement.”
Three sharp claps sound as the tailor gets the attention of your attendants.
“That will be all, ladies. Thank you.” And his own attendants and apprentices flood the room to take over the fitting stage—Utahime squeezes your shoulder as she leaves.
Though she doesn’t reach her bed chambers for a much-needed rest, as she might have wanted to. Instead, she’s halting right outside the entrance-
“You.”
And making sure you were occupied by the tailoring, Gojo bows dramatically. Holding his little bells so they don’t jingle- “At your service, Madam Sour-face.”
“Cease it.”
“No, I said Sour-face-”
“Forget it.” Utahime could feel a migraine coming on already at the mere sight of his impish grin.
“Sour-face Utahime with her pressure so high, one more joke and she’ll make me cry~”
Why - oh why - couldn’t the universe take as kindly to her and forbid her from seeing this man, too? She continues, “First, enlighten me as to why you’ve been giving Her Highness the cut?”
A too-innocent expression crosses his face. “Pardon? I fear I have no recollection of ever-”
“I will kill you with my bare hands and feel no ounce of guilt.”
Gojo clicks his jaw shut.
“I…” And it’s under the pressure of her unwavering glare that he finally cracks- letting out a deep sigh and dropping his head. “I plan to leave the palace.”
“Pardon?” Even she sounds utterly shocked. “When-”
“Tonight.” Gojo has never sounded more serious to her. “I have spent the past few days gathering my possessions, everything…she gifted me. As the ball starts tonight, I shall take my leave.”
“But your duties-”
“I have informed His Majesty of my decision. It seems though he shall miss the rhymes, he is keen for an amicable marriage between Her Highness and Prince Naoya. A jester can be replaced, trust in a marriage cannot—especially not one of political nature.” Utahime is almost shocked at this simple foresight, but then again- everyone always did underestimate the fool.
She watches his reaction, “And…the Princess?”
Which seems to make him flinch - as though struck. Perhaps a part of him was. “…I shall leave her a letter before I depart. Her Highness does not deserve to see such cowardice-”
“And yet you still remain.” Utahime’s words make his blue eyes snap to hers. She crosses her arms in front of her, and lets a smug smile take over her lips. “For what reason were you spying outside Her Highness’s fitting, if not to see her?”
“I—” He takes a desperate step closer. “It was simply in passing-”
“For what reason did you empty your bedroom of the flower crowns Her Highness made especially for you? Surely they shan’t prove themselves too useful on the road?”
Gojo’s eyes widened. “I…the memories-”
“For what reason have you waited until the last minute to leave? Until the last minute she shall not be yours, and yours only?”
He snarls, “She was never mine.”
“Because you believe the Princess does not deserve to base herself- being the lover of a fool yes?” When Gojo does not answer, she continues. “The fool seems to believe he knows what the Princess deserves. But does the fool know what he deserves?”
There’s a prolonged silence—of which is only punctured by the awed gasps from inside the dressing room, as the tailor and his apprentices comment on your beauty.
Gojo has the sudden, mad thought to open those doors just a little wider and see you for himself. Just one last time.
One last time.
What was he thinking?
He laughs to himself bitterly, “A jester can never be anything to a princess. Never.”
“But a princess can be everything to a jester, yes?” Utahime asks. “More importantly- who are we to dictate what a person is to another person?”
The answer was as obvious as it was painful.
Gojo Satoru loved you.
Loves you.
Something of it must show on his face, because Utahime throws him a pitiful look she’s never shared before—“You may leave if you please, I shan’t stop you.” And then she reaches out and presses a hand against the doors- they part, unlocked. “But if you wish to stay and stop acting a-fool…then follow me.”
She brushes past him.
Meanwhile Gojo looks inside and catches a glimpse of you - and he’s never seen anything more beautiful.
He runs after Utahime, bells jingling.
.
.
.
“You look…”
“How odd.”
“How startling.”
“What a change!”
Utahime crinkles her nose, “The only thing this proves is that your face is more tolerable when it is covered.” She turns to the brown-haired woman next to her, “And that my Shoko is a goddess when it comes to handiwork.”
Shoko smiles sweetly, “I have much practice making death masks.”
“I’ll say.”
As the other few attendants pendulate between laughing to themselves, and admiring Shoko’s quick work - she’d been requested just a few hours before to make a mask befitting a royal ball, and she’d finished it just in time - Gojo leans closer to the mirror.
He reaches his trembling fingers up to touch his face, “This is surely…me?”
“Unfortunately.” Utahime sighs, and she gets elbowed by Miwa.
Utahime had gathered the most trust-worthy attendants she led: Miwa, Momo, and Kugisaki from tailoring. Along with the impeccable royal healer, Shoko, who she knew would be the only one that would be able to create a mask for the ball with her expert hands. And they’d gotten to work fixing up perhaps their most difficult case yet—none other than Gojo Satoru.
The royal jester was rather fussy at first- insisting that the powder puffs and cloth wipes tickled.
Before Utahime put her foot down and announced that they weren’t going to present a ‘half-assed’ (forgive her language) marriage-wrecker to the Princess just yet.
That reminder of you kept him quiet for the rest of the make-over.
And Kugisaki had even commented, “Perhaps we ought to invoke the Princess’s name every time we need to keep the jester in line?”
“Do not tempt me.” Utahime had replied.
Gojo had shuddered.
But it really was true: he sat through the rest of the next hour or two without so much as a single rhyme or peep.
Not even when they told him to ‘pucker up’ in order to douse him in rouges and lip stains. That likely saved five years from Utahime’s life…
Gojo himself helped them scrub off his stark-white jester’s make-up. The vampiric base. The teardrops of black paint. The red, red lips—a few of his little troupe openly stared as they’d never seen the Princess’s jester without his make-up.
And Gojo himself knew that he wasn’t all that bad looking - he had noble features. A strong nose. A high set of cheekbones. A pert, pretty mouth that always looked to be on the verge of saying something he shouldn’t.
Or, at least, that was how you described him.
You were the only person that got to see Gojo without his court-deemed make-up; and you always did say he was handsome. To which he’d always bat his long, white lashes dramatically and compose you a sappy sonnet about your eyes. He supposes he knew he was decent, but…handsome?
He never saw it.
But these girls seemed determined to make him.
Cloudy hair. Delicate features. Blue eyes like a painting.
They replaced his make-up with something simpler. Gone was the cast of white, instead replaced by just a bit of rouge and shimmer. His pale brows were tamed and so was his hair - braided to the side using fragrant rose oils, with a few pieces falling handsomely over his face. All thanks to Momo, of course.
Kugisaki had dug up something from that ol’ tailor’s trunk—a snow-white cloak and doublet, along with the associated tights he often made fun of. It was a suit fit for a prince.
And it was exactly the type of suit he’d made fun of a prince for.
But here he was now - not a single difference between him and them. Or at least physically.
Gojo’s training sessions with Yaga had kept him fit; and he fit the suit perfectly. His broad shoulders were outlined against the clean cut, and his trim waist fit snugly into those damn tights—even through the suit, it was obvious he was well-built, in a way those baggy jester’s outfits never did show. Polished shoes. Silver buttons. Silver belt. Heavy silver chains and pendants that arrived with the robes.
He might even have passed for a battle-hardened Prince like this…
Momo helped him into his equally as white gloves - it seems they were sticking to a theme for him. All the better to help his eyes and his crown stand out.
Oh yes…the girls had somehow bribed Yaga into letting them sneak down to the royal treasure. For just a few minutes.
All the spoils of war and generations of wealth—and they’d come out with a crown.
It was Utahime who’d dug this one out, deciding that that would make him stand out far more than the usual hats.
Made of pure silver; the design itself was rather simple, or so it seemed at first. Only when one looked closer…when one ventured further…could you see that what seemed like a simple band was actually a wreath of silver branches and floral vines twisted into one, with sapphire-studded flowers blooming along it. One more thing had been taken from the treasury - a signet ring with a ‘G’.
“It felt proper.” Miwa, who had found the ring, beamed. “Names and titles are lost to time. And though I may not know what the ‘G’ once stood for, at least for tonight, it can mean ‘Gojo’, can it not?”
Gojo felt it getting slid onto his left hand, and he stares at the ring with furrowed brows.
He stares and stares.
He’s never felt more worthy of you.
By the time they had finished, the strings of the orchestra had started playing their opening sequence - the ball was commencing.
Utahime turns to the rest of them, “We have done well.” Then, ultimately, back to grumble at him. “…You have done well.”
And though Gojo could make up a rhyme to rile her up, though Gojo could comment that they could have done better and bask in the ensuing chaos, though he could do his mask and his mask—
He simply looks at each and every one and smiles. Sincerely. “Thank you.”
They smile tenderly back.
The final component of his outfit for your engagement ball was the mask. Though there was no set theme, Shoko had gone above and beyond to craft his in the shape of the upper-half of a snow leopard’s face. The feline gaze. The sharp ears. The faint outline of rosettes against the white mask. It was mastery.
Gojo dons it and smiles to himself. He really did feel handsome, as you had always said.
His blue, blue eyes twinkle from behind the mask.
.
.
.
“You look absolutely riveting, Your Highness.”
“I thank you.”
This was a royal ball that looked gilded. There was no other word to describe it—gilded.
Polished floors. A thrumming orchestra. Golden chandeliers had every single candle lit; and they crept halfway down to the ballroom floor as if gifted from the Sun itself. Just for you.
And that was in addition to the numerous other decorations that made even the most high-titled of guests gape in awe: the shimmering fountains that looked as if they were sprouting liquid gold, golden-dipped gardenias wreathed around the hallway, and the long table of foods were most lovely. All sorts of sweets and champagnes in honor of the union.
Guests upon guests upon guests being announced as they entered. They were dressed to impress, and there were more aristocrats gathered for this one ball than you’d seen in your entire life, perhaps.
Had Gojo been here with you, then you two would’ve had the most amusing time coming up with stories for each one.
There was Sir Gakuganji who held a secret liking for abstract dancing, here was Lord Todo whose son had fallen in love with a thousand-year-old portrait. No one would be spared. The two of you would have tucked yourself into some alcove and watched as the lavishments flew by, and when everyone was appropriately drunk you’d sneak out to the stables or to star-gaze.
Your heart clenches.
Satoru…
You attempt to shake your head free of him.
It most certainly was a beautiful ball. And if you imagined that this was one of no particular purpose, then you really could see it.
The ball was decorated to match your dress, you see.
Floor-length silk. Gold-threaded bodice.
Celestial layers upon layers.
Your uppermost skirts had gold dusting atop it; and they dazzled as you floated across the ballroom.
Your attendants had decided that going for a more simple look with the jewelry was appropriate - it would accentuate the simple gold circlet atop your head. A single sapphire embedded into the middle of it.
Naoya had sneered at the choice, of course. When doesn’t he? But this time, he was particularly offended at the presence of a sapphire rather than the Zenin family’s signature blood-red rubies.
You refused to make your attendants change it. You donned your cat-like mask with pride.
Perhaps that’s why he seemed keen on ignoring you in favor of a group of other beautiful court ladies in attendance—though you honestly couldn’t imagine anything different happening had the two of you been married, as well. You sighed inwardly.
You’re nodding in acknowledgement as Prince Okkotsu Yuta nears with a man beside him.
He looked older - about your father’s age, if not a few years older. Tall. Toned - in the way of someone that had one been corded with muscle, but had since lost it to age. Bearing an ice-white beard and a row of silver medals proudly lining his chest—he stands before you in his off-white uniform and bows. It was obvious that the man was rather handsome, drawing eyes from around the ballroom.
But what catches your eye the most were his eyes.
Summer-sky blue eyes.
They reminded you of—
“My uncle, Michizane, Your Highness.” Yuta introduces him. “This is his first time in the palace since…”
Your voice drops into something hushed. “I understand.” Turning to the general, you’re half-bowing once more. “I am rejoiced to welcome you into my home, any troubles that we may have had in the past-”
“Have naught to do with the present, Your Highness.” Michizane graciously nods at you. “And most certainly have naught to do with the beloved princess.”
You manage a smile.
“And if you can excuse my being so impudent…it is precisely what I sought this occasion for, Your Highness.” He looks over the bustling crowd, now getting ready to waltz- and seemingly catches the eye of your father. Your father who now looked as though he’d just seen a walking dead man. “I hope to bury the misunderstandings between my family and your father, and understand what happened to my younger brother and his family. It had proved itself to be both a blessing and a curse that I had been on an excursion during those troubled times. And I seek a resolution for the sake of my inner peace, if nothing else.”
You’re nodding in agreement. “It is most tragic what happened. For the sake of borders…nothing is worth so much. And I cannot ask for your mercy enough-”
“It is not something I shall ever be able to forgive. But you are not at fault, dear princess.” Michizane smiles conclusively, but not unkindly.
“And yet, I have been wracked with guilt ever since.” You ultimately reply.
Though you hadn’t met Michizane previously, you had learned that the history between your families was a long and bloody one. His family had been of a royal bloodline, of kingdoms now lost and eviscerated into neighboring ones - including yours. And you knew it was partly the fault of your kingdom. And although royal tutors justified and justified away your father’s actions—you could see past them
“Perhaps…” Michizane is the one to break through your whirlwind of thoughts. He reaches his gloved hand out, a silver signet ring on his middle finger. “-a dance to commence the burying of our animosity?”
“But of course.”
As the orchestra starts up a lively tune, Michizane whisks you away onto the dance floor. Much to the horror of some of your elderly ministers, of course, who gaped at the mere presence of the man.
And at the fact that your first dance wasn’t with the Prince.
But laughter bubbles to your throat as Michizane twirls and swirls you—sways you smoothly around and around the dance floor. He was one of the best dancers you’ve ever encountered, and you’re smiling appreciatively at him once the song comes to a close.
From the corner of your vision, you spot the black-and-red-clad Naoya storming his way over to you. And you hurry to beg a second dance when-
A title is announced - louder than all the rest.
A prince.
Prince…you don’t hear the name.
But you don’t need it.
Because you’re looking up at the grand staircase from which guests made their entrance, hand-in-hand with their partners or followed by their entourages. This one had neither. This one was one of the most beautiful men you think you’ve ever seen.
He looked like something from a story.
Snow-white mask. Snow-white suit. He was tall and clearly toned - but there was something in his demeanor that made him seem almost…dainty. He gripped the balustrade of the landing and looked over the glistening ball- barely even breathing, it seemed like. And he looked content to remain there in awe, before the chief butler reading out the named coughs- pointedly.
The man startles.
He looks over at the chief butler, and then nods jerkily to himself. In self-assurance.
Cautiously, he makes his way down to the ball.
And the closer he gets, the more of his details you’re taking in: like the traces of signature silver on his suit, and the way his fingers trembled ever-so-slightly.
He looked just like the princes you’d read about in fairytales - the ones you imagined as a child before you happened to meet a real-life prince.
Curls of white could be seen behind that snow leopard mask of his. They contrasted oh-so-beautifully with the blue, blue sapphire atop his crown.
Just like his eyes.
Your breath hitches-
“I believe I may have been monopolizing you, Your Highness.” Michizane whispers as the Prince nears.
“Pardon?” You look at him- but he merely smiles.
Before you know it, the mysterious guest has neared enough to give the two of you a jerky bow. His tone tremors ever-so-slightly as he asks, “P-permission for the next dance, Your Highness?”
Michizane nods at you reassuringly.
“I would be delighted.” You breathe, and then he’s taking your hand in his—gently. A touch even softer than the fabric of his tender, tender gloves.
“I bid you a good evening, Your Highnesses.” Michizane tips his hat, “And do take care of the lovely princess…” Before turning to the younger man…his brows furrow the longer he looks-
But a lady-in-waiting taps Michizane’s arm for a dance—and he’s made to turn away.
And you’re left alone.
With him.
Naoya stuck with some other lady-in-waiting as you put your hand…tentatively on the other man’s right shoulder. He lets out a shaky breath, as if your mere touch was replenishing his soul—and he doesn’t move away. Then you let your second hand get grasped - gently - in his own.
Backward with your right foot.
Sideways with your left foot.
Backwards.
Sideways.
Backwards.
Sideways.
It’s halfway into the song, pressed closed to his thundering chest, that you finally break the silence. “The crown suits you…Satoru.”
Gojo flinches, “You discovered-”
“You did not seriously think you could fool me?” You smile. He mirrors it- albeit sheepishly. “Gojo Satoru, how could I possibly be gulled? You have been my dearest friend since I was eight-”
He twirls you in the middle of the ballroom.
And you continue. “-and the one I hold closest to heart.” Looking deep into his blue, blue eyes.
Gojo sighs, “Words cannot describe how beautiful you are, my princess. The least this fool can do is but dress to impress.”
“You look particularly dashing this evening as well, Satoru. You always do.” Surprise makes his lips part—and you’re leaning in. Though they do not touch, you hear gasps from the onlookers. “You look like a Prince.”
“And you look like my dreams.”
The two of you dance for a second song, and a third, and a fourth. Without letting Naoya gain any entryway between you two - that non-existent space - you two dance the night away—dizzy with nothing but the proximity.
The realization that you could be so…close as long as no one found out. That you couldn’t be closer.
That you could.
That you needed to.
By the time that most of the guests had well and thoroughly indulged themselves in the bubbling champagne and wine, the clock had struck midnight—and you and Gojo disappear into the night once no one’s looking. Through the small passageway where the two of you had first met, then up a few flights of staircases, breathless and giddy, you’re lucky there were no guards stationed outside your bed chambers as the ball raged on.
And you’re opening the door and falling into the vast bed with him.
Your hands on his lapels. His hands on your waist.
You’re both letting out synchronized grunts as your back hits the springy mattress, and Gojo’s letting out a scorching breath that fans your face. That sets your skin searing.
“We ought not to…” You whisper- and then you’re pressing your lips down his neck. Illuminated by the moonlight filtering through the windows.
“I am of the same thought.” He responds, in an equally hushed tone - as if anything louder would shatter this fragile dream. It most certainly must be a dream, yes? This was all you’ve ever wanted- and him. “And yet—”
And yet, Gojo places a hand on the back of your neck, and guides your mouth to his.
He kisses you loooong and deep- and inexperienced. You both are.
You’re chuckling as you tug his lips open with yours - letting Gojo’s sultry tongue slide inside your wet cavern. He drags his tastebuds inside and moans—
And after kissing you and kissing you as if starved for eons—
Until your lips were buzzing.
Until his hot hips were crushing into yours.
—you let your fingers fall to his silver buttons. Rapidly undoing them.
“My princess.” The jester wrenches deep from his chest - guttural and gone. There was a crazed hint in his tone already. “Allow me…”
And before you know it, he guides your hips to rest back on the king-sized mattress. Sapphire eyes boring deeply into yours- Gojo hands you his crown to hold, as he hovers himself down and unravels the first few layers of your gown.
His fingers are quick- nimble.
And it takes him far shorter an amount of time to rid you down to your undergarments than it takes your careful attendants. Desperate. Depraved. Soon enough, you’re feeling goosebumps prickle across your skin at the bite of cold midnight air; your chemise and undergarments were much too thin.
And soaked.
Utterly, utterly soaked.
But Gojo’s face flushes - almost hard enough to warm your skin through sheer proximity. He admires your sopping cunt through your panties, he leans down and presses his nose right where your clit would be. And then he sniffs—
“Fuck.”
He almost jolts. Reaching in and tearing through your undergarments with his teeth.
“Fuh-fuck.”
The noise that expels from him is almost unbidden- and its primal tone is enough to make your toes curl. Wide-eyed and open-mouthed, he stares at your swollen folds. He stares at your glossy slit.
He stares and stares as slick beads out of you in a pretty stream—and before Gojo’s own mind seems to register, he’s muffling a hot moan between your naked legs. Immediately shoving himself nose-deep.
His chin thwacks! the top of your sopping slit, and his tongue wastes no time darting inwards.
Your entrance is so wet that he has no trouble easin’ his thick muscle inside- despite its impressive girth. And then immediately zig-zagging his sensual inches fucking in—aaaaaaall along your walls and driving the curvaceous tip of his tongue into every little ridge and cranny. Fat. Trembling with need.
“Yes, my princess.” Gojo’s managing between husky breaths- each scorched out against where you were most sensitive. “Yes, my princess-”
“S-Satoru—” Your hand’s reaching down to twist your fingers into his snow-white locks.
You’re giving him a particularly hard pull and he groans-
“My princess…” That ocean gaze of his is half-lidded and hypnotized, flickering right up to bore into your eyes as he gluttonously propels his tongue even deeper. “I cannot live if I do not make you mine.”
Your feet plant on either side of his shoulders- a steadfast pedestal. For you to buck your hips and shove your drivelling cunt against his mouth, “Then what deters you, jester?”
Gojo’s chuckle is dark and deepened with lust. “Nothing, Your Highness.”
He’s moving his tongue in and out of your hole at such a frenzy.
This was the night of your royal engagement, and you’re here getting eaten out by your jester—
“Does it vex you that this lowborn jester has finally gotten his hands on the princess’s pretty pussy?” He gurgles out into your arching core, the wads of your sap slipping between his lips—and then back out as he licks. “Perhaps not you…but surely those godforsaken ministers that must have hoped for a more…royal touch….”
And licks and licks and licks—“Y-you keep running that mouth, Sato-”
“Jester, remember?” He grins. “Pray tell, Your Highness, am I the first?”
He must know the answer. He surely must- he’s been at your side for the past eighteen years…and you yourself were aware that you were his first, too.
Yet you find your lips moving before your mind does. And you whimper, “Y-yes…”
“Pardon, my princess?”
“Yes-”
Gojo drags the doughy patches of his fingertips across your clit.
“Then you grant this lowly fool the deepest and most precious honor.”
It was an honor.
An honor to eat your pretty core—to press his puckered lips against your folds in such a sensual kiss- one that would make even the most scandalous of court ladies faint. To part those tender pussylips and dive his tongue inside- every single inch that thrusts away at a vigorous pace. Stuffing you from the hilt of his tastebuds, to that flexible tip that swirled to n’ fro-
Gojo had his face pressed up so closely - so deeeeep - that parts of his features were rubbin’ red. Covered in slick. Dripping with it.
And yet he was only scouring deeper- deeper- fucking deeper until your pelvis was crushed against his hungry maw. Crushed. “And this fool is grateful- so very, utterly grateful.” His tastebuds were going in nearly till those sweetened soft spots you loved so much in those solitary moments in the privacy of your baths, yet he flares his tongue till he’s stretchin’ you out even more. “I shall do anything for you, my princess- anything—I live to serve you-”
Gojo’s honed canines nip at your clit.
“And this pussy.”
And serving you, he is.
With every fibre of his being. With every part of him that could reach you—he’s eating you out like such an animal, as if he was going fucking frenzied on your cunt.
The tip of his nose massaging your clit. That left hand of his fastening to your waist and dragging you right back n’ forth even deeper.
“And th-this fool deserves not such a privilege-” He whispers, mostly to himself. Though his wide, lust-glazed eyes maintain contact with yours, “This fool deserves nothing. And yet…yet, I care not if they happened to enter this chamber right now- I would gladly get thrown in the gallows for this greed, for a second taste.”
Wide-eyed - almost crazed - he tugs his wet tongue uuuuup the middle of your slit, and almost up to your navel. “In fact, I beg of it.”
And his other hand…
Oh, Gojo’s other set of fingers smear the puddle of slick that spreads from your core- all along your inner thighs and making its way down your calves. He collects it all.
Every single drop.
And then, like the most precious of mead, he brings those wettened fingertips up to his mouth and sucks. Savors. Gojo’s eyes flutter closed and his Adam’s apple bobs with ecstasy - “She tastes like she yearns for more.”
“You understand?” You’re asking, half-bemused.
“I speak seven languages, Your Highness.” Gojo replies, “One of which is pussy—” Then with his flattened tongue, he laps up the rest of the satiny ribbons escaping you- before flicking his eyes to the mountain of pillows piled behind you. “My princess, might I request that you procure a little treasure I have left underneath your favorite pillow?”
“A little treasure…?” Almost dazed, you reach underneath and your fist closes around something soft and bell-decorated. One of his jester’s hats.
“A long, long night beside the princess left this poor fool forgetting—the hat bestowed upon me by the princess, I should be getting~” Gojo trills- whilst he still lavishes his heated, horny lips across your swollen cunt. “But if the princess puts it upon my head, she can be as pushy- as she wishes as I eat this royal pussy~”
Your jester is speaking rhymes between your legs?
“Oh, sometimes your mouth is overworked.” You’re harrumphing at the overjoyed jester - once you’re unceremoniously dumping the cap n’ bell onto Gojo’s head.
Grinning, he bites down on the expensive tip of his right glove and tugs it off.
He makes quick work fastening that behind his ears, before nudging your hands to grasp onto the floppy ‘ears’ on top. Your sole source of balance as he leans in and eases one of his long fingers inside- then two—then teasin’ a third.
As he shovels in oblong inches into your sopping cunt, pushin’ apart your tender folds and letting his padded tips find their way inside. And inside.
In and out.
“Please-” You breathe heavily as he quickens the pace after a few squelching thrusts. His middle finger was the longest, and it was spreading you apart the deepest—fuck, it was just so soft inside. So welcoming. So tight that you were clenchin’ around him almost hard enough to make his poor digits snap- and the mere thought makes Gojo hard enough in his trousers that he wants to cream them right away-
You’re clamoring onto your elbows suddenly, “Y-you cannot be serious, Satoru…”
Oh, had he said that out loud? It seems he’d said that out loud. And yet, without even a hint of regret in his grin- Gojo hums. “A jester shan’t ever lie to his princess.” Those kiss-bitten lips of his purse with a wad of spittle that lands gently between your pussylips, “Or his pussy.”
“Your pussy?” You ask- before the breath’s suddenly knocked out of you as he starts driving a third finger in this time. Properly.
Stretching you out to the maaaaaximum.
The globular ends of his fingers edging in, in, in—he doesn’t just remain pistoning them vertically. Gojo’s rude in the sense that he’s hooking them right below where you needed him the most.
Throbbing, thumping; your g-spot was most certainly aching for him.
But that was exactly the problem- and Gojo’s smile grows wicked as he keeps thrusting his three fingers into your cunt. “J-just the slightest bit…fuck, to the left, jester.”
“If the princess may still utter a sentence, then this poor jester must go harder on her entrance~” He croons. Swabbin’ into every good spot except for that one - your favorite - he suckles on your sensitive nub. “What deters you from claiming what you seek, hm? Use me, Your Highness.”
Your teary eyes snap open. When had you even closed them? “Use?”
“Use me.” Less of a demand- more of a live-saving plea. Gojo was so far gone by this point that his hardened hips were ruttin’ against the luxurious mattress with every swipe of his tongue, “Claim what you wish. Use me- use me—”
And as he wishes, you’re lightly tugging on the points of his jester hat to keep him pressed against you-
But that wasn’t enough for him.
“I beg of you—this lowly fool begs…” As his right hand shapes out the tight, tight channel of your cunt - Gojo reaches his other hand up to grasp your own- to make you clutch his cap n’ bells even tighter. Hard enough for his fingernails to leave marks- and he needs you to be just as rough. “Fucking use me like the princess you are. The princess that saved me.”
He ruts even more suddenly- he must be painfully hard now.
“Claim my lips. Claim my tongue- claim every fibre of my being to be used by you…” A low snarl snatches from the back of his throat. “-just claim me as yours, as I have claimed you, my princess.”
And then you’re knocking that stupid little hat off his head- and fisting your hands in his hair once more to crush Gojo’s pretty, pink lips against your cunt. Arching off the mattress, you were just bucking and bucking your treacly pussy all over his face.
Stringing yourself through the shockwaves of pleasure that kept pouring up your legs - like warm water. Gojo was just salivating in-between them.
He doesn’t even have the time to breathe—and you’re getting the distinct feeling that he didn’t want to. Couldn’t even make himself think of anything else but dragging four - now four - fingers between those swollen-shut lips and thud-thud-thudding into your g-spot. “Good princess.” He hisses between clenched teeth, “Gooooood princess-”
“Keep quiet, jester.” You’re feeling yourself get slowly overcome by primal desperation.
“As you wish, mistress~” And Gojo’s never been happier- lashing and lashing those ridged tastebuds inside until your walls buzzed with the texture. “Mmmm.”
And soon enough, you’re feeling your legs start to twitch- in the way they did whenever you had your fingers stuffed deep in the baths- “Oh.” By this point, Gojo was aiming to intrude four fingers and his slippery tongue between your pussylips.
Swirlin’ and swirlin’ it—tap-tap-tapping it over that first tight ring of muscle.
His greed sickened you- and made you even wetter. And with a forceful tug of those angelic strands of his, you’re staring deep into Gojo’s eyes - fluttering desperately as he fights not to detach himself with your wet pussy. He doesn’t.
And he’s accelerating his fingers hitting the bullseye—
“I-I feel I shan’t last very long, Sato- jester.” You’re hissing, eyes threatening to shut as the white-hot pleasure keeps wracking through you.
With his spit-glossed lips wrapped around your clit, he hums. “Mmm?”
“Oh.” You hunch into him. “Repeat that.”
“Mmmmm—” Gojo elongates his nearly-feline rumbles, and then his lips quirk up- into a grin you recognize as being a signature of when he gets a devious idea.
One sure to ruin courts and leave you amused - though you’re sure that you’re the sole one being ruined right now.
He’s nuzzling his face ever-deeper against your cunt, then muffles out an entire sentence - what you assume to be a rhyme - whilst he keeps his mouth sucklin’ on your clit. Making the sensitive bursts of pleasure explode twofold behind your eyes- you’re seeing stars as he repeats it—again, and again, and again and again and again—
Gojo often did love repeating a joke if it managed to make you laugh exceptionally hard.
However, now you were all but crying out for mercy. Your chin trembles as you keen out Gojo’s name in a lingering echo, “I-I really shan’t- oh…” No matter how many years of royal diction or elocution you’ve endured, it couldn’t mask the way your voice cracks on the tail end of your sentence.
Almost pathetically so.
And soon enough, Gojo’s finding his witty mouth stuffed full- fucking you through your high.
Tongue flicking in and out. Teeth grazing over your clit.
He alternates between letting his tastebuds enter your pussy as well—and then letting his doughy digit take over as he suckles on your clit. Like the sweetest thing in the world. “Mmmm.” Repeating his little rhymes over and over- interrupted only by the noisy slurps! of him sucking on your nub- and the embarrassing little whimpers as he was wrenched by you.
Side-to-side. Up and down.
You’re moving him wheeeeeerever you wanted- and he was in heaven as pain sears from his scalp.
You grip onto his braid, and another lock of his hair, as handlebars to prolong your wave of pleasure. The bliss stabs through you white-hot as he presses deeeep into your g-spot. “I haven’t felt anything like this- hah, before, Satoru…”
“Your jester aims to please.”
Your orgasm makes you shiver. It rattles past your walls - where the pounding was most prevalent - and then up your spine to make your head pound with pleasure—the curling of your toes, the fluttering of your lashes, the way you’re letting escape the sweetest soft moans; sweeter than any orchestra downstairs. Gojo memorizes it all.
Through peak after peak.
Through thrust after thrust.
And as the crescendo comes to a close, he parts with your pussy—a pointed squelch! emanates from the connection. “Though the back of this Princess’s pussy I did knock, Her Royal Highness still yearns for the jester’s cock~”
Your mouth gapes, “Do not tell me that was the rhyme you have been repeating this entire time?”
“As you wish, I shan’t.” He grins. And then Gojo’s raising himself to his haunches- shrugging off his cloaks and his coats. “Perhaps another? From all the princes and lords to pick, our beloved Princess yearned for the jester’s di-”
“Another word and you shall be turned out.” You warn him, albeit half-heartedly.
“Now that doesn’t rhyme, Your Highness.” Gojo faux-pouts. With a few more tugs and pulls - he really didn’t understand how you aristocrats wore this on every occasion - he’s ridding himself of his upper garments and his trousers.
Though you’ve seen the royal jester shirtless time and time again, his perfectly-toned body made your eyes bulge.
And then finally the linen undergarments that presented him—Gojo Satoru’s long cock, hot and rock-hard.
He was engorged till he looked fit to burst - with his mushroom-curved tip blushin’ an angry red, and his veins popping out down his shaft. So prominent that you could almost count every throb-throb-throb!
Gojo’s tip glistens wetly with precum, capping the top of his cock and just oozing like a lacquer down every inch. Almost eight inches, if you’re mentally counting correctly.
He wraps a single hand around his thickened base- rustling the soft curls decorating his pelvis. Spreading out in an alluring pattern—Gojo then uses his other hand to nudge your thighs apart. Hamstrings stretching. Toes curling. Making sure they’re pinned to the springy mattress before he inches his red-hot cock closer.
There’s a resounding squeeeeelch! as he smears the very first, readied inch down your opening crevice.
“Easy there, Your Highness.” Gojo’s breath hatches with a moan. “Easy- hah…”
“I am no steed, Satoru.”
“You speak the truth, my princess.” He shoots you a ravishing smile- hungry. He really did look ready to eat you. Ready to shovel his entire length in.
Ready to break—himself. Fuck.
He was breaking himself.
A mere few inches are entering past that first ring of muscle-
And you’re arching your back into his chiselled chest. “Oh h-heavens…” It leaves you and mixes with the broken grunts n’ gruffs that were leaving Gojo just as equally, just as desperately, as he keeps your hips pushed into the bed and siiiiinks his cylindrical length inside.
It’s like nothing your royal tutors had lectured you upon - down to the fact that all those awkward anatomical lessons were for your wedding night with a prince, no less.
You feel a pearl of red escape you—and you embrace him with weakened limbs. “Satoru-”
“H-heaven is correct.” Gojo hiccups out. Was he still stuck on that you’d uttered earlier- had he even heard anything more? And were there…tears twinkling at the edges of his lashes?
Before you can finalize an answer, you’re mewling at the slight resistance of your cunt. Gojo’s cock was oh-so-girthy—more than you might have expected, and seemed to be throbbing even bigger with every second he was mazin’ himself inside you.
And he feels the shift immediately- he’s affected by it immediately.
His handsome jaw grits. His chest caves with a sudden groan. He turns his half-lidded eyes downwards, and using both overlarge hands he grips each of your asscheeks.
Those pretty, princely features of his twist into something agonized- as Gojo arches his sculptured back and drives his cock inside. “Please-” Your best friend pants out. “Please, please, please, please—h-haven’t I served you well, Your Highness?”
“You would be correct…?” You’re answering him- head foggy because of the sudden flurry of semi-thrusts.
In and out. In and out. He was buried just a few inches past his sensitive slit - and the small tremors of your cunt meant that he was thrown to ecstacy every few split-seconds.
Gojo seemed to be growing longer than you remembered seeing him.
Gojo seemed to be pulsing even thicker-
“Th-then…shan’t this lowly fool be rewarded with a single inch…?” He mumbles- sounding utterly drunk. And it wasn’t just his slurring tone and his tapering sentences that gave you that impression - but Gojo had his face pressed into the crook of your neck, and his hot tongue gliiiiiding up your sweaty neck. “A mere inch, my princess-”
You buck- and even that seemed far too much for the pussydrunken jester.
For he’s digging his crescent-shaped nails into your soft flesh and dragging you back into him - hitting his hips with a resounding thwack! “No- no, please don’t leave, Your Highness.” He begs—fucking begs.
“I-I am not—oh.” Another blustering thrust that leaves your deepest innards probed.
“If you wish me to cease- then just say the word. And I shall heed every syllable.” Gojo murmurs, his sapphire eyes threatening to shut with the hypnotic squeeze. With his pure need. With the urge to feel himself from the outside- and considering how big he was, he’s sure he’d manage to. “But please- please, do not leave me. Th-this pussy has been my deepest, darkest desire ever for f-far too long.”
Your eyes widen, “How long…exactly?”
Those plump, rose-pink lips of his graze yours as soft as a feather. “Ever since I knew what it was…and I woke up with quite the ah- rock-hard situation. I had never left your chamber faster, Your Highness- what if the attendants witnessed it?”
You moan as one of his hands lifts off your ass to thumb aside your sultry pussylips. Lovingly full.
“What if they were aware how feverishly I desired you?”
They were just glued with sap- it makes him break off a moan.
“What if- hngh, what if they could see through me—a lowborn mutt- eager to dirty the precious princess?”
Gojo stares so long and lovingly at your slightly-ajar cunt—so lovingly, that his mouth ends up watering. He continues, “To dirty you…to corrupt you.” A stream of spittle leaks from the corner of his lips, and it ends up dapplin’ over your folds.
“To- hah, fuck you.”
Your jester roves his hips closer - smearing the translucent liquid using his hips. Aaaaaaall over as he nudges and nudges his rounded, reddened tip deeper inside - taking over your cunt little by little.
Stars flash behind your eyelids, and in that opportunity, Gojo had reached over to take the crown that he’d donned for the ball. Your engagement ball. And he was promptly caressing the top of your scalp with it, placing it atop your beautiful head—you suited his colors.
Gojo lets out something that sounded more like a prayer: “To fuck you with the crown on, has always been this fool’s most embarrassing wish.”
He’s finally bottoming out.
Finally. And it’s a sensation like none other.
Gojo’s cock was stretching you out in ways you’ve never felt before; managing to mold your channel to his measurements. And his hammers were just so sensual—slow, semi-thrusts so that he can fit himself inside. “Please-” Inside and inside. “Please, please- this lowly jester knows every secret and preference of yours, my princess.”
Your heels are digging into the gorgeous dimples at the base of his spine. “Yes, oh…”
“Every- single- inch—” And you’re being propelled in short jerks upwards- those ancient royal bedsprings protesting. As much as you were begging for more. Your hands drag down his creamy-white back, leaving bloodied marks- and that only leaves him pulsating even harder inside you. Gojo’s blossomed tip had contentedly filled you up till your cervix - “In ways those ministers would- hah, wring my neck over.”
“I would never let them.” You’re spitting out.
“And yet…” Gojo leans down to whisper. “That only made this fool yearn for it- more-” A few more pressurized thrusts, and every prominent vein of his massages your spots oh-so-perfectly. As he pushes n’ pushes he continues babbling, “Please let it fit inside-” His lips tremble with a whimper. “Please let it fit inside—”
Shock strangles your words, “S-Satoru, you’re already inside.”
“P-pardon?” He almost stutters his hips - before he likely realized that your syrupy-sweet cunt was far too heavenly for him to merely linger. And he’s thrusting away like an animal.
Nodding, “Satoru, I promise—” Eyes scrunching together at the incredible sensations of him stretchin’ you out, hitting into your every nook, letting his velvety tip glide across your tenderest area - that g-spot. “You’ve succeeded your fantasy.” Your legs tighten around his slender waist, “Promise.”
Gojo’s chin hits his chest.
And he’s staring down at where the two of you glossily connect—“O-oh…” Gojo’s mouth looked so delicious like this - you almost wanted to bite him - as an expression of cute surprise takes over him.
And all of a sudden, it’s as if he’s simply melting…
Into your arms. Into your cunt. Gojo’s honey-dipped tip probes into your cervix, and instead of even ramming away - he’s merely draaaaagging and swirlin’ the bulbous edge of him around. Again and agaaaaain. The texture of his flared ridge was something incredible, and it knocks n’ grinds against hidden spots of nerves. “I finally have you, Your Highness.”
You’re feeling your heart pound at his confession - oh-so-tender. Even when he was fucking you deep into the plush mattress.
“You have never not, my jester.” You’re admitting back up at him.
The most beautiful smile graces his face- and Gojo’s feeling quite unfairly about all this. So he’s slitherin’ his right hand between your legs and spankin’ your neglected clit.
Those slight brushes of his bushy happy trail weren’t enough—now he was twiddling and turning such dizzying patterns atop that sweet, sweet nub. Watching your every minute expression, he hums. “Beautiful through anger, happiness and shock, yet the Princess looks prettiest on my cock~”
“You fiend.” You’re swatting his chest.
Only for him to gather up those weak legs of yours and bend you into a mating press- a mating press. Muscular thighs against your thighs. Your knees against your tits.
Gojo keeps his forehead pressed against yours as he drills away, “Though this lowly fool may be poor with the manners of a pig, aren’t you happy to have a cock that’s actually big~?”
And that…you have to admit that that one actually draws a laugh out of you.
And just as soon as the bubbling noise emerges from your lips-
Gojo’s body seems to collapse. His hips seem to falter. His cock thunks at the back of your womb, sending your teeth chattering, and lets out a throb-throb so hard that you feel it louder than your own heartbeat.
Your eyes shoot open, “S-Satoru…?”
“I-I am quite alright, Your Highness. Naught to worry about.” Though there was something thoughtful behind his eyes, “It is simply…”
And only after a few more thrusts—after a few more rub-a-dubs of his thumb…fingers now so jittery on your cunt that he’s teasin’ you with his silver signet ring, too.
The smooth metal makes you keen-
“For all the horses and all the men, could not pull the fool out of his princess again.” He near-tentatively utters. It could be heard only slightly above the smacking of skin-on-skin, of his hips practically plastered onto yours, and you can’t help it - you’re startled into a laugh.
“P-pardon?” You speak through both moan n’ giggles.
“Oh…” Meanwhile, Gojo was absolutely shattering. He was drooling. He was—fuck, he was tearing up. And great globules of tears were hitting the edge of your shoulder.
Gojo’s rubbin’ himself raw- he’s wracking his brain a mile a minute just for a new verse to come up with.
Something that will make you laugh.
Something that will make you squeeze your tremoring thighs ‘round him.
Something that will make you clench—and it’s such a startling, tight sensation that damn-near sends him hurtling straight into his high. But he can’t cum before you - of course, he can’t. What good jester possibly ever could? Before his princess no less?
Gojo accelerates his hips until tears start clinging onto his long lashes, and his cocktip starts twitchin’ out of pure oversensitivity.
And so he keeps on repeating—rhyme after rhyme, botched whimper after whimper. Each one more ragged than the last. Your jester was making you whine with laughter as he fucked you- whispering in your ear in aaaaaall the dirty ways one perhaps shouldn’t to a princess.
He fucks you like an animal.
It’s the final note you’re hearing - ‘—no prettier princess than thee.’ - as your sudden high takes you by surprise. Legs shaking. Back arching. You’re squeezing him tighter than ever as the white-hot pleasure courses through you.
Thrumming your every vessel and vein.
Thrusted deeper into you with every one of his- they seem to burst pretty fireworks inside your now-emptied head. Nothing but lust inside it.
And it doesn’t take much for Gojo to topple into his orgasm, as well. He shakes- he stutters…“C-cumming…” Breathlessly. Large tears were puddlin’ at the crook of your neck, dampening your skin more than your perspiration. “And I cannot think of a more appropriate home.”
“Should you sire an heir, they shall have your head.” You’re whispering to him - a smile on your face.
“But you forevermore have my heart.”
“Rake.”
“For you only, my princess.”
That bawling divot atop his shaft keeps floodin’ out a constant stream of cum—hot-white and lacquering your insides. Every single burst of cum made him twitch- letting out the prettiest erotic whines. “My princess—solely for you.”
“More.” You murmur gutturally. “More- more.”
“More…deep inside.” Lovingly, he’s patting at your bloated pussy. “Just for my princess.”
Until your walls were almost heavy with the condensation of his sap, and after only a few thrusts of his shaft- it was pouring out of you almost like a waterfall.
Between the crevice of your puffy pussylips, you feel it drip-drip-dripping out of you. Eventually formulating a little froth of creamy white ‘round Gojo’s swollen base - a few globules that he’s smearing with a thumb and pushing right back into you. A thumb stuck right between your folds. “A-and where do you believe you are putting your hands, Satoru?”
“Simply giving my princess everything she deserves…” He leans down to nibble on your soft ear lobe. “And right on her engagement night, as well.”
You’re moaning as he tugs on your clit a few more times.
“Happy engagement, Your Highness.” The jester speaks, as he fucks his cum into you harder than ever.
You end up babbling for a few minutes longer, before the sudden sparks of your high start bating- and Gojo himself starts finally slowing his hips down.
“Mmmm…” You reach up and clasp him by the back of his neck, sweaty, with his hair curled at the name. You whisper into his mouth, “My greatest pleasure, to be engaged to you, Prince Gojo Satoru.”
There’s a long stretch of silence - still thrusting - before he mutters.
“I really do wish I could marry you…” Summer sky-blue eyes shuttering into the kiss—
“Satoru.”
“—my princess.”
.
.
.
“Zenin Naoya.”
The young man whirls around - and his nose crinkles in distaste as an older man enters the royal guests’ quarters.
No union had been announced.
The engagement ball had long since ended, and you had even long since disappeared with some prince- some jester, as he had discovered through ballroom gossip.
The fucking jester.
Naoya knew he should have gutted him after that dinner.
But alas, once he arrived outside your royal bed chambers to finish off the job- he’d been blocked by your personal guards from entering. That damned General Yaga had threatened that a single step closer could constitute an attempt at treason- treason?
Accusing him of treason? Did he not know who Naoya was?
General Yaga hadn’t budged. And thus, Naoya had no choice left but to retire to his own guest’s quarters.
Alone and angry until morning arrived.
He had just settled with the thought of enacting his own taste of justice today- he shall lure some of the ministers to your bed chambers, perhaps falsifying an ailment you’d befallen under, before Gojo can escape. And once they discover that that lowborn jester had sullied the Princess- dungeons it is for the fool.
And oh-so-generous Prince Zenin Naoya shall agree to marry even a ruined maiden.
Then comes the crown. Then the titles, the land, the power.
The woman shan’t be too bothersome, either, at least you were easy on the eyes. Even if the jester had gotten his hands on you first.
And ah…perhaps he shall throw out this court and your father along with it? That’s if he was in a good mood - and it was the original plan, after all…
Or perhaps he shall stage a coup of which your father had ‘led’ and enact justice as King- yes…a royal hanging should seem righteous enough. The jester shall be first.
This was justice.
Naoya had just been in the middle of writing a letter to inform his father of this change of plans, when a knock-knock-knock thundered from the door. The broad, bearded man on the other side of it hadn’t waited for him to answer before coming inside.
“May I…help you?” He stands. Had this seemed like any old guard or minister, then Naoya would not have hesitated to draw his sword- but this was clearly someone of high status. Of numerous battle accomplishments.
And his eyes dip down to the silver scabbard at his waist…
This was clearly someone potent.
“I have arrived with a proposition.” The bearded man invites himself to sit down on the very chair that Naoya had been at work at.
Naoya’s eyes narrow, “Of what kind? Do I look like an errand boy to-”
“Of the kind I am aware your family is quite expert at.” Those words held such a dark weight to them—and he doesn’t take his eyes off of the Prince for a single second as he utters. “To be frank, I must request the ah…removal of Prince Okkotsu Yuta from the throne.”
That makes the royal straighten. “Find yourself a common mercenary-”
THUNK—!
From underneath his coat, the visitor pulls out a hefty bag - so large that Naoya wonders just how it had remained obscured for this long. There is a weight to it that makes the polished desk rattle, papers flying. There is an overabundance of its contents—so that the burlap rim threatens to burst open.
Naoya gulps as he eyes the - albeit alluring - bag. “D-do you believe the Kingdom of Zenins to have plummeted so far that we hold the need for a single sack of gold?”
The other man chuckles, “Gold?”
And with a single flick at the rim—it’s opening to reveal…sapphires.
A miniature mountain of it.
Such a rare beauty. Naoya had never seen so many in all the treasuries he’d ransacked combined - and his hand it darting out to grasp it—
“This is, of course…merely the advance.” The man places his hand on top of the bag, and slides it discreetly away from the Prince. His fingers twitch towards it, but Naoya can’t do anything with the other man here. “Trust me when I claim that your kingdom will have no shortage of sapphires for the next hundred years. I simply request that you prove your abilities to me.”
That snaps the Prince out of his constant eye-contact with the expensive bag. “Prove?”
His now-client nods. “Prove it. I should hope that the eradication of Prince Yuta shan’t prove too daunting- and for that, I wish to know what other…deeds you have accomplished, Your Highness.”
“The burning of the Inumaki kingdom’s crops.” Naoya immediately blurts out—before he lists off his family’s proud accomplishments as though he was listing off a market list. The other man nods with an unreadable expression. “The…displacement of the Cursed rubies, the demotion of the Ijichi household, the framing and eradication of the Gojo family-”
“Oh?” At that last one, he looks more alert. “Kindly elaborate on that final one, it seems to have ah…piqued my interest.”
Naoya hesitates- before a single glance at the sapphire sack makes him talk once more. “It was prior to my birth, thus the details might not be as adequate. Essentially what happened had to be done- the Gojo royals were advancing their economy in leaps and bounds—far too rapidly, far too soon.”
As he continues, an almost proud smile twitches at his lips.
“It was ingenious- really.” He hums, “Just a few forged letters, just a single meeting with His Majesty-” Naoya gestures vaguely at this palace. “And he became convinced that the Gojos were planning battle over the borders.”
Naoya spits.
“Borders? Pah- what borders?” He’s pacing now, hands clasped behind his back—back turning to the other man as the Prince stares into the licking fireplace. “Come dawn, the palace was painted in red. Ministers. Mongrels. That King and Queen- the cowards begged for mercy, were you aware?”
Silence stretches.
It seems like an eon passes before the man’s answering - in a rough tone that punctures the silence. “I…I was not aware, no.”
Naoya huffs out haughty laughter.
“And what of their son?”
The Prince looks at the other man over his shoulder, brows pinched in confusion. “They had no son.”
“No.” The sword is pulled out of his scabbard. “They hid Gojo Satoru well.”
It embeds deeply in the junction between Naoya’s shoulder and his neck—and his scream is silent. Expression twisted into shock as those final words registered - Gojo Satoru. Even in death, he hears his name.
Much louder than Naoya’s scream was the impact of his cold, dead body hitting the carpeted floor - and almost instantly, Prince Okkotsu Yuta enters the chambers. “I have recorded the confession, uncle, and the troops are storming the Zenin palace as we speak.”
“Good.” Michizane pulls his sword out and watches as blood creates a painting across the brick fireplace and floor. He wipes it off using what would have been Prince Naoya’s engagement robes, and places it back in his scabbard.
Yuta takes a step closer to offer a clean wipe to his uncle, “Should I summon a court meeting at once?”
“No.” Michizane takes it and dabs at the beads of sweat on his forehead. Then he nods at Yuta to collect the bag of precious sapphires, “I have a far more important affair to attend to.”
.
.
.
KNOCK-KNOCK-KNOCK—!
Both you and Gojo startle awake- and a single glance at the floor-to-ceiling windows reveals sunlight filtering in. A soft breeze rustles the sheer curtains…and Gojo’s beautiful locks right beside you.
It wasn’t the first time that you were waking up next to him.
But it was the first time it was…in such a manner.
You’re tugging on the satin blanket- of which you were wearing nothing underneath. Bare. Barely holding yourself back from him. And Gojo smiles to himself as the thought seems to occur to him, as well, reaching over to kiss you—before wincing at the red, red nail marks that twinged with movement.
You’re leaning in as well—
But then two things occur to you:
It must have been at least midday.
Someone was at the door.
KNOCK-KNOCK-KNOCK-KNOCK—!
More insistent this time.
The two of you look at each other.
Then at the door.
Then at each other.
Gojo jumps to his feet, throwing off the blankets and attempting to dive underneath your bed- but you’re raising a hand to stop him. Shaking your head imperceptibly. “No…”
“My princess?” Gojo asks.
“I believe there comes a time where one must stop running.” You’re speaking, more to yourself. And in a quick fashion you cross the room to don your satin robe—Gojo manages to bunch up a few blankets that cover his bits. You shake your head and scour for one of his casual night garments from underneath your bed - throwing it at his head.
“For all the princess in the land-”
“Oh, perhaps I ought to hand you to the guards.” The guards that were surely outside. Perhaps waiting to accuse you of treason for shattering the Zenin union. Perhaps ready to embarrass you and your jester in front of the royal courts.
Whatever it shall be - whatever the price may be for loving Gojo Satoru - you’re raising your head high and taking it like a ruler.
You open the doors, and outside stands…
Michizane?
He looks just as startled as you, though he manages out a rough smile. “May I see the ring?”
You’re unsure what he means—and you’re considering telling your guards to escort him away, when Michizane peers inside your bedroom and locks eyes with Gojo. Gojo who seems to startle the instant that blue, blue gaze meets his. Perhaps…
And then he’s stepping forwards- pushing the door open ever-so-slightly further open.
And presenting his left hand - with the silver signet ring still upon it. A hollowed gasp leaves the older man, and he’s clasping Gojo’s hand in his own trembling, timid ones—holding it as though it was the most prized treasure in this world. Buried for eons.
Gojo’s voice sounds scratchy, “I-it is not my possession to don-”
Michizane shakes his head.
“I believe…” He looks between the two of you, bright eyes twinkling with tears. “-that there is much we need to speak of.”
.
.
.
There was to be a royal wedding.
There was to be a royal wedding.
There was to be a royal wedding.
The union between yourself and the long-lost prince of the Gojo kingdom.
After Michizane had explained to you both - let alone an astounded court - that he was the uncle of your beloved jester, that he was titled royalty, and that Gojo himself…was the sole survivor of a gruesome attack that the Zenin family had orchestrated…Gojo didn’t believe it. Not at first.
Not that someone knew his life before this life.
Not that someone had come to…save him. Because Michizane didn’t - to Gojo, it had been you. And it forevermore shall be.
But you could see the fearful hope - almost unwelcome on his face - as Michizane explained that he hadn’t known about the status of the Gojo heir, his nephew, before the engagement ball. He was so young, he must have forced himself to forget such a traumatic ordeal. Thus, it had always been assumed that he had perished along with his brother and his wife—though Michizane couldn’t find a small body amongst the carnage.
And so he had always hoped…always, always…
And it had been the signet ring (looted by the Zenins and gifted to your father, no doubt) that roused his suspicions. Then those eyes. That hair. That smile, like his mother’s.
It had to have been him.
Fearing such an attack, had the late Gojo royals not kept the birth of their son a secret, then his features would have gotten him poisoned before he even stepped foot into the royal court. The cap n’ bells masked more than one would think.
The scheme to expose the Zenins had been planned beforehand - being the only reason that Michizane even attended the ball in-person. And he’d thought that perhaps finding his late nephew’s look-alike had been a good omen.
Had been…
Oh, he just had to confirm it for himself. Especially after Naoya had affirmed that the Zenin’s hadn’t been aware of any son.
Michizane could see the Gojo name in the boy. And so he was right.
Acceptance had taken long hours cooped up in the numerous palace libraries—poring over history books, and rewriting ones that misunderstood.
During this time was when you’d iron-handed your ministers into changing the law that ‘only a prince shall marry a princess’. Of course.
Long days and longer conversations.
Gojo had finally accepted that he was the sole righteous heir to the throne of Gojo by the time he’d ascended to the throne. It had occurred during a coronation too grand for words - of which you were the honored guest, of course.
Michizane had accumulated vast sapphire mines during his time away, and the Gojo kingdom’s infrastructure was soon able to recuperate their losses. Though not all of it…certainly some wounds would take time.
But the first time that Gojo stepped through those familiar palace walls, he cried as if it were a dream. And he’d said as much—“I had believed it was a dream- oh, I believed this was all a dream. This is my home.” As he embraced you in the middle of the royal lobby, you could agree with the sentiment. “You are my home.”
The first portrait that one saw when they entered the palace - moved by Michizane from Gojo’s former chambers to the main hallways - was one of his mother, his father, and Gojo himself.
Just an infant with bright blue eyes and an even brighter smile.
He had his father’s eyes, but his mother’s smile.
After Gojo’s crowning, the borders of the Gojo kingdom were reestablished - all territories and citizens that surrounding kingdoms (as well as yours) had absorbed were handed to their rightful ruler.
His kingdom was new…but building. And fast.
Then Gojo had gotten to work helping right all of the Zenins’ wrongs. He aided in expanding the Inumakis’ agricultural lands, he returned the Cursed rubies that had been embedded in Naoya’s coronet to lord Sukuna, he promoted the Ijichi household’s titles twofold.
And he rebuilt his own family.
Of course, the Zenins themselves met their rightful fate. Prince Yuta had attacked their palace and numerous fortresses, causing those family members to be impounded. Some fled but were quickly caught—in part due to General Yaga’s tireless assistance.
Gojo had insisted that the children grow up in his palace. And though you’d been befuddled at first - most certainly you wouldn’t allow them to be hurt…but as for raising them yourselves over placing them in noble homes - you quickly registered that Gojo simply didn’t want history to repeat itself.
Above all, he took in young Fushiguro Megumi as a ward.
The trials for the other family members were currently ongoing.
But, recently, there was a new event that shook your kingdom.
The wedding.
Not one of political nature…but rather love. No matter the class, position, or power the two of you held—you would always be his princess, and he your best friend- oh alright…your jester. But solely because Gojo still loved to act a-fool to make you laugh.
Your father had no choice but to approve your wedding to such a powerful young King. Why would he risk such strong political ties? Why would he risk your abandonment?
Your people throw snow-white petals of gardenia as the wedding carriage passes through the streets- on its way to a honeymoon voyage before setting down in a newly-built palace between his kingdom and yours. Megumi would live there, too, and of course you’d convinced your most-trusted attendants—Utahime and everyone else that had readied Gojo that night of the engagement ball - to reside there, as well.
Not as servers, but with titles. With General Yaga as your head of guards.
You couldn’t be happier.
Gojo holds your hand. Wedding band on his left ring finger, the Gojo signet on his middle.
Faces beamed and cheers soared as you two passed by in your dream-like carriage—upon a cloud. And though the kingdom had been decorated until one nearly couldn’t spot a single roof, Gojo only had eyes for you.
He’s unabashed as he leans down to publicly kiss you.
Now that he finally could, the boy that had once been jester.
“Satoru.”
“My queen.”
A/N. Ugh had just finished watching the animated Sleeping Beauty before I wrote that ending, can you tell??
✎ yandere! mean boy who's one of the most popular guys in the entire university. he's hot, smart, rich... he was perfect! ...but of course, he had a bad side to him as well. a side that you knew too well but others didn't. have i mentioned that he's only mean to you?
✎ yandere! mean boy who makes your university life as hard as he can. from minor inconveniences like bumping into you, to trying to ruin your reputation by gossiping about you to his friends. you're starting to wonder if he likes you? i mean, why else would he do this? you're not even in the same major! spoiler alert, he does like you. wow, who knew 🤯 ps, his friends are annoyed whenever he brings you up because once he starts talking about you he can't stop 💀
✎ yandere! mean boy who is very obviously in love with you. yeah, sure he might try to ruin your life but... he also spoils you! i mean, don't you see those gifts he left in your room? the new outfits in your closet? or the way your grades suddenly rose? that's all him! so... you should fall for him too now, right? boy is delusional 🔥🔥
✎ yandere! mean boy who's completely obsessed with you. unfortunately, poor fella doesn't know how to process his feelings and only shows disdain to you openly. if only you knew of the way his heart quickens every time you glance at him, or the way he jerks off to you to the numerous pictures he secretly took which are plastered on the walls of his mansion... he's such an idiot! when all he wants to do is worship you, he insults you instead :( not to worry... he'll be openly worshipping you soon enough. soon...
"watch your step."
he hisses as he glares at you. you only roll your eyes, continuing on your way to your lecture hall as you text your friend. seriously, this day was already bad and he just had to be here to worsen it? what luck you had.
you quicken your pace, trying to get to your location faster which only resulted in the university's mean boy (correction, he's only mean to you, so he's a secret mean boy) scowling and stomping right over to you.
"i said, watch your step!"
he yells out, grabbing your shoulder roughly as he turns around to face you. his hands shake slightly, still gripping onto your shoulder as his cheeks brun red. was it from anger or embarrassment? you'd never know. all he ever shows you is his disdain after all.
you stare at him with an irritated expression, eyeing him up and down before apologizing half-heartedly.
"sorry."
you then try shrugging his hand off you, clearly more annoyed than worried as the male continues to stare at you with an unreadable expression. cheeks flushed as he roughly takes his hand away before stomping off like an angry child. you merely shake your head at his actions. what a drama king he was.
jeez, he really is weird. always targeting you, and you only... what did you even do to get on his nerves? all you wanted was a peaceful university life! with good grades and a nice set of friends, and maybe even a lover if you were lucky! but no, he just had to have it out for you every. single. day.
and yet, he always seems to have a red flush on his cheeks whenever he does so. and the multiple times you've passed his friend group he always seems to be talking about you. is he bipolar? does he secretly like you? is he a tsundere?
you grumble slightly as you quickly rush off to your lecture. damn, he made you late. what an annoying guy.
meanwhile, your secret mean boy was struggling to contain his screams as he hid behind a wall after stomping off. with laboured breaths, flushed cheeks and hearts for pupils, he giggled like a patient from the mental hospital.
ah..! you touched him! touched him! if he imagines hard enough, he can pretend you're gently carressing him! that you're looking at him just like he looks at you!
he shakily stares at the hand you swatted away, smile errily wide as soft giggles escape him. ah, you're so cute when you look at him like that... when you look at him in irritation... would you look like that when he exposes the fact that he loves you? or when you're married and he accidentally burns his food? would you push him away and quickly cook up another meal?
he giggles like a high school girl in love, breathing growing increasingly erratic as he places both his hands over his chest.
I was wondering if you could write headcanons for the yandere senpai where he gets jealous of all the time you are spending with you’re friend and not him
Thanks for the attention and have a great weak!!!
Is this referring to my old post? [🌧️😤♥️] This one? Because if so then HELL YES!! (but also, if it isn't I'm sorry, I would totally be down to write about a more sweet senpai, cause this guy is mean-)
My favorite flavor is "the senpai actually does like the mc", thank you for requesting this. Have a great week too, boo! I hope you'll enjoy the newest menu addition, Opera Cake! I'll make a profile for him later on X'D
TW/Tags: He can be a bit of a jerk, be patient with him // delusional/in denial // anger issues // light cursing because the author has an dirty vocabulary // bad communication (from you and him lmao) // dangerous jealousy // mentions of stalking // very controlling // sorry for the long ass wait
🍭꒰⑅ᵕ༚ᵕ꒱˖♡🍮꒰⑅ᵕ༚ᵕ꒱˖♡🍰꒰⑅ᵕ༚ᵕ꒱˖♡🍮꒰⑅ᵕ༚ᵕ꒱˖🍭
Bitter Coffee [Yandere-Tsundere!Male!Senpai! x GN!Reader - Headcanon]:
🎇 Let me set the stage for a quick sec! 🎇
(This is not a continuation nor a prequel, but it does involve the same idea of the post I've mentioned before, which by the way, is old and has some cringey text!)
Christopher was many things, including socially unaware, or at least socially awkward. Yes, the guy was smart, handsome and that edgy grumpy aesthetic could be pretty charming- He looked like a half-dead, lanky librarian with a bad eyesight and that was probably why a lot of people flocked to him.
The man wasn't goth, but he was gothic, ya know? The man was built like a tree and somehow, people just seemed really interested in him! He never really understood why, he just wants to be left alone!! Please!!
He hates having people surround him constantly and talking way too loud, way too close to his face all the time- Seriously, they won't get a kiss doing that? (Which by the way, ew?! Ew. Is what he would think).
He is a very distant person, and he seems to purposefully push people away from him, but he tends to not do that with you- Most of the time.
You were a stalker, it was quite simple, even if he DID make an effort you would still follow him, wouldn't you?!
You were annoying, frankly he knew all about your… "Admiration". Seriously, you're not being sneaky, sugar cube. You were more persistent than the other ones, which was probably how you managed to weasel your way into his life.
… No, that's not true, although he is as friendly as a cactus to everyone including you, he really appreciates your company. You weren't really all that bad at all, but you had a way to make him frustrated that he didn't know how to describe.
So when he sees you avoiding him recently he feels like you're just trying way too hard to make him worried for you- Frankly, he thinks your game of cold-shoulder is dumb and should stop right now!-
Chris didn't think you were doing it on purpose at first, well, to be honest at first he was glad to have his own space for a few days! Especially since he was already busy studying, he could be a smart person but he studying was a focusing nightmare to him-
Then later, after the test week, you still seemed very distant… He thought you were finally focusing on your education like you always complained about, hell, he even came to you one day and told you how proud he was! Even inviting you to study in his house!! He never does that!
Oh… But you didn't understand why he was so happy, and he didn't understand why you rejected his offer… He was wrong on his assumption, then? Or did you really not want to spend time with him?
"As expected, I don't even know why I assumed you would be studying, let me guess- You were too focused on another random piece of media this week? Do I know it? We could talk about it on the way out, like always right?" He wasn't the best with words, and neither with his tone. Yet he was genuinely expecting you to talk to him about it, like you always do!... You didn't. You answered in a hurry and scurried away.
Maybe you were just in a hurry, maybe if he was lucky he'll be able to catch you to walk with him home.
You didn't, but worse than not finding you was seeing you walking around with one of your so-called friends. Mylo, was it? Well, it could be worse… Annie was a LOT more annoying to deal with.
Always so possessive of you, it didn't seem like a healthy friendship at all yet you never took his words seriously… Always so protective of you, as if a leaf couldn't fall on your head that you just break under pressure! [Y/n] is their own individual, ANNIE!!
Says the mf following you two-
Mylo was a lot less direct about his discomfort regarding your crush, well… Your friend had his own motives, and of course he would NEVER do anything to hurt his best friend! But he couldn't bring himself to be mean towards Christopher, maybe he just simply couldn't be mean to anyone perhaps…
So interactions between these two were often civil, polite, yet very not pleasant. Chris never understood how you could be friends with those two, they were clearly obsessed with you.
Wait… was.. Was that why you haven't been able to spend time with him at all?! Because of GODDAMN MYLO?!
"HEY!!" He yelled out as he made his previously hidden presence known, acting as if he just came close to you know and that he hasn't been following you two for a long time now-
Despite your clear confusion since technically the route is fairly different from the one you usually take to go home- He brushed it off by simply placing his right arm above your shoulders and around your neck, being in the middle between you and Mylo.
Who, by the way, noticed it but didn't even try to change the situation.
"Ah, I missed walking around like this! [Y/n], why didn't you tell me you were going this way before? I was planning on going to that ice cream shop you always told me about- Where have you been lately, by the way?"
He is very not subtle about this, he is trying but he can't lie about how his true intentions here is trying to deviate you from walking with your friend. Oh, you were going to his home to play games? So he'll come too, obviously, and if Mylo doesn't want that then too bad! Guess Game Friday will have to be another day!!
Oh… Mylo doesn't… think it's a bad idea to have you two over… That wasn't really the plan, especially since Chris doesn't like to be in someone's house that he doesn't know well enough.
".....ffffffFINE!! Great even!!" He was fuming, it was very obvious how displeased he was with the situation, but he would be damned if he backed down now!
→ Christopher Hill:
He is a dumb-dumb, he'll take a long time to realize he is jealous and then proceed to do everything in his power to make it everyone else's problem.
He doesn't even know he likes you so much, or that all the bad things he says about your friends could be attributed to him.
He finds them possessive and obsessed with you, but he goes out of his way to insert himself on your little "friend hangout" even if it pains him to no end. In this scenario, I mentioned Mylo who isn't very confrontational, and actually is very interested in hanging out with your crush (he is very curious about why you like this twig of a human being so much… maybe he understands it a little bit…).
Annie is almost the complete opposite, she finds Chris's game of cat and mouse with you really unhealthy and wishes you could fall out of love for this guy already- I-It isn't love!! It's just a stupid crush on a stupid guy that never treats you how you deserve to be treated! Annie is very likely to start arguing with Chris over the smallest of things (but never addressing the actual issue in your presence, you don't need to see them at their worst like that…).
Christopher is very awkward with his words, and part of him knows he'll end up losing you for his own condescending tone and overly grumpy attitude- So he doubles down on his bad traits to try to protect himself from the inevitable. But the other part of him thinks you're just playing around, trying to provoke these reactions out of him on purpose, trying to make him jealous because you're so obsessed with him you want to see him be in your shoes for once, is that it?!
Sugar cube, you have NO idea how aggravating it is to suddenly not be in your spotlight, to be ignored without a warning. And for what- Your weird friends?! Oh it just brings out the worst in him.
In the case he gets to spend time with you even in your friend's presence (I'll use the previous scenario for example) he'll be attached to you like a bug, all those previous annoyances with your sudden touch seem to jump out of his mind- He becomes very clingy especially since your friends are very touchy.
Game Friday Night won't be the same with him there, and that goes to every other special friend time you guys may have- He isn't subtle, he doesn't know how to, but he does know how to make you feel guilty. You haven't talked with him in so long! What were you thinking?!
But of course, he won't be AS obvious about it as he doesn't mean to put the blame entirely at you, because it's not your fault, right? It's Mylo's fault, and Chris just needs to get back to the previous schedule-
Where it should be just you and him, the two dummies in their "will they won't they" FRIENDSHIP!! He just needs to take their place, you want game nights? Why not play with him in his house? His bedroom is a lot bigger than yours and Mylo's combined- But if luxury isn't the problem then maybe you'll appreciate the variety of things you two can play.
If he finds your friendships to be really taking a toll on your life (if you continue to ignore him) he might have to turn his offers from demands to orders, sugar cube! Of course he would never do anything to hurt you, but he is literally doing this for your own good, and if you continue to be so childish he might think you've been completely influenced by your friends.
Christopher is a lot more demanding and controlling than the other characters, not above being brutish with you if it means you'll actually listen to him for once! The initially petty, stubborn jealous man can turn into a controlling, raging angst if you don't be careful enough.
summary: You thought no one could see you blush in the dark. You were wrong.
The Going Merry had many secrets. Nami's hidden cartography tools. Usopp's poorly concealed explosives. Zoro's ability to get lost in a straight line.
But the hottest secret on the Grand Line lived in the crow's nest.
High above the main deck, tucked into the shadows behind the storage lockers and the folded fishing nets, there was a small alcove. It was barely large enough for two people. A coiled rope served as a cushion. A single porthole let in moonlight.
No one ever went back there. Not even Zoro, who preferred the open center of the circular room for his weights.
It started, as most things with Sanji did, with food. You'd wandered into the galley late one night, unable to sleep, the storm outside rattling the portholes.
That night, Sanji had been polishing a glass. He looked up, and his usual flirty smile softened. He knew how painfully shy you could be. A blush was your default expression, and you spoke so softly that Luffy often leaned in, cupping a hand to his ear. At that moment he didn't see a target for a pickup line. He saw you, trembling slightly from the thunder, wrapped in an oversized sweater.
"Couldn't sleep, love?" he'd asked, his voice a low, gentle rumble.
You'd just shaken your head, hugging your arms. He didn't push, he just made you hot chocolate. Thick, rich, with a dollop of whipped cream and a single cinnamon stick. As he handed you the warm mug, your fingers brushed. You flinched—not from fear, but from the electric shock of it.
He noticed. He always noticed.
"You're shaking," he murmured, stepping closer. The kitchen was small, the storm loud. He tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. "I don't think it's because of the cold, is it?"
You looked up at him, your eyes wide. For once, the shyness didn't make you step back. It just made your heart pound.
That was the first time he kissed you. Soft. Questioning. He tasted like mint and smoke. You answered by grabbing the lapels of his suit jacket, pulling him closer. The hot chocolate was forgotten, growing cold on the counter.
That was three months ago.
Now, the crow's nest was your sanctuary. The alcove behind the storage lockers was where Sanji went to lose his mind.
"S-Sanji… someone will come up here…" you whispered, your back pressed against the curved wooden wall.
He was on his knees in front of you, his hands sliding up the outsides of your thighs. His suit jacket was discarded on a barrel of fishing nets. His tie was loose. His blonde hair, usually immaculate, was falling over his forehead. He looked utterly, devastatingly undone.
"Let them," he breathed against your stomach, pushing up your skirt just an inch to press a hot, open-mouthed kiss to the skin there. "Let the whole damn sea hear you."
Your fingers threaded through his hair, a choked gasp escaping your lips. It was always like this. In the common areas, you could barely hold his hand without turning the color of Chopper's emergency hat. But the moment that alcove swallowed you both, a switch flipped.
His passion unlocked yours.
He kissed you like you were the last source of oxygen on a sinking ship. Deep, desperate, searching. His hands were respectful in public, but in here? They were explorers. They traced the curve of your spine, the dip of your waist, the sensitive skin behind your ear that made you whimper.
"That's it," he murmured, capturing your bottom lip between his teeth. "There's my girl. Don't hide from me."
He stood up, crowding you against the wall. A coil of rope squeaked beneath you. He lifted you easily—he was strong, far stronger than the chef let on—and your legs wrapped around his waist. The position was scandalous. The friction was heaven.
You buried your face in his neck, shy even now, moaning softly as he rolled his hips against yours. "I can't… it's so much…"
"Look at me," he commanded, but it was soft. A velvet demand. When you reluctantly met his eyes, they were blown wide with desire, but there was a fierce, trembling tenderness there too. "You are exquisite. And for the next hour, you are mine. Let go."
And you did: clothes pushed aside just enough, frantic whispers of "please" and "yes" and "don't stop"; the alcove became a universe of two. Fishing nets rustled. A loose button rolled across the floor. Sanji's hands cupped your face as if you were holy, even as his body moved against yours with a rhythm that stole your breath.
He always finished with a smirk, breathing raggedly. "I'll make you dinner," he'd whisper. "And you'll blush at me across the table. And no one will know that ten minutes ago, you were saying my name like a prayer."
The problem was, everyone knew.
The Straw Hat crew weren't just pirates. They were a family, which meant they were nosy, insufferable, and biologically incapable of minding their own business.
It started with Luffy.
You and Sanji emerged from the crow's nest ladder one afternoon, slightly disheveled. You were fixing your hair, your cheeks flaming. Sanji was re-tucking his shirt, a smug, satisfied smile on his face.
Luffy was sitting on the barrel next to the mast, chewing on a leg of meat.
"Oh, hey," he said, mouth full. "Are you done kissing?"
You froze. Sanji lit a cigarette with a shaking hand.
"Done what, Captain?" Sanji asked, a vein throbbing in his temple.
"Kissing," Luffy said simply. "You do it up there every day. The rope is all twisted now. It wasn't twisted before."
You wanted to die. You physically turned and walked into the mast.
Then there was Nami. The navigator cornered you while you were hanging laundry. She didn't say anything at first. She just looked at you, then up at the crow's nest visible above the deck, then back at you. She raised a single, perfect eyebrow.
"So," she said casually, folding a shirt with expert precision. "Sanji."
You swallowed hard. "Wh-what about it?"
"Nothing." Her smirk was devastating. "Just wondering if you've noticed how much quieter he is lately. Less of the whole 'my love' 'my darling' 'my angel' routine." She paused, her eyes glittering. "Almost like he's getting all his... expressions of affection... out somewhere private."
Your face erupted in flames. "Nami—"
"I'm not complaining," she interrupted, holding up a hand. "It's actually a relief. I can eat breakfast without losing my appetite. So, really." She patted your shoulder, her smile wide and knowing. "Thank you for your service."
You buried your face in the laundry basket and seriously considered throwing yourself overboard.
Zoro was the worst.
The swordsman didn't tease with words. He teased with presence. He'd be napping on the deck, and as you and Sanji walked by—not even touching, just walking—Zoro would open one eye.
"Oi, Cook," he'd grunt. "You've got rope burn on your pants again. From the 'crow's nest'."
Sanji's leg would twitch. "And you've got a sword up your ass, you moss-headed bastard. Want me to remove it with a kick?"
"At least I don't need a lookout tower to get a date."
The ensuing brawl was legendary, but as Sanji was being dragged away by Usopp, he shot you a wink. A secret, just-for-you wink. And despite the mortification, your heart soared.
Vivi was more subtle. The former princess had a smile that could disarm armies. It was warm, friendly, and absolutely lethal. She cornered you on the deck while you were reading, her blue hair gleaming in the sun.
"____," she said sweetly. "Can I ask you something?"
You tensed. "Y-yes?"
"The crow's nest." She sat next to you with practiced precision. "Is it comfortable?"
You blinked. "Is it... comfortable?"
"For... activities." Vivi's smile never wavered. "I only ask because I've noticed you and Sanji disappear up there quite often. And you always come down looking... relaxed."
Your soul left your body.
"I'm not—we don't—there are no activities—"
Vivi laughed, bright and genuine. She reached over and squeezed your hand. "Relax. I'm not judging. I think it's wonderful that you and Sanji have found each other. He's never been this happy." Her eyes softened. "Just maybe check the rope next time. It's starting to look a little... overworked."
You stared at her.
She winked. "Consider it diplomatic advice."
Chopper, bless his innocent heart, was the only one who didn't understand. One night, he climbed up to the crow's nest to get a blanket, worried he'd smelled a fever (it was just the heat of your flushed skin). Sanji had answered, shirt untucked, hair a mess.
"Is ____ okay?" Chopper asked, big eyes full of concern. "Their heart rate is very elevated!"
Sanji, with the straightest face you'd ever seen, said, "They're just afraid of heights, Chopper. Go away."
As the little reindeer trotted back down the ladder, you smacked Sanji's chest. "Afraid of heights?!"
He grinned, pulling you back into the dim, warm darkness of the alcove. "Would you prefer I told him the truth? That I was kissing you senseless and you forgot how to breathe?"
You buried your face in his chest, groaning. "I hate you."
"No, you don't," he whispered, tilting your chin up. His thumb brushed your swollen bottom lip. "You just get shy when they're right."
And then he kissed you again, soft and deep, and the sound of the crew laughing on the deck faded away. The teasing would continue tomorrow. Luffy would ask if you were going to the "kissing tower." Zoro would make another snide remark. Nami would thank you again for "calming him down." Vivi would smile knowingly from across the deck.
You pulled Sanji closer and decided that a little embarrassment was a small price to pay for moments like this; none of it mattered. Not when he was looking at you like that.
You are happy. You have a good life, the perfect husband, and everything you have ever wanted, there's nothing more you could ask for! But everything seems to be threatened when someone from your past shows up to settle things with you. It’s up to you to decide how you will handle everything.
Tw/Tags. yandere, toxic relationship(s), pregnancy (mentioned), kidnapping, past suicide attempt, obsessive, emotional dependence, non-consensual touching, manipulation, mention of murder/attempted murder, angst, drugs, suggesting content. Pronouns are neutral, but the reader is implied to be AFAB, also they are a bit emotionally unstable. Let me know if I missed any.
Word Count: 18296
Art credits: xupi_ty & tosil_080 on Twitter
Your knees sink into the mud, and the blood running from your open wound mixes with the wet earth, staining everything around you red. You cry, but your sobs barely stand out against the heavy sound of the rain.
What have you done?
“This isn’t love, this is obsession!”
The words echo in your mind, making your crying grow louder.
“You ruined my life... I should’ve let you die that day!”
It was in that moment that you finally understood. You took his freedom, took everything he had. How could you expect him to love you after everything you did to him?
You try to wipe your tears, but your fingers are covered in mud and blood. They only smear the dirt across your face, mixing with the cold water running down your skin. Amid your pain, you don’t notice the quiet footsteps approaching.
Your crying stops when the rain no longer hits you. When you lift your face, you see a man holding an umbrella over your head, his gentle face marked by a worried smile.
“Hey, what happened to you? You’re covered in blood, and it’s cold out here."
You hesitate before answering.
“I…I did something horrible.”
Your eyes are slightly unfocused as you stare at the ceiling, lost in thought. Your fingers idly play with your husband’s hair, running through the softness of each strand.
Earlier you were observing his features, but you stopped when you realized it was just getting in the way of your concentration. Today is a special day, and you need to think about every detail so everything goes according to plan.
Your daydreaming is interrupted when you feel his head shift beneath your touch. A soft murmur escapes his lips, revealing the comfort he finds in your affection.
“What are you thinking about? You’re not usually this distracted in the morning.”
You jerk back, quickly removing your hand from his hair. "When did you wake up?! Sorry, I didn’t realize it was so late... I’ll make breakfast right away.”
He laughs at your nervousness and gently pulls you back. “I feel guilty for you always waking up early to take care of me. Let me help you this time.”
“But you work so hard every day. It’s the least I can do..."
“So what?” He yawns, rubbing an eye with the back of his hand. “You know what day it is. Sadly I have to go to work, but I’d like to spend as much time with you as I can.”
You stretch, trying to shake off your sleepiness. "Alright, you can cook with me, but let me handle most of the work.” You get up, already thinking of which tasks to delegate to him.
Isaac gets up with you, following behind. “I’m at your service, my love.”
And he truly was.
Even though you insisted on giving him the easiest tasks, he refused and insisted on doing the hardest ones with you. He seemed to have a natural talent for it, even more than you. You believe that if he followed the recipe by himself, he could do better than you.
“I’m having trouble cutting this strawberry into a heart shape. Can you help me?”
“Let me see what you’ve done.” You approach and examine the strawberry. The shape looks more like a square than a heart. “You’re struggling again? Are you sure you don’t want me to do it for you?”
“No way! Am I bothering you that much?”
“No, of course not!”
The muscles in his face seem to relax at your words, but still… You’re afraid he really thinks he’s bothering you.
He opens the cutlery drawer and takes out another knife for you. “Please, sweetheart? Sorry for giving you so much trouble.”
You accept and grab another cutting board, placing it next to his. “No... I’d teach you a thousand times if you needed me to. Here, I’ll show you again…”
You begin giving him step-by-step instructions, showing him exactly how each motion should go. You get the feeling he isn’t really focused on the task, but you keep going anyway.
And you were right. His eyes were completely focused on you: the way your fingers moved, the way your lips suddenly pressed together as you thought of a better way to explain something, the synchronized movement of your eyes. Everything about you was beautiful to him.
“Got it? Want me to stay close while you do the rest?” you ask as you tilt the board slightly, letting the strawberries slide into the bowl. With the knife, you gently push the ones stuck to the surface, helping them fall in. You show him the bowl and wait for his confirmation.
“I got it.” He places his hand on your shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze. “You explain things so well.”
You feel your heart pick up slightly, but try not to show it. “I’ll stay close in case you need help.”
You both continue cooking. While he slices the fruit, you watch him out of the corner of your eye. This time, his cuts are precise, and for a moment you wonder if you misjudged earlier. Maybe he really was paying attention.
Either way, you don’t care.
The sound of silverware fills the room, blending with the chatter between you two as you eat breakfast.
“I’ll be home later than usual today. I need to stop by the pharmacy.”
“But you already get home late most days...” Your voice is low, concern evident in your tone. “Wouldn’t it be better if I went this morning? I don’t like the idea of you walking around at night, Isaac.”
Your husband shakes his head in disapproval. “You know I don’t like it when you go out alone. What if something happens to you? There’ve been a lot of kidnapping cases lately. Haven’t you been watching the news?”
You haven’t, but it’s best not to let him know that.
“Still, I think it’s better if…” You begin to argue but stop mid-sentence. You don’t want to start a fight. “Okay, but why? Are you feeling unwell?”
“No, I’m fine. I just need to buy your new medication. The doctor changed the prescription, remember?”
You pause, trying to recall the appointment, but can’t clearly remember anything. “He did? I don’t remember that.”
“You’re so forgetful.” He wipes his mouth with a napkin and sets the silverware down on his empty plate. “What would you do without me?”
Even though he’s joking, he’s right. You used to have a good memory, how could you forget things so easily now?
“Don’t make that face, you know I love taking care of you.” He kisses your cheek before getting up to clear the dishes.
“Wait!” You run to him and grab his wrist, pulling him away. “Leave it, I’ll wash them! I don’t want you to get tired.”
He hesitates for a moment, then slowly places the dishes back in the sink. You can tell he still wanted to insist. “Alright, but call me if you need help.”
You nod silently and turn on the faucet. The cold water runs over your fingers as you rinse the silverware. He walks away quietly, and when you glance over your shoulder, he’s brushing his teeth in the bathroom.
As you wash the dishes, your mind returns to the earlier conversation. You really don’t remember the medication being changed. You never used to have trouble remembering things, but now it feels like small gaps are starting to appear in your memory.
It's probably the effect of the medication, but... It shouldn't be that bad, should it?
Well, what matters is that you need them. If the side effect is that bad, it must mean it's made from something resistant. There's no need to think too deeply about it.
Once you finish, you grab his briefcase and wait in the living room, looking out the window.
It’s cold outside, colder than usual. Maybe it’s a good idea to add another coat, just in case.
You open the briefcase and carefully tuck the folded coat in between the other items.
“What are you doing? I’m already dressed warm enough,” he says, entering the room while adjusting the sleeve of his jacket.
“It’s really cold out. The forecast says it might snow soon.” You hand him the briefcase.
He takes it and nods in thanks. “Thank you, sweetheart. I’m heading out…”
Before he can open the door, your eyes fall on a detail that’s become almost routine. “Your tie’s crooked again…” you murmur to yourself, stepping closer.
He stops where he is. His body stays still, as if he already knew you’d notice. Gently, you undo the poorly tied knot with both hands. The tip of the tie is tucked inward, so you smooth it out with your fingers. He patiently waits for you to finish.
“Am I cleared to go to work now?” he asks when you step back, assuming you’re done.
You analyze him for a moment before nodding. “Yeah, you can go.”
“I’m off then. Take care, and as always, don’t open the door for anyone.” He gives you a quick kiss on the lips.
“You too. Please text me when you get there. I love you.”
“I love you too. See you later.” He closes the door behind him, and you head to the window to watch him leave.
Once his car disappears from view, you run to the bathroom, lift the toilet lid, and carefully pull out the plastic-wrapped paper hidden inside. The list is safe.
You let out a sigh of relief. The bathroom is the only room in the house without cameras, the perfect hiding place. You tuck the list into your pocket and head to the bedroom to get ready.
After bundling up, you grab the shopping basket, lock the door, and begin walking down the road toward town. The house is isolated, nestled in a quiet corner between trees and fields, but still close enough to reach the town center on foot. You used to think Isaac was the type who would live in the city, so it surprised you to find out he lived somewhere so remote.
But you kind of like it, this way, it’s just you and him.
As you walk, you avoid shallow puddles and pass low fences surrounding empty lots. Slowly, the town starts to reveal itself, first the houses, then the narrow sidewalks and subtle shop windows with few decorations.
The first store that comes into view is the wine shop. The display window is decorated with old bottles covered in a thin layer of dust and a delicately embroidered cloth hanging with charm.
Your first stop is there. The interior is small and cozy, with a subtle scent of aged wood and cork. The owner, a woman with a soft voice and constant smile, greets you as soon as you walk in.
“Good morning! Planning something special today?”
You smile politely. “I’d like a bottle of white wine.”
It’s a simple answer. Over time, you’ve learned that the fewer details you offer, the better. Even with people Isaac is fond of, caution has become a habit.
After picking the bottle, you head to a nearby delicatessen. As you enter, the place envelops you in a comforting aroma of aged cheeses and soft hints of old wood. You approach the cheese counter, eyes scanning each block carefully before choosing a creamy brie, a mild gouda, and a generous piece of blue cheese.
With your basket beginning to fill, you stop by a specialty store for imported goods. You grab dried fruits, nuts, and a jar of fig jam to go with the cheeses. As you place the jar into your basket, you pull out the list and begin checking off the items.
“Nuts, check. Cheese, check. Fruit, check...” You cross out each item you’ve grabbed. Everything you need is already here, but you still want to add more snacks.
You turn toward the produce section. As you walk, you write the new item on the list, and it’s precisely in that distracted moment that you bump into someone.
The collision makes you stumble, and you grip the basket tightly to keep from dropping it. But the person in front of you drops the fruit they were holding.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t...” The words get caught in your throat when you see the man’s face, and your own face pales. His hair is messy, dark circles under his eyes, and his expression is a mix of surprise and a kind of horror.
Your own expression must mirror the same emotion, though you hope it’s for different reasons. You compose yourself, set the basket on the ground, and quickly begin picking up the fallen fruit, your hands trembling as you place them back on the stand.
“I wasn’t paying attention, I shouldn’t have done that, I’m really sorry...” You keep apologizing until the last fruit is returned. “I’ll go now, I’m sorry again!” You don’t wait for a response and quickly walk away.
No, it can’t be him. Why would he be here now, of all places?
You grip the basket tightly in your hand and try to keep your pace steady, dodging people in your path and muttering rushed apologies when you bump into someone.
Is he here for revenge? Did he find out you're with Isaac? What if he comes after you now? You try to convince yourself it was just a mistake, a coincidence, maybe it wasn't him. But the way he looked at you... It didn't seem like that. It was like he knew exactly who you were.
You try to push the thoughts away, but they keep coming, all at once. If it really was him, what should you do? Pretend you didn’t see him? Warn your husband? Your heart sinks at the thought of telling him.
You’re just about to decide what to do when you feel a firm hand on your shoulder.
“Hey, hey!” The hand grips you tightly, forcing you to stop abruptly. “You almost ran into the candy shelf. What’s going on?”
You look at the man in front of you, hesitation in your voice. “Mr. Francisco... Did you see what happened?”
He frowns, confused. “What? No, I didn’t see anything. Are you alright?”
You force a smile. “I’m fine. Could you ring up my groceries, please?” you say as you start placing the items on the counter.
“But what happened? It’s also rare to see you shopping without Isaac.” he says as he rings up your items.
You move to the other side, putting the bagged items back in the basket. “It’s kind of embarrassing… I got scared by a cockroach. Please don’t tell anyone!” Your laugh comes out awkward.
“So that’s what it was? No need to be embarrassed, my granddaughter’s terrified of cockroaches too.” He laughs sincerely, and you feel the atmosphere lighten a bit.
“Your granddaughter is 9 years old, Mr. Francisco.” This time, your smile has a hint of real humor. You hand him the money. “I’m leaving now. Thank you, and sorry for worrying you!”
You leave the store, and only when you turn the corner do you finally exhale the breath you’ve been holding. Mr. Francisco is a close friend of your husband’s and was the one who sold you your house. Even so, he’s always been a bit nosy.
Your thoughts return to what happened earlier. Now, with a calmer mind, you can think more clearly. Why did that man show up on such an important day? You know you can’t let this shake you today.
You grab your list again with a huff. You still need baguettes and arugula leaves. You better hurry, you want everything ready before he gets home.
You keep walking, but now with much more caution, throwing discreet glances behind you. Maybe your disguise isn’t as good as you thought, because everywhere you go, you end up running into people Isaac knows. It almost feels like they’re making sure you’re okay.
Well, you won’t be rude.
You lock the door behind you and lean against it, releasing a deep sigh. The entire morning has passed, and your shopping took longer than expected. Ever since leaving the store, you haven’t been able to stop thinking about what happened there.
It would be better to tell your husband, but not today. You absolutely don’t want to ruin this day for him.
The silence in the house is so heavy that you turn on the TV just to have some background noise. The channel is airing the news. You don’t feel like hearing about tragedies right now, but for some strange reason, it seems to be the only channel available.
As you tidy the living room, the anchor mentions another kidnapping case, and your eyes fix on the screen. You feel like you’ve seen this news before, why is it airing again?
You notice the date, it’s from the day before yesterday. Why is the TV repeating the same report?
Feeling distracted and uneasy, you turn it off. It’s better to talk about this with your husband later.
You start preparing the food, slicing the cheeses and carefully arranging them on each plate, making sure every piece is the same size. Then you set the utensils beside each dish. When everything is ready, you place the food in the fridge, wash your hands, and grab your phone. It’s lunchtime, Isaac is probably able to talk now.
[You]: “Did you eat? Was the food good? I don’t understand how you prefer reheated food over getting something fresh.”
“If you don’t want to spend your money, you can spend mine.”
[My Addiction ❤️]: “I refuse to eat anything not made by you when I have the chance.”
“How are you? I hope you’re eating too.”
[You]: “Not yet… I slept in today.”
“I’m going to cook something now.”
[My Addiction ❤️]: “If I had known you planned to rest, I would’ve sent lunch from a new five-star restaurant that opened last week.”
“You can’t take your meds on an empty stomach.”
You sigh. He’s always been strict about that. You used to understand his concern, but your psychiatrist says you’ve been improving since the treatment started, so you don’t think there’s a need to be so strict anymore.
[You]: “I’m making something now, I’ll be fine. By the way, I have something to tell you.”
Just as you’re about to talk about the issue with the TV, a new notification pops up.
[Unknown]: "hello"
The number is unknown to you, and Isaac usually lets you know if a coworker is going to message you.
[You]: “Who is this? Are you a service provider?”
As soon as you send the message, you leave the chat, but the reply comes almost immediately.
[Unknown]: "i can't believe omg you replied!!"
"you usually block numbers you don't recognize, i thought this wouldn't work… i'm so happy... is this how you felt when i replied to you for the first time??"
"i didn’t think it’d be this easy to get someone’s number, i figured out the technique you used to get other people’s numbers!"
"are you proud of me? :)"
You grip the phone tightly. You feel like you know who it is, but his behavior doesn’t match his personality.
[Unknown]: "can't you talk right now? why are you taking so long to reply?"
You block the contact before they can send anything else. If it really is him, this must be a tactic to deceive you.
Still, you don’t want to deal with this right now.
[My Addiction ❤️]: “What was it you wanted to tell me?”
You tap the notification from your husband. Oh right, you were going to tell him something.
But what was it again?
You try to recall it, but no matter how hard you try, you can’t remember.
[You]: “I love you.”
[My Addiction ❤️]: “Something tells me that’s not what you were going to say, but I’ll take it.”
“I love you too.”
“I’m bringing you something special today. Wait for it.”
You turn off the phone and press it to your chest. Your lips ache from smiling so much. You can’t help it, he means everything to you!
Well, time to get back to preparing things.
It’s time.
Your legs swing slowly, overcome with anticipation. Your eyes don’t leave the door. Everything is ready, the candles carefully placed throughout the house, the scarf you sewed yourself, the ambiance designed with every detail just for him, the clothes chosen in hopes of pleasing him... There’s no way he won’t like it, you hope.
You try to pretend you’re not bothered by the time, but impatience grows each time you look at the clock and see the minutes haven’t moved.
He must be arriving soon.
You grab the scarf and stand from the couch, moving to the door and positioning yourself beside it. You wait in silence until you hear the familiar three knocks.
“My love, are you awake?”
You open the door just enough for one of your eyes to see him. There he is, smiling at you.
“I brought a present.” He raises an elegant package.
“How sweet of you.” You step back and open the door wider so he can come in. He enters and gently places the gift in your hands.
“Sweet? Today’s the day we met. You should’ve expected this.” He pauses, observing the room. “So that’s where that lovely smell was coming from… With the lights off, I thought you were asleep.”
“You should also know I wouldn’t let this day pass unnoticed.” You position yourself in front of him and bring your hands between the two of you, holding each end of the scarf.
“Do you trust me, Isaac?”
He tilts his head toward your hands, closing his eyes. “With all my heart.”
Your shoulders relax at those words, and you gently place the scarf over his eyes, tying it tightly behind his head. After the final knot, he takes a step back, and you grab his hand, starting to guide him through the quiet hallways of the house.
With each step, he turns his head, trying to catch the aromas in the air. First a sweet scent, then something more woody, followed by a citrusy freshness from another candle. The smells seem to awaken something in him, a mix of curiosity and anticipation.
When you reach the table, you position yourself behind him and place your hand on the scarf covering his eyes. You mentally prepare before undoing the knot.
You step back, holding your breath as he slowly opens his eyes, scanning the sliced cheeses, aligned wines, and carefully organized appetizers on the table…
Isaac approaches the table in silence. He picks up the wine bottle with one hand, removes the seal, and twists the cork until he hears the soft pop. Then he grabs a glass and pours the wine halfway. When he’s done, he gently swirls the glass by its stem, as if testing the aroma, then lifts it toward you.
"Won't you sit down? This isn't just my night, it's ours."
There’s a warmth in his voice, too sweet to be just playful. You slowly step closer, your fingers wrapping around the glass carefully.
Now that you’re so close, you can better see every detail on his face. His smile is wide, and his eyes shine with a happiness that’s impossible not to notice. He looks so happy!
Instead of bringing the glass to your lips, you set it down on the table. He frowns in confusion, but says nothing as you raise the red scarf again with a challenging gaze.
“How about we play a game?”
His face loses its softness, replaced by a firm and teasing expression. Isaac sets the wine bottle beside his glass and adjusts his tie.
“Refusing you is never an option for me.”
You nod and move to his place, pulling the chair out for him to sit. He settles in, and you push the chair back in. With the scarf in hand, you gently place it in front of his eyes.
“Ready?”
The anticipation in your voice doesn’t go unnoticed. He turns his head just enough to meet your gaze. “More than ever.”
You wrap the scarf around his eyes again and, after tying it, crouch in front of him, bringing your face close to his. “What do you see?”
“You know the answer. Nothing.”
Your hand slides back to the scarf and lifts it slightly. “And now?”
He raises his hand and squeezes yours, which rests on the fabric. “Now I see the love of my life.”
You laugh softly and lower the scarf again, adjusting it around his eyes. Once you’re sure he can’t see anything, your attention returns to the feast before you.
“Let’s see…” Your eyes land on the strong-smelling cheese placed at the corner of the table. You reach out, spear a piece with a fork, and bring it to your husband’s mouth. “Let’s start with this one.”
He takes a deep breath and tilts his head back slightly. "It smells sour... You're making it easy for me." Despite the comment, he leans forward and eats. You take the opportunity to take a piece for yourself. "After all, you already let me see the table."
You taste your own piece before answering. “I wanted you to see everything I prepared for you…” You pick up the wine glass and guide it to his fingers, helping him hold it steadily. “So? Can you tell which cheese it is?”
He slowly swirls the glass between his fingers before responding. “I think it’s… Limburger?”
And the game continued.
You offered a piece, he tasted it and tried to guess the type of cheese. Sometimes he got it right, other times he missed on purpose just to tease you and lighten the mood. You took the chance to comment on each answer with some information or curiosity about the cheese. The night went on relaxed and fun.
“In total, you got…” You remove the scarf from his eyes and point to the table, the plates arranged in two rows, the correct ones on one side and the wrong ones on the other. “Fourteen out of twenty, congratulations!”
He looks at the arrangement of the plates for a few seconds, then grabs the glass and drinks the rest of the white wine in one gulp. “Well, that’s more than half.” He puts the glass back on the table. “I’d say I’m a winner.”
“Definitely.” You fold the scarf carefully and leave it on the table. “Although this night was supposed to be a gift for you… I really enjoyed myself.” The last words come out almost in a whisper. “Did you… like it?”
You look away, nervous, while bringing your hand to your neck, trying to find the right words. He never liked it when you left without telling him, and now you don’t know what to expect.
“I really tried hard and…” Anything else disappears when you feel his touch on your cheek, you hadn’t noticed he had already come so close.
“All this was done for me…” He gestures around the room, as if genuinely admiring every detail. “How could I not like it? Everything you do for me, even the simplest things, reminds me every time why I fell in love. I can’t imagine my life without you by my side.”
You pull his hand away and hug him, squeezing him tightly against you. His body stiffens in surprise at first, but soon relaxes and wraps his arms around you as well.
“Isaac… Nothing makes me happier than calling you my husband.”
Your murmurs sound loud in his ears, and each word of yours seems to move his heart as much as his words move yours.
You hold each other for a moment until he steps back just enough to look at you. The warmth of his body is still present, and you feel his breathing slightly faster. “Since I won the game, don’t I deserve a reward?”
Surprise takes over your face before you push your husband away lightly, laughing. “Ah, you’re drunk! I should have suspected, you wouldn’t put down the glass while eating.”
“That way you hurt my feelings, dear…” He takes your wrist and gently pulls you towards him; you make no effort to stop him. “And I think you deserve that too.”
Your breath falters as he kisses the tips of your fingers, the way he looks at you stirs something inside you you can’t explain.
“All right, but only because you deserve it…” Your lips capture his before he has time to react. At the same moment, he returns the kiss with the same intensity, as if every second away from you had built an urgency that needed to be desperately satisfied.
The world around seems to shrink until only the warmth of his touch, the shared breath, and the racing beat of your hearts remain. He rests his firm hands on your hips, drawing you closer, as if your bodies were made to fit perfectly.
Your fingers reach the nape of his neck, holding gently as the kiss deepens, adopting a slower rhythm. Suddenly, one of his hands moves away from your hip and slides back, impatiently pushing the utensils off the table to make room.
The movement breaks your concentration, and you part your lips from his. He takes the chance to catch his breath, sliding his hand back to your hip and gripping it firmly to support his weight as he lifts you, resting you on the table. Without wasting time, Isaac dives back into your lips.
He bites your lower lip, causing a shiver that runs through your whole body. You respond with a gasp, sliding your tongue to meet his. The moment they touch, a wave of intense heat invades you.
When you feel the air completely leave your lungs, your hand that was on his neck rises to his hair, pulling it back. Your husband lets out a protesting grunt but doesn’t resist your grip and allows himself to be taken. His lips curve into a smile when he sees that you’re as messy as he is.
You release his hair as your breathing returns to normal. Isaac takes advantage of the moment to lean in, bringing his face to your neck.
“You look so pretty tonight…” He rubs his lips on your skin, and your head instinctively tilts back, exposing more to him. “Sometimes I can’t believe you’re really mine.”
“And only now you decided to tell me that?” Your hand returns to his hair, but this time only to caress it softly. “I’m impressed how shy you still are with me…”
Isaac snuggles closer, burying his face in your neck as if seeking refuge there. You embrace him and pull him nearer, letting him hide in the space between your skin. Unfortunately, the moment is broken when the doorbell rings through the house, shattering the intimacy that had formed, and you both turn toward the hallway, tension suddenly filling the air.
“Someone’s at the door.”
“I wonder who it could be…” You step away and get down from the table. Your husband says nothing more, but concern is clear on his face. “Don’t worry, I’ll see who it is. I’ll be right back.” You give one last squeeze to his hand before heading to the hallway, each step echoing in the silent house.
When you reach the living room, you press your lips, irritated by the interruption. It’s probably just another lost traveler who needs help finding the way to town. You hold the bunch of keys and take a deep breath, forcing a smile before reaching for the doorknob. “Good evening, how can I hel…”
The words die in your throat.
The man’s face before you is unmistakable, clear as crystal. The image you kept of him at the market, with messy hair and deep dark circles, has changed completely. Now, his hair is neat and combed, showing evident care, and his clothes, once wrinkled and sloppy, appear clean and well-fitted. He’s not wearing anything luxurious, but his appearance shows obvious care.
The world seems to stop as you stare at each other. Your legs freeze on the floor, and your body feels heavy as if unable to move. Your heart races so strongly you feel every beat. The surprise on his face is different from the horror on yours. You don’t react immediately when he holds your two hands firmly between his.
“I knew it... I found you! I finally found you!” Henry’s voice overflows with euphoria as he intertwines his fingers with yours with an intimacy that makes you shiver. He leans closer, and his warm breath reaches your face, making you instinctively pull back. “When I saw you today… I thought I was dreaming. I followed you here, but I couldn’t show up like that... I was a mess…”
“…Let me go…” You murmur, but he doesn’t react. It’s as if he didn’t hear or chose to ignore you. His eyes are fixed on yours, completely oblivious to your discomfort.
“There’s so much I need to tell you. I just realized everything now, I realized that…”
“I told you to let me go!” Your scream echoes through the room. You struggle, trying to break free from his grip. For a moment, you feel him loosen, but he doesn’t let go.
He pulls his head back confused, as if he doesn’t understand your reaction. “W-What’s wrong? I thought you’d be happy to see me…”
You barely manage to open your mouth before being suddenly pulled backward. Henry is pushed away, and instantly a larger body positions itself in front of you in a protective stance.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?!” Your husband’s voice explodes in the room. It’s so loud and aggressive that even though it’s not directed at you, it makes your body shrink immediately. “If you touch them again, I swear I'll rip off all your fingers one by one.””
Henry leans against the door, surprised, staring at your husband. “You... Who are you?” The coldness in his voice is so intense it seems like a different person, unlike the one who spoke to you earlier. He turns to you, and you clutch your husband’s arm. “[Name]…” He seems to hesitate before your trembling form trying to hide. “We’ll see each other later.”
And then he disappears through the door, walking away. Did he really give up that easily?
You can’t believe it. Even watching his silhouette disappear into the night’s darkness, doubt still lingers inside you. What was his intention? To kill you in the middle of the night?
That side of him scares you. The last time he was kind, it was just to deceive you, to lower your guard and stab you in the back. Does he want to get close to you and your husband just to destroy you both?
That thought terrifies you more than the first.
You feel an arm carrying you to the couch, and when you sit down, a warm hand starts caressing your hair. It brings you back to reality.
“Isaac... Are you okay?” Those are your first words to him. You admit to being surprised; he was never impulsive or reactive before. This is the first time you see him so upset. “I’m sorry, I know you don’t like this kind of situation, I should have prepared better…”
“I’m the one who should apologize.” He holds your hand. “I’m sorry, I should have come with you. No man would let his partner take a risk by answering the door to a stranger.”
“Don’t worry, silly.” You reassure him, forcing a smile. “Let’s end the night, okay?” You say as you get up and lock the door; the sound of the bolt seems louder than it should. He still seems restless, as if wanting to resume the subject, but he holds back for now not to upset you more.
“All right… I’ll tidy the table then. Can you make the bed for us?”
“Sure. Anything you need, just call me.”
You would normally ask to do the heavier work, but this time you let him take over. Hopefully, it would be enough to distract his thoughts from what had happened. You knew deep down this day would come, but you didn’t expect it to arrive so soon.
“...” Your movements stop when you notice a crease on the sleeves of your clothes, probably caused by Henry’s grip.
Henry…
He ruined your night with your husband.
You close your fingers tightly around the bedsheet, feeling anger rise slowly. None of this should have happened, it was supposed to be a perfect night. Why did he have to show up today of all days? It can’t stay like this. You need to make sure he never comes between you “You seem tense.” Isaac appears at the door, placing a tray of medicines on the dresser next to your bed. He sits carefully, trying not to mess up what you just tidied. “Try not to think too much about what happened. I’ll find a way to recover the camera footage and report him.”
“…Recover the footage?” His last words catch your attention, and you position your pillow in place before lying down on your side of the bed. “What do you mean? Weren’t the cameras recording?”
“They were yesterday, but it seems they stopped working during the morning.” He adjusts himself beside you, looking at the ceiling. You notice how tired his eyes are, his eyelids seeming a little heavy. “Tomorrow I’ll notify someone to fix them. It doesn’t seem to be a physical problem, so they should be able to configure the cameras without coming here.”
He breathes deeply, and silence fills the room. You feel a tightness in your chest, a mixture of worry and guilt for everything happening.
“I’m sorry about that.” You wrap an arm around his neck and pull him close. He doesn’t resist and nestles against your chest. “I didn’t want to ruin our night.”
You feel his chest rise with a soft laugh. He takes your hand and rests it on top of your hair. “That was one of the best nights of my life, don’t apologize for it.”
You don’t respond while you begin to stroke his hair, your gaze focused on nothing. Isaac takes the opportunity to bring up the subject again.
“…Who was that?” He murmurs, as if the question were more to himself than to you. When you hesitate, he understands it as a sign that the question bothered you. “You don’t seem like someone who has enemies, [Name].”
And indeed, you don’t. Who would even pay attention to someone like you?
“He’s someone from the past.”
He lifts himself a little to look at you, waiting for you to elaborate.
“…Remember when you first found me? It’s him.”
At first, he doesn’t move, but in the blink of an eye, he’s completely upright, with his hands resting on each side of your body. “Why didn’t you tell me this before?!” His voice rises, full of anger that, although not directed at you, he couldn’t help. “I would’ve taken care of it! This is serious, I’m going to…”
You stop him by pulling him back into your arms. “Don’t be like that, you know I’m the only one to blame in this story.”
He snorts and hugs you tightly, as if venting his anger on your body. “I don’t care, you were broken in the past. You didn’t deserve this.”
Broken.
In a way, you kind of agree. But can you really say you’re “fixed” now? In the past, it seemed like you barely existed among people, an almost invisible shadow. And when someone finally truly saw you, it was you who ended up hurting them.
What changed? Today, no one but your husband seems to notice your presence. And someone from the past has come back, perhaps with the intention of destroying you completely.
You think you heard your husband say something to you, but you’re too lost in your own thoughts to pay attention.
Well, you're fine now. You don't need anyone else's company besides Isaac. Your life is good, your husband is perfect, and you don't feel lonely anymore. You're loved now, what more could you ask for?
The only problem would be... him. You can't let him ruin your life now, not when you're finally happy. Even if you deserve it, it's okay to be selfish, isn't it? You've been through enough. You don't have to think about what might happen to anyone else but Isaac.
You grab your phone after making a decision. Your fingers slide across the screen until you open the messaging app. Finding the contact doesn’t take long, since, aside from your husband, there are only a few spam messages. When you find what you're looking for, you unblock him and spend a few seconds thinking about how to start.
[You]: “Hi.”
“We need to talk.”
Regret hits you the second the message is sent. Maybe that was too impulsive?
[Unknown]: "MY ANGEL!!"
"I can't believe you unblocked me, I thought I’d have to buy another number tomorrow."
"Are you okay? I’m sorry about earlier, I didn’t mean to scare you! I wanted to beg for your forgiveness the moment I saw your expression, but you seemed upset with me, so I didn’t want to make it worse :("
"Yeah, I should've approached you the way you did. The way I went about it, of course I was going to scare you by showing up like that… You're still just as clever as ever, angel!!"
You don't bother reading his messages again. It’s too late to take it back now.
[You]: “Can you come here tomorrow afternoon? My husband won’t be home at that time..”
“I’ll prepare us some afternoon tea while we talk. It'll be good to catch up.”
[Unknown]: "Yes!! Of course I can!!"
As soon as you get the confirmation you needed, you turn off the phone. You put it on silent before placing it to charge, afraid the vibrating notifications might wake your husband. Before you can turn off the light, you notice the pills Isaac left on the nightstand.
For the first time, you're glad to take them.
You swallow the pills in one go with water and switch off the light. While the effects don’t kick in, your mind begins rehearsing what you'll say tomorrow. It doesn’t take long before you drift off.
The sound of quick typing fills the silence of the house, joined by the steady noise of printed pages being released. You carefully examine the documents, checking if every bit of information is correct.
After reviewing each word, you organize the papers into one of the hospital folders you keep, hoping they look convincing enough. Then, you store the folder back inside the small cabinet in the living room. Despite how well-executed everything is, you still can’t shake the restless thoughts crawling through your mind. What kind of partner invites another man into the house, besides their own husband?
It was hard to act normal that morning. You had to hold yourself together with everything you had to keep from falling apart in front of him, begging for forgiveness for talking to someone else without discussing it with him first. Even with that thought, your desire to protect him is stronger. This is for his sake.
The sound of the doorbell echoes through the room. He's here. You mentally review the lines you rehearsed last night before opening the door, doing everything you can to force a polite smile. "Good afternoon, you're right on time. Please, come in."
Henry seems to be trying not to smile more than he should. "I-It’s good to see you too, [Name]! Thank you for..." He cuts off, like trying to remember what he was going to say. "...welcoming me into your home." His voice, once trembling with restrained excitement, now sounds calmer.
He's not very good at this.
"I’ve been waiting for you. Let me take you to the table so we can talk." Even before you motion for him to follow, he’s already right behind you. As you walk, you watch him closely, one hand resting on the pocket knife hidden in your pocket.
Henry doesn’t seem nearly as cautious as you. He's just looking around as if memorizing every corner of your house, like he’s on a school tour. Though he appears relaxed, you don’t dare to lower your guard.
"The table looks amazing! Did you do all this for me?" He sits in the chair, and you sit across from him. When you don't answer, he turns toward you, giving you his full attention. It’s time to settle this.
You both sit in silence for a while, unsure of what to say. When you’re about to begin, Henry speaks first. "Can I go first? I think I owe you more of an explanation... Unless you’d rather go, I don’t mind!"
"I don’t mind. Go ahead." You cut him off gently.
He takes a deep breath. "I... I’m sorry."
The surprise hits your face before you can hold it back. You don’t have the courage to interrupt him this time.
"I didn’t understand back then. I thought you were just some messed-up person trying to hurt me, control me, steal my freedom... But no, you just wanted to protect me." His voice softens at the end.
…What?
He leans slightly toward you, and your whole body freezes, except for your hand, gripping the blade tighter in your pocket.. "You were scared of others hurting me, so you had to take extreme measures. I get it now. You were right. I only need you. No one else. Just you."
What is he saying?
You don't notice his hands approaching yours on the table."When I ran from you, I thought I’d finally be happy. I thought I’d be free… But I was wrong. Everyone around me, they were all awful. They all left me in the end. I should’ve listened to your wise words, [Name]. You were the only one who ever cared."
He's scaring you.
"I’m back now. I want to apologize for everything. I know I don’t deserve your forgiveness. You were just trying to help me. Even after everything you did for me, I hurt you, abandoned you, betrayed you. But I’m willing to do anything to make it up to you. I’ll be exactly the way you wanted before, you still want to keep me with you, don’t you? I want that too. I trust you. You always knew how to take care of me, even when I didn’t deserve it. Thank you for showing me what love really is." His hands finally reach yours and squeeze them, firm enough to remind you who you’re dealing with.
He finished speaking, but you haven’t processed all of it yet.
This isn't Henry. What happened to him while he was gone? Has he lost his mind? His words terrify you. He reminds you so much… of who you used to be. And you hate it.
He hasn’t taken his eyes off you once, studying your expression. You’d better speak soon.
"Well..." You pull your hands away and rest them closer to you. He doesn’t protest, but his smile fades. "Before I answer you, I want to tell you my side of the story." Henry leans back in his chair, giving you his full attention.
"You know I'm... married now, right?" Something on his face seems to shift, but you continue. "When you left me that day, a man found me, and I've been with him ever since. Because of him, I finally managed to move on. I realized all the mistakes I made with you, I got the treatment I needed... I'm still in treatment, but I’ve been feeling so much better, like a completely different person."
You stand up and walk to the small cabinet in the room, pulling out a folder of documents. "I’ve been able to change, thanks to what you told me that day. I found something out during my last visit to the doctor, something I haven’t even told my husband yet." You sit down and spread the test results on the table, placing the main document in the center. "I had a blood test and... I found out I’m pregnant."
Henry can't hide the horror that invades his face. You hold yourself back from smiling more than usual.
"I know it sounds strange, I didn’t believe it at first either. The doctor said I’m going through a silent pregnancy and that I was lucky to find out this early." You notice his hands clenching into fists, squeezing hard. "All of this is thanks to you. I never imagined this day would come. If it weren’t for you making me see how sick I was back then, I wouldn’t be where I am today. Thank you so much for everything." When he finally looks away from the papers, you begin putting them back in the folder.
"You weren’t sick."
You don’t stop what you're doing until he speaks again.
"It broke my heart to hear that from you, [Name]." You can’t see his face now, but if you didn’t know him better, you’d think he was crying. "I’m not mad at you. I get it, you felt abandoned after what I did, so you went looking for someone else to fill that void. You don’t need him anymore, you can use me!" He suddenly stands up. You’d better calm him down before something happens.
He goes quiet when he feels your warm hands on his shoulders, pushing him gently back into the chair. "You're getting too agitated, Henry. I’ll go make us some tea, okay?"
Henry doesn’t say anything in response, but you notice his breathing seems to calm a little. You go into the kitchen and take the kettle off the stove, pouring the hot liquid into two cups. With the tea ready, there’s only one thing left. You take a small plastic bag of powdered arsenic from a secret compartment in the kitchen cabinet.
You’ve had this bag for years, but you don’t even remember what happened the first time you used it. You were so thrilled to have removed an obstacle between you and Henry that you didn’t even bother to see the result. Stupid you.
You’re just one gesture away from ending it all, but you can’t do it. Not for his life, but for what your husband would think. If you go through with it, wouldn’t you be proving to him that you still need treatment? That nothing has changed, even after everything?
No. That can’t happen. You don’t want him to still think you’re sick and keep giving you pills. All your effort, and his, will be for nothing if you do this.
Prove it, [Name]. Prove to him that you don’t need to hurt anyone to fix your problems.
You throw the bag in the trash and pick up the cups carefully, so you don’t spill anything. You just hope your story is convincing enough for Henry to leave you alone.
"I'm back. Sorry it took so long." You place one cup in front of him and the other on your side of the table. "I’m just going to put the documents away, then I’ll sit with you. No need to wait to drink."
You hear him quietly compliment the smell as you return the folder to the cabinet. You sit back down in the chair and take a deep breath, letting the scent soothe you. It helps you collect your thoughts. "Henry, look... I think, just like me, you should consider getting help if this is how you feel. This isn’t normal, and you know it. I’m sorry. I’m probably the one to blame for all of this." You raise the cup to your lips.
"Please don’t say things like that." He lowers his own cup back onto the table. "What did that man do to you? I spent so, so long looking for you... I kept blaming myself all this time, I thought you were dead! I felt like I’d lost a part of myself, but while I was going through hell to find you, you were with someone else?!"
You almost choke on your drink and lower your cup too, your hand moving to the pocket knife in your pocket again. "Henry, please, you need to listen to me, this isn’t healthy..."
"He’s messing with your mind! Don’t believe anything he told you!" He stands up and slams the table, hard enough to knock over the cups and spill their contents everywhere. "You’re better than this, [Name]! You weren’t like this! I guess I’ll have to make you see that."
You get up and back away from Henry, ready to pull the knife from your pocket if he tries anything. "Don’t talk like that about my husband, you have no right. We’ve talked about everything we needed to, now please leave my house."
He seems to calm down in response to your defensive stance, lowering his voice into something strangely soft. "If you wanted to kill me, you would’ve done it already." He walks toward you slowly, and with every step he takes, you grip the handle of the knife even tighter. "I thought you’d pull the same trick you did back then, but you didn’t. You didn’t have the courage."
In one quick movement, he lunges at you and grabs your wrist hard enough to make you drop the blade. He snatches the knife and throws it away. "That can only mean one thing, you still love me deep down. You’re just afraid to admit it."
Maybe from the shock, you’re starting to feel dizzy. "You’re delusional. If you don’t let go of me right now, I’ll..." A throbbing wave of pain floods your mind, and you reach for your head with your free hand. What’s happening to you?!
Henry’s grip vanishes from your wrist, and you take the chance to pull away and lean against the wall. Your breathing is now ragged. The man in front of you laughs at your condition, he looks proud for some reason.
"I can’t believe it actually worked." You try to push him away as he approaches again, but you can barely lift your arm. Your knees nearly give out, and you fight to stay on your feet. "Doesn’t this bring back memories? You used the same trick to take me to your house."
Your vision is the first sense to go. Henry uses the moment to steady your body against his. "Let’s go home, my angel. I’ll take good care of you, just like you took care of me."
The last thing you feel before blacking out is his lips pressing against yours.
You wake up somewhere comfortable, too comfortable even, though not enough to make you forget the unbearable pain pounding in your head. Your body feels numb and you are still a little drowsy. It is hard to move, but you manage to sit up. The drowsiness disappears the moment you realize you don’t recognize where you are.
No, this can’t be happening.
The memories from before you blacked out flood your mind all at once. That gives you the impulse to try to stand, but as soon as you put pressure on your body, your legs fail and you collapse back onto the bed. What kind of drug did he give you?!
Even so, you won’t give up.
This time, you try to lean on the headboard. Although it requires some effort, you manage to get up. If you use the wall and nearby furniture as support, maybe you can reach the door to examine the lock.
The journey to the door isn’t as difficult as you expected. The doorknob looks like a simple wooden model, easy to break. When you turn it, you are surprised to see the door is open. Is he really that careless?
You don’t waste time and open the door. The hallway is dark, but a light at the end reveals an L-shaped staircase. The way there isn’t long, just a little complicated because of the low visibility.
When you get to landing, you finally see where all the light comes from. Before you continue, you take a break to observe. On the right, there are some stacked boxes. On the left, it seems that a living room is being assembled or something similar.
“Angel, you’re finally awake! You are...”
A familiar voice comes from your right. You recognize it immediately, but the shock is so great your legs fail. You try to steady yourself and grab the railing, but your body is still weak.
That gives Henry enough time to reach you and pull you tightly to his chest.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry! I got too excited... I should have been more careful...” Each of his words is accompanied by an even tighter hug, to the point your feet barely touch the floor.
You let out an impatient sigh, hoping he will stop. When he doesn’t let go, you try to push him away.
Only then does he pull back enough to look at you. “You are having trouble walking, aren’t you? Do you want me to help?”
You press your lips together, feeling a mix of anger and fear growing inside you. “Stop trying to be nice. It’s your fault I’m like this. Who drugs a pregnant person? Aren’t you afraid I might lose the baby or die?” you reprimand him.
What really seems to affect him is the idea that something might happen to you. “That was careless of me, I-I know...” he murmurs, disappointed in himself. “Let’s sit on the couch, then you can tell me how you’re feeling.”
You don’t complain when he puts his arm around your waist and helps you get to the couch. It’s better not to upset him if you want to leave here as soon as possible.
As soon as he sits next to you, you ask, “What did you give me? Is it already night? Did I sleep the whole day?” You almost doubt your own question. Less than 24 hours shouldn’t be enough for your legs to be this weak.
“A-Actually...” He can’t look you in the eyes. “You have been asleep for a whole week.”
A whole week…?!
You can’t believe the words you just heard. What could have happened during all that time? Isaac must be going crazy looking for you!
The heavy silence between you makes Henry visibly tense. Your silence scares him so much he feels the need to justify his actions. “I couldn’t find the drug you used on me back then, so I bought another to replace it. I didn’t expect a single dose to make you sleep for a whole week.”
“Liar.” That’s the only response you give him.
He opens his mouth to argue, but your stare shuts him up. He knows there’s no argument that could convince you.
“To my knowledge, there’s no medicine that makes you sleep for a whole week. At least... not if you only take a single dose.” You don’t hide the accusation in your tone.
He shrinks in his seat and lowers his head in surrender. “There really is no way to argue with you, [Name]...” He murmurs before summoning courage to look at you again. “I swear I didn’t mean to upset you or anything! I-I just hadn’t finished preparing our home when I brought you here, so I had to do that so you wouldn’t wake up in a mess...”
You raise an eyebrow. “Preparing the house? What do you mean?”
“It wasn’t my plan to bring you here yet, it was more of an impulse...” He admits, scratching the back of his neck. “My intention was that when I found you, we would build a place together. Just like you wanted before. What I didn’t expect was that someone else had their hands on you, so I had to do what I did...”
You laugh scornfully and roll your eyes. “You brought me here without even doing the minimum? That doesn’t look like following my footsteps at all. I would never have made such a basic mistake in the past.”
“But I was desperate, just like you!”
You turn your back to him. He doesn’t deserve your anger.
“My angel...” He wraps his arms around your body, gently pulling you closer. “I’ll do better, okay? But all I ask is for your cooperation. Please, stay with me.”
You admit you feel strange. His words remain as sweet as ever. If you were still obsessed with him, you would fall for them without thinking twice.
Your dissatisfaction shows clearly, and he notices. So he tries again.
“How about we go out tonight? It’s a little late, but it might help you relax! Look how beautiful the moon is tonight!” He suggests, gently turning your face toward the window.
You didn’t expect him to let you out so easily.
It’s strange. He must be very confident... or maybe this is a trade. If you give him what he wants, he’ll give you what you want.
Alright. Let’s play his game.
“I think...” The hand that was holding your chin slowly slides down your chest to rest on your stomach. “The baby would like that, don’t you think? A walk will also be good for your legs.”
Putting aside how he has been acting toward you, he hasn’t changed much inside. Henry has always been like this, using others’ weaknesses to get what he wants.
“Okay, fine.” You give in and turn to face him. “But I don’t know how you expect me to walk after being drugged for a week.”
He thinks for a few seconds, then a smile lights up his face. You don’t like that kind of reaction.
“How about I give you a massage? I know how! I trained a bit in the past, now I can show you what I learned!” He approaches, trying to show enthusiasm. The idea of being touched by anyone other than your husband makes you uncomfortable, but it will be good for you. The less dependent you are on him, the better.
“I’ll accept.” You say while adjusting yourself. “But on one condition, you can only touch my legs. Understood?”
He quickly nods and stands, going to the drawer under the TV. “Whatever you want, angel. Do you want to lie down or sit?”
“I heard lying down is best.” You reply as he comes back with oils, creams, and a small towel. He puts everything on the floor and sits beside you, then puts his hands on your shoulders, gently pushing them back. “P-Please lie down and stretch your legs for me.”
You obey, but as soon as you look at him from your position, you regret it. It’s a bit embarrassing, but what didn’t he go through to earn your trust in the past?
Henry shyly looks away at the jars under the sofa. “D-Do you prefer oil or cream?”
“I don’t know, I’ve never had a massage like this before.”
He looks up, surprised, while taking the oil and spreading it in one hand. “Really? Seems like that man really wasn’t for you.” He quietly mocks as he spreads some viscous liquid on one of your legs. You bite your tongue so hard you taste metal. How dare he?
You take a deep breath and close your eyes.
Just pretend it’s your husband in front of you and you’ll feel better.
Henry warms the oil between his palms, rubbing until the liquid is warm and silky. He starts with your right leg, placing his hands just above the ankle. With long, firm movements, he spreads the oil, leaving your skin shiny and soft. The sensation of his touch combined with the warmth of the oil makes the tense muscles in your leg slowly relax. His fingers travel every curve, pressing and gently kneading the knots of stiffness, alternating between firm pressure and lighter touches, in a steady rhythm.
When he finishes, Henry wipes his hands on the towel beside him before grabbing the jar of cream. He opens the cream and scoops a generous amount, starting to spread it on the left leg. The texture is thicker, softer, and cold at first contact, creating a contrast with the right leg where the oil warms and slides easily. His fingers make slower, softer circular motions, requiring a bit more effort to spread the cream, but without losing the lightness in the touch.
The sweet scent of the cream fills the air as the difference between the two sensations becomes clear. The right leg, covered by oil, slides under Henry’s hands, while the left leg needs friction and extra care to absorb the cream. You feel the skin being hydrated and the muscles releasing stiffness with every movement as the massage dissolves not only physical tension but a part of emotional discomfort.
Lost in your own world, you don’t notice the soft sighs, sounds of pleasure, and murmurs slipping from your lips. Henry, hovering above you, feels his body respond immediately to each of those sounds. The desire inside him grows with every movement you make, causing his breathing to quicken and his heart to pound faster. Despite trying to control himself, he can’t hold back the excitement that overtakes him. His eyes catch every change in your expression, every sigh, every murmur, feeding the fire burning within him even more. The heat rises quickly, making it hard for him to stay calm. His hands stay firmly on your legs, but inside he feels an intense urgency, as if every sound you make is an invitation impossible to refuse.
"[Name]... A-Am I doing good?" His voice barely rises above a whisper, so soft that for a moment you wonder if you even heard it.
The enchantment of the moment fades as reality comes rushing back to your mind. You’re not in your bed, next to your husband, listening to soft music while he cracks jokes that draw a light laugh from you. You’re here.
"Ah, yeah..." You part your eyes slightly. "Yeah, you’re not bad at this." Although your words are meant to boost his ego, they aren’t exactly untrue. "I’m feeling much better now. You can stop, thanks."
He seems disappointed when you stand up, but you pretend not to notice. “Anything for you, my angel.” He picks up the items from the floor and walks over to the drawer. “I’m just going to grab a few things for us to take before we leave.”
“Wait.” You stop him. “Aren’t I going to get dressed?”
“No need.” He answers without turning fully, just glancing back over his shoulder. “You’re perfect just the way you are.”
You frown but say nothing.
“Sandwiches, pies, fruit, cakes…” You name each food item you find in the basket. “You really put a lot of effort into this…”
“It’s my first date with my angel in a long time, so I gave it my best.” He says proudly as he turns the car key in the ignition. “And you must be starving after everything.”
You put the food back into the basket. “Actually, no, and that reminds me…” You cross your legs before speaking. “I really hope no stranger touched me.”
“...What do you mean?” His voice is heavy with concern.
Sitting in the back seat, the front seatback partially hides their face. “You know very well,” you reply firmly. “You can’t leave someone unconscious and unsupervised, especially someone who’s pregnant.”
His hands tremble on the wheel, his body tense. He’s so predictable.
“I trust you.” You lie, turning your gaze to the window. “I’m sure it’s someone you trust.”
You wait for his response, but all you get is a shy “thank you.” You thought you might get some information from him. He probably doesn’t trust you enough to talk about others…
Too bad. You can cross the plan of asking for help off your list.
You rest your head against the car window, watching the city streets. With the windows closed and silence all around, you feel trapped and anxious. Whenever you were with Isaac, he kept the windows open and talked nonstop, you never had time to get bored.
Maybe it’s better this way. You don’t want to seem suspicious on your first day, after all.
The city slowly fades away, and the streets give way to forest. Trees line both sides of the road, and the pavement turns into dirt. You say nothing and keep watching the scenery change.
You don’t know how much time passes until Henry parks the car.
“Are we there yet?” You ask confused, trying to get a better look through the window. “I don’t recognize this place…”
“I thought this place would be familiar to you.” He says as he gets out and opens the door for you. “But it makes sense, your memories of here aren’t good.” He holds out his hand.
You raise an eyebrow and place your hand in his. “Then why would you bring me here?”
“Because I want to change that.” He pulls you out of the car, locks the doors, and gestures toward the trail ahead. “Let's walk from here. I think the walk might help you remember.”
You try to ignore the fact he hasn’t let go of your hand and start looking around. It looks like any ordinary forest.
That’s what you think before you look closer. Every detail reminds you of a specific place, one you never expected to visit again. The benches covered with dry leaves, the broken and dry birdbath, the signs so faded you can barely read them... And the sound of flowing water growing louder with every step you take.
“We are here.”
You turn your face to look down the path ahead. Even after all this time, the lookout hasn’t changed.
Your hand slips from Henry’s as you start walking toward the fence.
The ground is damp and slippery, covered in wet leaves. The fence looks more fragile than you remember, the wood dark and worn by time, with some parts broken or crooked. You stop in front of it, hesitate for a moment, then carefully place your hands on it and lean in to look.
The water crashes down hard, hitting the rocks below with a loud splash. The fall raises a fine mist that rises into the air and touches your face, leaving your skin slightly wet. The air around you is fresh and humid, filled with the characteristic scent of clean water and nature. The breeze that stirs your hair is refreshing, and you breathe deeply.
The view of the waterfall is beautiful, as always.
“Be careful.” Henry says as he covers one of your hands with his. “The fence isn’t as sturdy as it used to be.”
“Seems like it...” you whisper more to yourself than to him.
It’s exactly like that day, except you were alone.
Or so you thought.
The path is silent, only the sound of your footsteps can be heard. You’re wearing your best hairstyle, your best clothes, your best shoes, and your backpack, which holds all your favorite things. It’s been so long since you dressed up that you don’t even remember the last time you did.
You want to look around as you walk, to observe this place one last time, to engrave every detail in your memory. But you feel that if you take your eyes off the path ahead, you’ll lose your courage.
The sky is already brightening, the sun starting to rise. You feel a slight warmth behind you, or at least you think you do.
You can’t turn around to check. There’s no better opportunity than this, don’t risk losing it, [Name].
Your steps stop when you reach the lookout. It’s a shame no one else is here, they’re missing a wonderful view. Well, that just makes things easier for you.
Taking a deep breath, you sit on the fence and look down. The sound of the waterfall relaxes you, the way the water plunges soothes you in the best possible way. It gives you the courage to look back one last time.
The sun is like any other day, but… You feel like it’s special now. It will witness what you’re about to do. Smiling to yourself, you stare until it’s strong enough to make you close your eyes, this will be the last thing you see now. Although the waterfall view is your favorite, you feel you’d hesitate if you saw it one more time.
You turn your head forward. Don't open your eyes, [Name].
Your grip on the fence weakens and your breathing grows unsteady, but you try to ignore it. You feel your body moving forward until you’re no longer touching the fence.
You’re falling.
“WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!”
A desperate voice shouts behind you, making your eyes snap open immediately. You’re falling, you really are!
The fear is interrupted by a groan of pain from you as you feel yourself being abruptly stopped under your arms. Something is pulling your backpack, or rather, someone.
Your gaze breaks away from the landscape below you as the person above you shouts, “Give me your hand, I can’t hold the weight of your backpack and you together!” He reaches toward you, but you look away. This man ruined everything!
“N-No… Let go…!” You try to scream, but your voice comes out more like a trembling whimper. You feel tears starting to fall from your eyes.
“Are you crazy?! I’m not letting you go! Give me your hand before I fall with you!” He removes his hand from the fence and reaches toward you. His body seems to slide down with you, which pushes you to grab his hand, and he immediately pulls you up. When your feet reach the fence, you lean on it, giving him the leverage he needs to pull both of you up to the ground.
The only sound between you is heavy breathing for a moment. When he recovers, he sits to look at you.
“Hey!” The man exclaims. “That’s not how you solve things! You know what would happen if…” He stops when he notices the tears you tried to hide with your head down.
You lift your head just a little to look at him, but he’s looking at your backpack, which is half open, visibly uncomfortable. When he turns back to you, you lower your gaze.
“I… I didn’t mean to snoop, but…” His voice is soft and low now, so soft you barely hear it. “You seem to have some really cool stuff in your backpack. Do you mind showing me?” He gently moves one of the hands covering your face and replaces it with a handkerchief, wiping your tears. His touch is so warm…
“They do look pretty cool, especially that book there, or is it a notebook? I don’t know, but its cover is very pretty.” The man seems to be running out of things to say, your silence isn’t helping him.
No one ever cared about your interests before… It would be rude to refuse after what he did for you, you think.
Your voice trembles as you talk about each of your favorite things. You stammer as you explain the story behind each one, but as time passes, you calm down. His reactions encourage you to keep going, and you manage to forget what happened minutes ago.
You feel warm inside. He’s smiling as he talks with you, so that must mean he feels the same, right?
No one ever cared so much about you before… You like this feeling.
You don’t want to stop feeling it ever.
The memory is still fresh in your mind. It’s a little funny to think that a memory once so important to you is now one you want to erase as much as possible.
“That’s why I brought you here.” Henry takes the basket from your hands. “I want us to make new memories in this place. Good memories. So the old ones stay behind… And your smile will never disappear when you come here again.” He unfolds the waterproof tarp and spreads it over the wooden floor.
Good memories… That would be nice. When you escape, you have to bring your husband here.
You kneel beside him, helping to organize the picnic. The silence between you is heavy, weighted by his words. And although the contempt you feel for him is hard to ignore, the words slip out before you can hold them back.
“Thank you for saving me that day.”
If it weren’t for him, you wouldn’t have met the love of your life. All the pain ended up being worth it in the end.
“I think I’m the one who should thank you for trying something so absurd.” He sits next to you. “From that moment on, we began to belong to each other. Even if I didn’t realize it at first...”
You try to ignore what he said.
The picnic was... strangely peaceful. You sat away from him to avoid any physical contact, and he respected that. You talked about many different things, ordinary things. You don’t like it, why is he acting like this is a normal couple’s date?
You feel like you’re experiencing firsthand what he felt when you took him to your house. What a bad feeling.
“Time passed quickly..”. Henry looks at his phone. "It's already pretty late. Are you feeling tired?"
"No." You shake your head. "After days of sleeping, I doubt that’s enough to tire me out."
"Then how about we go down there?" He suggests, putting away what’s left of the picnic in the basket. "It’s a bit chilly, but I think it’ll be nice to dip our feet in the water."
The excitement in your eyes says it all. "Now I get why there were some towels at the bottom of the basket!" You smile, standing up and following the trail leading to the river. "This place looks abandoned for years… There must be plenty of fish for us to catch."
“O-Oh you wanted to fish? Sorry…” He replies, surprised, starting to follow you carefully, watching his step not to slip. “I didn’t bring any fishing rods, and...” He stops noticing you’re already far ahead. “W-Wait! Don't go so fast, angel! You might fall!”
“I can get down this with my eyes closed!” You shout impatiently at his slow pace. “Fishing rods are for the weak! Don’t be so slow.”
Without waiting for an answer, you go straight to the riverbank and crouch down. Your eyes try to peer through the water surface, where some strange movements break the calm of the river. Something is there, but you can’t see exactly what it is.
Henry approaches and crouches beside you. “By the shore, fish are usually small...” He slowly reaches out, trying not to scare the creatures swimming nearby. “The water is less cold than I expected.”
“Can you shine the light on the water for me? I think I see a big fish.”
He silently obeys, turning on his phone’s flashlight, casting a beam on the surface. “You’re right! But it’s a bit far.”
You take off your shoes and slowly dip your feet into the river, feeling the slippery ground beneath your skin. The cold makes your body shiver, but you don’t lose focus. Henry watches you curiously but doesn’t interfere.
You slowly approach the spot where the big fish is moving, lit by the flashlight. When you’re close, you lunge to try to grab it, but it disappears too fast, escaping before your hands can touch it.
In the attempt, your clothes get wet, cold water touching your skin and making the fabric stick to you. The chilly wind blows, and you wrap your arms around yourself, trying to keep warm. It’s freezing!
You feel a coat placed over your shoulders. “Are you okay, angel? Want me to get a towel for you?”
“No.” You take off the coat and hand it back. “Keep it. Let’s try to catch a fish together.”
You step deeper into the water but don’t hear him coming after you. When you look back, Henry is there, standing in the same spot, with a huge smile lighting up his entire face, almost like a child who just got an unexpected gift. He shakes his head in disbelief at himself, as if he can’t believe he’s really there, living this moment.
“I-I won’t let you down, you can bet on that! I’ll catch as many fish as you want! Seriously, as many as you want, I’ll catch them all! Leave it to me, I-I won’t let you down!” He punches his chest with a closed fist, trying to convey all the confidence in the world, even though the nervousness still shines in his eyes.
He’s slightly out of breath, as if the excitement itself took the air from his lungs. His eyes dart around, looking for some approval on your face. It’s almost funny to see someone so determined about something so simple. But still, there’s something genuine about his effort that makes you hesitate to ignore him completely.
You weren’t paying attention to what he was saying, and the sound of his voice wasn’t helping.
“You’re going to scare the fish if you don’t stay quiet! Here, stay by my side!” You reached your hand out to him, and he grabbed it immediately. You pulled him close. “Help me spot them.”
And that’s how you ended up there for a long time. Henry was incredibly fast. You would spot the fish and point with a simple gesture, and he’d catch them almost instantly. He used his own shirt as a net to hold them.
The shirt, now wet and heavy, swayed with every movement. The fish struggled inside the fabric, but he kept control. As the pile grew, so did Henry’s smile, satisfied with each little catch. You watched him from the side, surprised by his efficiency.
So fast... Any plan that depends on reflexes can be discarded.
You feel a sudden light touch, like a pinch against the skin of your leg. Looking down, you see a small but agile fish swimming near your ankle. Without thinking twice, you reach forward to grab it. For a moment, you manage to hold it firmly between your fingers.
But an unexpected pain in your foot makes you drop the fish immediately. Looking down, you realize you stepped on something sharp among the river stones, a pointed rock or maybe a broken branch hidden in the murky water. The cut starts to bleed, and the fish quickly disappears into the depths.
“Oh God! Angel, what happened?!” Your pain didn’t go unnoticed.
You click your tongue and notice the blood spreading in the water around you. Better get out fast before it attracts something dangerous.
“I think I stepped on something sharp.” You complain unhappily, it looks like you’ll have to settle for what you caught. “It’s nothing serious, don’t worry, I’ve hurt myself many ti—”
“Of course it is!” He wraps one arm behind your shoulders and the other behind your knees. “What if it gets infected? I’ll carry you to the shore so I can check it properly.”
You raise an eyebrow and cross your arms. “Since when do you care about that? You always said it was nothing when you got hurt and I took care of you.”
“I know, I know...” He gently sits you on the riverbank. “But now it’s my turn to take care of you.”
Now that he's no longer touching you, you realize how warm his body was. Makes sense, after all, you were underwater longer than he was.
Henry carefully holds your foot and begins examining it. You don’t dare interrupt his focus. When he pulls away, he looks relieved. “It’s not deep, but it will need treatment at home.”
His concern is like your husband’s, but what you find cute in your husband, you find annoying in Henry.
“See?” You pull your foot back. “I told you, I’m used to hurting myself in places like this...” The last words come out almost in a whisper because you notice he still hasn’t let go of your foot, and his eyes are fixed on you. More precisely, on your stomach.
“That was me, wasn’t it...?”
Following his gaze, you realize how see-through your shirt has become against your body, and the scar stands out the most.
A surprised sigh escapes you as you feel his hand slide under your shirt, lightly caressing it. It’s so gentle you barely feel the contact, only the warmth of his fingers.
After sliding his hand over every inch of the scar, he whispers again. “I’m so sorry, so very sorry...” His palm presses a little harder against your skin, fingers moving slowly, massaging the area carefully. “I mistreated your body so much... You didn’t deserve this...”
You feel your muscles tense under his touch, even though his movements are gentle. It’s uncomfortable, but you try not to show it. When he pulls his hand away from your stomach, you finally exhale the breath you’d been holding without realizing it.
But your calm doesn’t last long. “I know now what you truly deserve.” Both his hands are now on your body, roaming over your torso. The heat from his skin seems to transfer to yours, and you feel his fingers moving as if trying to memorize every part of you. “You deserve to be worshiped. Every limb, every part of your body… deserves all the attention and love possible.”
You hadn’t realized how close he had gotten until you feel his warm breath against your ear, making you flinch. After what feels like hours adoring your torso, he moves to your legs.
“Are you still mad at me?” He asks while squeezing the back of your thigh. Your leg moves back reflexively, but he holds it firmly, not letting you pull away. “I understand... words don’t compare to actions. If you want, you can...”
You feel his other hand wrap around yours, placing something metallic between your fingers and tightening your grip around it. “...do the same to me.”
It’s only when he pulls back a little that you realize what you’re holding. Your pocket knife. Pointed directly at his stomach. The same spot where your scar is. “Would that make you feel better?”
“I know nothing can erase all the pain you’ve felt...” He loosens his grip on your hand and slowly lets go, noticing you’re frozen. “But I want to spend the rest of our lives worshiping your body.”
“You will never feel alone again. I promise.”
You're back in your “home” again. Henry treated the wound on your foot, and to end the night, he decided to make popcorn so you could watch a movie together. Remote in hand, you flip through the channels mechanically, not really paying attention to what’s on.
Frightening.
Your mind won’t stop replaying what happened earlier. What’s wrong with him? He needs help. How can someone love a person they haven’t seen in years? Especially someone who’s hurt them so badly? His devotion to you is terrifying. You can’t make sense of it.
At least, not anymore.
Your train of thought breaks when you hear your name being said from somewhere. More specifically, from the TV. You scroll back through the channels until you land on a news report.
Wait... is that you?
A missing person report flashes on screen. Your photo appears next to the headline, followed by images of familiar places. They talk about the last time you were seen, the ongoing investigation, the lack of leads. It hasn’t even been that long since you vanished. How are you already being declared missing?
By the end of the segment, your husband’s face appears. He looks pale, worn down, his eyes full of quiet suffering. His voice trembles as he speaks about how hard everything has been without you. How much he misses you. How he’d do anything to have you back.
Your chest tightens so painfully it almost feels like it might burst. It’s as if something deep inside you is cracking open. You’ve never been away from your husband for this long.
How dare you enjoy yourself while he’s in so much pain? Your husband has no one but you. He must be so disappointed. Someone like you should’ve found a way out by now.
His absence feels like a part of you was ripped out by force.
"My angel! Look, I brought a few things…" But your eyes stay locked on the screen. Once he notices what’s playing, he drops everything on the couch and rushes over to the TV, switching it off manually. But it’s too late. You saw it all.
He seems disoriented, unsure what to say. "You must have a lot of people who care about you. I didn’t think it would cause such a stir. It’s already on the news." There’s barely concealed nervousness in his voice. It’s clear he wasn’t prepared to face the consequences of keeping someone here against their will.
Your chest aches so deeply it’s hard to breathe. For you, it’s only been a day, but for your husband? It’s been seven. Seven. Six times longer than what you’ve felt. And here you are, relaxing. How selfish. He must believe you’re dead. He’d never imagine you might be with another man.
"Do you miss him?" A cold voice asks from your side.
No… Don’t tell the truth.
Don’t ruin this, [Name]. Make this pain mean something. Turn the weight in your chest into leverage.
"Yeah... But not exactly him." You hadn’t realized you were crying, but now you use it to make your voice tremble. "I miss having a partner. Not just a boyfriend, but a husband. Someone to share everything with. Body and soul." You try to wipe your tears away, but before your hand reaches your cheek, Henry pulls you into a tight hug that steals your breath.
"P-Please don’t cry, my angel!" He runs his fingers through your hair like you’re a frightened child. "We have all the time in the world. I’ll take care of you better than he ever did. I’ll be the husband you deserve. I’ll be everything you want, and more."
You’ll never be better than him.
"You promise?" You force yourself to hug him back, wiping your face on his shoulder.
"I promise!” His other hand slowly slides down your back. "Maybe you’re feeling this way because you’re used to taking a lot of medication every day. I bought some new pain meds to replace the ones you used to take. They’re simple, harmless, and I’ll let you decide if you want them. Doesn’t that sound good?"
Putting the deception aside, he’s probably right. You must be emotionally unstable after going so long without your medication. The fear of your treatment regressing haunts you.
"It does. Thank you."
...
You need to get out of here. As soon as possible.
How much time has passed?
Ever since you started trying to earn his trust, you did your best not to stay aware of how many days had gone by. You made sure that not a single day was wasted, and little by little, you managed to get him to treat your relationship as something normal. The only thing you couldn’t get was the freedom to leave. Not that you were expecting it, of course. You wouldn't take the risk either if your loved one had thousands of missing person posters out there.
You tried to gain weight without him noticing. It would be suspicious if your body went too long without even small changes, especially after you started refusing in-person visits from your doctor and settling only for remote consultations through messages. Your plan was risky, but still... Henry didn’t seem to care about it at all.
The only time he seemed to care was when he came offering strange pills, saying they were for pain, nausea, and cramps. You refused immediately, thinking he might be testing you. He didn’t push, and left the pills in the cabinet, telling you to take them whenever you wanted. It was odd, but you didn’t question it.
After that, strange things began happening to your body. Abdominal cramps, nausea, dizziness... Henry was always there when it happened, as if he somehow knew. After staying by your side until you felt better, he would always ask the same question.
"Is the baby okay?"
It didn’t sound like concern. Whenever you answered, you could tell he was disappointed. He never mentioned the baby directly. It was like he pretended it was just you and him. The only part of your pregnancy he seemed to enjoy was your dependence on him. That's good, because it makes him let his guard down around you.
But you feel like he’s starting to suspect something.
Henry began insisting that you see a doctor, wanting to know how you and the baby were doing. You managed to stall him by saying everything was fine, but it wasn’t enough. He eventually scheduled an appointment for you, and that’s why you had to rush your escape plan.
But luck is on your side. You found the perfect opportunity.
Right now, you’re leaning against the wall, trying to find the right words. The magazine in your hands is your way out. According to it, the new museum is opening tonight. You’ve spent these last few days being as sweet as possible. There’s no way he’ll say no to your request.
"Henry?" You force a soft, honeyed tone in your voice. "Are you busy? I’d like to talk to you."
He puts away the last piece of clothing in your wardrobe before turning to face you. "Never for you, my angel." He immediately notices the magazine in your hands. "What is it?"
"I know it’s a bold request, but..." You lift the page with the article about the museum opening. "Look! It’s happening tonight. I-I thought it’d be nice if you and I went together."
He leans in slightly, looking more closely at the page.
Please don’t notice the details you’re purposely covering with your fingers.
"Looks fun." He straightens back up, and you hold back a sigh of relief. "But why are you only asking me now? That event has been announced for a while."
"I was afraid you’d say no."
No. The truth is that you were trying to minimize the chances of that happening.
"You’ve been inside for a long time. That can’t be good for you..." He pauses for a few seconds, then turns back to the wardrobe. "Get ready, my angel. We’re going out tonight."
You did it!
"Really?!" You hug him from behind. "I’ll go shower right now! Thank you, thank you!"
Without waiting for a reply, you rush off to the bathroom. Your excitement is obvious, even if it’s for entirely different reasons than what he probably thinks.
He didn’t question the details you covered. That’s good. Even though you doubt he’s been looking into your husband, you didn’t want to take any chances. The event is hosted by the city hall, so the chances of your husband being there are high. All you have to do is find him. Once he sees you, he’ll definitely find a way to fix everything.
Isaac will probably be disappointed, but... You can’t afford to miss this chance.
You glance at yourself in the car's rearview mirror, studying every detail of your face. The features that define who you are now feel hidden under layers of makeup.
Of course he wouldn’t let you leave without a disguise. You’ve never worn this much makeup before. It kind of worries you. What if your husband doesn’t recognize you like this? You’ll need to try harder.
“What’s wrong, my angel?” he says as he gently squeezes your wrist. “You look stunning. Come on, we’ve arrived.”
He opens the door for you, and as you step out, you take a deep breath. It’s been so long since you were last outside. You had forgotten how fresh air feels. But that freedom lasts only a second, until his arm wraps around your waist, pulling you close.
“Be discreet.”
Those are the only words he says before turning to face the people around you. You need to be careful. Just being here is already a miracle. He’s probably going to keep his eyes on you the entire time.
As you step into the museum, your eyes immediately scan the surroundings. There's plenty here to keep him distracted.
"That sculpture is beautiful." You gesture toward a kneeling, blindfolded androgynous figure. "But it also looks sad… Have you heard of it?"
He looks at the sculpture you’re pointing at. "No, but it says here it’s about someone..."
You pretend to listen while your eyes scan the crowd, searching for the familiar face of your husband.
"I didn’t know… That’s tragic."
If you can keep up the act, it will be easier to keep Henry distracted. It's hard to talk, stay aware of your surroundings, and fake your posture around him all at once, but you'll have a harder time if you let him stay this alert.
With each passing minute, distracting him becomes more difficult, and your nervousness only grows. The number of people around is increasing, which makes it harder to find who you're looking for and also gets in the way of your attempts to use the environment as a distraction. It's hard even to walk properly.
“Everyone is heading to the main hall. It’s probably just going to be the director’s thanks to the audience.” Henry pushed some people aside with his body, making way for you. “Come on, we can’t be the only ones outside.”
“Alright, but we better stay alert.” You took a step back, putting some distance between you and the crowd to avoid being pushed, your hand resting protectively on your belly. “I’m afraid this crowd might accidentally bump into the baby.”
“Yeah, you’re right...” He let go of your hand to wrap his arm around your shoulders, helping you keep your balance as you walked. “Are you okay? You’ve been bending your back more than usual since we got here.”
“I’m not used to this much physical activity...” You said, gently pushing away some people who were too close to your belly. “But it’s fine, it’s actually good for the baby.”
You both manage to find a quieter spot in the middle of the crowd and settle there. Even though the announcement is about to start, the crowd is still noisy.
“Let’s stay here, we have a perfect view of the staircase.”
With Henry finally distracted, the mask you’d been holding slips from your hand. Where the hell is your husband?!
You look around, trying to spot every face you can in the crowd. It can’t be, he has to be here!
Some of his coworkers are on the other side of the hall, gathered near someone who seems to be the director, also a familiar face. It makes no sense for him not to be here.
The acknowledgments are about to begin, it would be weird if you’re the only one not paying attention.
Your eyes start to sting. You should’ve seen this coming. Why were you so sure he’d come? Could it be that he’s...
Before you can think too much, a very familiar voice grabs your attention. You turn your head so fast you barely notice the movement.
You’d recognize that face even from afar. The certainty hits you the moment he looks at you with the same surprise.
Everything inside you seems to stop. It’s like the missing piece of you has finally returned.
He’s here.
Isaac is here.
But the spell breaks the instant someone crosses your line of sight and suddenly, he’s gone.
Like a ghost.
No, he can’t just disappear like that!
Or at least, you thought you did.
The group he seemed to be with greets you casually. No one there recognizes you.
Again, emptiness swallows you whole. No, you didn’t imagine him. You saw him. He was here. He looked right at you!
No matter how much you look for him again, he doesn’t show up.
No... What have you done?
The hand that spins you around isn’t enough to catch your attention, but the voice that follows is.
“That’s odd. Was that enough to make all the tiredness from your ‘pregnancy’ disappear instantly?”
Even though the voices of the crowd are loud, his voice sounds louder.
Wait, that?
“You... saw him too?”
Indignation crosses Henry’s face before rage floods it.
He saw him too! Isaac is here, you knew you weren’t imagining things!
“I can’t believe you did this to me...” He seems to be purposely hiding his expression from you. “Since when were you lying?! I can’t trust you... This was a mistake. Let’s go home. Now.”
His grip on your shoulders reminds you of the situation you’re in. You ruined everything. Because of your impatience, you broke everything you had built.
He will never trust you again. He’ll lock you up, isolate you from everyone, or worse.
You’ll never see your husband again.
That thought gives you the push you need.
“No, NO! I’m not going back, not with you!” You shove him hard in the chest. He immediately steps back, surprised.
You run through the crowd toward the exit door. If he catches you, it's all over. It will be the end.
The door feels heavier than it should as you push it open, but the small gap you manage to create is enough to slip through. It’s not the same hallway you were in before, but that doesn’t matter now. You can’t think straight, you need to find a place to hide. Somewhere far from him.
The corridor is empty, not even the guards are here watching the artworks. When you reach the end, you realize the only exit leads straight back to the crowd.
You won’t face that again. Your only option is to climb the stairs.
The door starts to open, and fear freezes you for a moment. Without hesitation, you quickly step back and run toward the stairs.
In your panic, as you turn and climb the steps, you don’t notice you’ve bumped into a candleholder that’s part of an art installation.
You don’t stop until you see the stairs end, you’re on the top floor. This doesn’t look like a public area for visitors, but even so, you feel uncomfortable in such an open space, so you enter the last room down the hall.
It looks like an art restoration room, full of chemicals and solvents. If you knock them over, it could cause a big problem. You hide under a table where you have a clear view of the door.
…
What should you do now?
Relief flows through your body as soon as you hide, and now you can think more clearly.
You were impulsive, but... it’s not all lost. Your husband is here, you need to catch him somewhere isolated, and before Henry finds you. You could ask anyone you cross for help, but that would definitely upset your husband and damage his reputation. It wouldn’t be good if his beloved became the center of attention, especially after all the effort he must have put into opening this place.
Even though you’re decided about what to do, you’re still a little anxious, so you stay hidden a few more minutes, taking advantage of the time to try to remove the makeup from your face. Your husband has already recognized you, but it’s good to be cautious.
With your face hopefully clean, you come out from under the table and take a deep breath.
...
This air isn’t clean. What’s happening outside?
You open the door and the smell of smoke fills your nose, so thick it blurs your vision. Such dense smoke can only mean one thing.
Fire.
There’s nothing else on this floor but smoke. But it would be risky to go down to the first floor, you don’t know the situation there.
Your legs are shaking, fear is taking over you again.
You look out the window. There are already several people outside the museum while fire trucks are arriving and entering the building.
If they find you, they will definitely take you to Henry. You can’t rely on them.
You go to the window on the other side of the museum, the exit there seems to have fewer firefighters than the entrance. But either way, you’ll have to go down the stairs.
Your fear messes with your thinking as you run down the stairs, you feel sparks burning your skin. Each floor you go down seems worse, your eyes sting, making it harder to see the steps.
When you reach the last one, you see it. The fire hasn’t fully blocked the exit, you can hear people shouting. If you run, you should be able to get there.
The dizziness makes walking difficult, but you don’t let it stop you.
What stops you is an argument in front of the exit.
“My partner is still inside! If you don’t go in, I will!” You see Henry struggling with some police officers at the entrance, they are having a hard time holding him back. “If they die because of your incompetence, I swear I will—[NAME]!”
The scream of your name makes you step back, and your fear of dying is replaced by a worse fear.
If you... if you leave through here...
Henry’s shouts get louder now, he’s yelling your name repeatedly.
No... You can’t risk it. Any fate is better than going back to him!
You force your heels to turn and climb the stairs again. You know it’s dangerous, but you refuse to go back to anyone but your husband.
Your remaining courage runs out when the floor collapses in front of you, the wood shakes under your feet. The stairs you came up on are also blocked by the collapse of the upper floor.
You lean against the wall, sliding down until you sit. The lack of air makes it hard to recover your energy.
It’s over for you.
You knew this would happen the moment you left that room, but you still had hope. It won’t be the fire that kills you, but your own selfishness. Many chances appeared, but you wasted them all wanting things your way.
Tears run down your cheeks, you miss your husband. All you wanted was to be home with his company, relaxing together in bed. Because of you, you’ll never be able to do that again.
Oh, Isaac... You wonder if he’s okay. There’s a window near where you are... Is there any chance you can see him?
It’s worth trying, you have nothing to lose now.
But as soon as you try to walk, the floor shakes beneath you. The fire has consumed almost everything around you, it won’t be long before the floor above collapses. You need to be quick.
Gathering your last bit of strength, you ignore the burning pain of your wounds and run to the window. The little fresh air that comes in helps you breathe better, and your vision, once blurry, starts to clear, helping you look for your beloved. But no matter how much you search, you don’t...
The floor collapses beneath you.
You didn’t find him.
...
As expected.
It’s warm.
Your body is pressed against something warm.
You don’t know what it is, your eyes feel too heavy to open.
But it’s okay, you don’t need to know.
You make a small effort to move your arms. They seem to be resting on someone. More specifically, on their shoulders. You shift them to wrap around their neck, nestling closer to the back of their head.
The scent is familiar... It comforts you.
“I’m glad you can move, even if just a little.”
You recognize the voice immediately, but to be sure you’re not imagining things, you force your eyes open. You can only keep them half-open, but it’s enough to see the body carrying you on their back.
“My love...” Your voice is so hoarse it barely sounds like yours. “Where are we going?”
You feel like you have many questions, but they slip away the moment they come to mind. Speaking takes a lot of effort, so you ask the only thing that seems to be on your mind right now.
“We're coming home, dear.”
“Home...” You repeat the word to yourself, it sounds so sweet coming from your husband’s lips. “Heh, I like the sound of that...” A small smile grows on your own lips.
“I know you do.” Isaac smiles along with you. He gently squeezes your bandaged thigh. Even though it hurts, it proves he’s really here with you. “Let’s go home, my beloved.”
You couldn’t be happier to hear those words. He found you.
“This time, I’ll make sure it’s a place where no one will ever find you.”
HI how was your new year?? 🥰 i hope u had a great time <33
this is a little specific but can i please have cock sucking yan mean dom scara?? 🥺 🥺 im thinking of a scene where hes had a really tiring day or hes just casually chilling around and we give him the sloppiest, obliterating, heaven-scent gawk gawk 3000 of his life 🤤 andand he'll praise us and say somth like "whats the occasion?" and we're jyst "nothing just felt like gagging on ur pretty cock <33" plspls and thank u!! 🙏🏻🙏🏻
my new years was great!! thank you for the request! i tried, it's been a while since i've written anything, but i hope you enjoy nonetheless! <3 also, thank you guys for 1k followers!!
NSFW UNDER THE CUT!!
IN WHICH: scara's a popular streamer, so much so that he can't even give you a flicker of attention. when you catch him live one day, you decide to take matters into your own hands...
(not proofread)
scara was a popular streamer, his gaming skills, commentary, and his cocky, rude personality followed by his charming looks, brought him only the highest of attention. he's an internet celebrity, no doubt about that, so of course he's going to receive invasive fangirls that want nothing more than his attention, even if it's just him respond to their supa's with a snarky remark.
and as his girlfriend, you found yourself in a one-sided battle for his attention with said girls, even though they had absolutely no chance with him.
still, you couldn't help but feel as though they were the ones winning.
and that really bothered you. not only did you guys have to keep your relationship a secret from the public, but now he doesn't even look twice at you when you go out of your way to spend all day getting ready, just for at least some validation that he's still into you.
scara was in his streaming room, the light of his pc screens and keyboard being the only light illuminating this darkened room.
"he must not be using a webcam today." you thought to yourself as you peaked through the door.
scara, being the competitive guy he is, was way too focused on winning the game to even notice when you entered the room, making sure to quietly close the door behind you.
nor did he notice when you walked up behind him, reading all the desperate girls in his chat, increasing your jealousy ten fold.
you loosely wrapped your arms around him, causing him to flinch slightly. he muted his stream.
"get out." he didn't look up from his screen.
"i miss you..."
"i'm busy, you're gonna get me in trouble. so leave. i'll hang out with you when i'm done."
that was a lie. but you couldn't even respond, he unmuted his stream right away, made up a random excuse to his confused chat, and kept playing, as if you weren't even there.
but you weren't giving up, you had to win this one-sided battle, for the sake of your pride, and your man.
slowly kneeling down, you crawled underneath his desk, your hands trailing up, and down along his thighs as you slightly opened his legs.
scara stiffened at your touch, but ignored you nonetheless.
this only increased your need for him. you were gonna make him pay attention to you, and finally turn that damn stream off for good.
your hands traveled further up his thighs until they found themselves rested upon his bulge within his pants.
scara was in a heated match, he stopped his commentary for a moment as he bit his bottom lip softly, in a weak attempt at ignoring you once more.
noticing his reaction, you slowly slid your hand up and down that area through his pants, his cock now throbbing for more of your touch.
but he couldn't pause the game, or mute the stream yet. it would be too suspicious.
he took a deep breath before he looked down and gave you a glance of annoyance. you grinned and put your pinter finger over your lips in reply, signaling for him to keep quiet.
he clicked his tongue, irritated, but clearly turned on.
your hands slid underneath his the waistline of his sweatpants, revealing his full length of his hardened cock.
you licked your lips in anticipation, whilst scara's leg shook with anxiety.
"just relax." you said in a quiet, soft whisper.
before he knew it, your tongue slid across his shaft, making its way up, where your tongue circled around his pink tip.
his breath hitched. he missed a headshot.
"fuck." his tone was more breathy than usual.
your soft tongue kept sliding up and down against his shaft, getting it as wet as possible before you kissed his tip, before finally putting his length into your mouth.
he instantly moved his mic away from him and a soft, breathy moan escaped his lips, his head fell backward and he put his hand over his mouth.
his eyes being closed for a split second was enough to get him killed in the game, ending his match. his chat spammed, filled with confusion and suspicion.
you moved your head up and down as he let his cock shamelessly filll your mouth, using your hand to help what you couldn't fit in your mouth. your pace started off slow, and sensual.
he could handle that.
he took a few more deep breaths and gathered himself, going back to his mic.
"my bad, i had to do something--oooh"
your head bobbed faster up and down as you went down on him. your mouth and hand moving in a rhythm that sent a chill of pleasure down his spine.
he couldn't ignore this, he didn't even try to. he couldn't even get any words out to make up an excuse to his chat. his finger instantly hit the mute button as his hand took a handful of your hair, forcing you to take in more of his throbbing shaft.
he leaned back in his chair, moving you up and down his cock forcefully. his moans tuned from low, and deep to sharp, and high-pitched.
"fuck yeah...like that. just like that." his voice deep, raspy and completely breathless.
you kept going, not letting up. you could feel your eyes watering slightly as his length hit deep within your throat, causing you to almost gag slightly. but you didn't let up, your hand moving from his cock to the sides of his hips, your fingers digging deep into his skin as he face fucked you relentlessly.
his mouth hung agape, as he looked down at you, his half-lidded eyes struggling to stay open.
for the first time in a while, he wanted to see you. he paid attention to you.
what was he supposed to be doing right now? he forgot.
"ah- so good...fuck--- i'm so--"
his legs which shook with anxiety now shook with pleasure, and he couldn't get them to stop. his grip on your hair only tightened, you could feel his cock twitch in your mouth.
his harmonic moans sent a strike of pleasure through you, causing the area between your thighs to start aching.
"don't spit." he ordered.
scara failed at keeping his fingers interlocked with your hair for much longer as he leaned back in his chair, releasing a loud, sudden groan of your name. his white fluid filling up your mouth.
he stayed leaned back in his chair, his chest rising up and down heavily as his breath hitched with every exhale.
you kissed his tip and looked up at him with a grin of amusement as you licked your lips.
after a short while, scara cupped your chin firmly, pulling your face up to his level as he stared deeply into your eyes with a burning desire.
"what's the occasion? don't tell me you wanted my attention this bad..." he said with an cocky scoff.
leaning your face closer to his, you spoke. "nothing..."
you sat in a straddled position on his lap, pressing your body intimately against his, your voice becoming soft and sensual.
"i just missed gagging on my boyfriends pretty cock..."
Y/N fell in love with him in high school, married him after graduation, and moved in with him whenever she decided to go to college. But something about him was odd. Disappearing at night, being gone for days on end, answering suspicious unknown phone calls, being overly clingy... He's not cheating, right? Or was something worse going on?
• • • AVAILABLE ON WATTPAD, TUMBLR, QUOTEV
𝐋𝐄𝐒𝐒𝐎𝐍 ( dark reverse harem x villainess! reader )
Y/N wanted her arranged husband dead. Who could blame her? After she was forced to marry the Grand Duke, she knew that she'd live a miserable life, especially if it meant being tethered to him til the end of her days. So she started to make a plan. A sinister plan to kill him, his close friends, and topple his empire of fame to the ground. If she wasn't allowed to have rights, why should they? But it was easier said than done... because unbeknownst to her, three men would do anything to appease her.
• • • AVAILABLE ON WATTPAD
𝐀𝐃𝐎𝐑𝐄 ( yandere! emperor x female! reader )
Emperor Cadmus Dimitriou. Whether people knew him by his title as emperor of Kiaba, or his cutthroat win in the war three years ago, they all knew that a man like him was destined for greatness. But Y/N? She was destined for the constant spray of blood, the roaring of the crowd, and the thud of bodies dropping. It wasn't like Gladiators had a choice. However, that all changed when she was bought for a cheap price by a cruel man who wanted to test her fame. And Emperor Cadmus wouldn't take no for an answer.
• • • NOT YET RELEASED (WILL BE SOON)
𝐒𝐄𝐑𝐏𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝐅𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐒 ( yandere! vampire x male! reader )
The Devil stopped at the doorstep of Y/N's church with a charming smile. Business, he said, that was why he came by to visit. His touch left Y/N's skin in flames, his gaze made his stomach twist, and his voice made his head spin. This man, Linus Ambrose Wittherson, had to be Lucifer himself.
Everyone inside Fulminare Academy had secrets; the professors, the students, the scrappy dogs outside. Y/N was no different. However, she never thought those secrets would lead to her demise. Mysterious men were out for her head, or more specifically, the knowledge inside it. May curiosity kill these wicked cats.
• • • AVAILABLE ON WATTPAD & QUOTEV
𝐁𝐋𝐔𝐄 𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐓 ( yandere! serial killer x male! reader )
Y/N knew there was something wrong with him but he couldn't help it. He was 𝘰𝘣𝘴𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘦𝘥. Who wouldn't be hooked onto someone like Micah Ariti? A transfer student from Greece who was perfect in every way; his athleticism, his creativity, his 'no-bullshit' type of personality. Even if he knew then about who he really was, he was already addicted. He would never let him go.
Includes: yandere husband x wife!reader, toxic and abusive relationship, cheating accusations, loooots of arguing, choking, and potentially more.
Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays! Sorry for the late post. I pretty much slept through Christmas and just got around to working on this again.
Your husband’s mind was racked with potential gift ideas. Jewelry in boxes of your favorite color, arranged into a beautifully large, decorated bouquet. He could pair it with a new car—an Aston Martin DB9, with a pink interior in particular. You had seemed quite drawn to that vehicle when your eyes first landed on it.
Before meeting your husband, you had spent most of your adult life taking the metro and subway. Since being with him, he drove you everywhere and even got you a personal chauffeur whenever he couldn’t take you himself. He spoiled you, making sure you wouldn’t have to lift a single finger to get anywhere—and yet, you yearned to be on the road. So much so that you got your driver’s license behind his back.
Throughout the days leading up to Christmas, he dropped hints here and there and mentioned other things he could get you—such as the popular So Kate heels and a new thick winter coat with fur. Expecting praise and an elated reaction, it hurt when he was met instead with disinterested grunts and disdain.
Back to the drawing board he went.
“No… no, this isn’t right either,” your husband mumbled to himself, swiping through a fashion catalog. You had practically worn it all. Your walk-in closet took up the entire left wing of the house, all thanks to him. He had seen you in the newest fall collection of every designer brand he could think of, even his father’s own line.
He wanted to get you something you would never forget. So, he would have to get personal.
Henry. Sometimes his comrade in games, other times his foe—the one who liked to go toe-to-toe with him. In the end, no matter how they felt about each other, Henry was his son, so he had to listen to him.
Henry returned to his father’s office with a worn-out brown leather bag—one his father remembered as always being comically stuffed to the brim with a mix of your belongings and Henry’s toys.
You were overly protective of this purse, no matter how many times your husband told you to get rid of it. You claimed that it was the most expensive purchase you had ever made back in the day—that you scrimped and saved just to buy it with your barista salary.
It landed on the desk with a loud thump, several of your lipsticks and bits of random junk spilling out. Your bag—or rather, a thoroughly abused sack—was hanging by a thread. The gold plating on the hardware had rubbed off, revealing the metal underneath. The single pocket it had wouldn’t even close; the zipper was missing, leaving it perpetually open.
As he dug deeper, pulling out more clutter, his hands found your thick wallet.
The hundreds of dollars he had given you had been broken down into twenties, fives, and ones. He tossed it aside, thinking nothing of it—until he grabbed your passport next.
“Odd…” he murmured, now noticing that both your birth certificate and Henry’s were inside as well.
“Fuck…” he breathed, flipping the bag over and dumping the rest of its contents onto the desk.
Important documents—the passports, wads of cash bundled together with your hair tie—and now… your phone felt heavy in his hand.
He typed in your birthday. It didn’t work. He tried his own; the lock screen barely budged. Only when he entered Henry’s did the phone finally open to your home screen.
He went through your messages. A short list of names appeared—his at the very top and pinned, your parent right below, a couple of friends, and then John.
John?
Your husband did a double take. Were you cheating on him? He gulped thickly, his thumb hovering over the name. If you were, he could find all the proof and evidence right now. Blood rushed to his face, his ears turning bright red as his heart hammered in his chest. He didn’t even want to imagine you entertaining another man, but it would certainly explain why you had been acting so distant. Perhaps you were planning on leaving him for this John.
He couldn’t do it.
“This is…” He sharply inhaled, turning back to his son, who was still idly waiting to be dismissed. “This is perfect, Henry. Thank you,” he said tightly.
He then roughly shoves the rest of the contents into a safe, quickly hiding it away with a satisfying click of the lock. He pocketed your phone, and was now examining the bag with a scrutinizing gaze.
Christmas came by fast.
Henry wore the same pajamas as you—decked out in red velvet with white, shimmering snowflakes printed across the fabric of his shirt, matching joggers, and elf slippers with a little bell hanging from the curved, pointed tip. He was already sipping on a warm glass of milk by the tree, one hand fishing for another cookie from the tin beside him.
Henry had opened most of his presents, his attention now focused on the array of trucks spread out in front of him.
You were seated by the couch, a camera resting in your lap as you smiled fondly at your enthusiastic toddler. You hadn’t even noticed the dark, looming presence nearby—a large box held firmly in his hands.
“It’s your turn, honey.”
“Oh, you didn’t have to get me anything—”
“Nonsense.”
He stared down at you blankly, barely breathing or blinking, his hands tucked into his pockets as he impatiently tapped his foot. You began to feel unnerved by how silent he was.
Usually, he was jumping with joy, urging you to open the countless gifts he bought you. But this year, there was only one.
“Is it more lingerie?” you joked, slowly lifting the lid of the box.
“Ha,” he replied dryly.
“Well, no matter what it is. I’m sure it’s wonderful.” You give him a quick smile before pulling back the tissue paper.
“It’s… oh, uh…” You pursed your lips, lost for words, and your hand stilling just above the familiar orangish-brown leather.
It looked revived—restored to a condition far better than when you had first bought it. The leather was supple again, no longer cracked or dulled by years of wear, its color rich and even, as though time itself had been reversed. The hardware gleamed, polished back to its original luster, free of scratches and tarnish. The handle—once frayed and threatening to snap—was now seamless and sturdy beneath your fingers.
When you dared to peer inside, your breath caught. The interior had been thoroughly cleaned, every stain gone, the lining crisp and immaculate, as if it had never carried years’ worth of clutter and receipts.
When you finally locked eyes with him, all you felt was existential dread.
Without thinking, your tone turned accusatory.
“Where’s my stuff?”
“Un-fucking-believable,” he muttered under his breath as he turned on his heel. He stormed toward the bedroom, you trailing hot on his heels.
You called his name, grabbing his wrist, but he yanked his arm away immediately—reacting as though your touch had burned his skin. He led you into the bedroom and carefully closed the door behind you.
“I’ll ask you again,” you said, forcing your shaking voice to steady. “Where’s my stuff?”
“That’s all you care about?” He whipped around to face you, his hands clenched into tight fists.
He then pulled out your phone, dangling it in the air. “Is this what you’re looking for?” he grated, his eyes dragging slowly up and down your tense form before narrowing into sharp slits when they reached your face.
“God, why can’t you just fucking care about our relationship for once?” he snapped. “We have a child. We have a family—we’re married, y/n!”
“You’re ungrateful, and I’ve turned soft. You make me soft—dumb, even. I should’ve known you were cheating on me.” he angrily continued.
“I’m not cheating,” you huffed, gritting your teeth. “You made me cut ties with every man I know. My life revolves entirely around you and your selfish desires.”
“Is that why you ran to your little John?”
Of course he had been able to get into your phone. You didn’t want to tell him that you were lawyering up, trying to at least keep one part of your already blown up plan under wraps.
“Did he touch you?” he asked quietly, his body tightly coiled. It was a question meant more for himself than for you—his mind already whirling with images of this strange man laying hands on his wife, spiraling into a gut-wrenching, tumultuous storm of thought.
He stiffened, his grip tightening around your phone as an unsavory image crossed his mind. His jaw clenched shut as he began to pace back and forth, restrained fury simmering just beneath the surface.
He yells, then your phone is thrown onto the floor. It breaks.
All you could do was slink down the wall, holding your knees close to your chest as he rants. You don’t even remember when he finally stops, the angry stomps coming to an end.
You disassociate when he grabs onto your arms, shaking your body to force out a response. When he gets none, you find yourself on the bed with him on top of you.
His eyes locked onto yours—deadly, resolute, determined to hurt you. Only when you saw his hands moving toward your neck did you finally scream, thrashing beneath him.
You say two strangled words to save yourself. Complete lies, but the black dots dissipate and your vision becomes clear again. His awfully sickly sweet smile quickly appears, attention now on your stomach.
Imagine making a wish for a different life to get away from your neglectful husband and your wish is granted… but now you’re trapped in the body of an unhappy housewife from the 1950s. Your husband in this time period is a typical patriarchal white collar man, James Prescott. And the only way to go back to your world is to play your part… a shame you hadn’t realized just how neglected he’s been. Otherwise you wouldn’t have fed a starved man the affection he so desperately craved.
Yandere Husband who is surprised when you, his wife, are suddenly affectionate that morning. You hardly kissed his cheeks anymore or wished him a good day at work. Especially when she turned down his desire for a family all those years ago. Were you sick? This wasn’t like you at all. He was suspicious. Did you want something? Work had been going well lately so he could afford to buy you a gift… if you wanted one, of course.
Yandere Husband who is surprised to come home to a warm meal after a long day that actually tastes good. You were never a good cook before. He was startled but also satisfied to be taken care of. He even gave you a rare compliment he never had before. “The food is good today. I really like this roast.” His blue eyes studied your face for a reaction and he only received a warm smile. His heart fluttered for the first time in two years since he started this dead marriage. Meanwhile, you kept a journal noting his likes and dislikes so you’d have an easier time in this world. A fact that would later come back to bite you.
Yandere husband came home with flowers after work the next day. Blush pink roses with the thorns taken off with care. His blue eyes were hopeful as he waited for your reaction and you didn’t disappoint. He came home to another delicious hot meal and a warm smile as you happily accepted the flowers. It was like the love was back again… the love back when the two of you first started dating three years ago. And James was so thrilled.
Yandere husband loved coming home to warm meals and a clean house. James loved his clothes being washed and folded. He also loved how you ironed his work shirt. You hadn’t been this domestic in ages… you deserved more from him. Heavens, you deserved the world.
Yandere husband began to bring flowers or chocolates by every day after that just to see you smile… and he was so thrilled when you hugged him. You felt him tremble a bit as he tightened his hold on you as if he was terrified you’d disappear in a mere moment. “…how about we go on a date this weekend?”
Yandere Husband who was all too eager to put on a suit that matched the dress you wore. He made sure to open the car door for you, the restaurant door, and even pull out your chair. You were shocked at how eager he seemed for this date… and the fact that he gave you his utmost attention.
Yandere husband who made sure to order your meals once you told him what you wanted. His hand held yours under the table as his thumb brushed against your knuckles with utmost affection. James was so happy you wanted to do these kinds of things together again. He had missed this more than anything but never wanted to voice it.
Yandere husband who cuddles you in bed at night now. His hands wander more and he gets bolder as the days drag on… but you didn’t know how long you’d stay in this world with him and you would feel awful if you left suddenly. But you were happy that someone wanted to touch you… your husband back in your world hadn’t in ages either. So why not indulge this one?
Yandere husband who was gentle at first but it wasn’t long for him to grow rough once he had a taste. Had intimacy always been this good? Or had James just been denied for so many years that he was losing his mind in you? He didn’t care that the bed creaked in protest or how your back arched in a way it never had, James was so thrilled to touch his wife again.
Yandere Husband who now kissed your shoulders every morning when the sunlight streamed in before work. James would hold you from behind as you cooked and helped with dishes. He was so happy to have all his stress melt away with your touch.
Yandere husband who finds your journal and despite knowing it was wrong to read it, he read it anyways. James’s heart fluttered at the words.
James really enjoys pot roast, steak, mashed potatoes, and carrots. He says he likes tomatoes, but I notice he will push them off to the side when I’m not looking. He also prefers beef gravy over chicken gravy. James says he likes his coffee black, but he always adds in a table spoon of sugar when I’m not looking.
Yandere husband who read deeper and soon discovered your secret. You weren’t his real wife or at least, his original one. You were from another timeline trapped in a loveless marriage just like him… and he’d felt such a kinship with you.
My husband from my world hardly ever spent time with me. He never stayed for dinner and we never went on dates. I really like James. I want to stay with James. How could someone not love James? He’s such a wonderful man.
Yandere husband was so flattered that you were noting his preferences. James never thought anyone noticed him… and he’d be damned if he’d ever leave him. He loved you too. James loved you so much. More than anyone else in his entire life. Even more than himself and more than his cushy job at the law firm.
Yandere husband who put the journal back and made a decision. He was going to keep you here in this world with him forever. And he’d never, ever let you go.
Synopsis. Choso Kamo: Itadori Yuji’s older brother, drummer to the Löded Diper, that touch-starved punk-rocker that’s been absolutely obsessed with you. You: nothing less than queen bee on campus, leader of The Plastics, about to show that loser that he totally can’t sIeep sit with you! …Maybe.
Pairing. Choso Kamo x Reader
Content. MDNI, fem!popular!reader, punk!Choso, Regina George x Rodrick Heffley AU, college AU, Itadori family shenanigans, wingmanning, Mean Girls references (like a lot), slight crackfic, he’s SO down bad for you, píning, parties, pússydrúnk Choso, face-sítting, oraI (fem rec.), first times (him), fíngering, spítting chokíng, Choso with piercings, D piercings, ROUGH S, he goes FÉRAL, making it fit, síze k, manhandIing, matíng presses, creampíes, slight cúmplay, confessions, getting together, pet names, swéaring.
Word count. 14.0k
A/N. Hehehe am I late…
Choso sighs, “Isn’t she amazing…?”
“She just looked at you and giggled? She just whispered about it to her friends and now they’re all staring? She’s walking away without even looking back?”
“I know- she’s more than amazing.”
Yuji looks at his older brother. Then he looks at you. He looks at his older brother. Then he looks at you- and the next time he’s setting his sights on the dark-haired man, Yuji sort of feels like slamming his face into his bowl of mushy peas.
He squints at your disappearing back, “Right…” If this is what the college experience was about then put this college at the bottom of his safety schools.
But listen! It’s not like he’d ever speak bad about his big brother - this was his cool, calm, collected brother after all (at least he was supposed to be). And so Yuji’s pushing the bulk of his skepticism aside, and turning back to Choso.
“So when are you gonna ask her out, bubba?”
“A-ask her out—?!”
Choso Kamo’s voice cracks on the mere words, at the mere notion—and Yuji can only ogle him in utter bewilderment. Oh…my god…?
Alright so not calm or cool or collected.
Fuck, he was so far gone that it almost looked painful.
He’s never seen his big brother’s eyes shine like that before - whether in excitement (at the delusion) or in panic (at the reality) he couldn’t quite tell. He’s never seen his big brother’s face burst into a blush so strong that it makes him wince. He’s never seen his big brother turn his toned frame away and start muttering - more to himself than anything.
“Why would you even suggest that? Why would you want me to- heheh…ask her out? Why did you know that’s been my biggest dream since freshman year? Why did you think that I could ever possibly manage to-” And then he’s gasping in realization.
And in a split-second - so fast that the poor pink-haired boy could never have seen it coming - Choso’s whirling around to grab him from either side of his shoulders. “Unless- unless you saw something between us that I didn’t!” He exclaims, shaking Yuji with every word. “Unless you believe that I actually have a chance and you want me to go for it before it’s too late?!”
Yuji’s jaw drops, “I uh…huh?”
“But of course!” Choso was on a roll now, jostling the boy back and forth even harder. “In dad’s nighttime k-dramas the two romantic leads never really know when they like each other—but of course!” People in the cafeteria were starting to stare now. “I’m the male lead and you saw something in her eyes that made you want me to confess! Before either I get hit by a truck and get amnesia or she gets married off to some faraway 6’7 CEO-”
“CEO? What the f-”
“So what was it you saw?” Abruptly stopping his shaking now, Choso leans in with widened eyes. He probes at his younger brother with eager questions, “What was it you saw in her eyes? Hidden longing? Desire? Betrayal? Lu-”
“M-maybe?” God, he was feeling dizzy now and those peas weren’t helping…“Webster’s Dictionary did say that betrayal could be a synonym for disgust. I think.”
To which Choso pauses - still with that same insanely hopeful expression stiff on his face. And Yuji thinks that he might just’ve have broken him when-
“Oh, it’s no use—” He almost thinks he prefers the ramblings of a madman, rather than the dramatic way that Choso’s throwing himself over his space on the cafeteria table. Head in his hands. Shoulders shaking with a sigh.
The metal trays they’d been provided with rattle ever-so-slightly at his ministrations, and Yuji has to be the one to nudge them to the side. Mouthing out apologies to the students around them that throw them dirty looks—honestly, this was supposed to be his tour of his older brother’s college campus before he attended. He was supposed to be the one being taken care of during this pivotal time of his life.
Which (to Choso’s credit) had been what ended up happening for most of the day: through all those labs and lecture halls and facilities he’d been led to by him, through all those professors that Choso made him speak about his future major with, through most of lunch where his brother kept on insisting that he take more until…you came along.
Almost as if thinking of the very same thing (you), Choso’s sniffling even louder. And Yuji’s gingerly patting at the AC/DC t-shirt on his back, “There there…it’ll be alright, bubba. Wait- if you’re the male lead then who am I?”
Choso sputters out, “I don’t know? Homosexual supporting cast? I don’t know anything-” Pathetically bemoaning, “I can’t even do anything-”
Yuji insists gingerly, “I’m sure if you just asked her-”
“No you don’t get it, Yuji.” He finally raises his head from his hands, silver lip ring twinklin’ in the light. His older brother brings a ringed hand up to twist at it - in just the way he did whenever he got nervous about something. “She’s part of The Plastics- the leader, actually. And those other two? Utahime and Shoko.”
It seems that you and your duo of friends had been stopped by a few more of your acquaintances just outside the cafeteria. And as you laughed and talked amongst yourselves, Yuji and Choso leaned over in their seats to catch more glimpses of you.
He points subtly at the brown-haired girl with eyebags and a…scalpel close by you. “Ieri Shoko’s one of the smartest girls you will ever meet. Eso sat next to her in Anatomy 101 last semester, and he said she cheated so well that the professor changed their marking scheme.” Then as Choso moves the tip of his digit, so do Yuji’s eyes onto another girl with a scar across her face and an arm thrown over your shoulder. “That one with the traditional dress? That’s Iori Utahime, she’s totally rich because her dad invented the Toaster Strudel. Utahime knows everybody’s business, everything about everyone- that’s why her hair is so big…it’s full of secrets.”
Yuji stifles a giggle, “And ah- the one you’re obsessed with?”
“Shhhh- not so loud!” As if he hadn’t just been causing a scene earlier. Choso just has to take one look at you before he’s repeating your name in the most dreamy manner, “-perfection takes human form in her.”
“Perfection?”
“Don’t be fooled. Because she may seem like your typical selfless, smart, gorgeous sweetheart but in reality…she’s so much more than that.” Choso sighs, “How do I even begin to describe her?”
“I don’t get it, we have popular kids in our high school too?” Yuji asks. Hell, if they were counting like that then he wasn’t doing too bad socially himself.
But Choso’s fervently shaking his head. In an instant, he’s getting up and dragging Yuji away from his mushy peas. Ignoring his whines- “Come with me.”
They all said your name.
“She’s flawless.”
“She has two Fendi purses and a silver Lexus.”
“I hear her hair’s insured for ten thousand dollars.”
“I hear she does car commercials in Shibuya.”
“One time, she met Jacob Elordi on a plane. And he told her she was pretty.”
“One time she punched me in the face. I liked it.”
And by the end of his (second) tour around campus (and his first tour around the gossip mill), Itadori Yuji could…somewhat understand where his older brother was coming from. In addition to being liked so much, you were somewhat…scary.
He feels himself shiver involuntarily as you pass him by, not seeing the two tall boys hidden beneath a large oak tree on campus. Watching you. Though, Shoko does- and glints her scalpel threateningly at them until they duck back behind the scraggly trunk.
“But still-” Yuji hisses at Choso, crouched against the flares of green grass. “-I don’t see why you can’t at least give it one try to ask her out? I thought you weren’t scared of anything, bubba.”
“And then there’s that problem-” Handsome face suddenly hardening, Choso checks whether the coast is clear for Shoko and her scalpel before gesturing at his younger brother to follow. Popping their heads from the side of the oak trunk once more, he’s pointing an index at the other man you’d walked up to.
The tip of his finger - all chipped with black nail polish - honed in like an arrow at the silver haired man. Yuji watched as he grabbed you to his side with a guffaw, where you wrinkled your nose at the way he crinkled your blouse- but let him do as he pleased anyway. “That two-toned, two-inch bastard- Naoya Zenin.”
“From the Zenin Corporations?” Yuji gawked.
“The Zenin Corporations, and he goes ‘round acting like it too.” Choso grumbles, lightly thumping his fist against the tree. “His family’s old old money, but word is they’re gonna be charged with embezzlement soon, heh. He started dating her at the start of freshman year- no idea how that happened, some say he bribed her with a GMC Hummer and they’ve been on and off ever since.”
“Wild.” The pink-haired boy whistles- inadvertently catching the attention of you. Turning away boredly from a lecture on Naoya’s latest business ventures to catch the two tufts of hair peaking through the oak trunk. You have to stifle a laugh as they duck out of sight with matching yelps.
“Something amusing about wining and dining the CEO of the World Bank, honey?” Naoya leers out, and you know he doesn’t mean that pet name he uses.
“Nothing amusing at all, actually.” You’re plastering a painful plastic smile, and he doesn’t catch the snipe. You’re angling your head to try and catch a glimpse ‘round the trunk, at those doey brown eyes that caught yours. “Tell me all about your ah- glorious old money again.”
“Why most certainly.”
You’re rolling your eyes, and you don’t catch the way that Shoko threatens her scalpel in the direction of the oak once more.
Yuji - who’d been craning upwards to take another look - hastily sits back down on the ground with a thump. “Bubba, we’ve got to do something about her though. The Itadori men don’t just sit around doing nothing in a time of crises-”
“Do what though?” Choso puts his face in his hands, long chestnut hair falling around his face. Obscuring his pout from view, though one could hear it. “It’s hopeless-”
“No.”
Choso looks up in surprise.
At Yuji’s determined face, that smile. Brighter than the sun.
He pulls a handheld camera from Choso’s backpack and takes a picture of them both, you in the background. Blissfully unaware. “I’ve got a plan.”
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PHASE ONE OF WIMP: Everybody needs to know.
“There are four phases, the first is-” Yuji whispers, face pressed against the cold library shelf. Textbooks the size of his head. Names of authors that blurred into one. A wall of words that he’d shuffled aside to spy on the other side of it, “-we first have to get the word out about our WIMP.”
“WIMP?” Choso hisses back in confusion. He was standing right beside his younger brother, stooped down to look through their little crack.
A nearly-empty table.
A column of books.
A certain purple-haired girl rarely seen without leaving your side.
“Yeah?” Itadori answers, “Wingmanning Itadori’s Mythical Party- or WIMP for short.”
Choso can only look at him in pure aghast.
“Anyways, going back to our WIMP-”
“Yuji, stop trying to make WIMP happen. It’s not going to happen.”
“About our party then.” To which the pink-haired boy waves off easily, “Don’t sweat it- dad is out on some bonding trip with Uncle Kuna and grandpa, so they won’t be back until tomorrow so we have the house alllll to ourselves.”
It was true that their home actually sat on the outskirts of campus, right alongside the other dorms and residential buildings for the students. It was actually one of the reasons that Choso had chosen this particular university in the first place, because of its proximity (and it led him to you so, good thinking on his part, hm?) And so he still resided there with his family, but as for throwing a party…“Yuji, parties really aren’t a big deal in college. I don’t know if it’s even a good-”
“Do you wanna do this or not?” He pulls away to give Choso a deadpan look, the sharp edges of the books embedding vertical lines on his face.
The other man stammers, “W-well…”
“Let me rephrase-” Yuji says, “-do you want her in your house-”
“Yes.”
“And there you go.”
Choso sputters, face flushing at the fact that he’d been caught out so easily. He scratches behind his neck and looks anywhere but into his brother’s mischievous eyes, “W-well! You’ve clearly been spending too much time with Sukuna…and what about the fact that we have a house and apparently the word- but still no actual- party-”
“Semantics, semantics.” And to Choso Kamo’s complete and utter horror- he’s pulling out his camera to take a picture of their stakeout. He’s starting to push off the bookshelf and walk away.
Reaching out a hand, “Wait- wait, Yuji!”
Right up to the corner of the shelf, he grins. “First we’ve got to get the word out.”
And before Choso can do anything about it, Yuji’s pranced right up to the long student desk. Making a few of them look up at his sudden, yellow-hoodied intrusion- he’s clapping a hand over his forehead and bemoaning. “Oh, woe is me! Woe is me!” Choso’s clapping a hand over his forehead, too, though for a much different reason. He thinks he’s having an aneurysm. “Oh, I seem to have gotten myself a little lost…”
Trailing off, he peeks at Utahime out of the corner of his eye - and finds her completely unphased.
It was as if she didn’t even hear his display, and flicked casually through a glossy athletics magazine that’d been stuffed between the pages of her textbook.
Choso watches as he starts up again, slightly louder this time- “My poor, innocent high school self- all alone in this big, bad campus. All abandoned. If only I had a good samaritan to guide me back…” He peeks at Utahime again and she doesn’t even flinch—and what the- was that a textbook on children’s education she was reading?!
“Oh, how I wish a future teacher—” Yuji lets the words ring in the air, shooing away another student that’d come over to help him. “-could maybe get some practical work in and help me…a poor, poor high school student who doesn’t know of the big world…”
Utahime looks up at him—this was his chance!
And Yuji’s brightening up- before he registers she was looking right past him and at the clock that’d been ticking away on the wall behind him. The two brothers come to the realization at the same time and they bite back groans.
Goddammit! “How I wish I had someone to help me lest they wanted me to miss my brother’s party- tonight. Yes, a party tonight. A partyyyyy—” Emphasizing his words; his initial idea had been to strike up a conversation with Utahime as she (with her heart of gold) helped his poor lost self, and to naturally weave in the idea of the party and perhaps invite her and her friends as a thank you.
But now, Utahime (with her heart of thorns) was pleasantly ignoring him to pack her bag and leave.
Though, he was catching the attention of almost everyone else in this part of the library. Wondering just who the kid was and why the hell he couldn’t shut up—“He doesn’t even go here!”
Yuji sighs, “Free beer.”
“Oh, are you lost?” Utahime asks with a warm smile.
“What the-” Choso squawks, but ultimately gnaws down on the inside of his cheek to shut himself up before she hears. He watches Utahime get up from her seat and sling her back over her shoulder, leading an allegedly lost Itadori Yuji out of the library (the exit was two shelves away but she didn’t seem to question it).
From here, he can hear snatches of their fading conversation - Utahime inquiring about this party, Yuji responding in kind. He rattles off their address that she makes him text her, along with an invite extended to her friends. She says she has two best friends who would just love to come. “You’re Choso’s brother, aren’t you? I saw you two in the cafeteria today, yeah, my friend would tooootally love to come- just don’t tell her boyfriend.”
Yuji tilts his head in slight confusion.
Choso notices that his brother also greatly exaggerates about the beer (which, obviously, the high-schooler wouldn’t be able to drink) and some DJ they’re flying in, but he doesn’t quite have it in himself to feel anything but cautious excitement right now.
You.
You, you, you.
Yuji throws a thumbs up behind his back.
Pulling out his camera and starting to coax Utahime into a selfie picture or two.
Choso’s lifting off of the shelf with a chuckle - he can’t believe it worked. He can’t believe it actually worked! In both shock and slight relief, he’s taking a few steps back—now that he thinks about it, how did it even work-
Before he’s crashing into someone.
“Oh, fuck- I’m so sor-”
“You’re alright, baby.”
That voice.
Choso whirls around so fast that he feels the world tilt. Choso whirls around so fast that he feels his tall figure sway. That he’s chasing the sound of your voice- and he doesn’t even care if he looks a fool doing it.
Though he’s sure it shows, if the way you’re giggling at his action is anything to go by.
Slightly fluttering your lashes, “Something the matter?” You ask, with a smile.
“N-no…”
“Mhm.” And then you lean in—so close that he could kiss you.
One of your hands reaches past him, almost caging him against the book shelf. And Choso’s plastering his back against their hair columns- face burning, hands pressing to his toned sides, pink lips quivering with greed. His eyes dip down to those lips of yours that just kept on getting closer…“Wh-what you are-”
“I got what I need.” In the corner of his peripheral vision, he sees you lift off a hefty textbook from the shelf. Past his figure.
Where your hand had actually been reaching - and Choso feels his heart drop down to his stomach when you neatly distance yourself with the book. That very same slightly-dangerous smile still on your face, “As for you, have fun with your…” Your eyes drift to the gap between two books he’d created, a peephole. Narrowing, though your smile only widens. “-spying. Bye now!”
“W-wait-” Choso’s voice only comes out once you’d left, “Wait I wasn’t-”
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PHASE TWO OF WIMP: Break her up with her boyfriend—yeah yeah, Choso’s bored!
Nobody in the lecture hall seemed to question why a high-schooler was sitting and swinging his feet happily amongst them. Nobody in the lecture hall seemed to question why there was a sudden flurry of texts and whispers more prominent than usual, either.
A palpable excitement in the air.
And Choso doesn’t think that Professor Yaga was paid enough to notice nor care.
It seems that telling Utahime first about the party was the smart move. Because before Choso had even stepped foot outside the library (moving on autopilot after that lil’ encounter from you), the news had trickled down from her and to almost the entire department. He was immediately being thrown looks left and right- hell, even a clap on his shoulder by some frat dude he didn’t know congratulating him on ‘finally throwing a rager’.
He didn’t say he was throwing a rager…nor that he was inviting them…but alright…
Even now, a few of the students around him would nudge each other and not-so-subtly point. Giving him a few glances. Dropping each other the pin of his address. Whispering about how ‘that quiet punk’ kid was throwing a party. Which honestly would’ve been completely tolerable had it not been for the fact that he was drawing attention from the row before him. Think that’s not too bad? Think again-
Choso takes just one glance at the row below—and feels his heart jump to his throat as he recognizes the beautiful back of your head.
He’s spent so many long hours studying it, you couldn’t fault him for immediately knowing…
But it didn’t matter if he knew or not.
It didn’t matter how close he was.
It was you, along with a few of your friends that’d managed to register to the class in time (though, it’s not like you were lacking for willing volunteers). Along with your boyfriend beside you.
Choso’s only able to look from behind.
Always an invisible wall between you two, invisible galaxies in every inch. Even that conversation he had with you in the library had ended in misunderstandings and distance. Oh…his heart ached, he hung his head low.
Your worlds would simply never cross—
“Haibara Yu, an invite for you.”
“Ah! Why thank you, Itadori-kun.”
“Anytime, my dude.” Yuji replies, eyes glimmering with stars.
Choso snaps his head to Yuji in utter astonishment as he leans down and prods the man with the bowl cut in front of him - one of your closest friends, Haibara. And here Itadori Yuji was - speaking to him as if it was absolutely nothing—doesn’t he know that you! Were! Right! There! The pink-haired boy seated next to him hands Haibara an impromptu invitation (really, a scrap of paper ripped off of…Choso’s lyrics book with their address written down).
Chuckling at the cutely childish action, Haibara fist bumps Yuji. “I’ll be there, and say thank you to your brother for me.”
“Oh- he’s right here.” Yuji stabs a thumb to the seat beside him, which Choso looked as if he was trying to sink into. And when Haibara gives him a friendly smile and wave, Choso can only reciprocate with a jerky nod of his own.
And then Choso’s attention gets caught by the way that Yuji reaches deep into his hoodie pocket. Pulling out several more crumpled scraps of paper- how the hell did he have so many? And what the hell was Choso supposed to write songs on now?!
He places his head in his hands and grumbles, “Yuji…”
But Yuji simply continues, “Nanami Kento two for you-” His brother was now throwing the invitations at their unsuspecting recipients, the blond man catches it with a disgruntled scoff. “Ijichi Kiyotaka—four for you Ijichi Kiyotaka, you go Ijichi Kiyotaka!” A bespectacled man catches it with a yelp that catches Yaga’s attention (and his disregard). And then Choso’s heart catches in his throat as Yuji sing-songs out your name, gently handing you your own scrap of paper.
His scrap of written-over…lyrical…paper.
The scrap of paper that Choso had written songs about you on-
“Aw, you wrote my name on it and everything?” You’re cooing at the boy, beginning to unfold the invitation. It was a palimpsest of words, and your eyes go down the slightly-blurred lines of faint writing beneath Yuji’s blocky letters. It was cursive, slanted, with a sweetly messy impression so that you couldn’t make out half the words on it. Just your name. Over and over. “That’s so sweet! Um, you wrote my name…like…a lot-”
“No!”
Before you can read any further, the pierced man behind you reaches over and snatches the paper out of your hands. In a split-second, he has it crumpled up and stuffed deeeep into his bag where no mortal soul would see it ever again.
What follows next might be the most awkward few seconds of silence in his entire life.
Yuji looks at him. Yaga looks at him. Your friends look at him. You look at him-
“Um, why are you so obsessed with me?”
And he can’t even say anything in response because it’s fucking true—!
Yuji takes a picture of the scene.
It’s only Naoya who - seeming to not have noticed a single thing amiss - raises his index in the air and punctuates it with his annoying, grating voice. “Um-”
“And none for Naoya Zenin, bye!” Yuji stuffs the rest of the scraps inside his hoodie.
“Excuuuuuuse me-”
Choso blocks out the tirade of threats that Naoya then proceeds to spit their way, his black-tipped hair flying askew in all angles as he starts arguing with the younger boy. The previous tension between you and Choso left unsettled (not good tension, certainly, no matter what Yuji may think), you’re resigning yourself to lean back in your seat and let Naoya throw his arm over your. Jostled by him. Sighing at the fact that you were jostled by him. “Naoya, let it go-”
And oh—it makes Choso fucking angry to see you still with this asswipe.
But fuck—does it almost make him smile seeing that look on your face.
Only getting more bored with every word falling from Naoya’s lips. Only barely putting up with him. A fleck of angry spittle falls from your (hopefully soon-to-be-ex) boyfriend’s mouth, and you’re meeting Choso’s eyes in the middle as you follow it.
Both of you grimace in disgust.
Next to him, Yuji nudges at his ribs- a victory for Phase Two! He almost wants to laugh.
Yaga drones, “Mister Kamo, would you mind letting the class hear your thoughts on the subject of Caesar and Brutus at hand?” It seems he’d gotten enough of the ruckus in the back rows.
Choso stands, clearing his throat. “What’s so great about Caesar? Hm? Brutus is just as cute as Caesar. Brutus is just as smart as Caesar. People totally like Brutus just as much as they like Caesar. And when did it become okay for one person to try and claim everything, huh? Because that’s not what Rome is about.” He looks straight at Naoya, “We should totally just stab Caesar!”
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PHASE THREE OF WIMP: Ask her (to the party, if not out)!
“Bubba-”
“No-”
“C’mon bubba-”
“No-”
Yuji’s throwing his hands up in defeat, letting Choso’s own fall from his grasp. His wrists were all red n’ raw from all the pulling- even after the younger of the two brothers had seemingly given up on bodily draaagging Choso halfway down the campus gardens.
Right to you.
And honestly, Choso should be thankful that his brother’s such a fervent advocate for him getting his shit together and actually talking to the girl of his dreams.
But you’re just meters away, so beautifully oblivious.
And he can’t help but feel his knees weaken—“B-but what am I even going to say to her-”
“For starters, you can apologize for the way you snatched her invitation out of her hand.” Yuji’s saying - so very practically that it almost hurt. Was this really the same kid who’d run after him crying when he first left for college? “And then you can invite her to the WIMP-”
“I said stop trying to-”
“I got it, I got it!” Yuji puffs out his cheeks in a pout, “Man, you really know how to squirm your way out of important conversations- but you won’t be squirming your way out of this!”
Before he knows it, Choso’s being rounded by his younger brother- who then slams both palms against the others shoulders and starts shoving him in your direction. You were talking to someone, with your back turned to him and your air one of complete ease.
And here two Itadori brothers came to shatter it.
“You- won’t- be- getting out of this one, bubba-” Yuji forces out between pushes, and with every time Choso struggled against it, his throws only got even harder. “Talk- to- her-”
“And- and say what-”
“I don’t know- I’ve never asked anyone out before?”
“Fuck!”
With a final profane exclamation, Choso’s shoved right at your footsteps- and you’re turning around at the commotion. Raising your brows at the man that was bent so low before you, that he could practically look up your skirt if he wanted to.
You take a step back, “Um…”
“F-fuck-” He seemed to be saying that a lot today, and he stands upright instantly. Rubbing at the back of his flushed neck, Choso tries looking anywhere but in your eyes—where the fuck did Yuji disappear to?! “Anyways um…nice weather we’re having, huh?”
“Right…” You look up, there was a rain cloud formulating above you. There was a 30% chance that it’s already raining.
Your company - some business major by the name of Mei Mei, he believes, throws her single long braid over her shoulder - “Ooo la la~ Guess I should leave you two alone then, hm?” Waving just the tips of her fingers at you, “Toodles~!”
“Buh-byeee, again- I love your hair!” You’re calling out with the sweetest smile.
“Thank you~!”
And only once Mei Mei was well and fully not in earshot do you turn back to Choso and deadpan, “That is the ugliest fucking hairstyle I’ve ever seen.”
He hides a laugh behind his fist, “I-it certainly is eccentric…” Well, he’d be lying if he said he never secretly thought the same.
You tilt your head, his contagious smile making your own lips slightly quirk. In this dimming light, you could see the dimples by the corners of his lips- “And so? I don’t suppose you’re here to hear my tastes in hairstyles, are you?”
“I-I wouldn’t mind.” He coughs underneath his breath, self-consciously thinking to his own cutesy space-buns. He’s seen you staring at them a few times before…at least his imagination liked to think you did. He’s almost glad he wore them down today, “But ah- but no, you’re right. First of all, I came to apologize.”
Before you can say anything else, he’s bowing before you.
Sharp and sincere.
He couldn’t see the expression on your face like this- and so Choso scrunches his eyes and spits out the words. “I apologize for how rude I was during the lecture earlier, it- it’s completely my fault and I shouldn’t have snatched the invitation out of your hands. It was just…”
“Personal?” You ask, and he’s whipping his head up to catch your warm smile. “I get it. Your secret’s safe with me.” Before thinking about it a little more, “And Utahime…and Shoko. Maybe Ijichi-”
His pinkish mouth gapes, “A-and the…”
“My name?” Teasingly, you pretend to think. “I didn’t see a thing. My name? What name?”
Beside himself, he begins to laugh- “And I uh- there’s also…” He’s only slightly leaning up from his bow now, fists clenching upon either side as if tries not to lose his nerve. And Choso might just have- had it not been for the flailing body of his brother.
Just a little distance away, Yuji dances about and gestures at Choso to keep talking. Shaping out hearts with his arms. Mouthing a little ‘go on’. Puckering his lips and making kissy faces—
You notice the way his gaze strays past you and start to turn-
But Choso’s grabbing your hand in a panic- stopping you from moving- making you turn around in slight surprise. “I uh!” And he feels…he feels so much. The heat of your hand thrumming in his own. The zaps of electricity as your eyes meet his. The adoration at just how beautiful you were in this light. Somehow, some way, the shy man manages out. “I wanted to…to invite you personally to the WI- I mean, the party.”
He winces, waiting for your rejection.
Only-
“I’d love to!”
In the distance Yuji’s camera runs out of battery with how many times he’s flashing away pictures.
Choso’s on cloud nine all the way back home, he doesn’t think his feet even touch the pavement. Yuji gives him a good, hard smack on the back in congratulations as they get on Choso’s bike—“Wow, maybe you’re not a hopeless case after all, bubba!”
Choso rides a little faster that day.
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PHASE FOUR OF WIMP: DON’T BE A WIMP!
It honestly hadn’t taken them too long to turn Itadori Jin’s home into the habitat of a college party. It was already big enough, and it had a pool out in the back and a rooftop to climb. All they needed to add were a few key components: booze, beats, onion rings.
Most of it was ordered with their uncle’s credit card…
He’d asked his Löded Diper members to join him for a gig later in the night. And Yuji had begged his friends to help them with the decorating and set-up on account that they could join the (alcohol-free, to them) party afterwards.
Meanwhile Choso had paced their living room so many times that he thinks his footsteps were seared into the carpet - some excuse of a cool big brother he was. He’d damn near twisted off his lip piercing with the way he’d been nervously toying with it- it’d taken Yuji and Nobara dragging him off to get a bit more dolled-up for him to stop.
And so here he was.
Dressed in his best ripped jeans, chains glinting, biceps flexing through his short sleeves, nails painted and re-painted.
He throws his silky bangs out of his eyes and watches as the students trickle in- he didn’t even know half the people that dapped him up before treading inside the Itadori family home. And through each smile and greeting, Choso’s eyes flickered over the blur of faces for only one.
Yours.
The slosh of beer. The splash of ping-pong balls inside cups.
It was nearing midnight and Choso still couldn’t find you. Fuck, he almost considers letting the party rage on and leaving to find you himself-
“Bubba!” Yuji calls out over the thumping bass, and the dark-haired man is whipping around to find his brother surfing over the sea of people. “Bubba- bubba!” Hand cupped over his mouth to let his voice project, the other gripping his camera. “I saw Utahime and Shoko by the food table, no sign of her though.”
“Yuji-” Choso’s yanking on his brother’s arm, tugging his brother to him. His eyes probe down in concern, “What do you mean no sign of her? You’re sure?”
“Positive.” Yuji nods, “I asked them, too- they said she’d be coming separately but still no sign of her.”
“I hope she’s okay…” Choso worries on his lip ring, he looks over the perspired heads of party-goers. The party was in full swing by midnight, and it showed no sign of stopping. He’s sure he saw at least one antique vase smashed, and one drunk couple making out in Sukuna’s room…“Maybe I should go check on her?”
Yuji tilts his head in confusion, “How?”
“I’ll just wait by the door maybe…”
“All night?”
“All morning if I have to.”
Waving off his concerns, he tells his brother to order some more food and leaves for the front door.
Ignoring the calls of his name and the compliments. Trying to squeeze past the slightest gaps between bodies, “Excuse me-” He’s whispering, wincing as he forces his way through them. “Excuse me- coming through. Excuse me.” Seeing the widely gaped door as a few more people shove themselves inside the party, the door starts to close. “Wait wait don’t close, I just want to get to-”
You.
A hand stops the front door from closing, and he’s instantly putting a name to face. A name to body. A name to each fingertip by fingertip.
The party hushes just a little when you enter. The music slows. The chatter dies down. The eyes of everyone present snaps to you- holy shit, it was you. It was really, really you.
Dressed in your prettiest slip dress. Hugging every inch of you so perfectly in the way he wanted to. Your eyes shimmering with a bit of glitter on the edges. Your lips resembling a candy he couldn’t wait to suck on right now. Immediately, it’s as if his world was bending to your will, your intrusion - as it always did.
Holding the door open, “Oh!” You’re clearly startled to come face-to-face with Choso Kamo so soon - and especially so close. Your eyes widen as they flit up his sculptured body, that t-shirt that clung to him attractively. “Ditching your own party so soon?”
“I was about to until you came along.”
Fuck—why did he say that?
In the distance, he can hear three irritating (strangely familiar) squeals. And he’s bringing a hand up to fiddle with his lip piercing, apology on his tongue when-
“Well, then I sure am glad I came along.” You’re smiling in that way that feels like you’re analyzing every inch of him, “This party wouldn’t have been much fun without you, Cho.” You push his shoulder with yours, and he thinks he might just melt.
He thinks he does.
There’s a flash of a camera that jolts him into action once more.
“Can I uh- get you uh—a beer? Or something?” Grimacing at his own choked-up hosting, he ushers you in and closes the door. Your shoulder brushes against his, and he thinks he might just cream his pants. “Or a shot? Ah- onion rings?”
“I think I’m good on the alcohol…for now.” You hum, and there’s something in your tone that he can’t quite pinpoint. The party parts ways for you, and he’s leading you inside.
Choso raises a brow, curious. “How come for now?”
“Ah- because I know if I want to drink I’ll drink until I drop out of anger.” You huff, looking up at him meaningfully. You’d reached the dance floor by now- or at least, the living room that had found itself being turned into a dance floor. The music was much louder here, and you beckon Choso in close to whisper in his ear—your breath brushing his sensitive earlobes. “Break-ups tend to do that to you.”
Choso shivers at the proximity, before registering what you’d just said. “Wait- break-up-”
“It was a long time coming anyway.” You’re sighing, a slight smile on your face. “And this time it’s done for good- don’t worry, it’s not like I’m upset or anything…” Huffing out contemplatively, “Well, maybe a little- but not over him, rather the time I wasted.”
“I-I see…” Choso swallows, his throat was parched as if he’d just run a marathon. He clenches his fists, and then he wipes those sweaty palms down his sides—before bringing them up to hold yours. In just a little, his band would be playing (he’d been holding them off for you), but until then…
You look up at him in slight surprise, slight warmth.
“Then…” He tugs you down to the dance floor, “-shall we dance?”
.
.
.
“Fuh-fuck…” Choso can’t help but let his slick tongue flop out- as if he wanted to surge his head between those pretty legs of yours, as if he wanted to chase that sweetly honeyed cunt you’d plopped right on top of him.
It didn’t take long after dancing together - so close, you’re sure the rumor mill was working overtime by now - and listening to Choso’s rock set before you’d all but dragged him upstairs. Blindly, he’s the one that’d led your impatient self to his bedroom and locked the door.
And you’d barely had the time to admire those rock posters along his walls, his practice drum kit, before he’d laid you out on his jet-black sheets.
Before you’d flipped him over and set your thighs upon either side of his pretty, pretty face.
With your hips hoverin’ over Choso’s face, you’re letting your mouth upturn into a smirk as his gluttonous tongue lavishes out. The ridges of his tastebuds already watery with how badly he wanted you, he’s groaning from underneath. “S-sit on my face.”
“What was that?” You’re leaning in with your ear cupped, pretending not to hear. Not close enough for him to actually get what he wants, but enough to have him lunging forwards with a whine. “The music’s really loud, Cho.”
“Sit on my- face.” Such a pretty hot blush spreads all over his cheeks, as if Choso couldn’t believe the words that were coming out of his own mouth. With both hands gripped upon both your thighs, he’s pulling you in. “Please sit on my face, ngh- what do I hafta do to have you fuck my mouth properly?”
“How about you beg-”
“Please—”
“Call me ma’am?”
Tears start twinkling at the edge of Choso’s eyes at how badly he wanted you, how ravenous he was. “Please…” Mumbling out in such a pouty way, his lip ring glimmers. “Please, ma’am.”
You shiver, zaps of arousal running down your spine and straight to your core- you couldn’t believe that it was so damn easy to get him to bend to your will like this. And Choso’s noticing your slight shakes with a whine of concern, batting up his lashes-
“Something the matter, baby?”
“Oh, nothing—” You hum, and the bed creaks as you inch just a lil’ forward. “It’s just, you’re already so tempting as is- just one question, have you ever done this before?”
You didn’t know it was even possible for his furious flush to grow even stronger, “N-no…”
“Mmm, thought so.”
To which his brown brows furrow in a plea- “But I promise I’ll be so good for you- mmpf!”
Immediately shutting him up with the front of your pussy- your bloated lips end up glued against his mouth. His greedy maw. His agape cavern. His lip piercing was cold against your outer cunt. His tongue sticks directly out to swipe at your sultry pussy, and you watch in real time as Choso’s doe-like eyes widen, entire body jolting as if he’d just been struck by a million volts of electricity.
And he takes one lick, he takes one slurp.
That’s all it takes for Choso Kamo to get fucking addicted.
“O-oh my god…” Slurring out right between your pussylips, you’re being dragged forwards as if you were nothing but a ragdoll atop him. Nudged right until the tip of his straight nosebridge ends up shoved between your folds, “Mmm, oh my god-” He breathes out—that’s until he realizes that he has to remove himself from your pussy to actually breathe.
And it’s with great pain that and multiple seconds that Choso actually unlatches himself from your cunt to intake a few gasps. Before plunging straight back in with a wet sluuuuurp—“Oh my god- are all pussies this sweet- or is it just yours, ngh! I think it’s just yours, baby…”
Oh, it’s going to be really fun to control him to your lecherous whims.
“I didn’t realize you’d be a fuckin’...oh, fuck.” You’re throwing your head back with a slight yelp. Because without any warning, Choso’s smearing aside your folds with his nose to find your sensitive nub.
Instantly letting his mouth fall open, he’s latching at your clit and drag-drag-draaaagging. And especially with his frigid lip ring, it’s making you feel sensations you didn’t even know were possible. “Mmm, and then there’s this clit of yours—fuck!” As if that wasn’t enough, he’s reaching up a hand to hold your pussylips wiiiide open. Sucklin’ away even deeper, “Just the gift that keeps on givin’, baby, mmm- this pussy is just such a treat. I think I could have her for breakfast, lunch, and dinner-”
He just starts babbling - so drunk on your pussy already that the only thing you can do is grab onto a lock of Choso’s dark hair and pull him off. “Ch-Choso, oh my god.” Wait- did you think you could control him?
He’s blinking his long lashes at you blearily, lips all glossed with your sweetened slick. “What were you saying again?”
“Munch.” You’re spitting out, almost accusing- and a drivel of your spit dangles out of your mouth, ready for Choso to open his mouth and let it splatter onto his mouth. You’re looking down at the display and letting out a shiver, “I didn’t think you’d be such a munch, Choso- you sure you’ve never done this before?”
“P-pussy…” He’s prattling out, hypnotized. Before shaking his head out of that daze, slightly giggling. “I mean- positive.”
Your peripherals widen in disbelief—did he seriously just mix that word up with your pussy? “You can’t be serious…” Deciding to take things into your own hands, you’re tightening your fist ‘round his sweat-drenched bangs a bit more. “Unless you want to- hah, suffocate then you might wanna take it slow, baby.”
“B-but…”
“But what, Cho—?” And oh, he could see that mean glint in your eyes as you tugged his head to the side and made him groan. The sudden movement made Choso’s lips break off with a dampened mwah! and the poor boy is reaching upwards with a few pleas.
“Please-” This eyeliner smearing ‘round the edges as he all but cries at the very thought of your pussy being taken away from him. “Please- no! Don’t take her away from me m’begging- you can take it slow, you can take it slow.” Choso shakes his head fervently, “You can take it slow just…”
And you catch his dilated pupils darting somewhere towards the edge of his bedside cabinet, curiosity growing. “Just what, hm?”
“I just want to have one condition of my own.”
You let him trail off of your pussy- and it takes him a few more open-mouthed kisses before he can even bear to remove himself from your cunt. Without delay, he reaches to open up the drawer beside him. “What are you…”
And you can only watch - slack-jawed and speechless - as Choso fits a silver orb of a tongue piercing right in the middle of his tastebuds.
Right smack-dab in the middle.
You take back what you thought about control.
And you’re barely allowed the time to register just how attractive he looks this way, before Choso’s back plastering his flattened muscle over your pussy. “S-slow, I said, Cho. Slow.”
“Sorry, baby, sorry.” Brows knitting together, he tries to concentrate. “Slow…m’gonna take it…slow.”
You’re gyrating your hips backwards in such a sensual pace - it was almost agonizing the round-a-bout way you’d move your hips back against his face. Keeping him wrapped around your lil’ pinkie, “Mmm, yeah- just like that, Choso.”
Holding onto his scalp, your channel constricts at the way he just kept on cracking out tiny whimpers every time you tugged a bit too harshly at him.
Humming, “Just like thaaaaat-” Feeling his overeager mouth surge faster upwards at the compliment, “Ah ah- slow down, baby. Mmm, just like that.”
Because at least this tempo let you keep your wits about you.
Somewhat…
But then something happens.
But then he’s sensing your deviating hips angle themselves- he’s sensing you crave the cold drag of his piercing. And Choso Kamo just can’t stop his body being sent into a state of frenzy—where it doesn’t matter how much you’re holding yourself back, he’s pulling you in, he’s squelching his tongue upwards, he’s kissing away. “This—” Lapping and lapping up the crevice of your cunt with his lengthy tongue. “Does it feel good on your pussy, baby? Please- please tell me you can feel it.”
“I can feel it.” Breathily, you have to fight to keep your tone under control as he slips n’ slides his textured tastebuds all over your outer pussy. Alternating between those ravenous kisses and lil’ tugs on your clit. “F-feels so cold on my clit- hah.” Fuck slow, he was going wild.
“Good.” And you swear you can feel Choso’s smile spreading across your folds, oh-so-sensitive with his sheer friction. The longer he was kissin’ away at your cunt, the more honest he got. “I got it just for you, y’know?”
And no matter how tightly you’re trying to grab onto his sweaty scalp, Choso was just so feral with his movements. Uncontrollable. You try to haul him backwards to slow him down, but he was only manhandling you further onto his face. “Wh-what do you mean you got it just for me?”
“Exactly what I said, baby—” He’s batting his teary lashes, “That I was thinkin’ of you when I- ngh, got it. That all I could fucking think of when I got my tongue pierced was havin’ your sweet pussy on me like this, and my piercing rubbin’ up against you like- that-”
Lurching on top of him when he stretches your tight hole out with just the crown edge of his tongue. Choso’s circular piercing knocks up against the sides of your walls and leaves you feeling mad, “Oh my god—” Saliva splattering down your front.
Then Choso’s feeling the way you clench, feeling the way your entrance quivers around nothing.
And it was just such a shame to leave your pretty cunt waiting, wasn’t it? So like the good boy he was, he’s slipping an inch of his wet muscle inside and making you gasp at the stretch. His orbed piercing marking his pathway perfectly, “Shit! At least give a girl a warning-”
“M’sorry, baby.” Choso whines, “Y-you won’t take my pretty pussy away from me for that, will you?”
“Well…” At least dragging out your answer let you see him all hopeless and needy like this. But honestly, looking at him - all starry-eyed, blushing-cheeked, half his face slicked in your sap - how could you ever say no to him?
Shit, he might just have you drunk on his tongue.
And your body starts to quake with tiny shivers, with both your hands woven into his hair for stability. You feel the desperate slashes of his tongue increase, and realize that he wasn’t edging any closer to your hole without your permission. How cute…“Nope- but s’gonna be on my terms, baby- oh.”
No sooner are the words panted out of your mouth that Choso’s mazing his prolonged tastebuds straight through your entrance.
A direct pap! to the gooey roof of your cunt- and you gasp at the contact, slightly pulling back. Before Choso holds one side of your hips and makes you sit properly down on his face to slash and slash and slash at your innards. Fucking you with his mouth like such an animal- “Y-yes, anything you say…”
“Fuck- fuck- then-” You’re tugging back with his hair, almost simply to watch the way that Choso’s chasing your cunt afterwards.
“T-tell me m’doing a good job, baby- tell me-”
Hiccuping out, “You’d be a much better boy f’me if you were a little more in control.” His lip piercing was practically glued to your outer cunt, and Choso simply couldn’t decide between sucking on your slit and spreadin’ open your hole with his very lips.
Maddened.
You’re struggling to even think beyond the primal stretch at your hole, and as you tug on Choso’s hair yet another time- he’s moving back in with a growl. “C-can you even think, baby?” Asking, whining through the great dollops of saliva clogging up your throat. He shakes his head and you continue, “Do you even know what you’re doing? Can you even breathe?”
“How can I?”
Drippin’ straight down his pointed chin, droplets of your slick wobble across his skin as he mumbles. “Like I said- m’taking it sloooow—” Stroking your glistening walls multiple times a second, his tongue piercing zig-zagging rapid lines. “M’taking it- hah, just the pace you want it.” His brown eyes glinting with something that looked almost predatory. “M’giving you m-mercy.”
“F-fuck…” A breathless gasp leaves you, eyes widening at the sinful epiphany you’d just come across. “I really…can’t control you.”
Shoving himself a few inches deeper inside your wet pussy, “But she certainly can.”
And then it’s not just Choso’s tongue that’s muddlin’ up your mind (and your cunt), but his fingers decide to join in on the fun, too.
Not only were they unfairly long, but they were so flexible.
Curving juuust the right way to make those chunky metal rings on his fingers dig against your softened walls, “J-just can’t control myself when it comes to this pussy, baby.” He’s whining out between your slick-sheened thighs, splatter after splatter of syrup letting out of you. Choso thrusts his digits in until they’re knuckle-deep, and his skin ‘round that area stings bright red. “Just drives me…wild. Just makes me wanna make her mine and- fuck, fuck everyone that th-thinks otherwise.”
“Oh, please—” Throwing your head back, your thighs start to shiver - and you’re not quite sure whether that’s because of the exertion or the sheer amount of pleasure he was pumping into you. “Please, you’re just so close-”
“No, you’re just so close.” He’s giggling out, taking a lavish lick inside your hole. “I can taste it on her.”
“You- you can…” You breathe out in disbelief.
He locks his lips ‘round your clit now, permanently back to sucking on that cute nub. Drawing out the most adorable whines from your mouth, Choso’s swervin’ his ringed fingers inside of you. Looooog zig-zags, “I can.” Poking his textured tips into any crevice he can find, any orifice. “You’re startin’ to taste so much sweeter, baby- fuh-feels like you’re gonna cum on my tongue.”
Bucking, “I am I am- ngh, I’m so fucking close.”
“Mmmm—just need to hit that p-pretty lil’ g-spot, don’t I?” At that surprised look you’re throwing down at him, “What? Just because m’a virgin doesn’t mean that I’m- ngh, unknowledgeable. I read up on it y’know…”
“And what exactly did you read up on it, Choso?” You can’t help but ask.
“That I need to find that spot and you’ll feel—” The circle of his tongue piercing draaaags so lecherously, right on time with one of his silver rings inside of you. The cold material makes your pupils swirl inside the whites of your eyes, and you almost don’t hear his next words. “-like c-cumming on my face-”
Jostled up by him-
“Please tell me where it is, baby.” He begs, words nearly drowned out by the squelches! of him hammerin’ two fingers away inside of you. “Please- please I want you to cum on my face. I promise I’ll be good…after, just let me know where-”
“Fuh-fuuuuck, Choso.” You’re bawling out, that fire starting out at the pit of your stomach. “You’re just too much- think m’gonna cum soon n’- hck! my g-spot should be…”
He moves, fingers twitching excitedly inside of you.
“-right- up.”
And he’s probin’ into your sweetest spot perfectly—just perfectly.
The roughened knobs of his fingers stick against your bundle of nerves, and you’re feeling a sudden surge of pleasure that makes you see pure white- before you’re throwing your head back and announcing your high. “C-cumming-” You gurgle out, “Oh my god- m’cumming, Choso.”
“H-heh…all on my tongue.” The dark-haired man declares smugly - just as he’d expected, you’d toppled over the edge. He told you he could taste it. “More, baby- more. Ride your orgasm out on my tongue, will you?”
“Doing so…”
Fucking you with his hands.
Not only were you gripping Choso’s long locks in two places and using him to bounce your hips backwards, but he was elongating your high with not two- not three- but four ringed fingers bullied between your tender pussylips.
Just plain mean. The sheer stretch of it was just incredible, and he was openin’ you up like never before.
Eating you out like never before.
You’re feeling wet tears roll down your cheeks at the feeling of his tastebuds rolling over your throbbing clit—slurp-slurp-slurp! Precisely whenever it felt like a peak of your bliss was coming onwards, and that only left you more gone on his tongue. “Feels good like this, doesn’t it, baby?” With a sloppy noise, he then continues to suck on your clit. “Mmmm- not bad for a first timer.”
“P-perhaps.” You didn’t even know what else to say. You’re shivering throughout your entire body when he slobbers his tongue over from your clit to start pricking n’ prodding at your hole. “Shit- y’know my high’s almost over, right, Choso?”
“I know.”
And yet he still doesn’t stop.
Not until you’re left fucked utterly dumb on his mouth, not until he’s letting you ride through your entire orgasm and then some, not until he has you in actual tears of overstimulation-
“P-please-” You couldn’t believe how you sounded at this point - you. Queen Bee. Things always went your way- but now you were at Choso’s complete and utter mercy. “Give your mouth a little rest, Cho-”
He seethes, as if offended. “I don’t even need to breathe when I have your pussy on me, you think I’d stop because m’jaws fuckin’ tired, baby?”
Blubbering, “Maybe not- but hck! if you slow down now then I’ll have more stamina for ah- something else…” For him? You’d have stamina regardless, but the lil’ warning worked in getting Choso to unglue his pierced lips from your pussy with a final mwah!
And it was the loudest, most sinful noise you’ve heard in your entire life.
Enough to get you to shake with arousal, and for Choso to use his strong arms n’ seat you down on his lap. With your legs straddling his slender waist now, he’s sitting up.
Staring down at you through heavy half-lidded eyes, “You were saying…?”
“I was saying.”
He just looked too sexy like this.
Long hair all rumpled with you running your fingers through them. His eyes faintly misty and sex-crazed. More than half his face was gleaming with your syrupy slick. Lips puffy. Eyeliner smeared. Rings all stained with a few layers of your sap that he licks right off- all while looking straight into your dilated pupils.
Your cunt throbs.
Eager to get him back for this, you’re tearing off Choso’s t-shirt of some punk-rock band. And beneath—oh, were you pleasantly surprised.
You’d somewhat expected Choso to be one of those types that were silently muscular, silently toned, silently so strong.
Your eyes greedily followed the curves and dips of his sculpted front, and realize that he was blushed all the way down to his prominent pecs. You reach out and touch the spattering of star-like freckles across them, and then so on forth to his…nipple piercings.
Your thumb snags on the glinting bar that pierced his left pec- and he hisses.
“Oh my-” You’re cooing, “S’this for me, too?”
“Y-yes.”
You push him down flatly onto the bed, making his pillows puff up with the pressure. Your hands then sensually caress the ladder-like ridges of his abs - all smoooooth and rippling at your touch.
Down, down, dooooown to ultimately end up buried in his slightly unruly happy trail. “It’s always the quiet ones, huh?” His breath hitches once you start fiddling with his jeans, tugging—pulling. “Who would’ve thought that cute lil’ Choso Kamo, always so quiet and shy, would be like this.” Your mouth waters as his pants start loosening, “That he’d be so, so…”
Big.
There was no other adjective for it.
Choso Kamo was simply so big - just the prettiest rose-red at his tip, all engorged that it was as if every ounce of blood in his body had ended up at his cock instead. A few puffy veins. Just the barest curls of brown at his base. His erection stood looooong and upright, dribblin’ out a few lines of precum at the intensity of your stare.
And there- right in the middle of his shaft was a circular piercing that sat snugly underneath a particularly prominent vein. Winking up at you like it couldn’t wait to feel you.
And even from here, you could tell that Choso was already the type to be so sensitive-
“D-don’t-” To your surprise, his right hand snakes down and ends up at your throat. Gently holding you back from getting any nearer to his raging hot cock.
You’re mentally counting about ten of his inches- maybe eleven?! And you look up at him in slight confusion.
He clears his throat, “I mean- it’s just that I know what you’re thinking. But the thing is, if you put your lips on me now then m’just gonna…cum…instantly.”
Your brows raise damn near to your hairline, “What if I want that then?”
“I’ll beg you not to.”
“Beg.”
“Please, ma’am- fuck-” You’ve just made that punk-rock boy beg—and not only that, whilst he was midway through his pleading, you’d made him throw his head back with the cutest whine.
How?
Simply swervin’ your hips over his aching hot length, and whilst Choso had been talking- you’d just runnnnn your glossy pussylips down the thickness of his length. Simply sandwiched between your folds, he’d felt so thick and solid against your entrance.
Throb-throb-throbbing away.
It’d only left you…ravenous for more-
“Need you to fuck me now, Cho.” You lean in to tell him, your breath scorching against his face. And Choso had the urge to lean up and lick those dried tears off your cheeks. “Want you inside me so fucking bad-”
“Fuh-fuck- don’t talk like that.” He’s urgently saying, head snapping downwards.
And you’re following his gaze just to find that Choso’s bawling divot had started pouring out bead after bead of gooey white sap at your words. Simply your words. He was almost on the verge of cumming at your words.
And oh- how he both loves and hates that mischievous smile that spreads across your pretty face. “But it’s just the truth, Cho.” Batting your lashes up at him, “I just really want you inside-”
“Please-”
“Always wanted you inside-”
“I w-won’t go easy-”
“Always dreamt of you inside- oh, fuck.”
It’s the last thing your nasty mouth can get out before Choso’s grabbing onto either side of your shoulders and shoving his thick, aching cock inside of you.
Just a single inch, perhaps not even that.
Just the slightest intrusion.
And it’s so sexy that you almost wished you recorded the way he’s letting his toned chest heave with a gasp, the way he’s flushing all the way down to his roots, the way that Choso’s entire body seems to zap with sultry lightning—a mere pause.
You could almost feel the question that hangs in the air - so this is what you feel like?
Before then he’s shoving and shoving.
Like he’s gone absolutely wild- “Fuck-” Choso spits between his honed teeth, “Fuck- hold still.” Grabbing onto you anywhere, everywhere—just anything that would keep you there while he tried to fuck his cock inside you until your sweetened sap is overspilling. “Hold still, hold still, hold—” You weren’t even prepared to accommodate him, and yet you can feel an inch or so more of his thickness funnel inside. “—still.”
“Oh my- oh my god!” You’re thrashing at the sudden pressure being put on your lower half, but Choso’s keeping his hold firm. He’s pinning you down. He’s not letting you move a single inch. He’s not even giving you a mere warning before reeling his puffy inches back-
Your eyes snap open, and you’re just about to ask whether he was pulling back.
-before Choso’s snapping his hips to yours and only tunneling that globular tip of his even deeper. “Hold still.” He spits down a splat! accurately onto your cunt, “You- you just need to hold still.”
It was like a mantra. You’re shivering at the tone of his voice.
There was a certain roughness to his words, a certain primal want in them that you’ve never heard from Choso before. Or anyone, ever, really.
It made your heard damn near beat out of your chest, and your fingers tremor as you reach up to him. Gliding away the sweaty bangs that obscure Choso’s gaze, “What did you say now, baby?”
“I said-” And you can only gasp as he lunges his hips back a few more inches, barely even letting your cunt constrict around nothing before he’s pushing in with a deep thwack! It’s enough to make your body lurch at the sudden intrusion- to which Choso’s tightening his grip on you until he was white-knuckled. “-hold. Still.”
But how could you possibly hold still when you were stuffed in so tight that you barely felt like you could even breathe. Could barely even keep it together. Could barely do anything but arch your back and-
“Didn’t I fuckin’ tell you to hold still?”
Your jaw drops, turning your head down to look at him—weren’t you supposed to be the mean one out of you two? “You did, but-”
“Then hold—” Clearly feeling that he needed to up the ante, both his hands detach from your sides. You could already feel the steam wafting out from where his touch had once been, and those very same rude palms waste no time ending up…laced on top of your crowned scalp. “-fucking-” Using the leverage to push you down onto his drilling hips, “-still.”
He finally looks up at you then - finally.
And what you see shakes you to your very core.
Because Choso Kamo’s pupils were dilated until it looked almost animalistic, in a way you didn’t even know was possible for a human. He looked crazed. He looked hungry. He looked as if he was on the verge of devouring you whole right then and there.
And then he’s fucking you like it, too.
Rough, rapid half-thrusts just to fit inside.
Fuck—Choso’s throbbing circumference was just too fucking big to bottom out immediately. But he’s sloppily dragging down your channel until he was just about halfway inside, with the knob of his silver piercing tickling your entrance.
With a gruff groan, he swipes that frigid metal ‘round your hole as if claiming you. The shy man hisses at the resistance of your cunt before holding you down and pushing- “Hold still before I fucking c-cum.”
“Oh-” You’re gasping, “So that’s why-”
“Fuck- actually, don’t even speak.” And you’re quickly understanding why when even the mere sound of your whiny voice leaves Choso’s bludgeoning tip twitching.
Hard and fast.
Desperate and needy.
Like he was trying to claim even the slightest ounce of space inside you, Choso bucks his hips and lets his dewy eyes flutter shut. Mouth falling agape, “Shut up and take it. D-don’t test me, baby.” With the hand plastered on top of your scalp, he’s ramming you right back down to meet his hips. “Not unless you want me to cum i-inside right this very second.”
“But what if I do?”
“Fuck…fucking- shut—” Shutting you up by a ringed thumb pushed into your mouth, it was just so easy for him to reach down from your crown. Preventing you from talking back, preventing you from running, preventing you from doing any fucking thing but taking his thickly massive cock.
Ignoring those words of yours that were definitely riling him up, Choso instead focuses on letting his blushin’ tip scrape at your g-spot.
It leaves you absolutely incoherent, squealing ‘round the intrusion of his thumb. “Please-” You’re somehow managing out, “Please I- hck! love it like that- would love it even more if you would cum in-”
“Fucking- I can’t even—” And he just sounds so agonized as he drills up into you like a madman - Choso’s oversensitive cock wasn’t even ready to, didn’t even think he could handle it. And yet he’s doing so to prevent you from yammering on with those filthy words of yours. Choso’s crying out. “Is that you or her talking- you or her—stop talkin’ outta your pussy, baby, s’gonna drive me w-wild.”
Blinking away your tears, the edge of his thumb had slipped out of your mouth by now. Drawing a splattering smear of saliva, “And here I thought you said you were g-going to let me have my way-”
“Did I say that?” As he pauses to think, you could see the brief glimmer of human recognition spark in Choso’s deep irises. “Can’t remember, heh.”
“You little-”
You’re cut off by your own surprised yelp, because in absolutely no time- Choso has your positions flipped over. It was you that had your back against the mattress now, being pushed further and further in the direction of the headboard any time he moved.
And Choso was just lurking above you, was just pinning you down with his mere muscular weight.
He didn’t even have to try to halt your restless hips in their pursuit, and throws your legs over his shoulders easily to fuck you in the meanest mating press possible.
Your ass against his thighs, his forehead bending down to press against yours.
This angle was just perfect.
In absolutely no time, his rounded cockhead was bludgeoning against every sweet orifice on your walls. Before he’s ultimately slide-slide-sliiiiding down to dig his circular girth against your cervix- with a great thud! that sets your teeth on edge.
His pale hips slam into yours again and again and again- “H-hold still.” Just about the only thing that he could get out now, right between those clenched canines of his. It was more on autopilot than anything, because you weren’t moving a single inch- and yet Choso was already so gone on your cunt that he couldn’t stop babbling. “Didn’t I tell you to stop moving- oh, this sweet pussy…she’s just being so filthy f’me.”
“And you’re just being so pussydrunk, Cho.” You’re somehow giggling out, though he’s slowly fucking that laughter out with a rough few slams at your deepest depths.
Not slowing down until you couldn’t help but feel his bruisin’ tip even after he’s pulled out, just to sink all the way back in again. “Hold- fucking- still—”
“I am.”
“Wh-what do you even mean?” Sounding genuinely confused, genuinely so dazed. You’re sure that if you squeezed your soft, velvety walls this very second then Choso would completely forget the last few seconds of your conversation.
Almost to test it - you do.
And you watch as the dark-haired man immediately drops his head to the crook of your neck, clammy skin-against-skin. You watch as he shivers, you watch as he only raises his face to stare at you with bleary eyes. “Wh-what were we talking about again, baby…?” And even more so- you’re raising both your hands up to toy with the glinting silver of Choso’s nipple piercings, rolling your fingers over his rosy buds. And you watch as an even more dopey expression overcomes his features, “We were nght—talking?”
Even his syllables were slurring together. You had to bite back a giggle, “Just talking about how much I wanted you to fill me- ngh- up.” You’re tugging and teasing his cute nipples, he lets off the prettiest short gasps any time you’re pressing down on the pierced nubs of his nipples like a button. “You can cum inside right now if you wanted, Cho.”
“R-right…” And his eyes grow just a bit clearer, he’s nodding as if he remembered exactly what you meant. Scouring one hand off your head and down the middle of your core, “Right- was talking about how I wanted to fill this ngh- cute womb up like craaaaazy- weren’t we?”
“Yes- fuck yes.” You’re moaning as his speed suddenly grows even faster.
“And we were talking about how m’gonna cum any second now?” He presses down on the top of your stomach as he pounds past your geysering orifice, creating the perfect pressure that makes the both of you whimper. “And how m’gonna be the one to cuh-cum first?”
“Yes- yes-”
“Because m’so patheeeeetic on this pussy, aren’t I?” An almost crazed tone in his voice, something that sends zaps of electricity thrumming through your every vein. “I’d die for her- I’d ngh- do anything for her.”
You throw your head back, body arching against his glissading abs. “You…are…oh.” And you didn’t know who was more shattered at this point - you or—
“But you’re not pathetic for wanting this touch-starved loser virgin to fill your cunt up with my cum?”
You.
It was absolutely you.
At least, it was you in this very moment.
Because somewhere in the middle of his vulgar strokes, Choso had somewhat regained his senses. At least enough to make you end up with heart-eyes on his cock, your cunt slobberin’ out any time he’s pulling his hips back.
A great splosh! of sap pathetically spilling out from between your legs leaves him crinkling his nose with a shy chuckle. “Cute.” Before you know it, his hands lift off of your scalp to wrap one at your throat. The other drifts down somewhere between your legs…“You- ngh, reeeeally want me to fill this pretty pussy up, baby?”
And you can’t help but become so-very-honest on his rovering cock, knockin’ against your every sweet spot and aching to knock you up! “Yes-” You blurt through tears, “Yes, I really- ngh, really want you to.”
“Sh-shit, you don’t know how many times I’ve dreamt of you saying that.”
You might have been opening your drooling mouth to respond with something, but Choso’s cutting you off by slithering his slender index and thumb between your pussylips and pinching your cute clit. You’re moaning loud enough that you’re sure the party downstairs must have heard- “J-just like that-” Letting your limp limbs twitch with the crackles of pleasure. “Just inside, baby.”
“Mhmmm- inside inside- inside.” Choso’s grunting out after each ravenous roll of his thumb atop your nub. He’s hitting your pelvis a few more times with his, making the slamming of skin echo out into the room. “But you better cum f’me first, baby.”
Your eyes snap wide open, “Why me first-” Speeding up, your g-spot was practically getting bruised by this point.
“Can’t you indulge this loser a little and let me make you cummmm again-” He coos, fingers so fast on your clit that they look like nothing but a blur. “S’all I’ve ever wanted ever since I first- ngh, saw you, y’know? To give this pussy a gooood proper fuckin’ that I knew she wasn’t getting- I might’ve been a virgin but I could learn.”
“And you’d be the- hah, one to do that?”
He’s slamming his globular length into your so hard that your tastebuds sizzle, and you swear you can taste his salty pre at your throat. Choso’s starin’ you deeply into your eyes whilst he fucks you maddeningly, deeply into your eyes whilst he says. “Baby, I already am.”
As he finishes his filthy sentence, Choso purposefully shortens some of his furious thrusts. Because he didn’t even want to wait for the recoil of your spongy womb before he’s pumping in one more, because he wanted to assault your poor throbbing g-spot with his orb piercing. Rubbing and rubbing—
Until you’re finally crashing into your second high of the night.
Such an incredible sensation that you can’t decide which one was better - both of them were the two best in your entire life, however.
“Hold still-” Choso unplasters his hand from your neck, which then moves down to grip at your waist. To keep your waist pinned down to the creaky mattress, “Hold still while I fuh-fuck you like you deserve.” And above all - to let the fat, drivellin’ tip of his cock glide down your g-spot and alllll the way to your womb with absolutely no problem. Again and again. Every peak upon peak being draaaaagged out—“Hold still while- ngh, oh…fuck, I can barely even speak because of her.”
It takes over your body in waves - first your toes that curl, then your thighs that just won’t stop twitching, your heaving chest your muddled mind.
And then finally that mouth of yours that keeps on begging- “Now- now your turn.” Stubbornly, you lock your ankles around the back of Choso’s neck. Not even halfway through your own orgasm before you’re begging for his, “Gonna hold still- so you h-have to do it inside, m’kay, Cho?”
He’s staring at you with such dazed eyes, “Y-yes, ma’am.”
Because you always did get what you wanted.
And the tingles of your high have just barely begun to peter out, before they’re being replaced by the sheer sultry warmth of Choso’s ivory syrup.
The volume.
The way he was flooding you up with only a few vicious strokes.
It oozes out like a never-ending fountain by his strawberry divot, ending up emptied allllll the way near the back of your womb. “Y-yes—” You whine. You pinch Choso’s nipple and he spurts out just a few more pearly beads of cum, “Right there, Cho, want it all deep inside.”
“F-fuck—ngh—” Red-hot. Splashing. Entire body bowing into yours, sweat breaking out across his skin. He scrunches his eyes shut and lets the powerful bliss overtake him, “Oh my god it just feels so- hck! S’even better than I imagined cumming inside you- oh.”
You follow the line of his bleary sight- only to find that Choso was staring where you both were connected.
Your swollen folds. The ring of white ‘round his base.
The fatness of his thumb hovers right down to smear away that cute gloss of white, slurp! “Except in my, mmm, dreams, it was more like—” Though it was for no use, because Choso’s free hand only presses down on your stomach anyway. Until his creamy white cum oozes out of you in slick layers, “-this.”
You’re gaping at the mess he’s made, “And you were telling me to h-hold on-”
“I still am.”
Body moved around by him like a ragdoll, he’s using the hand on your stomach to pin you down. Shoving every solid inch of his cock back and forth—Choso thud-thud-thuds at the goopy wetness of your womb with each of his wads.
Fucking each one inside you.
Webbing up your insides until your toes curl-
His second hand tilts open your jaw and spits- before kissing you, tongue piercing and all. “Wanna take my virginity a second time?”
.
.
.
KNOCK-KNOCK-KNOCK—!
“Rise and shine—! The sun is shining! The grass is green! Your father is back from his trip-”
Now, Choso Kamo will say that he isn’t exactly sure what it is that woke him up that morning. Perhaps it was his father’s usual morning call, as one of those people that were much too happy in the early hours. Perhaps it was the warmth at this side, the way he doesn’t even have to open his eyes to know who it is. Perhaps it’s the way he presses a soft morning kiss on the side of your neck, how it all felt like a dream.
Perhaps it’s the girlish scream.
Two of them. One from his father and one from him.
Sitting up in alarm, Choso’s dragging his blanket further up your partially-covered bodies. Trying (quite futilely) to perhaps cover the nail marks down his back and shoulders, the hickies all over your body, the way both your mouths were still swollen.
Face heating up at Itadori Jin’s wide, gawking eyes from the doorway, “D-dad!” And you start to stir at Choso’s yelp, “Dad, get out-”
“R-right away!”
BANG!
As the thunderous sound of the door closing, you’re lurching up in his bed. Now fully awake, you pull the sheets to your chest. Words nothing but a whisper- sore with all the overuse from last night, “Tell me what I think just happened didn’t just happen…”
Choso opens his mouth to answer (maybe lie and forget this ever happened)-
Before there’s a rapid knock and the door swings wide open once more.
Jin’s pinkish hair makes an appearance, and he keeps his eyes trained shamefully on the floor. Choso starts to protest. You yelp- “Breakfast is downstairs and I’ve made enough for everyone so please stay, okay bye!” He announces over your two voices, and promptly slams the door shut once again.
And you’re left in the silent wake of it—floor rumbling with the vibrations of the door, loud enough that you think you could hear your two thumping heartbeats. Oh my god….
Choso’s the one to break the silence - he kisses you chastely on the lips. “I uh- first day as a couple is going smoothly?”
Sitting up in alarm, Choso’s dragging his blanket further up your partially-clothed bodies. At some point in the night you’d gotten up to make yourselves somewhat presentable and help Yuji clean up after the party. And at some point in the night you’d also kept getting handsy in his room…
It doesn’t take you too long to throw on whatever t-shirt and pyjama pants that Choso hands your way, before admiring just how cute you looked in his clothes…alright maybe it did take long before the two of you were finally ready to make an appearance downstairs. But only because he kept insisting on kisses!
The kitchen quietens down at your entrance, and you’re setting sights on a man that must be no other than Choso’s grandpa- right along with another, younger, one who was the spitting image of Jin. Just slightly rougher around the edges. Tattoos. Piercings- ah, you understood where Choso must’ve gotten his style influenced from.
You’re at their round breakfast table, with his uncle (Sukuna, you hear) on your right, and Choso on your left. The dark-haired man reaches over and runs a hand down your thigh soothingly once conversation starts back up-
“How do you like your eggs, my dear?” Jin asks you, and when you answer he instantly gets to work - waving off your urgent requests to help. “No no- sit, sit! You’re the guest! I always have told Cho here to treat his guests- not that he ever brought anyone over, you’re the first!”
“Certainly- treated her well-” Sukuna coughs out the words only to get elbowed by Wasuke and flicked with egg by Jin. Batting away the concoction, he looks at you by way of explanation. “I’m not a regular uncle, I’m a cool uncle.”
Jin starts up another batch for you, “But anyways- I know we’re just getting to know each other now, my dear, but I do want to thank you for taking care of him.”
“The pleasure’s all mine.” You meet Choso’s eyes, and he blushes.
“Awwwww—” Jin, who’d been there to witness the entire thing, starts to flutter about in excitement. He didn’t even care that the eggs were starting to burn- “You two are just dears! Oh, is it too late to show you the baby photographs- tell me it’s not too late!”
Not sure what to say, “I uh…”
“Oh, it’s alright- I’ll just show you the middle school pictures for today and we can save the baby pictures for…also today.” Without waiting for your response, Jin’s disappearing somewhere into the living. Spatula and all. “Yuji, where’s your camera again, my dear?”
Yuji, who’d been shooting smug looks at you two ever since you’d entered calls out- “Should be uh- on the couch?”
And for a second, there’s a moment of peace.
Only for a second, however, you have to remember that this is the Itadori household that you’re in.
And Itadori Jin’s voice thunders from outside the kitchen—“Choso Kamo. Itadori Yuji. Get to the TV room this- instant!” A shiver goes down your own spine despite not being called out, and you wondered just what made the sweet man sound this way.
As a group, everyone in the kitchen rushes along with the boys.
Only to find Jin standing with the camera, plugged into the television, and its screen displaying—
Choso pouring a mountain of shots on their very kitchen table.
Jin deadpans, “Choso…can you explain to me what you are doing in this photo?”
Choso squints at the screen, “That’s not me.”
“That’s not you?”
“…Nope.”
“Okay.” Jin replies easily, “How about these?”
Shuffling through the pictures on the camera - and you have to hold in a nervous laugh at the shots upon shots of shots, of Choso’s band playing at the party last night, of all the rambunctious students dancing, of a few smashed vases that was likely no one but Jin’s - and then, finally, he’s stopping on one.
One of you and Choso—dancing.
So close.
Your foreheads pressed together
Smiles only for one another.
In the peripherals of the shot, you could see people starting to whisper and hoot at the two of you, you could see your own friends squealing excitedly at the fact that it’d finally happened. But there seemed to be a strange world of your own there that no one else could quite penetrate. Choso’s eyes were just sparkling.
He giggles, “Heheh, that’s me…”
A/N. Oh this was so funnnn- thought of Yuji as Greg and was like WAIT-
✧ tags: yandere haikyuu male leads x villainess reader
✧ warnings: yandere behavior (later on), reader hits her head
✧ a/n: hi guys guess who’s back!! i love the isekai trope where the mc gets reborn a few years before their death and i needed to put my own lil’ twist on it! i’d love to turn this into something longer (like a series or something) so give me your thoughts!! my recent haikyuu obsession led to this one lol, inspired by: the male leads were stolen by an extra
You were a loser, well not exactly. You had a pretty stable job and a nice flat but lacked one major component in your life: friends. But it’s not like you were antisocial! Moving to a new city just a few months ago, you had been busy with moving in and didn’t exactly have enough time to make friends.
Besides you were preoccupied with your favorite web comic of all time: Flower of the Estate! A commoner girl that has three noble men falling for her? This girl really had some crazy cha(rizz)ma. You weren’t really into harem type stories but wow did it keep you coming back to see what happened.
It was another late night reading Flower of the Estate when you decided to head to the kitchen to get some snacks to keep you fueled. However, when you turned to retreat back you slipped on spilled water near the sink and hit your head on the granite counter! You mentally curse yourself for not cleaning it up as you drift into a deep slumber.
When you open your eyes and the lights blind you, quickly slapping a hand over your face you shoot up. Registering the soft plush beneath you you opened your eyes, when did you get in bed? Looking around your jaw drops, who the hell put you in a room like this! The whole room was illuminated by sunlight peaking behind the luxurious navy drapes and you gasped at the sheer size and extravagance of the bedroom. You were… in a castle?
Jumping off the bed you immediately fell to your knees with a thud. How long had you been out for that your legs were this weak? You push yourself up and stumble to the mirror on a vanity next to the bed. The satin fabric of your night gown fell to the ground, revealing the length that had been bunched up while you were sleeping.
In the mirror, the first thing you see is (e/c) eyes and a face eerily similar to yours. It was your face and body for sure but the state of it wasn’t, your hands were usually rough and your knees were scarred from playing as a child but now both were smooth and even. Then your eyes feel on a crest engraved onto the top of the vanity and your heart dropped.
The beautiful family crest of a black fox protected by two swords was a prevalent symbol in Flower of the Estate. It was the crest of the villainess. You, (y/n) Aleria, were the cruel villainess of the story, waking up here and looking like this had no other explanation. To see if it was true you quickly pushed the sleeve of your left arm up, on the wrist was a faint birthmark. A scar in the shape of a half moon, your fate was sealed. You fall back on the bed. ‘Shit.’
You were official the villainess of Flower of the Estate, who bullies the main character, get thrown out of high society, and then dies. You knew the path that the villainess followed and the actions she took, did that mean you could avoid facing the same death as her as well? The first mistake that she had committed that set her on the path of destruction was her bullying of the main character.
The villainess was notorious for her extravagant lifestyle and cruel manner, she didn’t have anyone close to her and the book never showed her point of view. You knew the basics about her but who was (y/n) — really? Was she really just jealous of the commoner girl that had managed to outshine her or was it deeper than that?
No matter why she behaved that way, you knew that following on her footsteps would only lead you to doom. You needed a game plan, plus you read enough reincarnation manga to know what basic things to avoid as the villainess.
Love Interests and Relations:
Tooru Oikawa - Childhood love (One sided) and (y/n)’s main obsession
Tobio Kageyama - Royal knight who pledged their loyalty to (y/n)
Ushijima Wakatoshi - Esteemed scholar who ended up being (y/n)’s tutor for a short period of time
Ok… this would a little harder than you thought. Why were all the love interests involved with the villainess anyway? Oikawa could be avoided easily enough, you just needed to distance yourself from him and considering that Oikawa was keen on getting rid of you. If you remembered correctly he was rather annoyed by the villainess who would cling to his side like a lost puppy. As for Ushijima, you knew that he would only be your tutor for a month, then leave your care to meet the main character who he would eventually fall in love with. Kageyama would be the hardest to get rid of compared to the other two, he would be around the villainesses the longest and somehow fall in love with her. However much like the others, he would fall in love with the female lead and leave (y/n) to be with her, withdrawing his pledge to be by her side.
The library was quiet today, save for the soft rustle of pages from students studying diligently and the occasional creak of the old bookshelves that your university so desperately needed to replace.
You liked it this way, a nice, quiet place far away from everyone, where you could just relax and be alone, and where Solivan’s eyes could follow you without drawing much attention. He was sitting nearby, alone at the end of the big oak table tucked away in one of the library’s four corners.
You had purposefully chosen a spot where he could watch you, presenting yourself out in the open for him. Pretty generous of you, honestly. You could feel it. Sol’s gaze, always lingering on you, his presence a shadow at the edge of your peripheral vision.
Occasionally, you’d glance up on purpose, just to catch a glimpse of his eyes meeting yours before he buried himself back into whatever book he had open, his face flushing that pretty red colour.
It was comforting in a twisted, intoxicating way. You already knew he was infatuated with you. It started off quite tame, to be fair; you hadn’t really noticed him before since he always sat at the back of the class, away from judgmental eyes.
But then the little things started. A shadow following you home, or that burning feeling of being watched.
Then one windy evening, you came back home to your apartment to find your window lock broken, and the place freezing because of it. Naturally, you freaked out. You called Crowe to come assess the damage, check if anything was missing, and to keep you company while you tied a flimsy ribbon around the latch, hoping it would be enough to keep your stalker out.
Unfortunately, Sol needed a lot more than ribbon to deter him.
That same night, he oh so easily undid your makeshift lock and slid right up next to your unconscious sleeping body, stroking your hair and holding your hand as if you were lovers.
Unlucky for him, you were a light sleeper, and the slight brush of his hand woke you. The room was so dark, save for the beams of moonlight streaming through the same window Sol had crept through not too long ago. You could only catch pieces of green and black hair shuffling around as you lay, somewhat petrified, in bed.
Then he spoke.
“My sweet pumpkin… sorry about your lock. I’ll make it up to you, I promise,” his lips ghosting over the shell of your ear as he whispered to you sweetly.
You felt him shift, pressing a gentle kiss to your cheek before sliding out of your bed, bidding your “sleeping” self goodbye as he slipped back out through your window. By the time you scurried to see his figure outside, he was already gone.
The next day, his actions couldn’t have been more different. You met him face to face in your art class, where you were paired as new partners for the upcoming project.
“My name is Solivan Brugmansia. Sol for short,” he said.
It was the same voice.
At the time, your blood ran cold as you realized the tall, brooding man in front of you was the same one who’d been lying next to you in bed the night before, breaking into your apartment just for a few moments of bliss with you. You.
Were you creeped out? Of course. Scared? Maybe a little. But for some sick reason, you were flattered that he’d taken such a liking to you.
“Sol… like the sun? That’s so cute, considering you’re dressed so… alternatively,” you said, deciding to experiment a little.
You stepped closer, your hand brushing against the thick black-and-green choker he wore. Your fingers moved lower to lift the key necklace around his neck, examining it carefully. Hmm. It didn’t look like a key to your apartment, so that was good.
You looked up at him, offering a sweet smile as you stepped back. You noticed how red he’d gotten and how he murmured under his breath about how pretty you were, clearly under the assumption that you hadn’t heard.
Oh, you were going to have fun with this one.
-
Today, you decided to push him further and tease him a little to see how he’d react.
Standing up from your seat, you knew Sol’s eyes would already be on you, watching and studying your every move as you walked over to the English section. To be fair, you actually did need some books for an upcoming research paper but you grabbed one at random in all honesty.
As you scanned the shelves, you found the perfect target: a book just out of reach. You stretched your arm dramatically, fingers brushing the spine but never quite making contact. You let out a dramatic, frustrated sigh, even pouting a little as you looked up at the book, knowing full well Sol was watching.
“Having trouble?” His voice was velvet, smooth and dark, as he appeared from nowhere. His tall figure loomed just behind you, towering over your own, and close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating off his body.
You turned to him, feigning surprise. “Oh, Sol! I didn’t see you there. Could you help me, please?” You looked up at him with pouty lips and big eyes, clasping your hands together as you played the damsel in distress. And he was eating it up.
His pierced lips curved into a small smile, but his eyes, those intense, bright eyes, burned with something else. “Let me help you.”
He reached over your shorter body, effortlessly pulling the book from its place. His arm brushed yours, and you shivered, allowing the reaction to linger longer than necessary. He noticed. Of course he did.
“Oh, thank you, Sol,” you said softly, looking up at him through your lashes. “God, you’re such a lifesaver for me!”
Something flickered in his gaze. Satisfaction? Possessiveness? Maybe it was a bit of both. “Anything for you,” he murmured.
You took the book from his hands, letting your fingers graze his. A deliberate move, subtle but effective. His breath hitched, barely audible, but you caught it.
“Are you studying by yourself?”
Holding the book he’d just grabbed for you close to your chest, an idea popped into your head.
“Yeah, I was uh… sitting over there.”
Sol’s gaze shifted as he gestured to the big oak table he’d been seated at earlier. Thank god he’d picked a more isolated area to reside in.
“Oh my god, perfect! I’ll come sit with you!”
Before he could get an answer in, you zipped back to your study area to gather your bag and papers, carrying it all over to the empty table, save for Sol’s setup, and dropped it all on top.
“You don’t have to stay with me, you know,” he said, glancing at you as he slipped back onto his chair. “I’m fine on my own.”
“I like being with you, though,” you replied, your voice now more quiet since, well, you were in the library. “With you.”
He blinked, his cheeks flushing as he tried to focus back on his book, but you weren’t about to make it that easy for him. You slipped into the chair beside him, leaning slightly over the table as you pretended to skim through the pages of the book he’d grabbed for you.
“Hey, Sol,” you said, your tone sweet but laced with mischief. “Do you think Edgar Allan Poe was really that depressing, or do you think he was just dramatic?”
He looked at you, clearly caught off guard by the sudden shift in topic. “Poe… was a complicated man,” he began. “His life was filled with tragedy, but I think he used his writing as a way to… cope.”
“Hmm,” you mused, tilting your head as if deep in thought. “I don’t know, some of his stuff just seems so… intense. Maybe I’m just not smart enough to get it?” You leaned in closer, your shoulder brushing against his as you gave him a wide-eyed, innocent look.
“That’s not true,” he said quickly, his voice firm. “You’re incredibly intelligent.”
“Aww, you really think so?” you cooed, leaning even closer until your face was mere inches from his. His breath hitched, and you swore you saw his grip tighten on the edge of the table.
Before he could respond, you shifted, swinging a leg over to settle yourself on his lap. His entire body went rigid beneath you, and his face turned a deep, furious red.
“What are you doing?” he stammered, his hands hovering awkwardly near your hips, unsure of where to place them.
“Getting comfortable,” you said simply, wrapping your arms around his neck as you leaned in close, your lips nearly brushing his ear. “Is that okay?”
He swallowed hard, his hands finally resting on your waist as if he couldn’t help himself. “Y-yeah, it’s okay,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper.
You could feel the tension in his body, the way his breaths came out more quickly, staggered, and you knew you had him exactly where you wanted him. The hard press of his cock hidden beneath the layers of clothing between you only confirmed it, and you smiled to yourself, savouring the bit of power you held over him.
You hummed, pretending to be clueless about his… growing problem as you skimmed your books, jotting down notes here and there, while Sol struggled to even get through one paragraph of the book he was reading, your body on top of his becoming too much of a distraction.
The girl of his dreams, the one he snuck out to see every night, the one he studied so closely and had fantasies about, was, right now, in this very moment, sitting on his lap. Her plush ass perfectly slotted against his body. And it was driving him insane.
“Sol?” you asked suddenly, your voice cutting through his haze. “You haven’t turned the page in a while. Is it boring?”
His eyes darted to yours, wide and panicked, as if you’d caught him doing something forbidden. “N-no, it’s fine,” he stammered, his hands flexing against your waist. “Just… distracted.”
You tilted your head, feigning innocence. “Distracted? By what?” You leaned in close, your lips brushing the shell of his ear as you whispered, “Is something on your mind? You can talk to me, you know…”
His breath hitched again, and he clutched you tighter as if grounding himself. “No,” he whispered, voice low and strained. “I-I’m okay.”
You smiled, pressing a soft kiss to his cheek, savoring the way he froze beneath you. “If you’re so sure,” you murmured, your voice laced with a little bit of concern. “Because if you need to talk I’m always here for you sweetness.”
Yeah that did it.
Sol’s pants felt so tight as the curve of your ass shifted on and off his hard, clothed cock, and he bit his lip to try and stifle any noises as you moved around. His hands gripped your waist as he spoke into your ear, low and raspy.
Sol’s hands trembled as they clutched your waist, his knuckles whitening with restraint. “Please… sit still,” he begged, his voice strained and heavy with need.
You tilted your head, pretending to consider his plea, your lips curling into a wicked smile. “Hmm, I don’t know,” you teased, shifting just slightly, enough to make him suck in a sharp breath. “You seem a little tense, Sol. Are you sure you’re okay?”
His eyes darted to yours, wide and desperate. “I-I need… I should go.”
Before you could respond, he gently lifted you off his lap and bolted from the table, his long strides carrying him toward the exit of the library and to the left, down the hall to where the bathrooms were tucked away.
You watched him disappear through the library exit, a slow grin spreading across your face. How adorable. He thought he could hide from you.
Leaving your things behind, you followed. The hallway leading to the bathrooms was dimly lit, the hum of fluorescent lights buzzing faintly above, reminding you for a moment of how shitty this university could be.
You pushed the door open silently, locking it behind you with ease and stepped inside, finding Sol leaning over the sink, his head bowed, gripping the edges so tightly his knuckles were pale. He was panting, looking as if he might pass out from just being teased by you, his hard-on visible to you as it strained against his pants.
“Running away from me, Sol?” you asked, your voice lilting as you closed the distance between you.
He froze, lifting his head up instantly, his reflection in the mirror staring back at you, panic swirling in his bright eyes. “W-What are you doing here?” he stammered, his voice cracking slightly as he turned around to face you.
You stopped just behind him, close enough that your breath brushed along the nape of his neck. “You ran off so suddenly… I got worried,” you murmured, your fingers trailing lightly along the edge of his sleeve, brushing his fingers with yours. “What’s wrong, Sol? Did I do something wrong?”
“N-no,” he choked out, refusing to meet your gaze. His hands flexed against the sink, and you noticed the way his shoulders tensed, his whole body tense with barely-contained frustration.
“You’re lying to me,” you whispered, stepping closer, your chest now pressed flush against his. You slid your hands up his arms slowly, feeling him shiver beneath your touch. “You’re so worked up, Sol… what were you planning to do while you're here?”
“I—I wasn’t going to–” he stuttered, but the words died on his lips as your hands moved to his waist, your fingers brushing along the waistband of his pants.
“Shh,” you cooed, standing on the tips of your toes and brushing some of his hair out of the way to press a gentle kiss to his neck. “No need to lie to me sweetness. I already know.”
His breath hitched audibly, and his hands clenched the sink harder as he fought to maintain control. “You can’t just… do this to me,” he rasped, his voice breaking with desperation.
“Do what?” you asked innocently, your lips trailing to his ear. “Help you? Because it seems to me like you need it, Sol.”
You let your fingers dip lower, teasing the button of his pants as you whispered, “So tell me… do you want my help?”
His resolve crumbled in an instant. “Yes,” he breathed, his voice barely more than a whimper. “Please.”
Sol’s hands gripped the edge of the sink so tightly, his knuckles were turning white with restraint, but his body was betraying him. He was trembling with need, his chest heaving, every breath shallow and hitched. You could feel his thighs tremble as your hands deftly moved to unzip his pants, undoing some buttons along the way.
You took your time, savoring the moment with this gorgeous man crumbling under your touch and gaze. Slowly, you pressed your body flush against his, feeling the heat of his skin against yours. You could feel the stiffness of his arousal, throbbing against the confines of his boxers, and it made your own… area pulsate in response.
“Sol…” you whispered against his ear. “You’re so fucking beautiful like this. So desperate for me.”
He sucked in a sharp breath, his hands still resting against the sink, his body shaking as if he couldn’t decide whether to push you away or pull you closer.
“I can’t… I can’t take it anymore,” he groaned, his voice cracking. “I need you… now.”
You smiled, a wicked grin spreading across your face. You knew exactly what he wanted, what his body was begging for. You slid your fingers down the waistband of his boxers, barely grazing his skin, and Sol’s breath hitched, his hips jerking forward in anticipation.
“Patience, Sol,” you teased, your fingers circling his cock gently, slowly, barely touching but just enough contact to make him shudder. “You’ve been so good for me so far, haven’t you?”
His hands flexed against the sink again, and he let out a low, guttural moan. “I need you,” he whispered again, more urgently now, his voice raw with desperation.
You didn’t make him wait any longer.
With a swift motion, you freed him from the remains of his clothing, your hands finally wrapping around his cock completely. Sol’s body jerked at the contact, his head falling forward onto your shoulder as a sharp gasp left his lips. He was so sensitive, so responsive, and it made your heart race.
“You’re mine now,” you murmured, your voice low and commanding. You began to move your hand slowly, torturously, teasing him just enough to make him squirm, but never enough to let him find release.
Sol’s breath came in ragged gasps, his body trembling with need, his hands gripping the counter as if it was the only thing keeping him from completely falling apart. “Fuck…” he muttered. “Please… I can’t take it.”
“You can take it, Sol,” you whispered, your voice dripping with satisfaction. “You’ve made it this far, haven’t you? You’re going to finish when I tell you to. Understand?”
He nodded his head, never disagreeing with your demands, his eyes were glazed with lust for you, his body twitching with every slow stroke from your hands. “Yes… Yes, I understand.”
Sol whined softly to himself, as you jerked your hand up and down. He closed his eyes, swallowing hard, only for you to sweetly tell him to open them back up, of course he obeyed, watching your slow, deliberate movements. The way you were hovering over him right now, your eyes boring into his, as your hands were wrapped around his cock, applying more pressure.
“You’re being so good for me Sol…” you purred, slowly sinking towards the ground, not caring about being in a bathroom, or even caring that you were doing this at your university. You looked up at him sweetly, asking him politely to hold your hair back, and he did it right away, after all how could he refuse?
He gently pulled all your hair back, somewhat neatly wrapping it around his hand, careful to not pull too tightly. He felt your warm hand gently stroke his cock, your lips just inches away, so so close.
Then you started to tease him. Licking up the underside of his length, gently pressing kisses from the base to the tip, your tongue teasing him as he whimpered and started to shake underneath you, completely submitting himself to you.
He could feel your hot breath as you hummed and toyed around with him. You slowly started to take his whole length into your mouth, inch by inch until your nose was pressed against his pelvis. He was in heaven.
Sol gasped at the sensation, his hand tugging at your hair as he watched you bob your head up and down, your hot, wet mouth, and shivered at the way his cock hit the back of your throat.
“P-Please… hah… pumpkin…” Sol called out for you. His legs shook gently as his climax slowly built up, soft moans and whimpers escaping his lips as he bit down on one hand to muffle his noises, your tempo never letting up as you continued to suck on him.
“Can I cum? Please… let me cum for you pumpkin.” He was begging quietly in the bathroom, watching you suck and hearing you make a muffled ‘mhm’ noise with your pretty plump lips wrapped around him, granting him permission without words.
Within seconds, his hands flew to the back of your head, pushing you down as he came into your mouth, moaning softly as he did, and you graciously let him, taking it all as you felt his fingers dig into your scalp. After a few moments he took a deep breath, releasing his grip on you, and falling back against the cool countertop of the bathroom sink.
You looked up at him sweetly, sticking your tongue out to show him that you had swallowed it all.
Freak.
Slowly, you started to stand up with a satisfied smile, your eyes meeting Sol’s pretty red-orange ones. He was still catching his breath, his chest rising and falling, his skin flushed with heat.
You took a step back, eyes never leaving his, and fixed your own clothes with a bit of deliberate slowness, just to tease him. You tucked your shirt back into your uniform skirt, your fingers trailing over the fabric that dipped between your breasts, noticing that Sol’s gaze followed your every movement, still dazed, and still processing everything that had just happened in the bathroom.
Once you were finished, you stepped closer to him, your body just inches away from his. You tilted your head slightly, studying him with that playful glint in your eyes.
“Guess we’re even now, huh?” you whispered, your lips curling into a sly grin.
Sol’s eyes flickered to yours, his confusion evident even with that lingering haze of pleasure clouding his mind. “What do you mean?” he asked, his voice low and hoarse.
You leaned in, your lips brushing against his ear as you whispered, “I know you’ve been sneaking into my apartment at night, Sol… I can hear you when you’re outside my window, and well… playing with yourself in my bed.”
You pulled back, eyes locking with his as you saw the way his pupils dilated, the sudden panic flashing in his gaze. “I’ll make it easier for you though and leave the window unlocked for you tonight, darling,” you purred, your voice dripping with both sweetness and mischief.
A smirk tugged at the corner of your lips as you straightened up, straightening your clothes one last time, watching as Sol stood frozen, his expression a mixture of disbelief and awe.
“Don’t keep me waiting, okay?” you teased, giving him a quick kiss, before turning away and walking towards the door.
You pulled it open, leaving him standing in the bathroom alone to process what had just happened, as you stepped out into the hallway. The last thing you heard before the door clicked shut was his soft mutter, “Damn… she knows?”
You couldn’t help but giggle to yourself as you walked away, knowing exactly what would happen that night. He was yours from now on.
You were suddenly reincarnated or transmigrated to one of your novels as one of the villainess of the story, using your knowledge of the novel and world you will find a way to escape your original fate and live
( scaramouche pov )
Art by @XIAOJIAJU Twitter
Dividers by @cafekitsune
Side story my other < fic >read it first if you want more understanding
<< seems you guys enjoy the fic about prince scaramouche so I decided to create a side story from his point of view, I will make a part 2 if you guys want >>
Kunikuzushi's life has never been easy in the first place, he is the prince as well as the first born of the shogunate which means he's gonna be the future heir soon of the throne.
He has tutors and lessons 24/7 non stop, he wishes to have fun on the outside world but he's unable, this castle is his prison and he wishes to be more free than rather be locked up in his room. His mother doesn't even acknowledge him even tho she cares for him she doesn't know how to express it as well of her being busy with duties.
And as expected being royalty he has to choose a bride soon, the line of exquisite as well beautiful noble ladies are lining up waiting for him to choose but not one caught his attention all of them are snobbish as well to clingy.
His mother has enough and set up another meeting with another noble lady and then he has to choose one.
Originally he was opposed to this idea, but he's unable to go against his mother's wishes.
When he finally met you, he originally thought that you were weird, you were open minded as well not very obedient unlike his other suitors a personality unfit of a noble.
Due to this personality, you were not very liked by the other nobles as well others saying he shouldn't marry this barbaric woman with no respect but he pays no attention.
Sometimes you and him would sneak out of tenshukaku, to hang out and go to inazuma city, you seem to be very popular since the locals very much knew you and he of course has to wear a disguise to avoid getting caught
When the day is over you and him would go to a cliff and admire the sunset, but little did you know he was admiring you, your hair, your face, your eyes everything about you is radiant as if the gods hand crafted you by themselves he immediately knew who he wants to spend the rest of his life as well the one who will rule the nation right next to him.
Recently he noticed that every time you visit him, you will be covered in bruises and he is always the one that bandages you up and sometimes kisses the injury.
One time he once heard that you were confronted his mother and bolted towards the throne room afraid that you would be punished and was about to open the door he heard you talking to his mother saying how he always wanted to have a normal relationship with him a mother and son relationship. He stops and listens to you talking about how he's the sweetest person and begs his mother to spend time with him I guess it reaches his mother because she started to spend time with him.
Everything started to glow when you were around, everything in his life that was wrong was fixed by you, you are his sun that shines upon the world of his.
He made a promise towards you of becoming the best husband and that nothing will do you apart from him the original vows were till death do us part but for him he will find you and love you in every universe and will find you at any cost.
Recently there's been a rebellion between the watatsumi island and he's been busy training as well helping strategizing with his mother and generals. So which means he Less you but it's fine because after this war ends he can marry and see you everyday as his queen and wife. He could already picture it until it was suddenly shattered
Until "that" day happened his mother was supposed to deliver a speech with him and you present in the back suddenly a group of watatsumi soldiers appeared and tried to ambush them, one of the soldiers threw a spear towards you and everything was slowing down in his vision... He watched as the spear pierced towards your beautiful kimono and blood poured from the wound and you fell down on the floor.
He stood there stunt and was about to approach your body until multiple guards tried to drag him from you, all sanity burst thru the window he struggled and fought against the guards that were trying to bring him to safety tears shout out from his eyes, your corpse getting further from his vision and release an agonizing scream calling your name until he was drag back to the palace.
When he was inside the castle walls, he released a large wave of electricity killing the guards that were holding him from you. He felt empty, for the next 2 months he locked himself inside your room and held your kimono non stop until his mother intervened and wanted him to snap out of it.
He felt empty, you were his light and now you were there was not even a body he wasn't unable to say goodbye one last time, was it painful when the spear pierced you, was it quick so you don't experience the pain and this question circled around his head he swore he would revenge you and punish whoever opposed of him.
First he will punish your clan for laying their filthy hands on you, they were soon punished by hanging. And when one of the elders of your clan begged him to spare them "I'm pretty much sure young master you have a heart" he replied with "no, it was taken from the moment when she died" and the execution was soon continued.
No one dares to oppose him not even his mother could stop the hatred from his heart, he trained non-stop and at night he would go to your room and hold your kimono and talk towards it as if it was you.
He punished anyone who opposed him even if it was a small mistake no one can escape his raft, he ruled with an iron fist.
Until one day a diplomat from Snezhnaya one of the harbingers of the tsaritsa appears to discuss some matters he was known as the "doctor or Ill dottore" he was rumored to be a necromancer having the ability to raise the dead this catch his eyes and approach the doctor.
He ask whenever or not that can bring back the dead and the doctor replied with yes but it comes with price he need to have the body of the disease person in order to bring back the dead unfortunately your body was taken by the watatsumi.
Soon the doctor started to teach him the arts of necromancy as well as dark magic but it comes with a price but don't worry you are worth more than anything even if he falls in the eyes of darkness.
Don't worry he will have you back soon, you and him will get married and live happily ever after he promised
You were suddenly reincarnated or transmigrated to one of your novels as one of the villainess of the story, using your knowledge of the novel and world you will find a way to escape your original fate and live
Drawing by @asagizuisen from insta
Dividers by @cafekitsune
Inspired by @iceunhie fanfic
<< scaramouche pov >>
You were isekaid into one of your favorite novels as one of the villainess that was executed by the male lead thru hanging due to the crimes they committed towards the female lead.
The villainess that you were transmigrated was a high ranking noble of the nation of inazuma and was Destined to marry the male lead and was jealous of the female lead due to them being the center of attention of the male lead.
Originally the villainess and male lead was childhood best friends and they were arranged to marry each other once they reached adulthood.
The male lead known as kunikuzushi or in other words scaramouche was the prince of inazuma and was Destined to marry the villainess known as yuki, a high ranking noble of inazuma.
Yuki was executed due to her hiring assassin to assassinate the female lead who was very much already infatuated with kunikuzushi.
Now you suddenly have isekai in the body of yuki, you use your knowledge of the novel and the world to change the course of your fate.
Since you reincarnated before the story started it gives you enough time to change your fate. At first you befriend the kunikuzushi and get closer to the other important side characters like guuji yae and the shogunate, kunikuzushi mother And before the start of the story you would fake your death and escape to another nation
You and him would spend time together, by you giving him advice and as well taking him towards inazuma city to have fun while skipping his lessons.
This gave you a reputation amongst the nobles of inazuma as an untamed and undesirable young lady as well giving you a clan a bad name, every time you went home you would get a lecture from your parents as well a beating by a wooden stick but it never stops you from visiting him and taking him outside to spend together.
At first you don't get along with the shogunate but after a confrontation about kunikuzushi you ask her to spend time with him since he's been wanting to spend time with her, by miraculously you manage to convince her and now once a week she would spend time with him.
Guuji yae or yae Miko was interesting for you, she seems to be interested in you even helping you. By teaching you spells and enchantment. You think she's actually glad you are here to make kunikuzushi happy.
You and him would spend your time together 24/7, sitting under the cherry blossom, having lunch together and study together. One time you and him were at a cliff looking at the sunset and he intertwined both of your hands and made a promise that he promised to be the best husband for you and he sealed this promise with a kiss.
Recently a rebellion started amongst the nation and watatsumi causing war inside the peaceful nation, this is your cue to leave since the story started at the middle of the war and was stopped by the female lead. And the villainess was executed due to giving information towards the rebellion. You manage to get a hand of the leader of the rebellion with divine priestess kokomi to assist you with your fake death.
You had everything in plan one of the previous events before the story, the Shogunate will give a speech and kunikuzushi and you will be in the background and some watatsumi soldiers ambush the speech. This is the perfect chance to fake your death.
The plan is ready, you put a bag of fake blood under your expensive kimono and you met with him, kunikuzushi was star struck by your outfit as if he was admiring the most beautiful flower in the world. Before the speech you hug him knowing this will be your final interaction.
In the middle of the speech as expected watatsumi soldiers appeared and started to attack, and one of them throw their spears at you and it manages to pierce you and the bag of fake blood that you were wearing creating an image of you being stab, the good thing that the spear didn't hit any vital spot so you can heal the injury by using magic. And your body falls down and the fake blood creates a puddle giving an image of death in front of the people.
Screams emerged from the crowd and kunikuzushi saw it all, his entire world slowed down when the spear pierced you, before he could approach your body he was dragged by guards to escort him to a safety, he struggled against them wanting to get towards your dead body screaming and crying asking to be let go against the guards with tears running down his eyes.
Meanwhile your body was taken by the watatsumi island, where a boat is ready for you to go to liyue far from the nation as possible you thank kokomi and get in the boat to go to liyue.
You managed to settle in liyue, you still felt bad about leaving kunikuzushi but it's for the best he will be happier with the female lead. You heard news about inazuma that's been non-stop plagued by thunderstorms and rain.
As well hearing about the prince there, being a tyrant his soft heart has turned cruel punishing anyone that dares to speak to him as well training non stop. As well known being included in the fight against the rebellion by leading armies of soldiers in the front line.
Back at inazuma, kunikuzushi at night after training and strategizing he would visit your room and hug your kimono and cry himself to sleep. As well promising revenge for you and bringing your dead body back from the watatsumi.
He aligns himself with someone named the doctor one of the harbingers of Snezhnaya who has the ability to bring back the dead as well a master of black magic, he has been learning black magic from him to find a spell to bring you back to live all he needs is your body so he can finally have you back and he won't stop until he finds you and have you back so you and him can embrace again and married like he promise. Death will not do you part
𝓈𝓎𝓃𝑜𝓅𝓈𝒾𝓈: Oh my goodness! Would you look at that—planning to infiltrate not one, but two of the finest, deadliest, and absurdly attractive vampires this side of gothic tragedy?
Vampire!Sol x Reader? and Vampire!Crowe x Reader
You really woke up and chose morally questionable romance and danger kink, huh? Honestly, I can’t even blame you. It’s practically encoded in your family’s bloodline. Truly, a noble tradition.
Sure, there’s a slim chance you’ll end up draped dramatically across a velvet chaise with a love bite that doubles as a blood loss issue. But hey—knowledge requires sacrifice. And if that sacrifice just so happens to involve two devastatingly handsome vampires? Then honestly? You’re just doing your research.
Maybe with a little bit of neck involved~
𝒸𝑜𝓃𝓉𝑒𝓃𝓉 𝓌𝒶𝓇𝓃𝒾𝓃𝑔: 18+ NO KIDS (Adults Only) This content contains mature themes unsuitable for children. Please respect the creator's intentions.
So after stumbling across Waza (aka @alyysahh)'s vampire doodles of Sol and Crowe on Twitter—whew. They’re both fine in ways that should honestly be illegal in most supernatural jurisdictions. Anyway, now my brain won't shut up, and my keyboard is demanding a full-on vampire fic with them. So… thanks, Waza!
You’ve unlocked a new level of thirst-laced inspiration.
[ 𝓂𝒶𝓈𝓉𝑒𝓇𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓉 ]
𝓉𝒶𝑔𝓈: vampire x gn reader! hunter, fluff to smut, predator/prey dynamics, power imbalance, intense emotional bond, dangerous attraction, touch-starved monster, obsession, blood drinking intimacy, feeding scene (vampire), possessive behavior, biting & bruising, “Am I okay for finding this hot?” type of vibes.
You sit alone in the farthest corner of the train car, where the oil lamps flicker just a shade too dimly, and the smell of smoke and old leather hangs thick in the air. The bench beneath you groans with age, as though it resents your presence—one more shadow among many.
Outside, the window is glazed with frost, blurring the wild landscape into smears of grey and white, a watercolor of forgotten hills and bramble-choked trees. This place, this stretch of land veiled in mist and silence, is a ghost’s graveyard—untamed, unwelcoming. The kind of place where old things go to sleep, and where fools like you go to wake them.
The train chugs deeper into the unknown, each rhythmic pulse of the engine echoing like a heartbeat in your throat. Doverhollow. A name scribbled in the margins of your grandfather’s journal, circled twice in a trembling hand. The last known haunt of something that does not die, does not age, does not forgive.
You read those pages as a child, huddled beneath wool blankets with a candle burning low, and you told yourself it was only a story. But the scent of iron has lingered in your lungs ever since.
You wear your deception well.
A traveling scholar, perhaps. A quiet tradesperson seeking land. But every thread of your clothing has been chosen with care—wool dyed in muted tones to avoid reflection, gloves sewn with silver thread along the palms, the stitching fine enough to be overlooked. Beneath your coat lies a reinforced vest lined with ashwood slats, thin as bone.
You carry no obvious weapon, but your boots are weighted, and your left cuff conceals a needle-thin dagger dipped in dried wolfsbane and holy water. Around your neck, a crucifix, tarnished with age.
You are not here to fantasize.
You are here to finish what your bloodline began.
You are not merely a hunter. You are the last heir to a dying archive—a bloodline of seekers, scribes, slayers. Their stories—your stories—fill a satchel at your side, bursting with brittle parchment and ink-blotted pages.
Your family never chased glory.
Only truth.
Every jolt of the rail draws your mind back to the present, to the task at hand—not romance, not curiosity. Execution. And before that? Extraction. The family doctrine is etched into your very marrow: learn everything, then kill. There is no honor in ignorance, no valor in mercy. Vampires are not to be pitied. They are to be understood, documented, and destroyed. Anything less is a failure of legacy.
You’ve spent the last five years living among corpses and folklore, chasing ash trails through forests, interviewing trembling survivors who speak of shadowed lovers and cursed bloodlines. And every page you add to the journal brings you closer to something complete. Something final.
Doverhollow lies just past the next rise.
The last stop on the line.
A village swallowed by trees and time, where light doesn’t linger and roads change when you're not looking. The locals know something ancient lives there. They never say thier names aloud—but your family’s records do.
Two names dominate the text now.
Two figures who could not be more different—and yet, they are woven into the same mythic thread, a duality of horror.
Let’s start with Jericho Ichabod.
The Shadowed Aristocrat. Too elegant to be real. Too calculating to be human. He is not a vampire in the way most are. He does not hunt; he orchestrates. To him, humans are not prey. They are players in a game only he understands.
Some accounts say he was once mortal royalty, undone by vanity. Others insist he is older than the written word. Regardless, his reputation is consistent: he feeds with permission. He seduces with restraint. And when he kills, it’s clinical. Almost kind.
As though death were a favor.
And then there is Solivan Brugmansia.
The Feral Outcast. The other side of the coin. Not elegance, but entropy. Where Jericho whispers, Solivan howls. Born of rot and ruin, Sol is the reason villages go silent. The reason fences go up and prayers return to pagan shapes.
He does not charm. He consumes. A failure, some say—a cursed experiment, abandoned by his kin and left to fester in the woods. But your family knew better. Solivan chooses to be monstrous. He does not hide what he is. He forces you to look.
And then he tears it from you.
They are both here. Somewhere in the dark veins of Doverhollow. And you are not here to flirt with shadows or wax poetic about teeth in your neck. You are here to learn everything—habits, powers, weaknesses, patterns.
Your goal is not just to write their ending in ink. You were never taught to fear vampires.
You were raised to despise them.
Again, the pages of your family’s journals are inked in hatred—centuries of catalogued atrocities, of names struck through with blood and fire, of faces that once wept at altars now worn smooth with time and grief.
Every story your mother whispered into your ear, every scar carved into your kin, was a thread in the tapestry of vengeance. These creatures are not romantic. They are not misunderstood. They are not beautiful. They are disease wearing human skin. They charm to distract, to weaken. And when they feed, they do so with pleasure.
Vampires are parasites, every last one of them. And you’ve made it your life’s work to see them extinct.
That’s the mission. The burden. The vow.
Your goal is to end them.
You’ve sacrificed everything for it. Joy, comfort, safety—gone. You don’t remember what a normal life feels like. You sleep with one eye open, you eat in silence, and you walk through the world like a blade sheathed in flesh.
You’ve crushed your own bones under carriages just to lure a vampire into feeding from what it thought was a dying man.
You’ve buried your heartbeat, learned to still your breath, learned what blood smells like just before the fangs pierce skin. You know how to smile through cracked ribs. You know how to keep screaming when your throat is raw.
Pain is a tool. A language. One you’ve mastered.
And yet, some nights—quiet ones like this, when you’re alone with the rhythm of a train car and the frost creeps across the window—you catch yourself wondering.
Not about death. That doesn’t frighten you.
But about the moment before. The bite...
That liminal instant when your body goes still, the air turns thick, and something monstrous draws near—not as predator, but as executioner. Is it agony? Does it feel like drowning in flame, nerves burning beneath the skin? Or is it worse—is it gentle? Cold lips. A hush. The world dimming like a candle in rain. Some survivors speak of ecstasy, of surrender, of being seen.
You’d rather die a thousand brutal deaths than admit that part of you wants to know. But the thought remains, like a splinter in your mind. You grind your teeth and crush it beneath your heel. That kind of sentiment is what kills hunters.
Curiosity. Temptation. Weakness.
And you are not weak. Because soon, the train will stop. And when your boots strike the frost-bitten earth of Doverhollow, there will be no turning back. No poetry. No mercy. Only war. This cursed village—the last known haunt of two legendary monsters—has been carved into your family’s records for over a hundred years.
Two names. Two beasts.
So ask yourself, hunter—
Will it be Jericho, stepping out of the mist in silk and shadow, his voice like lullabies and knives? Or will it be Solivan, teeth bared, crawling from the forest like a nightmare come to devour you whole?
You may believe you will decide.
However… They always choose you. And when they do?
Make them regret it. Good Luck.
✑ 𝒸𝓇𝑜𝓌𝑒
You’d heard the whispers in Doverhollow—slurred from wine-loosened tongues at the tavern, murmured with trembling lips at the chapel’s altar, always trailing off just before they reached the name.
The Ichabod Crane.
Most villagers wouldn’t say it aloud, as though the very syllables might summon death through the floorboards. You asked gently, and when that failed, you asked firmly. But fear made them quiet.
You had to find the manor yourself, piecing together overheard conversations and reading the terrain like scripture: the fork in the moss-eaten road, the circle of trees that never swayed with the wind, the subtle hush that fell over the birdsong when you passed a certain stretch of forest.
Apparently, there's a legend the townsfolk like to toss around like an old coin—something about a man named Crane. Ichabod Crane, a schoolmaster by trade, and a coward by nature, if the tale is to be believed. He was said to be deeply superstitious, a man who clung to ghost stories the way some cling to scripture.
Among his obsessions was the tale of the Headless Horseman—a vengeful spirit of a Hessian soldier who lost his head to a cannonball and now wanders the night seeking a replacement.
As the story goes, one evening Crane was making his way home alone, nerves already frayed from some shadow he likely imagined in the trees. And then, there it was—the Headless Horseman.
Cloaked in black, mounted on a jet-black steed, silent but swift. A chase ensued through the woods, wild and terrifying… and then, just as Crane thought he’d reached safety, the Horseman hurled his "head"—a hollowed-out pumpkin—straight at him.
The next morning, all that remained was the shattered gourd and the faint imprint of hooves in the dirt. Crane had vanished, as though the night had simply swallowed him.
Charming. Ridiculous.
You’d heard the story whispered with wide eyes and held breath, as though it carried weight. As though it had teeth. But to you, it was little more than child's theater. A bedtime scare dressed up as folklore. A coward disappears and the town decides he was spirited away by some galloping ghost?
Please.
They mistook you, of course. The villagers. Mistook your silence for naivety, your polite questions for innocent curiosity. They called you a traveler, a scholar maybe, some city person writing books about old superstitions.
You let them believe that.
It was safer—for them and for you. What they didn’t know was how deep the discipline ran in your bloodline. That you were trained by hands calloused from decades of weaponry and ink, that you had studied the anatomy of a vampire before you learned to tie your own shoes.
You were not here to chase myths.
You were here to record them. And, if necessary, end them.
The night of the ball, you dressed with deliberate care. Not too lavish—never enough to draw the eye—but tailored finely enough to pass as nobility from some obscure coastal province.
A beautiful midnight blue outfit, matte to avoid catching too much light, with a neckline modest enough to hide the scar at your collarbone. A delicate silver chain with a charm that looked decorative, however, was in fact sharpened holy steel. You wore your hair pinned, not flowing. Vampires remembered faces; you made sure yours was one among many.
Your scent had been a concern. Human aroma—warmth, blood, sweat—was a siren’s call to their kind. So you masked it. A concoction brewed from dried vervain, crushed rosemary, and elderflower, burned into your clothes with candle smoke. It didn’t erase your humanity. But it made you difficult to place.
To them, you might’ve smelled foreign.
Interesting, but not edible.
The manor loomed exactly as the stories promised: veiled in perpetual moonlight. Its windows did not flicker, despite the presence of flame. The candles within had never melted. The whole structure felt suspended in time, like a dream sustained by will alone. Every stone too clean. Every corner too precise.
There was no dust. No breeze. Only music.
Inside, it was a ballroom carved from shadow and wealth. Gilded mirrors reflected candlelight from chandeliers shaped like inverted spires. The floor—black marble veined with silver—hummed faintly beneath your boots, as if reacting to your pulse.
The guests were exquisite, yes, but strangely subdued. Less than a hundred, each draped in fashion centuries out of place. Their eyes flicked over one another like knives behind lace. Some had fangs bared in mirthless smiles. Others tilted their heads too far to the side when they laughed, as though they had forgotten the gesture had once been human.
You took a drink from one of the passing servers—tall, androgynous, eyes blank with compulsion. The glass was cool in your hand.
Its contents were… strange.
Not wine. Not pure blood either. Diluted. Thick with something metallic but laced with berries, perhaps. Something meant to imitate luxury and sustain, not overwhelm. A vampire's version of a cocktail, perhaps. It made your stomach clench.
You kept to the perimeter, one hand resting lightly on your waist as you feigned indifference. You nodded when nodded to. Tilted your head as the others did. Studied the language of the room. And though your heart kept rhythm with your training, your eyes scanned for him.
It wasn’t long before the music paused.
The hush was immediate, reverent. Every pale face turned toward the grand staircase that wound up from the ballroom floor. And there he was, above them all, dressed in a suit of dark velvet and satin that shimmered like oil in candlelight.
His navy coat buttoned to the neck, that same familiar bow holding his long brown hair in a low tail. His pale brown skin glowed softly under the chandeliers, and his deep blue eyes scanned the crowd as though already bored by it.
“Welcome, all,” he said, voice a quiet blade of silk through the silence. “You may know me as Jericho Ichabod.”
A ripple. A tension. Reverence and dread mingled in the air.
“Welcome,” he continued, smiling faintly, “to my mother’s party.”
A lie, perhaps? Or a fiction he enjoyed.
But the way they responded—bowing ever so slightly, some without even realizing it—you knew this was his court. His gameboard. And you had stepped onto it willingly.
Your pulse ticked once behind your ears.
You never expected your first sighting of Jericho Ichabod to come so… quietly. No dramatic lightning strikes splitting the sky. No chandeliers crashing to the floor. No bat swarm swirling into the shape of a man.
Honestly, a little disappointing, considering the reputation. After all the myths, the journal entries etched in urgency, the dire warnings passed through bloodlines like cursed heirlooms, you envisioned something apocalyptic. You thought you'd meet him mid-hunt or mid-massacre, with your blade drawn and your heartbeat loud enough to attract notice.
Instead, it came like velvet. Like someone folding time into silence.
So a polite vampire, huh. A cordial bloodsucker.
Honestly? What a letdown.
The moment he finished his welcome—“Thank you all for attending my mother’s party,” spoken with the elegance of a man who definitely sounds like him and his mother aren’t close, the last time they possibly saw each other was three centuries ago—you noted the time.
Well past midnight. Time was thinning.
The music had shifted to something strange and ancient, a waltz from a dead language. The ballroom glittered with vampires dressed like rejected Parisian operetta cast members. You? You were wedged into a noble person’s gown stitched from lies and herb-paste.
Definitely not here to tango.
So you slipped out. Graceful as a mouse. Quiet as guilt.
The manor breathed a different air beyond the party walls. No perfume and powdered guests here—just amber, cedar, and the faint, metallic scent of old blood. Not the messy, butcher-shop kind. No, this was aged. Distilled. Vintaged. Artisanal vampire juice. The halls were maintained with the kind of neurotic precision that suggested either Jericho was a control freak or had an entire staff of undead interior decorators.
The carpets were immaculate. The candles—white, beeswax, hand-poured—trimmed to the same level, like soldiers ready for parade. The mirrors were all veiled in thin lace, suggesting vanity or maybe just an aesthetic choice from someone who doesn’t like seeing himself mid-bite.
Every corner screamed curated. The place didn’t feel lived in—it felt preserved. Like walking into a memory that refused to fade.
A mausoleum.
For someone too elegant to die.
You crept like a thief, journal pressed to your side, senses sharp, each step a prayer. The floor groaned beneath your foot just once and you froze, as though sound itself might betray you. And that silence—sharp, stretched silence—wrapped around you like a noose. The manor listened.
Then a voice. Smooth, amused, inevitable. “And who do we have here? It’s always a pleasure to see a new face.”
Your blood froze. You turned. And there he was. Jericho Ichabod.
In the flesh. And oh, what flesh. He didn’t look at you at first—rude, honestly—but his presence filled the hall like cold perfume. He held a wineglass in one hand, of course, and within it? Not wine. Again, definitely not. The red was too thick, too alive. Like a heartbeat in glass. His skin was pale brown, immaculate, ageless.
And those eyes—when they finally turned toward you—were so deep a blue you nearly stepped back. Eyes like drowned gods. Or like they’d seen gods, and decided they were unimpressive.
He didn’t smile to welcome you.
He smiled because he already knew what you were.
You. Human. Intruder. Target. “Ah,” he said smoothly, as if narrating a thought he’d already memorized, “a human came to visit me, after all.”
Your heart skipped. He figured it out?! That fast?! You were about to move, hands inching toward the concealed weapons stitched into your outfit—dagger in your sleeve, crucifix at your collar, stake tucked along your spine.
However, he didn’t attack.
He didn’t grow fangs or sprout wings or go full feral. Instead…
“I’m so happy to finally meet a human!” he said brightly. Genuinely. With a tone you might use when finding a long-lost cousin at a family reunion.
You blinked. “…What?”
He looked at you like you were a birthday present he wasn’t expecting but was thrilled to receive. You, dumbfounded, slowly lowered your hand from your crucifix. He took a sip from his bloodglass, utterly unbothered.
Oh no. You were not prepared for this level of social horror.
You froze. Not out of sheer terror—though, to be fair, your stomach had performed a flawless somersault—but out of something far stranger: awe.
This was not the slavering, clawed monstrosity that haunted the edges of your family's hunting journals. Not the shadow that gnawed on the edges of childhood bedtime stories, the one your mother always described in tones usually reserved for war crimes and taxes. This was not the thing your grandfather chased across swamps with bloodhounds and a blessed musket.
This was… Jericho Ichabod???
The Shadowed Aristocrat. The End of the Line.
The man who made three generations of your bloodline spontaneously develop trauma-based ulcers.
And he was… sipping. Just sipping. Like a man in a very fancy wine commercial. He didn’t step forward. He didn’t leer or hiss or unravel into bats. He just stood there, like some final boss who had been politely waiting for you to stop monologuing. The red in his glass—thicker than wine, lighter than tar—kissed his lips for a moment, then disappeared like a lie told twice.
He blinked, clueless, lashes long enough to cause emotional damage, and asked in a voice as soft as scandal, “Are you a researcher?”
You barely stopped yourself from blurting, "Researcher-slash-hunter-slash-maybe-kind-of-here-to-kill-you-but-not-yet-thanks!" Instead, you nodded. Smiled. Lied through your very noble teeth.
“Yes,” you said smoothly, adjusting your sleeve to hide the silver knife tucked beneath. “I study… um. Culture.”
The moment the words left your lips, Jericho’s entire demeanor shifted—like the sun breaking through storm clouds, like a candle flaring to life in a darkened room.
His pale brown skin, aristocratic features brightened with an almost childlike wonder, his dark eyes sparkling with genuine, unfiltered joy. It was so startlingly pure that for a heartbeat, you forgot he was supposed to be a monster.
"How fascinating," he breathed, the words soft with reverence. His gaze held yours with an intensity that made your pulse stutter—not in fear, but in something far more dangerous: the unsettling realization that he was happy to see you. Truly happy.
A faint, disbelieving laugh escaped him as he glanced away, as if mentally rifling through centuries of memories. "You’re the first human to visit willingly in… goodness. At least a century." His smile turned wry, tinged with something almost melancholy.
"They usually just run. Or burn things." Then, abruptly, he snapped his attention back to you, tilting his head with sudden, playful suspicion. "You didn’t bring any fire, did you?"
The question was so absurd, so earnest, that a startled laugh burst out of you before you could stop it. You hoped it didn’t sound unhinged.
"Nope. All good. Very fireless," you assured him, waving your hands in what you hoped was a convincingly harmless gesture.
His answering grin was radiant—the kind of smile that made you instinctively want to smile back, despite the silver blade hidden against your wrist.
And then he said the thing that sent your mind reeling:
"You’re welcome to stay here. Ask what you like. Learn. I rather enjoy conversation."
The offer hung between you, heavy with unspoken implications. Declining would be suspicious. Possibly fatal. Definitely stupid. But accepting?
Accepting meant access.
It meant prowling the halls of his ancient estate, rifling through his private notes, learning his weaknesses. It meant proximity—close enough to study him, to watch for the right moment. It was hunter’s gold, wrapped in a pretty, bloodstained bow.
Your stomach twisted. You smiled.
"Yes," you said.
And just like that, the game began.
And, objectively, saying yes might have been the best thing that’s ever happened to you. Because Jericho led you down the hallway like a host in a vampire-themed bed and breakfast, gesturing at portraits with gory backstories and candelabras that may or may not hiss when passed.
The manor around you breathed gothic luxury: velvet drapes the color of drowned roses, hallways that twisted like sentences in old novels, and chandeliers that definitely cost more than your entire village. There were carpets so soft you thought you might vanish in them if you stepped too hard. The walls whispered. The doors murmured. And at least two statues definitely moved when you weren’t looking.
But Jericho was all charm. Eerily enthusiastic about your presence, as though you were not a threat in disguise, but a rare bird that wandered in from the forest and started speaking Latin.
So yes, you were a “researcher.”
And yes, you were staying in a manor with a creature known for turning entire ballrooms into beautifully preserved crime scenes.
But damn it, learning about him was simply amazing!!
You told yourself this was for the mission—for the hunt, for the legacy, for the solemn duty passed down by blood. But honestly? After only a few days under Jericho’s gilded roof, surrounded by velvet-curtained windows, echoing marble halls, and enough ambient mood lighting to make a ghost weep, you’d caught yourself doing the unthinkable.
Smiling. Shocking.
Maybe it was the food. Actual, real food, served on silver platters by ghost-pale servants who never blinked. Jericho made certain you had everything: tea that tasted like sunshine through glass, meals seasoned exactly to your preference, and not a single drop of blood in sight—at least not in your courses, unless it was red meat.
You suspected he had someone researching you, which was a mildly horrifying but honestly flattering thought.
You learned that Jericho’s second-in-command, or perhaps co-equal depending on the day. The leader of the Council of Vampires—though you were starting to think that was a title he wore more like a mildly irritating hat than a responsibility.
He held effortless elegance only centuries of boredom and tailored waistcoats could bestow. His long hair was always immaculately tied back with a silver clasp, and his voice could have convinced you to sign a contract in crayon and blood.
He was also, somehow, the most precious thing you’d ever met.
Jericho, despite ruling a cabal of the undead, was almost... carefree. Not quite clueless—he was far too intelligent for that—but curious. Genuinely fascinated by humans, especially you. He asked you questions like a child dissecting their first frog, except instead of tweezers he used charm, and instead of a scalpel he used smolder.
“I bet you’ve brought your journal,” he murmured one evening, leaning over your shoulder. You could feel the heat of him, somehow, though he ran cold. His breath was like the scent of parchment and dusk.
“Do make sure to write this part down.”
You didn’t remember inhaling. You only remembered the way the air curled in your lungs—sweet, lilac, and faintly like rust. And you remembered thinking: I will absolutely write this part down, even if I have to stitch it into my bones.
“Call me Crowe,” he added, voice low enough to lace itself into your spine.
You blinked. Unsure why that felt so intimate. Maybe it was the dropping of formality. Maybe it was the trust implied. Or maybe—just maybe—it was because no one had ever said your name like that before, not like it was a secret worth guarding.
And so you did.
He was noble-blooded, yes, but in a way that almost mocked the idea of aristocracy. He ruled a manor and village below as far as you could tell, bore no crown, and signed no decrees—unless, of course, you counted the blood-pacts he drafted at his desk in a chamber lit by only a dozen blue-flamed candles and what might’ve been moonlight.
But here's the thing: for someone with such a prestigious title, he didn’t… do very much.
Or so you thought.
Until you saw him one night in the war chamber, sleeves rolled to his elbows, sharpening a blade etched with runes so old they hummed in your teeth. His expression was dead calm, focused, and the air in the room pulsed with something that could only be described as violence politely waiting its turn.
Then another time—just yesterday—you caught him reading an entire report upside down while a councilman prattled on. He didn’t even blink. Just nodded thoughtfully, flipped a page, and signed off on something with a flourish so confident you questioned your grasp of gravity.
“Do you even read those?” you asked later, half-joking.
“Of course,” he said. “I read all of them… eventually.”
And he winked. WINKED. Your knees nearly filed for independence.
Despite your better judgment, you were enjoying this—a lot. The manor, the mystery, the intoxicating absurdity of being a human researcher undercover as a guest of the most powerful vampires in known existence. You should have been terrified. You were terrified. But in that way a moth might be, fluttering closer to the flame, knowing it will burn and still daring to dance anyway.
You were here for knowledge.
For duty. For your family’s legacy. That’s your mission.
A sacred duty. A vendetta. A legacy wrapped in silver and regret.
You repeat this every night like a prayer, gripping your journal as if it could anchor your soul. You are not here for flirtation. You are not here for indulgence. And you are absolutely not here for Crowe.
And yet—
He treats immortality like chess, and the world is his ever-expanding board. A bishop move here, a pawn sacrificed there, and every outcome dances right into the palm of his gloved hand. Crowe doesn’t need to win with force. He wins with timing, with elegance, with inevitability.
He’s not gaudy. His presence is refined, curated like a library of forbidden texts. He speaks in sentences you want to underline and annotate. He’ll smile at you like a prince offering a waltz, then say something so cutting your bones will feel it a week later. And somehow? You’ll say thank you.
He manipulates like it’s foreplay. And worse: you like it.
You once asked him about his turning—because, of course, you did. It was late, the air was full of violet smoke from candles that should not have been burning indoors, and he was lounging in that ridiculous armchair like some baroque painting come to life.
“I was born into immortality. At birth, I had no option to accept,” he said coolly, swirling his wineglass of very-much-not-wine. “Anything else is sentiment.”
You had nothing to say to that. Partly because the answer was hollow. Partly because the firelight caught the edge of his profile at the perfect angle and you nearly forgot your own name.
Still, there are cracks. You’ve seen the edge fray.
Just once. One moment. Burned into your memory like scorch marks.
A visiting vampire lord insulted you—openly, for being human, for being weak, for daring to write in your little notebook during a Council session. You didn’t even flinch. But Crowe did.
He didn't raise his voice. He didn’t bare fangs. He just leaned forward and whispered something too quiet for even you to hear. And the lord—an ancient, ivory-eyed monster—apologized. To you. Twice. And then left the room.
You never found out what Crowe said.
And you’re not sure you want to.
He calls you by your name now. Not “human,” not “guest.” And somehow, every time he says it, it sounds like the beginning of a promise you’re not sure he intends to keep.
Crowe’s fashion is a study in danger. Velvet, silk, deep colors layered like smoke. Rings that serve as both decoration and a weapon. Embroidered cuffs laced with language no living tongue speaks anymore. He looks like someone who could sign peace treaties and poison you in the same breath—and you’d thank him for the experience.
Always clean. Always perfect. Always Crowe.
Oh well. That night, everything smelled like lavender and poor decisions.
The manor was unusually quiet. Even the portraits on the wall seemed to be holding their breath as you crept down the candlelit hallway in your nightgown, dagger strapped beneath the folds like some kind of homicidal sleep fairy. Your footsteps made no sound against the plush carpet—Crowe wouldn’t have dared install anything less than absolute silence beneath one’s treacherous feet.
Aesthetic and practical.
You should’ve waited until morning. That’s what the scrolls said. Strike when the vampire sleeps, when the sun hovers just behind the mountains, and his power wanes.
Of course Crowe didn’t sleep. Sleep was for creatures who hadn’t spent the last three centuries buried under an avalanche of immortal bureaucracy.
Instead, he hunched over his desk—a massive, obsidian-carved monstrosity littered with parchment, wax seals, and the faint, lingering scent of ink and old blood. His fingers, usually so elegant and precise, were smudged with the evidence of his toil—dark streaks staining his knuckles where the fountain pen had leaked. Again.
You’d lost count of how many times you’d heard him groan this week alone—not in pain, not in pleasure, but in the kind of bone-deep exasperation only immortal paperwork could inspire.
"Feral outcast," he muttered under his breath, dragging a hand down his face. "Always that feral outcast."
Apparently, some rogue vampire—exiled for reasons Crowe had deemed "so egregiously idiotic I refuse to dignify them with explanation"—had decided to make the nearby human village his personal hunting ground. And now, as the de facto—and deeply unwilling—arbiter of vampire law in the region, Crowe was stuck cleaning up the mess.
You observed with mingled amusement and sympathy as he drove his quill into the inkwell with positively uncivilized vigor, splattering droplets of blackest ink across several carefully penned documents. The poor implement trembled from the violence of its employment, as though protesting such ungentlemanly treatment.
"By all the infernal realms," he hissed through clenched fangs, "should I be compelled to compose yet another dispatch concerning territorial demarcations, I cannot be held accountable for my actions."
His aristocratic features contorted into an expression of such profound vexation that one might think he'd been presented with a bottle of inferior claret rather than yet another bureaucratic imposition.
Clearing your throat delicately, you ventured: "Might not the situation be more... efficiently resolved through direct intervention?"
The glare he leveled upon you possessed such withering potency that it would have reduced a mortal of weaker constitution to a fine ash upon the spot. "And abandon this veritable Alp of unattended treaties? The previous instance in which I absented myself for such 'hands-on resolution' resulted in the Eastern Court attempting to renegotiate the Sanguine Tithe Agreements with the most egregious typographical liberties imaginable."
Your eyebrows ascended toward your hairline. "The Sanguine Tithe Agreements?" you echoed, rather stupidly.
"Precisely so," he snapped, his pallid fingers tightening about the unfortunate quill until it threatened to snap. "They resort to such vulgar provocations precisely because they know it vexes me beyond endurance."
With a most theatrical sigh, he seized another parchment from the teetering pile, his crimson eyes scanning the document with increasing horror before emitting a noise that defied proper classification—something between a gentleman's exasperated sigh and a wolf's snarl of frustration.
"This one," he declared with sepulchral solemnity, "has been rendered in some manner of encrypted hieroglyphics that would shame even the most illiterate medieval scribe."
You pressed your lips together with Herculean effort, recognizing that laughter at this juncture might well constitute a fatal error in judgment.
You, however, need sleep. Because you’re human, dammit. And if you had to stay up one more night pretending not to be charmed by a vampire with better penmanship than your thesis advisor, you were going to scream.
This was your ticket out. Your final act.
The dagger at your side gleamed faintly in the dim light, silver chased with runes only you and three monks in Romania could read. You’d spent weeks collecting notes, sketching his habits, charting weaknesses. The final entry in your journal had been written with shaking hands.
Tonight: End this.
You reached his office door and hesitated. For drama’s sake. The moment was meant to feel weighty and final. But instead, the smell hit you first—ink, parchment, burning candle wax, and exhaustion.
The door creaked upon its ancient hinges, groaning as though in protest of what you intended to do. Candlelight spilled from within, soft and amber, casting long skeletal shadows that twisted across the corridor’s velvet-lined walls. The scent of old ink, scorched wax, and ironed parchment curled out like a ghost, welcoming—or warning—you.
Crowe lay slumped at his desk, an exquisite ruin draped in crushed velvet and weariness. His arms were sprawled across a battalion of unopened ledgers, his noble brow pressed against some particularly offensive document.
An ink pot trembled dangerously close to his sleeve, black blood of bureaucracy threatening to stain the centuries-old fabric. One of his rings—onyx, with a crest you’d once sketched in your journal—had rolled from his finger and lay glinting on the floor like a fallen crown.
He did not rise. He did not stir.
He muttered, hoarsely, in flawless but dispassionate, something along the lines of “Fiscalus damnatio.” Which sounded like a curse, if your translation was correct. Something about tax reforms?
You faltered in the doorway.
The dagger beneath your nightgown weighed heavily at your thigh, its runes humming softly with purpose. This was not the tableau you had imagined—not the dark crescendo of betrayal and blade you had rehearsed in fevered dreams. He did not look monstrous.
He looked... exhausted?
And yet, even in his dishevelment, Crowe was beautiful in that dreadful, unearthly way the dead sometimes are. Hair unbound, curling against his pale collarbone, ink staining one wrist where his sleeve had slipped up.
His skin had the pallor of marble left in moonlight, but his cheeks were faintly flushed—perhaps from effort, or perhaps from the flicker of candle flame that danced across him like a lover’s touch. Shadows gathered at his lashes, too dark, too long, like ink drawn with intent.
He opened one eye, slow as a sunrise over a ruined kingdom. That eye, sharp and violet-black, fixed upon you with neither alarm nor amusement—merely a tired, aristocratic acknowledgment.
“Ah,” he murmured, voice like rust over silk. “A midnight visitation. Should I be flattered... or concerned?”
“...Concerned,” you replied stiffly, caught between dread and incredulity.
Crowe let out a sound that might once have been a laugh, then gestured lazily toward the chair across from him without lifting his head. “So long as you’ve brought either blood or death, I’ll not protest.”
You stared.
The infamous Shadowed Aristocrat of the Undying Court, the terror of southern citadels and warden of bloodbound laws, looked like a burnt-out academic choking on paperwork.
You almost pitied him. Almost.
Then he moved. Slowly—so slowly—he pulled himself upright, spine straightening with the grace of something regal and long accustomed to pain. As he did, the folds of his robe shifted, revealing a palish brown throat marbled with faint silver scars. Veins ran beneath like smoke trails beneath porcelain, fragile and unreal. Your gaze caught on them before you could stop yourself.
Your heart—faithless thing—betrayed you with a lurch.
Crowe noticed. Of course he did. His lips quirked into a wry, half-smile. Not cruel. Not mocking. Merely aware. Infuriatingly aware “You’ve come to kill me,” he said. It was not a question.
You swallowed. “What gave it away?”
He inclined his head slightly. “The dagger under your nightgown. Subtle, but predictable.” His eyes flicked lower for the briefest of seconds—then returned, glinting. “That, and the indecision gnawing behind your eyes.”
You stiffened. Gripped the hilt tighter. “I’ve made up my mind.”
“Have you?” His voice was quiet now, intimate, like velvet drawn over sharpened steel. “Then strike.”
He was not mocking you. He was not afraid. He simply... was. A figure carved from patience and poise. You could smell him now—paper, dust, clove smoke, and something fainter beneath, like the inside of an old cathedral or dried blood sealed behind glass. The scent of memory. Of ritual. Of endings.
You should have done it. Gods help you, you could have.
But you didn’t.
You simply stood, framed in the doorway like a ghost. And Crowe—damn him—reached for the teapot. He poured with the elegance of a centuries-old host, as though your betrayal was merely another diplomatic footnote in his endless schedule. He pushed the cup toward you across the desk with the disinterest of someone who had once shared tea with kings and assassins alike.
Then he sighed.
“If you’re to murder me,” he murmured, brushing parchment aside, “kindly wait until I finish drafting this blood clause. The Southern Clan has no grasp of proper semicolon usage, and I refuse to die with such incompetence unresolved.”
You stared.
Because of course he said that.
And somehow—Gods help you—he was even more devastating like this: untouchable, unshaken, drowning in ink and elegance. The moment unravelled not with the grandeur of vengeance, but with the absurdity of theatre gone wrong.
“Enough of this,” you hissed beneath your breath.
You stormed across the chamber like a tempest in slippers, seizing the back of Crowe’s grand, high-backed chair with enough force to rattle its gilded frame. It scraped against the stone floor in protest as you yanked it backwards, and he—calm, wretched Crowe—merely tilted his head, one brow arching in dry curiosity, as if you were a mildly interesting opera he hadn’t yet decided to walk out of.
You raised the dagger—your silver blade, etched with runes and soaked in resolve—aiming it directly for his unbeating heart.
But he caught your wrist mid-air.
His grip was iron beneath silk. Elegant fingers wrapped around yours like a cage of manners and strength, firm enough to hold, gentle enough to patronize. His expression was maddeningly composed—infuriatingly indulgent—as though you had offered him a biscuit rather than attempted his murder.
“My dear,” he drawled, low and amused, “you are hardly the first human to attempt my demise.”
His gaze searched yours, that dark blue shimmer behind his eyes catching the candlelight. “Though I must say… You might be the first to stay in my manor this long before doing so. Rather devastating, truly. I had such hopes for our rapport.”
He leaned back, still holding your wrist, speaking with the weary grace of someone who’d once debated philosophy with Aristotle and found the experience a bore.
“Now tell me—are you truly a researcher? Or is this all to satisfy some dreary family destiny? A vendetta, perhaps?” He smiled, slow and knowing. “You have the look of someone trying to finish someone else's story.”
That did it.
“Damn your manor. And your infernal questions.” The words left your lips like thunder preceding a storm, and with a final flicker of resolve, you let the dagger fall from your grip. The silver clattered against the marble floor, echoing beneath the vaulted ceiling like the sound of a chapel bell tolling at an unholy hour.
Then—before he could say anything clever, before his aristocratic smirk could form fully—you lunged forward. Your hands gripped the rich velvet of his coat, and with the impulsive defiance of someone long past their limit, you bit him.
Right on the shoulder.
Through fine brocade and centuries of cultivated detachment, your teeth sank in—not deeply, but with intent. A petty rebellion. A scholar’s fury in its most absurd form.
Crowe stilled… then—laughed.
A melodic, honey-warm laugh, rolling from his chest with unguarded amusement. It wasn’t the laugh of a vampire lord. It was something wickedly human. His whole body shuddered with it as he clutched at your waist, entirely too delighted.
“Oh, heavens above,” he gasped between chuckles, “are you truly biting me?”
“You’re damn right I am,” you growled, tightening your grip on his collar.
“Stop—please—it tickles,” he wheezed, head falling back, utterly unbothered. His laughter echoed off the stone like wind through crypts, playful and maddening.
You fixed him with a gaze that burned with righteous indignation, your cheeks aflame with a mortification that curled hot in your chest. How dare he restrain you thus—his hands firm about your waist as though you were some wayward creature in need of correction!
The very insolence of it set your teeth on edge, his grip at once unyielding and... disturbingly tender, as if he feared harming you even as you sought to wound him. The contradiction made your pulse thunder in your ears, a traitorous heat rising beneath your skin.
And so you struck again.
This time, your teeth found the elegant column of his throat—that pale, unguarded expanse where the veneer of his immortal composure lay vulnerable. The skin was warm against your lips, deceptively human save for the ancient blood that flowed beneath.
You bit down with deliberate intent, no half-hearted nip of petulance, but a claiming pressure that spoke of primal challenge. A growl rose unbidden from your chest, something raw and feral that cared nothing for propriety or the centuries of cultivated restraint that separated your kind from his.
Crowe went utterly still.
Not in shock. Not in protest. But in perfect, breathless silence.
Then—slow as honey dripping from a spoon—he released a shuddering exhale. A sound escaped him then, low and velvet-dark, trembling through the scant space between your bodies to resonate along your very bones.
It was neither gasp nor moan, but something far more revealing—a crack in his usual polished demeanor that laid bare a truth more intimate than any touch. The sound hung between you like opium smoke in lamplight, thick with unspoken meaning.
His fingers tightened almost imperceptibly at your waist. A silent concession. A wordless surrender. Then his grasp upon your wrist slackened, his fingers trembling ever so slightly as though overcome by some unseen force.
His eyelids grew heavy, those dark brown lashes—like strokes of charcoal upon alabaster casting delicate shadows across his pallid cheeks. For but a fleeting moment, the carefully cultivated veneer of centuries slipped away, revealing something startlingly vulnerable beneath.
You beheld him then—not as the ancient predator, nor the aristocratic puppeteer of shadows, but simply as a man undone by the fire you had so recklessly kindled within him. A most satisfying revelation, you thought. Let him know the disquiet of being cornered. Let him savor the chaos he so often orchestrated from the shadows.
As you withdrew but a fraction, your gaze meeting his with defiant triumph, he moved with the languid grace of smoke curling about a candle's flame. His hand, no longer restraining, but guiding, slid from your wrist to cradle your palm with unexpected tenderness. You felt the whisper of his breath first, then the dreadful, exquisite pressure of his fangs.
"Allow me to demonstrate," he murmured, his voice thick as honeyed sin, "what constitutes a proper bite."
The penetration was sharp yet elegant, a violation executed with such precision it bordered on artistry. Your breath caught most indecorously as warmth blossomed from the wound, spilling into his waiting mouth.
Your knees threatened to betray you as the sensation—at once foreign and strangely intimate—coursed through your veins. The initial sting melted into something far more dangerous, as though he were unraveling your very being thread by silken thread.
Crowe hummed against your flesh—actually hummed—as he drank, the vibration sending peculiar tremors along your nerves.
"How curious," he mused, his lips brushing your skin with each syllable, "that so natural a human would dare bite a creature such as I." His voice, dipped in velvet darkness, curled about you like the finest smoke.
With deliberate slowness, he withdrew, a single crimson droplet glistening at the corner of his mouth. His tongue—that wicked, knowing instrument—captured it with unhurried relish. He regarded you then, his gaze burning with an intensity that set your very soul aquiver—at once fierce and tender, terrifying and wondrous.
"Your blood," he confessed, the words a dark benediction, "is nothing short of extraordinary."
The admission hung between you, thick as the scent of copper and desire in the air, and you realized with startling clarity that this was no longer about retribution, but something far more perilous. A game had been begun from which neither of you could now withdraw.
You found yourself, still astride him, your knees pressing into the damask upholstery on either side of his thighs, your body cradled in his grasp—not with the savage possession of a predator claiming prey, but with the reverent delicacy of an antiquarian handling some precious artifact.
His hand cupped the slender column of your neck, his thumb tracing slow, worshipful circles over the frantic flutter of your pulse. The other ascended the delicate architecture of your spine before stilling, as if overcome by the sacrilege of his own touch.
His face—that alabaster mask of aristocratic composure—dipped forward to rest against the swell of your bosom, just above the pounding rhythm of your heart.
No feral pounce came, no bestial snarl as in the gothic tales of your youth. Instead, a shudder wracked his frame, his breath catching like silk snared on brambles. Those elegant hands—cool as marble and just as finely wrought—settled at your waist once more, drawing you down into his lap with the solemn care of a priest elevating a sacred chalice.
For a suspended moment, he remained thus—his ear pressed to your breast, listening to the vital drumbeat of your mortality as though it might cleanse him of some ancient stain.
"I..." The word emerged ragged, scraped raw from some deep well of restraint. "I must beg your forgiveness. To have taken even that meager taste without your explicit blessing... it was unconscionable." His fingers trembled against your flesh with a vulnerability no artifice could feign. This was no carefully constructed seduction, but raw hunger swaddled in centuries of forced civility.
"You smelled..." He paused, the words a whisper against your décolletage, "like ambrosia given form. Like honeyed histories and sun-warmed sea salt. Like some long-lost vintage meant to be savored across eternity."
You remained silent, the embers of your earlier fury still glowing hot beneath your ribs.
Crowe lifted his gaze then, those blue eyes—usually so composed—blazing with naked yearning. "Might I..." The words seemed to pain him, each syllable a confession. "Might I partake properly?"
There it was—supplication from a creature who had not knelt in centuries. He phrased it as one might a sacred invocation, as though the act of tasting you were not some carnal indulgence, but a holy rite. The very air between you seemed to thicken with the weight of his plea, heavy with the promise of both sacrilege and salvation.
"It has been... decades," he admitted, the admission seeming to pain him, "since I last tasted pure human vitae. What passes for sustenance now is but a pale imitation—diluted with fear and political necessity." His aristocratic nose wrinkled in distaste. "Many of my kind have turned to animal blood, yet..."
A pause, then the quiet blasphemy: "I would sooner drink ink."
Your throat constricted at the revelation, the implications coiling like smoke in your chest.
"My court survives on scraps," he continued, his voice taking on the weary cadence of a ruler bearing ancient burdens, "ever since that wretched exile destroyed our carefully laid plans for coexistence. The system we envisioned—protection exchanged for willing sustenance, a civilized accord between our kinds—lies in ruins."
His fingers at your neck remained gentle, their pressure never crossing into cruelty. "The humans demand peace, and we comply - not for harmony's sake, but survival's. And so we starve... with dignity."
A revelation dawned, sudden and cold. "I have kept them from you," he confessed. "Some of my subjects... they have attempted to approach. Several came dangerously near."
The pieces aligned—the cold receptions, the hissed imprecations, the predatory gazes in shadowed corridors.
"They despise you," Crowe stated plainly, his breath cool against your skin as he rested his brow against your collarbone. "Because they have been forbidden from touching what they most desire." His voice dropped to its softest register yet, the words vibrating through your very bones.
"And I... I detest them for coveting what I myself crave."
Then—with a vulnerability that would have been unthinkable mere moments before—he repeated his plea, the words a velvet-wrapped supplication:
"I entreat you..."
It unmoored something in you. You’d never heard a vampire beg. You’d never heard a man beg for you. Not like this. Not trembling. Not wrapped in centuries of self-control, only to come undone in your lap.
Your family would call this betrayal. A disgrace.
You were supposed to uncover his secrets, not offer your blood like an oath. But… weren’t you already lost? You’d stepped into this manor with a purpose. And now…
You reached up, slowly. Deliberately.
Hands finding the tie at the top of your nightgown. And in the silence between heartbeats, you began to undo it. The fabric slipped from your shoulders with a whisper, baring skin bathed in candlelight. You tilted your head just slightly—exposing the fragile line of your throat and shoulder.
Then you met his eyes, steady and unflinching. “Go ahead,” you said.
Crowe inhaled sharply. Almost reverently.
His hands moved again, but now—gently. One arm curled around your waist, the other resting on your bare back, pulling you closer as if he feared you might vanish.
Then, he pulled back—not to bite, but to look.
His hands, cool and deliberate, slid upward from your waist, fingertips brushing over the soft curve of your ribs, past the dip beneath your sternum, toward the hollow just below your collarbone. He touched as if reading braille on a sacred text—curious, but careful. Possessive, but polite.
His dark blue eyes, like ink dropped into moonlit water, roamed your exposed skin not with hunger, but fascination. He paused at your neckline, his thumb grazing the thudding pulse there, and smiled—not smugly, but with quiet delight. As if you were something rare and delicate. Not prey. Not even a gift. A discovery.
"Every vampire," he murmured, his voice like crushed velvet drawn across polished alabaster, "develops certain... predilections." The words curled about your ear with deliberate slowness.
"The neck, naturally, remains the popular choice. Dramatic. Visceral. Poetic in its vulgarity." His lips brushed the sensitive hollow beneath your ear, the barest suggestion of contact. "But I have always found it rather... gauche. Like shouting one's desires in a cathedral."
His hand rose with the grace of a conductor preparing his orchestra, cradling your cheek with unexpected tenderness as he guided your head to expose that secret place where jaw meets throat.
"I prefer more... discreet geography," he confessed, his breath stirring the fine hairs at your nape. "Places that whisper rather than scream. Places known only to me."
You felt the whisper-soft drag of his nose along that exquisite hidden curve behind your ear—that delicate junction where vulnerability and pleasure intertwine. "Here," he breathed, the word a benediction, "is where the music lies."
Then he struck.
The penetration came not as pain, but as gradual surrender—a firm, insistent pressure yielding to warmth, then to the most extraordinary sensation of being gently unraveled. And oh, the sound he made—that choked, reverent moan vibrating against your skin like a cello's lowest register.
The arm about your waist tightened possessively, while his free hand wandered your contours with astonishing care, kneading the tension from your lower back, tracing idle patterns along the flare of your hip—as if every touch were both apology and worship.
"You taste," he gasped between draws, his usually polished voice fraying at the edges, "like ambrosia undiluted by terror or artifice. Like life itself distilled to its purest essence."
The wound tingled rather than ached, his mouth—warmed now by your vitality—sealing the small breach with surprising tenderness. A final kiss, feather-light, was pressed to the offended flesh—a silent benediction for the gift you'd granted.
"Should you wish me to cease," he murmured against your skin, his fingers interlacing with yours in silent covenant, "you need but squeeze my hand. This privilege is yours to grant or withdraw as you see fit." The words held the weight of sacred vow, his entire being poised in perfect stillness—a predator willingly leashed by your consent.
You nodded slowly. Then, he moved again. Slow. Searching.
His lips traced a slow, deliberate path along the delicate arch of your collarbone, his dark gaze lifting to meet yours with an intensity that seemed to pierce through centuries.
"I shall be most judicious in my indulgence," he vowed, the words a velvet caress against your skin. "Small drinks, taken from varied founts - this is the way to preserve your strength, your clarity." The promise hung between you, weighted with unspoken devotion.
Before you could summon a response, he descended further, his mouth finding that tender juncture where bodice meets flesh.
Not yet claiming, merely... worshiping. His lips brushed the spot with reverence, as though committing every contour to memory, tracing invisible cartography across your being.
"This place," he murmured against your flushed skin, his breath cool as moonlit silk, "might next receive my devotion, should you permit it?"
You found yourself adrift in sensation, your arms wound about his neck as if he were the only anchor in a sea of dizzying pleasure. Your very blood seemed to sing beneath his attentions, and in that moment, you comprehended the exquisite paradox of being undone—not violently shattered, but tenderly unraveled, like some precious tapestry yielding its golden threads one by one.
Between each lingering kiss, between every measured draw of his lips, he whispered praises that coiled about your soul like incense smoke—words that made you question whether this was mere seduction or some ancient rite; whether it constituted sacrament or something far more perilous than either of you dared acknowledge.
Crowe paused, his dark eyes searching yours with unsettling perception. "You tremble still, my dear," he observed, his thumb brushing the delicate skin beneath your eye with heartbreaking gentleness. That aristocratic mouth curved into a knowing smile, faintly wicked at the edges.
"I do so hope it isn't fear that moves you thus."
You parted your lips to respond, but your normally assured voice—that sharp, commanding instrument—failed you utterly. The words lodged in your throat like forgotten verses in some arcane tome.
"I..." A breath, then the quiet confession: "It isn't fear." Your voice wavered, yet held an undeniable strength. "I fear you not, Crowe."
His gaze didn’t waver. His hand rested gently on your cheek now, thumb brushing the warmth there as if trying to soothe something deeper than nerves. “I’m…” You bit your lip, then exhaled, eyes fluttering closed for just a breath. “I’m enjoying it. What you’re doing. More than I should.”
The confession dropped between you like a shattered relic from the altar of your family’s expectations. Generations of warnings and doctrine—of bloodlines and destinies and solemn purpose—faded like old ink in the lamplight.
Crowe’s expression softened into something unreadable, eyes still dark and endless. And you?
You leaned forward—because something in you had shattered, some last fragile thread of resistance snapping under the weight of his presence. The air between you was charged, thick with the scent of him—old books, ink, and something darker, something primal.
Your pulse roared in your ears, drowning out reason, drowning out everything but the magnetic pull of his body, his lips, his hunger.
And then you kissed him.
It wasn’t sweet. It wasn’t gentle. It was a collision—a desperate, bruising press of lips that tasted of salt and copper, your own blood still staining his mouth, now smeared between you like a vow.
His response was immediate, a growl vibrating against your lips as he kissed you back with a ferocity that stole your breath. The careful control he’d shown before was gone, replaced by something raw, something more starving.
His hands, once reverent, now gripped you with possessive urgency, fingers digging into your hips as if he could fuse your body to his. You felt him everywhere—the hard line of his chest against yours, the heat of his thighs bracketing you, the unmistakable press of his arousal against your ass as he pinned you to the desk.
The polished wood was cold beneath your fevered skin, a sharp contrast to the fire licking through your veins. The scent of parchment and ink rose around you, mingling with the heady musk of desire, of sweat, of him.
And then—his teeth.
A sharp, delicious sting as he bit your lip, just hard enough to draw blood. You gasped, but he swallowed the sound, his tongue sweeping into your mouth, claiming, devouring. The pain melted into pleasure, a dark thrill racing down your spine. His fangs grazed you again, a teasing threat, a promise of more.
One palm cradled the back of your head, fingers tangling in your hair, while the other slid down your spine, pressing you flush against him.
And oh, you could feel him—the hard, insistent ridge of his arousal pressing against your stomach, the way his hips rolled forward just slightly, just enough to make your breath hitch. His lips curved into a smirk against yours, pleased at the reaction he drew from you.
"You feel that?" he murmured, voice rough, each word a slow drag of sound against your kiss-swollen mouth.
"That’s what you do to me, dearset.”
Your fingers clutched at his shirt, nails scraping lightly over the fabric, and he groaned, low and deep, before capturing your lips again. This time, his teeth grazed your bottom lip, not enough to hurt, just enough to tease—a silent promise of what he could do if he wanted to. His tongue soothed the sting, then plunged back in, claiming your mouth with a hunger that left you dizzy.
You could feel the hard line of his body against yours, the way his hips pressed into you with deliberate, tantalizing friction. Every roll of his pelvis sent a jolt of pleasure through you, and before you could stop yourself, you were grinding against him, shameless, desperate for more.
A low, rough laugh escaped him as he felt your need, his hands tightening on your waist. "Impatient, darling?" he murmured against your lips, his voice dark with amusement and something far more dangerous.
You didn’t answer—couldn’t, not when his teeth grazed your bottom lip, not when his tongue swept into your mouth with a possessiveness that made your knees weak. Instead, your fingers fumbled with the buttons of his shirt, trembling as you worked them open one by one, revealing the smooth, heated skin beneath.
His hair, usually tied back with that infuriatingly perfect ribbon, was your next target. You tugged it loose, letting the silken strands slip through your fingers before giving it a gentle, teasing pull.
He groaned, the sound vibrating against your lips, and for a moment, you revelled in the power of it—the way his breath hitched, the way his grip on you tightened almost painfully. "Cheeky," he growled, but there was no real reprimand in it, only heat. Only hunger.
In one fluid motion, he had you turned, your back pressed against the cool, polished surface of his desk. The wood was smooth beneath your palms, the scent of aged parchment and ink wrapping around you like an intoxicating haze. His body followed, caging you in, one knee nudging between your thighs as he leaned down, his lips tracing the line of your jaw, the flutter of your pulse.
"So sweet," he murmured, teeth scraping lightly over your throat. "So fucking perfect for me."
You arched into him, a whimper escaping your lips as his hands slid down your sides, his touch searing even through the thin fabric of your nightgown. And then—
The sharp, unmistakable sound of fabric tearing.
Your nightgown split beneath his hands, the delicate material giving way as he bared you to his gaze, to his touch. A gasp tore from your lips, not in protest, but in stunned pleasure at the way his fingers followed the ruin of silk, skimming over newly exposed skin with agonizing slowness.
His palm settled between your shoulder blades, pressing you down against the desk—not with force, but with an unshakable certainty that made your body arch instinctively toward his.
"You don’t know what you’ve started," he whispered, lips brushing the shell of your ear, his breath hot and uneven. "But I’m going to show you."
And as his mouth traced the curve of your spine, each kiss a slow, worshipful brand, you realized—you didn’t just want him to.
You needed him to.
His hands turned you with effortless dominance, flipping you onto your back so you could see him—really see him. The dim light caught the sharp angles of his face, the dark hunger in his eyes as he drank in the sight of you sprawled across his desk, your chest rising and falling with each ragged breath. His lips curved into a smirk, slow and knowing, as he leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking beneath his weight.
Then, with deliberate intent, he hooked his hands beneath your knees and spread you open, baring you completely to his gaze. The air was cool against your heated skin, making you shiver—or maybe it was the way his eyes darkened, the way his tongue flicked out to wet his lips as he studied the slick evidence of your desire.
He exhaled, slow and controlled, his breath ghosting over your most intimate flesh, teasing before he’d even touched you.
"This," he murmured, voice thick with reverence, "is my favorite place to drink from the bold ones. But you—" His fingers traced idle patterns along your inner thighs, his touch feather-light yet searing.
"You’re the first who’s ever dared to let me." And then his mouth was on you—not where you ached for him most, but close enough to make your hips jerk in helpless anticipation.
His lips brushed the delicate skin of your thigh, his tongue flicking out to taste the salt of your sweat before his fangs sank in, just deep enough to draw a single, crimson bead to the surface. The sharp sting melted into pleasure as he lapped at the wound, his groan vibrating against your flesh.
You whimpered, fingers twisting in his long hair beneath you, but he only chuckled, the sound dark and rich. "Patience," he chided, blowing softly over the wet trail his tongue had left behind. The contrast of cool air against your fevered skin made you gasp, your legs trembling around his shoulders.
His fingers slid between your thighs then, parting you further, and the sound he made—low, almost feral—sent a fresh wave of heat pulsing through your core. "Fuck," he breathed, his voice rough with disbelief and desire.
"You’re dripping for me."
You arched off the desk with a desperate moan, but he pressed you back down with one broad hand splayed across your stomach, his grip firm but not unkind. "No, sweetheart," he murmured, his thumb circling your hipbone in slow, maddening strokes. "Not yet."
His lips returned to your thigh, kissing, nipping, licking—each touch a brand, each flick, each suck of his tongue a promise. He took his time, savoring the way your breath hitched, the way your body trembled beneath his ministrations.
When he finally, finally closed his mouth over your aching core, it was with a groan of pure indulgence, his tongue sweeping through your folds in one long, luxurious stroke.
"I need more of you first," he murmured against your flesh, his words muffled but no less potent. "Trade for a trade. I’ll give you what you want—let me have this, and I’ll make sure you’re taken care of." His teeth grazed your clit, just enough to make you cry out.
"I’ll make you scream my name as you come from my mouth alone."
And then he was true to his word, his tongue circling, flicking, devouring you with a precision that bordered on sinful.
Every stroke was calculated, every suck deliberate, until your back was bowing off the desk, your thighs clamping around his head as pleasure coiled tighter and tighter inside you.
He took his time with you—not because he lacked hunger, but because he savored the way your body yielded beneath his touch, the way every gasp and whimper spilled from your lips like a prayer meant only for him. His mouth was a slow, deliberate torment, tracing paths of fire across your skin before finally—finally—settling between your thighs with the reverence of a man kneeling at an altar.
And then his tongue was on you, in you, a wicked, knowing thing that laved and teased and ruined you with unbearable precision. He knew exactly how to draw out every sensation, every trembling plea—when to flick lightly over that aching bundle of nerves, when to press deep inside you with a groan that vibrated against your flesh.
Your fingers twisted in his hair, not to guide him, but to anchor yourself as pleasure coiled tighter, hotter, until you were shaking apart beneath him, your breath coming in ragged, desperate pants.
"Please—" you begged, the word fracturing into a moan as he sucked gently, his tongue circling in relentless, devastating strokes.
He didn’t stop. He didn’t hurry. He drew out every second of your unraveling, his grip tightening on your hips as your back arched, as your thighs trembled around his head.
And when your climax finally crashed over you, violent and sweet, his name tore from your lips in a broken sob—a sound he swallowed greedily, his mouth never leaving you, drinking down every pulse, every shudder as if you were the only thing that could sate him.
Only when you lay boneless, your body still quivering with aftershocks, did he finally lift his head. His lips glistened with the evidence of your pleasure, his dark eyes burning with possessive satisfaction as he gazed down at you.
"Mine," He whispered, the word a rough.
His tender claim against your fevered skin. And in that moment, you were his—completely, irrevocably. The scholar, the avenger, a hunter who had walked into this room with a plan—she was gone, melted away under the heat of his touch, the weight of his desire.
There was only this: the way his lips traced the curve of your spine in slow, worshipful kisses, the way his hands gentled over your trembling flesh, as if memorizing every inch of you.
You didn’t want to be anything else.
You didn’t need to be.
My godddddd. Writing this? Crowe as a vampire is devastatingly beautiful—not in a cruel way, but in that aching, slow-burn kind of charm that ruins you politely. He carries himself like a gentleman carved from dusk and candlelight, voice dipped in honeyed silk, eyes warm enough to forget they’ve watched centuries pass.
There’s a sweetness to him—dangerous, deliberate, the kind that lures you in with kindness before you even realize you're falling.
He doesn’t need to seduce; he simply exists, and suddenly you’re wondering what it would be like to taste forever at his side. Like, He’s such temptation wrapped in good manners.
Such lethalness, yes, but oh so soft when he smiles.
✑ 𝓈𝑜𝓁
The train clattered along the aging rails like a dying heartbeat, steady but strained, echoing through the hollow hills that ushered in the edge of forgotten lands.
You sat still as stone, shoulders cloaked in a threadbare coat, the brim of your hat tilted just enough to veil your face from any inquisitive glances.
Your gaze was fixed upon the fog-brushed window, watching as the world turned slowly grey. Trees blurred by like sentinels in mourning, each one older than the rails that cut through them.
You were bound for Doverhollow.
A name that settled in the bones like cold iron. Not many spoke of it with ease. And those who did, whispered—as if the village itself had ears buried in the soil. You had heard of the sickness running through it: not of body, but of spirit.
A corruption that threaded through the bloodline of monsters too old to rot. Vampires. But not just the usual breed of noble parasites. No, among them was said to be one worse. A fallen one. An outcast even among predators. And you had come to see him for yourself.
Not out of curiosity.
But judgment.
Still, there was one place in particular that drew your thoughts more than the looming specter of the manor you were fated to infiltrate. A place not carved of stone and candlelight, but of wild soil and whispers. The forest.
They called it Brugmansia Grove, though the villagers themselves seemed reluctant to speak the name aloud. Foreign on their tongues, as if borrowed from a language meant only for medical texts and old botanical poison books. It lacked the softness of folk speech—it was not something they named, but something they endured.
But you knew the name.
You knew it in ink and pressed leaves, in the brittle pages of your family's hunting manuals. Brugmansia—the Angel’s Trumpet. A flower shaped like a bell tolling for the dead. Beautiful, pendulous, and gleaming with quiet threat. A plant of dreams, hallucinations, and gentle deaths that mimicked sleep. Its scent alone, in the right concentration, could lull the lungs into forgetting to breathe.
You were not frightened.
Hardly.
The world of plants had always been a thing of logic and precision to you. The nightshade family was like a roster of old friends and deadlier enemies—Belladonna, with her ink-dark berries; Datura, that bold-flowered liar; Mandragora, moaning beneath the soil like a buried sin. You knew where to touch, what to taste, when to retreat. You respected poison—but you did not fear it.
And yet the forest itself…
It called to you.
Not merely as a hunter, not even as a scholar, but as something more primal. The way ruin calls to fire. There was a challenge in its quietude, in the layered silences between rustling branches and ghost stories. They said the trees remembered what men forgot. That spirits lingered long after the screams faded. Some said it was cursed. Others claimed those who entered the Grove came out changed. If they came out at all.
You leaned into your thoughts with a wry smile.
If you were to carry the burden of your family’s legacy—these endless hunts, the bloodlines measured in stakes and sorrow—then you would at least choose your path within it. Not all duties had to be dreary.
Killing the outcast would be your offering.
Your reckoning. Your intellectual pursuit. A necessary violence, perhaps—but one you intended to savour.
Where your ancestors treated monsters as mere blots on family honor, you found them…fascinating. Terrifying, yes. But fascinating. The old men of your bloodline sat in ancestral manors and counted their victories by fangs preserved in jars and journals scrawled in the margins with trembling ink. You had read them all—by candlelight, beside glass cases of faded relics and ruined bones.
And in all those pages, the words bled the same: Kill. Contain. Cleanse.
But not you.
You would do this your way.
There was a seduction in danger. And if you were going to be burdened with a legacy written in silver and blood, you might as well carve your own legend from it. No prayers. No permission.
If the rumors held even a grain of truth, then the creature that now skulked in the shadows was no ordinary vampire. He was something worse. An exile. A deviation. Even among the nightkind—who bowed to no mortal order, he was whispered of with contempt. Not merely a rogue, but an error. A mistake they had tried to forget.
Which made him all the more perfect.
For your research. For your reputation. For your amusement.
You imagined his death as something intimate. Surgical. Not a frenzied stake through the heart, but a dissection of the soul. You would learn what made him different—what made even his own kind cast him out—and then you would end him. Precisely. Methodically. Beautifully.
And if you had to walk into a cursed forest to do it, so be it.
The Gove, A name the villagers spoke with bitten tongues and lowered eyes. A place swathed in poison and perfume, where the Angel’s Trumpets drooped from twisted branches like a thousand listening ears. They warned you that people vanished there. That the trees hummed with voices not quite human. Those who entered the Grove either lost their way or, worse, forgot they ever had one.
But you were not afraid.
The Grove would not break you. It would reveal him to you.
And when it did, you would watch the fear rise in his inhuman eyes as he realized: he was being hunted. Not by torch-bearing villagers. Not by trembling priests. But by someone colder. Smarter. Hungrier.
You laced your gloves tighter, checked the weight of your blade once more, and turned your face toward the trees ahead.
Let him be as strange as they claimed. Let him be strong. Twisted. Terrifying. You only smiled at the thought.
It would make the kill worth remembering.
The path began as little more than a suggestion. A deer trail, perhaps. Or the outline of something older—something man-made long ago, now half-swallowed by moss and memory. You followed it with your coat drawn close and your senses keening, your boots whispering across roots and damp leaves as the forest narrowed in on you like the mouth of a beast.
The deeper you walked, the stranger the world became.
Every tree here leaned at odd angles, as though ashamed of their own growth. The air was heavy with the ghost-sweet scent of Angel’s Trumpets, blooming from twisted boughs in reckless abandon. Their pale, drooping bells swayed like warning signs, like a thousand little nooses. You knew the poison well—tropane alkaloids, delirium-inducing, deathly—and yet here they were, growing wild, unchecked, an entire forest intoxicated.
And then the decay began.
Old fences emerged from the brush like skeletons, half-swallowed by ivy. Rusted iron gates hung crookedly from hinges that no longer served their purpose. Further in, you passed what might have once been cottages—stone husks choked in vines, their windows glassless, their doors bowed inward. No life stirred here. Not animal, not bird. Even the insects seemed to avoid the place.
And there it was.
The manor.
Or something attempting to be one. It rose before you in the clearing like a half-finished thought—less a house, more a ruin that had been forced to keep breathing. The stone was weather-stained, the structure leaning slightly, like it was tired of pretending. It wasn’t large. Smaller than the average manor, if such a thing could exist.
Still, there was something deliberate in its lines. The shutters, though broken, had once been elegant. The façade had detail beneath the grime. A past life. A forgotten purpose.
So this is where the outcasts dwell, you thought. In haunted groves and collapsing dreamscapes.
Not castles. Not crypts. Not even homes. Just… remnants.
You circled it, scanning for entry. The front door was warped and bolted from the inside, clearly unused. But the eastern wing was thinner, slighter, and a gnarled birch tree had grown up close to its flank. Closer inspection revealed a second-story window, just above the overgrown eaves. Unlocked, if you were lucky.
You climbed.
The bark bit your palms. The branches creaked under your weight. But you moved with quiet precision, and luck—for once—was kind. The window gave with a groan, and you slipped inside like breath into a crypt. And landed… not in a bedroom. Not a hallway.
But a gallery??
You stilled, crouched, heart thudding not in fear—but in confusion. The room was long, narrow, wood-paneled. Dust-laden beams curved like ribs above your head. And all around you—on the walls, from floor to ceiling—were paintings.
Not the sort you’d expect in a decrepit manor. These weren’t portraits of sullen ancestors or landscape studies from the surrounding village. No, these were... strange. Familiar in style, unfamiliar in subject.
One painting showed a woman with no eyes, her face serene, surrounded by white moths in a black void. Another depicted a cathedral submerged in water, fish swimming through its shattered stained glass. Another—a skeletal figure cradling a sleeping child, their heads identical.
You stepped forward slowly, awe overtaking calculation. The brushwork was stunning. Meticulous. There was pain in it. Love. Obsession. This was no random collection—this was a compulsion, a gallery curated by something ancient and deeply lonely.
You exhaled.
Was this the outcast’s doing? Or his madness made manifest?
Either way… You had found something precious. And you were inside it now.
You moved deeper into the gallery, each step muffled by a thick layer of dust that blanketed the wooden floorboards. The air was heavy with the scent of aged oil paint and something more elusive—a metallic tang that stirred memories of old wounds and forgotten battles. The paintings on the walls grew increasingly surreal, depicting scenes that seemed to shift and writhe at the edge of your vision.
A narrow hallway beckoned, its walls lined with more of the unsettling artwork. You proceeded cautiously, the silence pressing in around you like a shroud. Then, from a partially open door at the end of the corridor, a soft, rhythmic sound reached your ears—the gentle swish of a brush against canvas.
Peering through the doorway, you saw him.
You had nearly forgotten how to breathe.
There, hunched high on a ladder, man—slight and pale, absorbed utterly in the art blooming beneath his fingers. His back was to you, focused intently on a large canvas. But the moonlight from the tall, grime-smeared window cast his silhouette in ghostly silver. It clung to his edges like frost.
His black hair, streaked with green, cascaded over his shoulders, partially obscuring his face. He wore a white tunic and black trousers, the simplicity of his attire contrasting sharply with the vivid chaos of the paintings that surrounded him.
The painting he worked on was unlike any you had seen before—a swirling maelstrom of color and form that seemed to defy logic and perspective. It drew you in, compelling you to step closer, your earlier caution momentarily forgotten.
He didn’t speak. Didn’t flinch. Just… painted. In long, obsessive strokes that held a devotion so intense, it bordered on sacramental.
You tilted your head.
The scene on the canvas was striking—an unfinished portrait, awash in muted tones. The subject: a man sinking underwater, mouth open in a silent scream. Red ribbons of blood curled from his fingers like ink in water. And within the water? Reflections of faces. Watching.
Jesus.
You’d read vampire profiles that were less disturbing than this.
And just as you debated whether to interrupt or let him continue to paint his existential crisis in peace, the brush slipped. “Ah—shit,” he muttered, snapping from his trance and nearly toppling backward on the ladder.
You barely had time to blink before he lost balance completely. The ladder tipped. His coat flared like wings. And the elegant, tortured artist came crashing down in an undignified tangle of limbs and groaned curses.
Reflexes kicked in. You stepped aside, and he hit the ground with a thud that echoed through the gallery.
You peered down at him, blinking slowly.
“...Are you a vampire?”
He groaned, flopping like a dying spider on the hardwood. “Depends who’s asking.”
Without waiting for a proper answer, you dropped a knee onto his chest and pinned him in place. He wasn’t exactly fighting back. In fact, he looked more annoyed than alarmed, and maybe a little embarrassed—though it was hard to tell with his mess of paint-streaked black hair covering half his face.
That’s when your eyes met. And stopped.
Central heterochromia.
The kind of rare detail most people would miss. But you didn’t miss much. His eyes were rings within rings—burnt orange at the center, bright and crackling like fire behind glass, ringed in a deeper crimson that caught the light like blood in water. A predator’s eyes. And yet...
They blinked up at you with the distinct expression of someone who’d just been caught napping during a lecture and now regretted all life choices.
“I was going to offer you tea,” he said eventually, voice dry. “But now I’m reconsidering.”
You arched a brow. “I climb through a second-story window like a thief and your first instinct is to make tea?”
“Well, I didn’t know you were a thief,” he said, lips twitching into the beginnings of a smirk. “Could’ve been a hallucination. Wouldn’t be the first time the fumes from oil paint brought me visitors.”
You narrowed your eyes, trying very hard not to be charmed. It wasn’t working. “Name,” you demanded, pressing just a little more of your weight down.
“Solivan Brugmansia,” he said, with the dramatic flair of someone announcing a stage name. “Please call me Sol, like Solitude, possibly Sorrow. Not Solidarity—I’m a terrible conversationalist.”
You stared at him.
He blinked back. “You’re not one of the guards from the fancy manor, are you? Because if you are, tell them leave me be.”
“I’m here to kill you.”
He grinned. “That’s fair. Want to do it before or after I finish this painting?”
And God’s help you, you actually hesitated. This wasn’t how hunts were supposed to go. Sol looked very comfortable for a man pinned to the floor.
“Before you kill me,” he said, voice airy as he lay there like a martyr in a painting, “could I request not to be smothered? I have delicate lungs.”
You squinted. “Shame. I was thinking of crushing your ribs next.”
“Oof. Also, that’s fair.”
You didn’t budge. Instead, you narrowed your eyes, letting silence drag like a blade across the room. Moonlight spilled through the cracked glass, pooling in silver puddles over the dusty floorboards. Paint-scent and turpentine hung thick in the air, mingling with something fainter. Not rot. Not blood. But something old. Animal. Forgotten.
Slowly, reluctantly, you eased off of him.
He sat up with a groan and a flourish, brushing dust from his coat and checking his limbs like a man who’d done this before. Too many times. “So,” he said, peering up at you with that maddening half-smile, “what’s your name, mysterious window invader?”
“I ask the questions.”
“Oh, of course you do,” he said, sighing with theatrical sadness. “The dynamic is very clear. You: strong, silent, and scowly. Me: misunderstood artist who may or may not eat people.”
You crossed your arms. “So you admit it.”
He blinked. “Eat people? I didn’t say that.”
“But you might?”
“Well, you might kill people for sport.”
You stared.
He smiled wider. “See? It’s rude when someone jumps to conclusions.”
You took a slow breath, knuckles itching around the dagger still strapped at your thigh. “Are you the outcast I’ve been hearing about?”
His head tilted. Just slightly. The way a fox tilts its head at the rustling in the brush—half amusement, half assessment. “Depends who’s asking,” he said again, but quieter this time.
You stepped forward. “Don’t play riddles. Vampires aren’t supposed to be here. You’re off the map. And yet you’ve got a whole forest, a half-rotten gallery, and a painting habit that looks like a journal entry from a madman.”
Sol stood slowly, the light catching again in his strange fire-and-wine eyes. He was taller than you expected. Lean. Pale as bone, and barefoot—because of course he was. One of his sleeves had ripped in the fall, and he didn’t seem to care.
“Is that what they call me now?” he asked softly. “The Outcast?”
“It fits,” you replied coldly. “You’re alone. You’re eccentric. And according to a few surviving locals, something in the woods likes to rip the memories out of people’s heads and leave them wandering blind.”
“Oh, that,” he said, waving a hand. “Those were accidents.”
You raised a brow.
“...Mostly.”
You took a step closer. “So it was you.”
He looked at you. Really looked. Eyes narrowed, but not cruelly. He was reading something behind your face. Most people didn’t even try.
“No,” he said at last, voice too calm. “It wasn’t me. But I know what it was.”
“And?”
“I’ll tell you,” he said, smiling with all the misplaced confidence of a man holding a teacup in a burning house. “But only if you stop looming like a tax auditor. Or at least have the decency to pretend you’re here for something romantic.”
You stared at him. You’d come to the Grove expecting to find a monster. A real one. Claws, blood-stained mouth, maybe a shrine made of bones and teeth. Something that looked like it crawled out of the kind of story children weren’t supposed to hear.
Instead, you got him.
Sol. The so-called Feral Outcast.
The creature feared by villagers and whispered about by candlelight.
And he looked like the kind of man who could barely win a fistfight with a clothesline.
When he fell from the ladder after spotting you—a dramatic crash of limbs, paintbrush, and what appeared to be an entire apron covered in dried acrylic—you had your knife at his throat before he could even finish a sentence. But the moment he blinked up at you with mismatched eyes—amber inside, red on the rim—you found yourself hesitating. Not from fear. From confusion. Because honestly… this? This was the guy?
You stared. He looked like he hadn’t slept in a week, or maybe a decade. His hair was mussed like he’d rolled out of bed and into an explosion of linen and dust. His shirt was inside out. His socks didn’t match.
This was your monster?
“Are you the outcast?” you asked him, still looming with calculated menace.
He gave you a half-hearted shrug from the floor, still blinking. “Depends. Am I in trouble?”
“I came to kill you.”
“People say that to me a lot.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I,” he said, voice painfully dry. “You’ve got the glare of a person with trust issues and a sharp object. And I love that for you.”
You stared at him, expression flat as slate.
Sol blinked. “Fine. No jokes. Just... one thing first.”
Your muscles coiled as he reached slowly behind a canvas, one hand raised in some mockery of peace. You were ready for a blade. A blood vial. A wand, even. Anything remotely threatening.
What you got was… A fucking teacup.
Porcelain. Chipped. Painted with tiny roses like something out of a grandmother’s estate sale. Still warm.
“I did make tea,” he said, tone far too smug for a man currently at the mercy of someone considering various methods of decapitation. “You’re welcome.”
You didn’t know if you wanted to stab him or sigh. Maybe both.
Honestly, probably both.
Still, out of sheer anthropological curiosity—and perhaps a dash of disbelief—you allowed him to shuffle awkwardly into what appeared to be a lopsided sitting room. If one could call it that. It looked like an opium den and an antique shop had been dropped into the middle of a tornado. Broken mirrors, misshapen chairs, a couch that was more spring than cushion. And in the middle of it all, a dainty porcelain set… with actual tea.
You sat.
Reluctantly.
Across from a vampire who looked like he once considered macaroni art a legitimate career path.
He poured you a cup with the solemnity of a priest offering confession. You didn’t drink it at first. You just watched him, silently, taking note of his posture, his tone, the strange calm that blanketed his every movement.
No madness. No fangs. No snarling.
Just tired. Slightly twitchy. And weirdly polite.
“Well?” he asked eventually, sipping his own cup with pinky raised, the sheer audacity of it nearly causing an aneurysm. “Aren’t you going to interrogate me? Judge me? Accuse me of crimes I probably committed in a fugue state?”
You narrowed your eyes. “You’re a pathetic-looking vampire for someone nicknamed The Feral Outcast.”
He looked genuinely offended. “Rude.”
“It’s not an insult,” you said. “It’s an observation. You look like you sleep in your own grave for fashion reasons.”
“I do! It’s very grounding.”
Your fingers twitched. “You’re seriously not going to try to kill me?”
He tilted his head. “Are you serious about killing me?”
You said nothing.
“Fair,” he said. “In the spirit of transparency, I’ve had worse dates.”
“This isn’t a date.”
“You’re in my house. Drinking my tea. With a weapon between your thighs. It feels like a date.”
You slammed your teacup down. He didn’t flinch. “You’re insane.”
“I am an artist.”
You didn’t know whether he was faking the eccentricity or if it was somehow real—and if it was, what kind of creature survived the wrath of both man and vampire by being this absurd?
Still, you decided to remain.
Not because he wasn’t a threat.
But because you weren’t convinced either way.
And frankly, if you were going to kill someone, you might as well know what flavor of strange you were erasing from the world. Plus, the tea really wasn’t bad. Disturbingly floral. Lightly sweet. With a hint of something you suspected was stolen from the herb garden outside. (Sol insisted it was “just a touch of dried angelica” and not, as you originally accused, powdered grave moss.)
So again—reluctantly—you stayed.
The manor, if you could even call it that, wasn’t exactly in peak condition. Most rooms looked like they'd been furnished during a single, half-hearted attempt at being civilised… then promptly forgotten. Mismatched chairs, moth-bitten curtains, walls with peeling paint and suspicious claw marks. The plumbing made unsettling noises that resembled moaning whales or distant death rattles. You learned not to question it.
But you didn’t want to risk leaving either. Doverhollow’s villagers were already side-eyeing you like a walking plague, and checking in and out of an inn would only invite more attention. Not to mention, Sol had made it oddly comfortable.
He’d offered you a room without a hint of hesitation. It smelled faintly of turpentine and something… nostalgic, like old paper and lavender. There were books stacked on the floor, some still bookmarked mid-paragraph. A forgotten shawl hanging from a chair. And a closet full of clothes that didn’t match Sol’s aesthetic at all.
Which, of course, led you to wonder: who the hell had lived here before?
Old owners? Guests? Ghosts?
You didn’t ask. Yet.
Sol had wandered off after tea that night, muttering something about “needing to finish a piece before it lost its teeth,” which sounded either deeply poetic or mildly concerning.
You’d given up trying to parse his metaphors. He was one of those people who probably journaled in riddles and cried while watching candle flames.
Still, when you found him later—alone in what he referred to as his “studio of emotional decomposition”—you caught him perched on a stool, brush in hand, face slack with serene focus. His usual energy, that chaotic whirl of eccentric quips and inappropriate tea etiquette, was replaced by something quieter. He painted like he was unraveling something buried in his chest.
You didn’t disturb him. Much.
“So…” you began, leaning against the dusty doorframe. “You actually do art. I thought it was a performance thing.”
He didn’t glance up. “Is that an insult or a compliment?”
“Honestly, I haven’t decided yet.”
His brush moved in slow, purposeful strokes. “Give it five more minutes. It gets impressive right before I ruin it.”
You stepped closer. “You're quiet when you're alone.”
“I am alone,” he said dryly, though there was the faintest upward twitch at the corner of his lips.
You stood there watching, arms crossed. “You paint a lot of ruined churches.”
“They’re metaphorical.”
“For what?”
“My soul.”
You snorted. “God, you’re insufferable.”
“Only in the mornings and when someone’s judging my symbolism.”
Still, you kept studying him, filing observations away like puzzle pieces. He was colder when alone, not cruel, but clearly the kind of person who lived more in his own head than in the world around him. But when he talked to you—when he let himself talk—he became almost… alive. Animated.
Smart. Sharper than expected. The kind of clever that didn't just answer questions, but quietly twisted them back on you.
“You read, don’t you?” you asked.
“Religiously,” he replied, wiping his brush on a paint-stained rag. “Mostly Poe. The man understood the importance of emotional mess.”
You raised an eyebrow. “Let me guess: you cry to The Raven and pretend it's about your tax situation.”
“Only on Wednesdays.”
You couldn’t help it—you laughed. Briefly. Silently. You hated it. Then, because you were still a hunter, and still you, you stepped closer and asked more questions. Quiet ones. Calculated ones. You watched how he reacted to every inquiry—about his past, his exile, the rumors surrounding him. You studied the twitch of his fingers, the flick of his eyes.
Not because you trusted him.
But because you were researching him.
This was fieldwork. Observation. Dissection of personality through shared air and shadowed silences. And you had to admit: for someone nicknamed The Feral Outcast, he was... surprisingly tolerable. Weird. But tolerable.
Later that night, you found yourself lying in bed with a notebook on your stomach and a half-sharpened pencil tucked between your fingers. The room was dimly lit—just enough moonlight leaking through the warped window to give everything a pale silver wash. The walls creaked as if the manor itself was muttering to you. Or sighing. Or dying slowly.
You didn’t care.
Your boots were off. The sword was still in reach. The tea, long gone cold.
And on the page in front of you?
Sol’s face. Well—most of it.
You weren’t a professional artist, but you weren’t completely without skill either. You’d spent enough time studying people from behind books and barrels to know how to render a decent likeness. And yet... his features were proving annoyingly complicated.
You’d only drawn one of his eyes so far. The other you left blank, almost intentionally. Central heterochromia was a pain in the ass to get right. The orange inner ring was easy enough to sketch. It was the outer ring—the deep, blood-crimson red—that made you pause. It looked like it should be threatening. But on him? It just looked… exhausted. And slightly irritated. Like a tired cat that hadn’t slept in eighty years.
You sighed.
Added some under-eye lines. Then added more. The man had the kind of eye bags that could carry groceries. Or guilt. Or both.
You sketched the line of his mouth next. Slightly too wide for his face. Subtle downturn when he wasn’t smirking. And, of course, you didn’t forget the lip rings—two small, black metal hoops resting at the corner of his lower lip like punctuation marks on a particularly smug sentence. You stared at the drawing for a long moment.
Then scribbled “why is he like this” in the corner.
Still, you’d learned more about him over the last couple days than you expected. Sol, as it turned out, was only turned a few decades ago—young, by vampire standards. Barely out of the coffin, metaphorically speaking. His turning had been messy, quiet, and unsanctioned. He was, as he said, “an artistic casualty of someone else's immortality crisis.”
That sounded like nonsense until you realized it probably wasn’t.
He'd shown you the gallery again in daylight. Well, daylight filtered through thick curtains and dust-choked air. Each painting he walked you through like a docent in a museum made for the clinically unstable. But it was fascinating, hearing the stories from his perspective.
One canvas was a swirl of reds and blacks—unintelligible from a distance, but up close it showed a woman screaming in silence. “That one,” Sol had said, pointing with a brush, “was about my first heartbreak. Or maybe a plumbing issue. Honestly, could be either.”
Another showed a forest burning in reverse—flames curling back into trees, ash turning green again. “That one’s just for drama. Gets me attention. Real crowd-pleaser.”
You'd expected all of it to be melodramatic.
You hadn’t expected it to be so… beautiful.
Still, you noted something darker, quieter, beneath all the color and flair. Most of his pieces—gorgeous as they were—had some unsettling, gruesome undertone. Like beauty and horror were two threads sewn from the same needle. You got the impression he wasn’t painting what he wanted to see—but what he couldn’t stop seeing.
You also discovered that holy relics actually burn him. You'd confirmed this during a brief “oops I dropped this conveniently near your hand” test with a silver cross. He’d yelped like a kicked cat and then tried to pretend it didn’t hurt, brushing it off with a scoff and a mutter of “how very traditional.”
You watched him later, rubbing the burn through his sleeve when he thought you weren’t looking.
He said he didn’t care. But you had the suspicion he missed warmth—sunlight, fire, the casual, unthinking kind of touch humans exchanged without flinching. You never saw him reach for a blanket or bask in the sun. He simply... sat. As if comfort was something remembered, not expected.
And then there were the horses.
Oh, the damn horses.
You had not expected that. It started when Sol insisted—insisted—on taking you to the village edge. Said it was for “an extremely serious errand.” You’d prepared for anything: blood rituals, secret meetings, maybe a hidden cache of weapons.
Instead, you found yourself standing at a rickety fence, watching Sol practically vibrate with joy at the sight of a large, mildly confused brown mare.
He pressed his cheek against the post like a love-struck teenager. “Look at her. Just look at her. Do you see that mane? That’s a mane of dignity.”
You stared. Then stared harder. “You’re serious.”
“I’m always serious about horses,” he said, eyes wide with religious devotion. “They are majestic, noble creatures. Unlike people. Or Crowes. Crowes are little shits.”
You couldn’t argue with that.
Still, you documented the whole thing in your notes that night, right under “possible weaknesses: holy relics, sunlight, excessive emotional damage… also, equine fixation?”
You underlined that part twice. Then, as you stared at the page, at the half-finished sketch of his face, you found yourself wondering:
Was he a threat? Maybe. Was he dangerous? Possibly. Was he, at the very least, absolutely out of his mind? Unquestionably. And yet—somewhere between the tea, the burnt skin, and the rambling monologues about Gothic literature and “emotional rot”—you’d stopped seeing him as a target. And started seeing him as a question you wanted to solve.
With maybe just a little affection.
…Or an exorcism. You hadn’t decided.
Understand, from two weeks ago, give or take a dramatic moment or two, you had seen another side of Sol.
You’d just returned from the village, arms full of human necessities—bread, salt, soap, and tea boxes. You were exhausted, sore, and slightly damp from a freak drizzle that smelled like mold and regret.
You only wanted to drop the bags, maybe nap, and not have to remind yourself for the fiftieth time that you were technically cohabiting with a literal vampire.
But, as was becoming alarmingly common, peace had a tendency to trip over itself and die on the porch steps. You heard the shouting before you reached the path back to the manor.
It was coming from the outer edge of the manor grounds—angry, fearful voices flung into the wind like rocks through glass. Villagers. You ducked low, instinctively going quiet, your pack rustling like a traitor with every movement. You made your way forward with caution, slipping between brush and shadow.
And there he was. Sol.
Standing at the edge of the rotting garden path, teeth bared, hands twitching like claws, looking positively feral in the twilight glow. His shirt rumpled, hair a windswept mess of midnight tangles.
The villagers had come in a group—pitchforks and torches included, because apparently clichés were alive and well—and they were yelling about you. Your name. Your disappearance. Your proximity to the “monster in the woods.”
One of them actually screamed, “You’re under his spell!”
Which would have been flattering if it wasn’t so stupid.
And Sol? Sol was not amused.
His voice had dipped into something low and horrible, rolling like thunder under his skin. His fangs were longer than usual—exaggerated, beastly, like some instinct had slipped free of its leash. And the sound—a growl, wet and sharp—came from deep in his throat. You swore you saw the foam.
Realization clicked into place like a lock snapping shut.
He was starving.
You’d never thought about it before. He didn’t eat around you. Didn’t ask. Didn’t even mention hunger. You’d assumed he fed on animals or—worse—wanderers. But now that you were looking, really looking, you realized how pale his skin had grown. How his hands trembled sometimes. How his eyes lingered just a moment too long when you rubbed your neck or rolled up your sleeves.
So, of course, you did what any sensible, level-headed hunter would do in the face of a semi-rabid, half-starved vampire glaring down a mob.
You yelled at him. “Hey! Sol!”
He twitched.
You stomped forward like an irate cat owner confronting their pet about the shredded curtains. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?!”
The grove had gone silent in the aftermath, as if the trees themselves were holding their breath. The scent of smoke and damp leaves clung to the air, mingling with something older—ash, rot, maybe a hint of regret. The villagers stood frozen along the winding dirt path, torches sputtering uncertainly in their trembling hands.
Their eyes were still wide, caught between the horror they thought they were prepared for and the reality they’d just witnessed: a vampire foaming at the mouth like a rabid dog... and you, very calmly, yelling at him like an overworked babysitter at the end of their rope.
Sol blinked, visibly disoriented, the snarl frozen on his face as if even he wasn’t sure how it got there. His hands trembled—not from rage anymore, but like a man surfacing too quickly from drowning. The wild look in his mismatched eyes faltered the moment your voice cut through the fog.
"Am I going to have to throw holy water at you?" you snapped, stepping forward with the unmistakable energy of someone done.
Sol recoiled slightly, as though the words themselves had the power of exorcism. He let out a wheezing noise that might’ve been a laugh if it wasn’t so strangled, caught somewhere between mortified and mildly offended. He stumbled a step back, shoulders sagging under the weight of self-awareness.
Meanwhile, the villagers—armed with their shaky pitchforks, crooked lanterns, and far too many accusations—suddenly looked like schoolchildren caught misbehaving in front of a substitute teacher.
They glanced from you to Sol, and back again, slowly lowering their torches as the scene rapidly devolved from horror movie to uncomfortable farce. No one really knew what to do when the monster got scolded like a misbehaving cat.
They began to shuffle away, awkward and whispering, their righteous fury unraveling with each reluctant step. One of them actually muttered, “Well, they seems fine,” as though that made any of this normal.
You watched them disappear down the path with narrowed eyes, arms folded across your chest, radiating the kind of exasperated authority that could scare a demon into doing the dishes.
Once they were gone, you turned back to Sol.
He was still standing there, arms limp at his sides, looking like someone who had just realized they’d screamed at a houseplant for three hours straight. His hair was a wild mess, and there were faint smears of dried paint on his sleeves. His shirt was unbuttoned at the collar and hanging off one shoulder like he’d either gotten into a fight or simply forgot how clothes work halfway through an artistic spiral.
“You okay?” you asked, deadpan.
“Define ‘okay,’” he replied, scrubbing both hands over his face like he could physically wipe the embarrassment away. “Because I am emotionally compromised and mildly ashamed.”
You raised an eyebrow. “You were foaming.”
“I was not—” He paused mid-protest, poked the corner of his mouth with a finger, then sighed. “Okay. A little. Maybe. Minor foaming. Barely noticeable. Artistic foaming.”
“Sol.”
“I’m trying to have dignity, please.”
You narrowed your eyes. “When’s the last time you fed?”
He grumbled something low and vaguely ominous in a language you strongly suspected was dead and buried for good reason. Probably Latin.
He sighed again, with all the melodrama of a poet being told to get a job.
“It’s been... a while.”
“You don’t say.” You crossed your arms tighter. “Sol, you absolute cryptid. You have to eat. Preferably not me.”
He gave you a look that was far too amused for someone who had just been publicly humiliated. “That’s very considerate of you.”
You rolled your eyes. “I’m serious. This isn’t some tragic vampire novella where I hold your hand and cry about your internal conflict while you starve. I’m not going to nurse you back to health.”
“That’s a shame,” he muttered under his breath, eyes glinting with mischief even through the lingering haze of bloodlust.
You were already grabbing him by the arm, dragging him away from the scene before he said something even more ridiculous. “Come on. Before you start biting rocks.”
He let himself be led without resistance, mumbling something about how “biting rocks” used to be a metaphor until now. His steps were unsteady, like the adrenaline hadn’t fully faded yet, but the feral glint in his eyes had dulled—for now.
You couldn’t believe this was your life.
You—descendant of a renowned lineage of vampire hunters, trained in the art of elimination since you could walk, raised on tomes thicker than your wrists and lessons whispered over the clink of silver blades—were here. Living in a haunted fixer-upper with warped floorboards, faded wallpaper, a suspiciously squeaky third stair, and one artistically foaming vampire who once nearly bit a villager for yelling at a goose.
What had your ancestors died for again?
You flopped back on the creaky mattress, exhaling a sigh sharp enough to cut glass. The ceiling above you bore faint water stains shaped vaguely like screaming faces, which felt a little too symbolic. You tried not to read into it.
This wasn’t what you’d come here for. You were supposed to find the vampire outcast. Kill him. Study the corpse. Write down notes. Collect samples. Behead something for science.
And yet... here you were. Journaling at midnight. Drinking lukewarm tea. Drawing the outcast’s stupid pretty face because you claimed it was “for documentation purposes” even though you shaded his lips a little too carefully.
You told yourself it was still a mission. That maybe Sol was a threat, hiding behind sarcasm and horse trivia. That you were still gathering intel. But when you closed your eyes and let your mind wander...
You wondered. Was this mercy? Or was it just madness?
Maybe Sol was a project. A weird, semi-feral, poetry-quoting, eyeliner-smudged art cryptid of a project. A riddle in oil paint and broken windows. And the longer you stayed, the more the lines blurred between hunter and... something else. Confessor. Companion. Confused housemate.
Gods help you, but you weren’t entirely mad about it.
Then—tap.
Your thoughts snapped like a twig underfoot. You froze.
There it was again—faint, deliberate. A sound so soft most would miss it. But you were a hunter, trained to hear a needle drop through blood-soaked snow. Your senses sharpened instantly, a slow burn of tension sliding down your spine.
You slipped from bed in silence, sock-covered feet brushing across the dusty floorboards like a shadow. The manor was sleeping. Or at least, Sol was. Probably.
The hallway stretched before you like a throat waiting to swallow. Moonlight filtered through cracked windows in thin, bony beams. The wallpaper here was peeling, revealing older patterns beneath like a fossilized second skin. You kept to the edges of the walls as you moved, slow and steady.
The noise had come from below.
The wine cellar.
Of course it was the wine cellar. Because that was the obvious choice for mysterious noises in an already-cursed house.
You descended the steps without a sound, each one creaking like a guilty conscience. The air grew colder as you moved downward, damp and still and clinging to your skin like a warning. The scent of old cork and earth hit your nose, mingled faintly with something else—sharper. Iron.
Nothing.
The door creaked open only slightly—just enough to let you peek through the narrow sliver into the cold, stone-lined wine cellar. And what you saw next, well...
The first thing you noticed wasn’t the smell of dust or the stale, metallic tang of spilled blood on old stone. No. It was him—Sol—standing under the flickering light of a hanging bulb, shoulders drawn taut, his back to you like a statue carved in fury. His silhouette looked larger than usual, haloed by the faint fog of his breath in the cold cellar air. And in front of him—
Another vampire.
But not like Sol.
The creature slumped against a support pillar, long brown hair matted with blood, one eye swelling shut. Blue eyes glared out with defiance even as his body sagged, beaten, twitching. Blood pooled beneath him—thick, dark, and glistening like tar. You could see broken wine bottles on the ground, their contents mixing with gore. The place reeked of it.
Your breath caught in your throat.
Sol’s hand was dripping red, knuckles split and raw from repeated contact with bone. You watched as he stepped forward again—slow, deliberate. His boots crunched on shards of glass. Every movement screamed violence restrained by the thinnest leash.
You had never seen Sol like this.
You didn’t have to guess what had happened. The scene was a painting in brutality, and Sol had signed it in blood. And the way Sol looked at the other vampire… it wasn’t just anger.
It was disappointment. Loathing. Familiarity. He tilted his head, like he pitied him. “Don’t go out like this now… Jericho.”
His voice was low, nearly gentle. The softness made it worse.
You barely breathed. Jericho. The name had appeared once in your journal—scrawled in a rushed script beside a faded quote about vampire reformers. If you recalled correctly, he was one of the loudest voices pushing to rebuild relations between vampires and humans. A public figure among the remaining nobility.
And he had just called Sol the one who ruined it all.
Sol took a slow step forward, wiping his bloody knuckles against his shirt without urgency. “You always did like pretending you were some holy messenger,” he said, voice flat, not even amused.
“All bark. No bite.”
Jericho let out an ugly, wet cough and spat blood on the floor between them. “You’ve broken the laws, Sol. Again,” he hissed, trying and failing to straighten up. “You have a human here. I heard it from the villagers.”
He bared his fangs with weak defiance, eyes glinting through the bruises. “They say the Outcast took a human for himself. Keeping them like some sick little pet. Do you even hear yourself?”
That’s when Sol moved—fast, sharp, with a snarl that barely made it past his teeth. His hand shot out, grabbing Jericho by the collar and slamming him back into the support beam hard enough to crack the stone. You flinched despite yourself, pulse thudding in your ears. His voice changed—lower, guttural, something wild pushed too long into the dark.
“They’re not a pet,” he snarled. “They’re smarter than you. Stronger than you. And ten times more valuable than the entire dusty little cabal you suck up to.”
You stared, frozen behind the door.
He was defending you.
But there was something else in his voice—familiarity. Regret. Resentment. The rhythm of old wounds being reopened. Old friends? Perhaps worse… That thought churned your stomach.
Jericho let out a wheeze that could’ve been laughter if it wasn’t soaked in pain. “You killed a human who used to own this manor, didn’t you?” he rasped, voice like broken glass. “Lost control. It’s what we do.”
Sol went still. Deadly still.
His eyes darkened, and when he spoke again, there was no humanity in his voice. Just a quiet kind of ruin. “Yes,” he whispered. “I lost control. Once. And I’ve paid for it every second since.”
His posture shifted slightly, like a weight pressed into his spine. “But I didn’t lure them here. I didn’t hunt them. I didn’t lie. I gave them a choice. Shockingly, they stayed.”
Jericho bared his bloodstained teeth.
“That makes them yours. You’ll burn for it, Outcast. You’ll die like the rest of your kind. It’s only a matter of time.”
Your breath hitched. Every instinct screamed at you to move, to back away, to pretend you hadn’t seen what was about to happen.
But you didn’t. You watched.
Sol was silent, his gaze locked onto Jericho with a stormlike intensity—dark, electric, dangerous. His hand still cradled Jericho’s bruised jaw, his thumb dragging slow, deliberate circles over the blood-slicked skin in a cruel parody of tenderness.
You could almost believe it was gentle—if not for the tension coiled through Sol’s body, wire-tight, every muscle rigid with restraint. His mouth was a hard line, his eyes hollowed out by something far deeper than hunger. Something ravenous. Something primal.
Then he leaned in.
Jericho flinched—just barely—as Sol’s lips brushed the column of his throat. Not biting. Not yet. Just… lingering. Breathing him in. Savoring the heat of his skin, the pulse thrumming beneath it.
A low sound rumbled in Sol’s chest, something between a growl and a sigh, before his tongue flicked out—slow, deliberate—dragging a wet, searing stripe along the curve of Jericho’s neck.
The air in the cellar grew thick, suffocating.
Then he bit.
Not with the careful precision of some romanticized vampire myth, but with brutal, animalistic force. His teeth sank in deep, a guttural snarl tearing from his throat as he claimed, as he took.
Jericho arched against him, a choked moan spilling from his lips—more pain than pleasure, but laced with something darker, something hungry between them.
His fingers scrabbled weakly against Sol’s arms, nails digging in as blood welled up in thick, crimson rivulets, spilling over his collarbone, staining his shirt. Sol held him down with one hand, the other braced against the stone wall, his muscles taut with the effort of control—or the lack of it. There was no finesse here, no ceremony.
Just need. Raw, relentless, consuming.
And the sounds—God, the sounds.
The wet, desperate drag of Sol’s mouth against Jericho’s skin. The ragged hitch of Jericho’s breath as Sol swallowed, as he fed, each pull drawing another broken noise from the man beneath him. The slick, obscene sound of blood being drawn, of lips sealing over the wound, of Sol’s low, shuddering groan as he drank deeper.
You stood frozen, your spine pressed to the wall behind the door, your pulse hammering in your own throat. You’d seen vampires feed before. You’d been trained for it—diagrams, studies, clinical detachment.
But nothing could have prepared you for this.
The heat of their bodies, too close, too intimate. The way Sol’s free hand slid into Jericho’s hair, fisting tight, yanking his head back to expose more of his throat.
The way Jericho’s breath came in ragged gasps, his lashes fluttering, his body trembling between resistance and surrender. And worst of all—the shameful, molten heat coiling low in your stomach.
Why did it have to look like this? Why did it have to sound like this?
When Sol finally ripped his mouth away, it was with a vicious snarl, lips glistening—not just with spit, but with blood. Jericho’s blood. The metallic tang hung thick in the air, mixing with the sweat and the raw, primal energy radiating off Sol’s heaving body.
Jericho collapsed beneath him, boneless, his once-smug face now slack, his breath shallow.
Unconscious—or maybe something worse.
Sol loomed over him, his chest rising and falling in ragged, uneven bursts, his knuckles white where they clenched at his sides. The blood on his mouth wasn’t just smeared—it was art. A dark, violent masterpiece painted in strokes of crimson, stark against the pale fury of his skin.
And god, it was hot.
The way his tongue flicked out, just once, tasting the remnants of the fight. The way his jaw tightened, muscles flexing as he swallowed hard, like he was forcing down something far hungrier than blood.
Then he spat—a sharp, dismissive motion—right beside Jericho’s ruined face. The sound of it hitting the stone echoed in the damp cellar, a punctuation mark to the violence.
“Still not the same,” he growled, his voice rough, edged with something wild. Something untamed.
His fingers trembled slightly as he dragged the back of his hand across his mouth, smearing the blood in a way that only made him look more dangerous. More feral.
The hunger wasn’t gone—no, you could still see it lurking in the depths of his darkened gaze, a bottomless pit of need that refused to be sated. But there was more now. Something deeper. Something worse.
Rage. Grief.
A storm of emotions that twisted his beautiful, brutal face into something unrecognizable. Your pulse hammered in your throat, your skin prickling with a dangerous mix of fear and something far more reckless.
You weren’t supposed to see this. You weren’t supposed to want to see this. But here you were, standing in the dim, flickering light of the cellar, the scent of iron and sweat wrapping around you like a second skin.
One thing was crystal fucking clear:
Sol was dangerous.
And you?
You were in way too deep. You needed to run. Now.
Boots barely made a sound against the cold stone as you bolted up the cellar steps, heart slamming against your ribs like it wanted out. The stale, iron-scented air chased you all the way through the narrow corridors of the manor.
Shadows flinched and twisted in your periphery, hallways stretching like old bones, groaning beneath your frantic footsteps. You moved fast, half-tripping on the warped floorboards, hands scraping along the chipped wallpaper like it might steady you.
You had to get away.
Not from the manor. Not even from Sol—not yet.
From what you saw. That hadn’t been just hunger.
That was a vampire unrepentant.
You reached your room in a storm of panic, slamming the door shut behind you with a breathless gasp and throwing the bolt. The quiet that followed was deafening. Only your pulse filled your ears as you fumbled toward your bedside table, pulling open the drawer where your dagger should’ve been.
Gone.
No. No no no no—
It was always there. Always. Silver-inlaid, blessed, sharpened just this morning. A blade passed down through generations. You were never without it.
You spun around, scanning the room like maybe it would materialize out of the air, maybe you were too panicked to see—
The air in the room turned thick, charged with something electric—something dangerous—the moment you heard his voice.
"Looking for this?"
Low. Calm. A velvet whisper curling against the back of your neck like a lover’s touch.
You froze. Every muscle in your body locked tight, your breath hitching in your chest as the realization crashed over you: He was here. Inside your locked room. Behind you. Close enough that you could feel the heat of him, the predatory stillness of a creature who had all the time in the world.
Slowly—agonizingly slowly—you turned.
Sol stood there, your dagger dangling carelessly from his fingers, the blade catching the dim candlelight in lazy, mocking flickers. The door was still bolted behind him, untouched, as if the lock had never existed. As if the rules of the world bent to his will.
Your pulse roared in your ears.
You took a step back without thinking, your body moving on instinct, your spine pressing into the cold wall behind you.
He looked different now. The blood was gone from his mouth, wiped clean, but his shirt was still damp with it, clinging to the hard lines of his chest in dark, rust-colored stains.
His hair was tousled, wild, as if he’d run his hands through it in frustration—or maybe just hadn’t cared enough to smooth it back into place after the violence in the cellar.
But his eyes—those ancient, fathomless eyes—held you in place.
They weren’t angry. They weren’t cruel. They were knowing.
"You shouldn’t run in old houses," he murmured, his voice a dark caress. "You’ll wake the ghosts."
You tried to speak—tried to summon fury, fear, anything—but the words withered in your throat. Your body trembled, not just from the cold, but from the horrifying understanding settling deep in your bones: He knew.
He’d known you were watching. Maybe from the very beginning.
Maybe he always knew when you were near.
"You..." Your voice was a broken thing, barely audible. "You knew they were trying to change. Jericho... he wanted peace. I read it. I wrote about it—"
Sol didn’t flinch. Didn’t interrupt. He just let you speak—or stammer, your words faltering under the weight of his gaze.
"And you..." Your jaw clenched. "You killed the one chance vampires had to change how the world sees them."
"No," he said, the word a blade of ice. "They killed it. Years ago. When they cast me out. When they made me a monster and left me in the dark to rot." His fingers flexed around the dagger, his knuckles whitening. "This world doesn’t want redemption. It wants a myth to fear."
Another step forward.
Another step back—until the wall met your spine, unyielding.
"And you stayed," he mused, tilting his head slightly, studying you like a puzzle he was unraveling. "You stayed in my manor. Slept in the bed of the dead. Ate the food of the damned. You laughed with me. Drank my tea."
"Because I thought you were different," you snapped, your voice gaining strength—or maybe just desperation.
"I am." Another step. Now he was close enough that you could feel the heat rolling off him, could smell the lingering copper on his skin, the faint, intoxicating trace of Jericho’s blood still clinging to his breath. "I didn’t hurt you. I never lied to you. Everything I am, you’ve seen. And yet here you are, daggerless, terrified, and still here."
The wall was cold against your back.
His body was a furnace in front of you.
"You don’t get to play the victim, hunter," he murmured, his voice dropping to something intimate, something dangerous. "Not when you walked into the crypt willingly." He lifted the dagger between you, the edge glinting near your throat—not a threat, but a question.
"I’m not going to hurt you," he said, so softly it was almost a whisper. "But I need to know something..."
Then he leaned in.
Close enough that his breath ghosted over your lips. Close enough that you could taste the danger on him. His voice was a dark, velvet rasp against your skin. "Are you still here because you want to kill me... or because you don’t know what you’d do if I was gone?"
You didn’t answer.
Because the truth was a living, breathing thing between you—and you weren’t sure you wanted to know anymore. You didn’t breathe. You’d seen death before—dealt it yourself, even. But this was different. This was Sol not as a cryptid or a misfit... but as a predator. Cold. Calculated. And utterly furious.
And something about it…
You hated that you noticed it—but it was hot.
In a terrifying, morally questionable, “am I okay?” sort of way.
Sol exhaled slowly, like dragging the air into his lungs cost him. He finally pulled away, taking a step back, and for a moment, the space he left behind felt too empty. His chest rose and fell like a war drum had just gone quiet. He wiped the side of his temple with the back of his hand, smearing blood across his pale skin like war paint, and dragged shaky fingers through his hair—still matted, still wild.
His eyes, however, were crystal clear.
“You weren’t supposed to see that,” he muttered, almost to himself.
There it was—guilt, flickering like a dying ember in his expression. But not regret. He didn’t regret what he did to Jericho. He regretted that you saw it. That your illusion, whatever you had told yourself about him, had fractured like glass.
“I didn’t kill him,” Sol added after a beat. “If that helps. He’s not dead.”
You didn’t respond. You weren’t sure you could yet. Your hand ached to reach for your missing blade even as your body leaned just a little—too much—toward him. Conflicted didn’t even begin to cover it.
Sol watched you with an unreadable expression. His voice, when he spoke again, was quieter. Tired. Like an old record warped by heat and time.
“This manor... wasn’t mine. I didn’t inherit it. I took it. After its owner tried to feed me to a group of nobles for fun. I killed him in that cellar. I didn’t lie about that either.”
You blinked.
“You stayed anyway,” he continued, voice rough. “You stayed after the gallery. After I told you sunlight burns. After I told you about the horses, for gods’ sake. You stayed even when the villagers whispered. Even when you knew what I was.”
His eyes met yours again, and for a heartbeat, you saw the predator slip back behind the curtain. He looked… vulnerable. Just a little.
“But if you’ve changed your mind,” Sol said, voice barely audible now, “then go. No one’s stopping you. I won’t.” The dagger lay between you, abandoned on the table like it meant nothing.
You weren’t sure if it still meant anything to you, either.
Yet, your fingers curled around the dagger before your brain even caught up with your body.
It wasn’t dramatic. No sudden lunge, no clash of steel. Just a slow, deliberate grasp as if reclaiming something that had always been yours. Cold metal kissed your palm, grounding you in a way nothing else could. Sol watched you take it, and to your surprise—he let you.
For a moment.
“I’m not going to fight you,” he said again, but this time there was something different in his tone. Less calm. Less patient. His eyes never left yours, but his hand moved—not for the dagger, but for you. His fingers curled lightly around your wrist, just enough pressure to still your next movement.
“I just need…” His gaze dropped for the first time, and his voice frayed like a thread pulled too tight. “I need something from you.”
You frowned. “Let go.” He didn’t.
Instead, he stepped closer. Just enough for your shoulders to tense against the edge of the wall behind you. His other hand moved with practiced ease—curling around your arm, guiding the dagger hand downward, not to disarm you exactly, but to… reposition you.
A sleight of hand hidden behind honesty. And before you could process the shift, he had your sleeve pushed back—exposing the pale stretch of your wrist under the flickering candlelight.
“Sol.” Your voice was sharp. A warning. A question.
But he wasn’t listening anymore.
“I haven’t fed properly in weeks, like you asked those days ago,” he whispered, staring down at your pulse like it was a thing made of starlight and sin. “You saw what I did to him. You think I’m fine, but I’m not. I’m sick. And starving. I tried to wait. I really did.”
You were about to pull back—to shove him away, to scream, to do something—but he moved first.
Fast. Desperate.
His mouth pressed to your wrist with a strange reverence, as though he were kissing it first. The cold brush of his lips sent a shiver jolting through your spine. You didn’t breathe. Couldn’t.
You weren’t sure if it was fear or adrenaline or both. But then his fangs sank in—sharper, deeper than expected—and pain flared bright and white behind your eyes.
You gasped.
The sound that escaped you wasn’t what you expected. It wasn’t a scream. It wasn’t even fully a cry. It was something darker. Something shameful and involuntary. A sound you immediately regretted making.
Sol’s grip tightened around your wrist—not to hurt, just to hold you steady—as he drank, slow at first. Controlled. But then it changed. Like the hunger had finally caught up to him and overpowered restraint.
You pressed your free hand against his shoulder, nails digging in, trying to stay grounded through the burn in your veins. The sensation wasn’t just pain—it was overwhelming. Heat flooding your chest. Dizzy, electric wrongness that wasn’t entirely unpleasant. You hated that your knees buckled slightly.
You hated that he noticed.
Sol made a low noise in his throat—half growl, half sigh—and pulled back just enough for the air to touch the bite. Blood welled up slow and sticky along your skin, and he stared at it with wild eyes. Guilt, desire, hunger. Everything crashing together in that one unspoken moment.
Then he looked at you.
And everything in his expression screamed apology even though his mouth never moved. “I didn’t mean to—” he started, voice ragged.
You stepped back. Quickly. Clutching your arm.
“You said you wouldn’t hurt me,” you whispered.
“I didn’t mean to. I—gods, I didn’t mean to.” His voice cracked. “But you smell like warmth. Like life. I thought I could take just enough.”
Silence stretched between you like the tightrope it always had been.
The bite throbbed like a second heartbeat. And suddenly, everything felt too small. The room. The candlelight. Him.
You needed air.
You needed to figure out if you were going to run—or stay?
Your fingers twitched around the dagger’s hilt—barely. A weak, instinctual movement. Your body didn’t have the strength to finish.
Everything began to slip sideways—like the walls were melting or the floor had been pulled out beneath you. The candlelight dimmed, blurred, twisted into strange shapes. You blinked slowly, trying to fight it, trying to hold on to something—the desk, the dagger, his name in your throat—but it all crumbled at once.
And then you fell.
Or you would have—had Sol not already been there.
His arms wrapped around you with startling ease, catching your body against his chest like you were nothing more than a breath being exhaled. You didn’t even feel the impact.
One moment you were standing, breathless… the next, you were weightless in his hold, your head tucked against the warm line of his collarbone, eyes fluttering closed against your will.
Sol froze.
Not because you passed out—no, he’d expected you to be weak after feeding. But this? This? The total collapse? The way your pulse slowed to a vulnerable crawl beneath your skin? It hit him differently. It hit him hard.
“…Damn it,” he breathed, his voice a low rasp, dark and unreadable.
He shifted his grip, careful not to jostle you as he lifted your wrist again. The bite wound gleamed red and angry in the light, the skin already starting to bruise with that distinct violet hue—fragile and raw. He turned your arm slightly, examining it with the cold eye of someone both fascinated and horrified.
“You really are different,” he murmured. A smirk touched his lips, slow and sharp like a blade unsheathed. But it wasn’t cruel. It was curious.
“I barely touched you,” he muttered, more to himself than you. “One bite and you’re out cold? Either I was hungrier than I thought… or you were far too generous.”
He leaned down slowly. Dangerously. Letting his breath wash over the curve of your throat—just like before, but this time there was no pretense. No restraint. Just hunger tinged with something unspoken. Not lust. Not quite. But need. Something deeper. Primal. Inhuman.
He inhaled deeply.
You didn’t stir. Not a twitch. Not even a protest.
“You smell like survival,” Sol whispered against your skin. “Like firewood and old blood and silver. Like you shouldn’t trust anything that breathes.”
And then his lips brushed your neck—not to bite, not this time—but as if tasting the ghost of what he’d taken. A pause. An indulgence. Reverent, almost.
But the moment didn’t last.
He pulled back, jaw tight, nostrils flaring. Still holding you close, Sol moved toward the bed with purpose, laying you down gently, though his eyes never left your face.
He hovered over you for a moment longer, watching the soft rise and fall of your chest, checking to be sure your heartbeat hadn’t dropped too far. Steady. Warm. Alive. Relief twisted through him like a slow knife. And yet… he couldn’t stop staring.
He needed you.
God help him—he was done pretending.
The moment his hands found you, there was no hesitation, no carefully constructed restraint—only raw, unfiltered hunger. Sol moved with the lethal grace of a predator staking its claim, his body pinning yours to the mattress with delicious inevitability.
His fingers worked with devastating efficiency, stripping away your clothes like a man unwrapping something sacred, something his. The fabric whispered against your overheated skin—the brush of silk, the drag of cotton—before being carelessly discarded, pooling on the floor beside the bed like fallen petals.
His touch was a study in contrasts—fire and ice, reverence and ruin. Every graze of his fingertips left invisible brands in their wake, as if he needed to map every dip and curve of your body beneath his hands. His palms skimmed up your ribs, thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts in a slow, maddening circle before his mouth finally—finally—found you.
And oh, his mouth.
Sol kissed his way up your body like a man starved, his lips trailing a path of searing devotion along your trembling flesh. You could feel the cool metal of his tongue piercing—a wicked contrast to the heat of his mouth—as he laved attention over your pulse point, his teeth scraping lightly, teasingly, just enough to make your breath hitch.
He lingered at the hollow of your throat, his tongue flicking over the sensitive skin there, the subtle click of metal against flesh sending a shiver down your spine.
But he wasn’t done.
His mouth moved lower, lower—each kiss a brand, each nip a promise. When his breath ghosted over the swell of your chest, hot and damp, you arched into him with a whimper.
His tongue flicked out, the piercing dragging in a slow, torturous circle around one peaked nipple before he sealed his lips over it, sucking gently. The dual sensation of soft warmth and hard metal had your fingers twisting in his hair, your hips lifting off the bed in silent plea.
Sol chuckled against your skin, the vibration rippling through you like liquid heat. “So sweet…” he murmured, the word a rough caress as he switched his attention to your other breast, his tongue piercing tracing lazy, maddening patterns until you were gasping, writhing, utterly at his mercy.
And God help you—did you even want him to stop?
You gasped when his fangs found you.
A sharp, sweet sting—just above your nipple, where the skin was softest. The pain melted instantly into pleasure, your back arching as he groaned against you, his tongue lapping at the tiny wounds in slow, deliberate strokes.
He kissed around the sensitive peak, his lips brushing feather-light, maddening circles until you were shuddering, your fingers twisting in his hair, pulling him closer.
When he finally lifted his head, his lips were stained crimson, his eyes black with want. You were moaning softly, conscious, your body still thrumming with the aftershocks of his bite.
"You shouldn’t have stayed," he whispered, his voice rough, raw—more to the shadows than to you. "You knew what I was. You knew what I’d done. But you stayed."
His expression was a storm of contradictions—guilt and hunger, awe and something darker, something he couldn’t—or wouldn’t—name. He dragged his gaze over you, drinking in the sight of your flushed skin, your heaving chest, the way your pulse fluttered wildly at your throat.
Sol’s fingers traced idle, teasing circles over your skin, his touch light enough to make you shiver, deliberate enough to make your breath hitch. His thumb flicked over your nipple, once, twice—just to watch it stiffen beneath his touch, just to hear the soft, involuntary gasp that escaped your lips.
It wasn’t long before he moved, his body shifting with predatory grace as he climbed onto the bed behind you. His hands were firm as he adjusted your position, turning you so your back pressed flush against his chest. You could feel the heat of him, the hard planes of his body molding against yours, his skin searing where it met yours.
And then—the slow, deliberate slide of fabric as he rid himself of his pants, his cock springing free, heavy and hot against the curve of your ass. The sensation sent a jolt through you, your pulse stuttering as he let out a low, satisfied hum against the nape of your neck.
His thumb brushed your jaw, tilting your face up to his. The movement was gentle, almost tender, but there was no mistaking the command in it.
"Tell me to stop," he murmured, his voice rough with restraint, his breath warm against your lips. "Tell me to walk away, and I will."
His words were a challenge—a test. And yet, you didn’t answer.
You couldn’t.
Not when his other hand was drifting lower, tracing the dip of your waist, the curve of your hip, before sliding between your thighs with a possessiveness. Not when his cock pressed insistently against you, a silent promise of what was to come.
Sol chuckled darkly at your silence, the sound vibrating through his chest and into yours.
"That’s what I thought," he murmured, before his teeth grazed your earlobe—sharp, teasing, claiming.
A half-ragged moan tore from your lips as he rocked against you, the friction maddening, perfect. His hands were everywhere—tangling in your hair, gripping your waist, dragging you harder against him like he couldn’t stand even an inch of space between you.
Then his teeth grazed your shoulder—sharp, teasing—before he bit down.
You cried out softly, arching into him as pain and pleasure collided in a white-hot burst. His mouth was searing, his tongue lapping at the blood welling from the wound, drinking you in with a low, possessive groan. Every pull of his lips sent fire racing through your veins, your body trembling, your fingers clawing at his shoulders, desperate for more.
He rutted against you, his cock hard and insistent through the fabric of his pants, grinding against your hip in rough, relentless strokes. You could feel the hunger in every movement—the way his breath hitched, the way his fingers dug into your flesh like he wanted to consume you.
“Fuck,” he snarled, tearing his mouth from your skin, his lips stained crimson. “You smell and taste even better than I imagined.”
You woke to the slow, searing drag of fangs along the nape of your neck—a claiming, a warning, a promise. Sol’s arms were locked around you, his body a cage of heat and hunger, pressing you into the mattress with the weight of centuries. His breath was a dark chuckle against your skin as he ground his cock against your ass, already hard, already needing.
"Pathetic," he murmured, the word a velvet scrape of amusement as he bit down—not enough to break skin, not yet, but enough to make you gasp. "Look at you. Still here. Forever mine."
You should have fought. Should have screamed. But your body was already arching into him, already begging for more, even as your mind reeled. His hand slid down your stomach, fingers splaying possessively over your hip before dipping lower, teasing, taunting.
The moment his teeth sank into your shoulder—sharp, sudden, punishing—you knew there would be no mercy tonight.
"You thought you could run?" Sol’s voice was a dark growl against your skin, his breath hot as he bit down again, harder this time, drawing a whimper from your throat.
Your fingers twisted in the sheets, knuckles white, body arching beneath him as he held you down with nothing but the weight of his body and the unrelenting press of his hips. "You thought I’d let you go after what you saw tonight?"
He didn’t wait for an answer.
Because he wasn’t here for words.
He was here to ruin you.
Sol moved with a frenzied, almost desperate rhythm, his cock driving into you with a pace that left no room for thought, no space to breathe. Every thrust was a claim, every snap of his hips a reminder—you were his. The wet, filthy sound of skin against skin filled the room, mingling with your choked gasps and his low, satisfied growls.
He didn’t give you time to adjust, didn’t let you catch up. He just took, fucking you with a brutality that bordered on reverence, as if he could carve his name into your bones with sheer force alone.
His fangs dragged down your spine, slow and deliberate, savoring every flinch, every shudder he pulled from you. His free hand slid between your thighs, fingers finding your clit with cruel precision, circling just there, just enough to make your hips jerk, your body tightening around him—but never enough to give you what you needed.
"Sol—" you gasped, voice breaking.
"Say it again," he demanded, biting your shoulder hard enough to leave a bruise, his voice rough with hunger. "Say my name like you mean it."
And then—
Pain.
Blinding, exquisite pain as his fangs sank into your back, piercing deep. The sharp sting melted instantly into pleasure so intense it stole the air from your lungs.
Your vision whited out, your body seizing as you came with a scream muffled into the pillow, your muscles clamping around him in helpless, shuddering waves.
Sol didn’t stop.
He fucked you through it, his pace never faltering, his grip on your hips bruising as he chased his own release. His mouth never left your skin, drinking you in, swallowing every moan, every broken sound you made as he dragged you back from the edge only to push you over again.
"Mine," he snarled, his voice raw with possession.
And when he came, it was with your blood on his tongue and your name like a curse on his lips, his hips stuttering against yours as he spilled deep inside you, his body shuddering with the force of it.
Afterward, as you lay trembling in the wreckage of what he’d done to you—limbs weak, skin marked, breath still uneven—Sol traced the bites and bruises he’d left with something almost like reverence. His touch was unexpectedly gentle, fingers skimming over the evidence of his hunger, his ownership.
"Pathetic," he murmured again, softer this time.
But the way his thumb lingered on your pulse, the way his eyes darkened as he watched the slow rise and fall of your chest—
It almost sounded like a prayer.
Sol’s hand slid around your throat—not enough to choke, but enough to claim. His fingers pressed just beneath your jaw, tilting your head back, forcing your gaze to meet his. There was no escape now. No pretense. Only the raw, electric truth of what he was about to take from you.
“You should have run when you had the chance,” he murmured, his voice a dark caress against your lips.
Then he moved—swift, effortless, predatory. One arm hooked beneath your knees, the other braced against your back, and suddenly you were weightless, swept off your feet as if you were nothing. As if your resistance meant nothing. The bed met your spine with a soft thud, the sheets cool against your feverish skin.
He didn’t give you time to think.
In one fluid motion, he was above you, knees caging your hips, his body a heavy, intoxicating press against yours. The heat of him was unbearable. The power of him was worse. You could feel every hard line of him, every controlled flex of muscle as he settled over you, his weight pinning you in place.
“Look at me,” he commanded, fingers tightening just slightly on your throat.
You obeyed.
His eyes were filled with red in the dim light, pupils blown wide with hunger—but not just for blood. No, this was something deeper. Something worse. The kind of hunger that didn’t just want to consume you.
It wanted to ruin you.
His free hand dragged down your body, slow and deliberate, mapping every curve, every shuddering breath. The fabric of your clothes was an insult—he made quick work of it, tearing, peeling, unmaking you until there was nothing left between his skin and yours.
“You thought you could hunt me?” His lips brushed your ear, his voice a velvet snarl. “Sweet thing. You don’t even know how to beg yet.”
Then he took you.
There was no gentleness. No hesitation. Just the brutal, unforgiving thrust of his hips, seating himself inside you with a groan that vibrated through your bones. You arched, gasping, nails digging into his shoulders—but he didn’t let you adjust. Didn’t let you breathe.
He moved.
Each stroke was a punishment. A promise. The bed rocked beneath you, the headboard slamming against the wall in time with his merciless rhythm. You were unraveling, pleasure coiling tight in your belly, your thighs trembling around his waist.
“That’s it,” he growled, his hand still firm on your throat, his thumb pressing just enough to make your vision blur. “Let go. I want to feel you break.”
You were close. So close.
And then his fangs grazed your pulse.
A sharp, sweet pain—bliss and agony tangled together as he bit down, drinking deep as his hips never slowed. The world tilted, colors bleeding at the edges, your moans turning ragged, desperate.
You were losing too much. You were giving too much.
But it didn’t matter. Because as the darkness crept in, as your body shuddered beneath his in helpless, overwhelming pleasure, one thought flickered through your fading mind:
At least you’d pass out before he was done.
Bro writing this? Sol as a vampire? DAMNNNNNNNNNNN—when did he get that fine? Like, be serious. I don’t even like Sol like that, hence why I still added, his yandere tendencies, his arrogance, his smug little smirk, the way he talks and somewhat begs like he's already owned you in three past lives—normally, that’s not my taste.
But the fanart? It did something unholy. Now suddenly I’m giving him the benefit of the doubt, writing him in scenes where he’s still toxic, still dangerous, still so him… and yet somehow, it’s hot. Like fine fine. Like, I hate that I get it now, fine.
He’s the kind of beautiful that pisses you off in a way. Like, the kind where you’re glaring but your pulse is faster, and your morals are losing a debate with your instincts.
do you like your coffee hot? @kofirkives - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
