Simon Riley had never been good with women. He knew how to clear rooms, how to disappear, how to make threats stop breathing. But.. flirting, charming.. even talking to someone soft and smiling who brought him his lunch with a shy “here you go, love.” was another battlefield entirely.
Then there was you.
New café on the corner, stuck between a florist and a bookstore. The first time he saw you, you’d laughed at something a customer said and your eyes lit up. Simon’s chest did something strange.. he started going every morning just to watch the way your hands moved, the way you tucked your hair behind your ear when you were thinking…
He learned your schedule. Learned your likes, learned your habits.. learned the name of the useless boy who sometimes would be waiting for you after your shift—the one who never held the door, who barely looked up from his phone.
Simon decided that boy didn’t deserve you. Didn’t treat you the way you deserved.
But Simon would.
He planned for three weeks. Watched the cameras he’d installed along your usual route home, waited until your boyfriend was out of town. The cloth over your mouth was quick, clinical—military training made it efficient. No screams, no mess, just the soft weight of you in his arms as he carried you out to the waiting vehicle.
You woke up in his basement, except.. It didn’t look like a basement.
The walls were painted a soft sage green you’d once mentioned was your favorite color. String lights hung in careful loops across the ceiling. A nice bed with the quilt he’d seen you admire in a shop window. Bookshelves he’d stocked with the authors and novels you’d sneak on your break to read. A small kitchenette with your favorite tea and snacks fully stocked. A locked door at the top of the stairs, of course, but the room itself smelled like vanilla and fresh paint.
Simon sat in the armchair across from the bed, mask off, watching you stir. His hands flexed on his knees—nervous, almost boyish.
“You’re safe..” he said quietly when he noticed the fear when your eyes first fluttered open. “No one’s gonna hurt you here. Not him. Not anyone.” His voice was rough, unused to softness. “I know this ain’t… normal. I ain’t good at asking. But I’ll give you everything he never could. The world you deserve. You just… you gotta stay a while. Let me show you.”
He stood slowly, making sure to not scare you as he set a tray on the bedside table—tea, the exact kind you liked, a blueberry muffin, and a small vase with a single daisy. His eyes were dark, hungry, but trying to be gentle.
“I’ll be back in the morning. Door’s locked, but there’s a bell if you need anything. I’m not a monster, love. I just… finally found something I want to keep.”
He turned the lights down, casting soft warmth across the room before pausing at the door.
“Rest. You’re home now.”
The lock clicked.
Upstairs, Simon leaned against the wall, heart hammering like it never had before.
Downstairs, the room waited—pretty, quiet, inescapable. And somewhere in the middle of it, you, still blinking awake, trying to understand how the man who used to order flat whites had decided you were his to save.
You didn't expect to end up working as a secretary at a military base. But here you were. The work is not difficult at all. Making and answering calls, organizing paperwork. Printing out documents. That kind of stuff. As I said, not difficult. The hard part was dealing with the people, especially men, military men. It's not like you've been stalked or something like that.
Until today. A group of rookies, or that's what you suppose because you haven't seen them before around the base. As a secretary you have to deal with people, that's obvious. But that doesn't mean you have to be oblivious to any kind of weird attitudes towards you.
"Hi cutie," one of the guys said to you, with a flirty tone?
"Hello." You have to keep things professional, not caring if you wanted to throw up because of this disgusting man.
"I need a favor, it's urgent."
"What can I help you with?" Stay calm.
"I need your number." I tried, I swear, I tried, but the only thing visible on my face was repugnance.
"Sorry, I'm not allowed to do that."
"Why not? Do you have a boyfriend?" He asked with a sarcastic tone.
"No, I have no—"
"Yes, she does have a boyfriend." You were cut off by a male voice. When you turned your head, you saw Ghost. The Lieutenant.
"Hello, sir." It seems like all the bravery was washed out of the soldier.
"What do you think you are doing with my girl?" Ghost took a step forward and I could see how the guy just flinched.
"No-nothing sir, I didn't know she was taken." And suddenly the man was shaking.
"Now you know, so fuck off."
The man literally ran away from the room, maybe to the bathroom.
"Thank you, sir." I would not say that my relationship with Ghost is the best one nor the worst. We were just coworkers.
"Call me Simon," he said, looking at you. His eyes felt like someone looking at your soul.
"Thanks, Simon." Why do I feel shy? He's intimidating, but I had never felt this way before.
"Anytime." He walks away like nothing happened. But you had to sit in your chair and take a deep breath because you feel like you were about to pass out.
After that day, the rumors spread all around the base.
"You know the secretary? She's dating Lieutenant Ghost."
"Fuck no."
"That's why she's a secretary."
And you weren't disturbed by those comments, nor was Ghost. Actually, Ghost was the one confirming the statement anytime someone asked him.
"Yeah, she's my missus."
But you thought it was just another rumor. Why would Ghost say those kinds of things?
⚠︎ CW: Not proofread, peer pressure, mentions of bullying ⚠︎
Characters are from my series Always Remember You!
"Pleeeease Y/N! You're closest to him!"
You don't know how you ended up like this. You were supposed to be eating lunch with River in the cafeteria. That is until you got cornered by some random girl you've never seen in your life asking you if you could help her get River to fall for her.
You look away "I-I don't know...I don't really want to-" she interrupts you "I'll pay you! I'll do whatever you want just please help me!"
If you're being honest, you don't want to help her because in some deep deep part of you, you hope River feels the same way you do about him. If you helped this girl get River to fall for her you'd be heartbroken.
"Please leave me alone..." you mumble out, but she doesn't seem to hear you. Instead, she grabs your shoulders, getting way closer to you than you're comfortable with.
"I know a loser like you wouldn't understand, but most guys at this school have a crush on me. And River is like, the most popular guy in our year, so it only makes sense for us to end up together."
"Loser?" you question.
She rolls her eyes "Yeah, a loser. Everyone knows it, so just bite the bullet and help me already."
You look away. You don't think this girl's going to stop bothering you until you agree to help her.
"Fine...you can sit with us at lunch, okay?"
She smiles and backs off of you "Perfect! Lead the way!"
You make your way to the cafeteria with her following behind you.
When you enter you spot River sitting at your usual table. He looks up when you approach.
"There you are! What took you so long?" He looks behind you "Who's that?"
"Oh, this is-" she interrupts you again "I'm Sophie!"
He looks at her and smiles politely "I think I recognize you. We have bio together, correct?"
Sophie smiles brightly "Yeah! We were partners during the frog dissection."
"Are you Y/N's new friend?" River asks
Sophie looks startled, almost as if she forgot you were there. She narrows her eyes at you, quick enough for River not to notice, before looking back at River. She nods.
River smiles, a real one this time "Then I'm glad Y/N has finally made a friend that's not me. Come, you can sit with us today."
You're about to take your usual spot next to River, but your forcefully shoved out of the way by Sophie, who sits down in your spot. River looks at her "Y/N usually sits there."
"I'm sure she doesn't mind, right Y/N?" She looks at you, the way she's smiling feels threatening.
"It's no big deal..." you mutter before you sit down across from him.
Eventually the school day comes to an end. You notice Sophie and River walking together as you exit the building. Curious, you decide to follow them. You peek around a corner and listen in on their conversation.
"Alright, what did you want to ask me. Make it quick because I'm supposed to walk Y/N home." River says.
Sophie steps closer to him "Well, I really like you River. I was wondering if you'd wanna be my boyfriend?" she smiles sweetly.
River looks at her in utter disgust "No." he clips out.
Sophie look surprised, she clearly wasn't expecting rejection.
"Why not?"
River narrows his eyes and leans closer. He's about to say something when he notices you peeking from around the corner. He composes himself.
"You weren't being very nice to Y/N earlier, and I also heard you and your friends like to spread around not so nice rumors about her."
Sophie's expression shifts from shocked to fear as she realizes she's been caught.
"It's not what you think! I didn't mean to say those things about her, my friends made me do it!" she tries to save herself.
River isn't convinced. He's still looking at her with disgust "I think we're done here."
He brushes past her, making his way to where you are. He takes your hand and leads you off of school grounds.
You want to ask how he knew Sophie and her friends were the ones spreading rumors about you, but you figure now isn't the best time considering how upset he looks.
You'll ask another day.
A/N: Here's the River oneshot! Writing this is making me want to write more about when Y/N and River were in school, and maybe when they were little too (˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶) ‹𝟹
For people on the taglist! Let me know if you want to just be tagged for the series and not the oneshots
Sypnosis: After a horrible night of going out, your friend leaves you stranded at the club. Going home, you encounter a certain white-haired man. When he gets too close and grins with those too-sharp teeth, you do the only logical thing your drunken mind can think of: throw a bag of rice at him.
Pairing: Vampire!Gojo x Human!reader
Tags/Content Warnings: MDNI/18+ only, SMUT SMUT SMUT!!! Porn with plot, a bit of fear play (c'mon, Satoru is a vampire, y'all have seen the way he was playing with those curses), compulsion (only to run away), usage of folklore, reader is lowk a dumb bitch (not bimbo like, just drunk), blood-drinking, dub-con (reader consenting to be bitten while drunk), oral (f receiving), unprotected P in V sex, classic 'it doesn't fit' trope, SIZE KINK SIZE KINK SIZE KINK, belly bulging, dacryphilia, permission to cum inside (hehe)
Word Count: 6.7k
A/N: Not proofread since I have a migraine, but I wanted to drop this before going to bed. Special thanks to @cactusvolumes for helping out <3 Dividers by @/pixopix & @/strangergraphic, art by @/somedeimi on x.
You’re stumbling out of the club, absolutely wasted. The world spins around you, pavement dipping to the side, despite it being flat. Your ankle rolls once, making you almost crash into a pole.
A laugh bubbles out of your throat before you can stop it. It vibrates on your tongue, just like the bass vibrated your bones while inside the club.
Why are you laughing again?
You fumble through your purse for your phone, trying to text your friend that' you’re outside. Fingers touching different things in your purse—a lipgloss, a loose tampon, your hairbrush, a bag that crinkles when the pads of your fingers skim over it, and finally your phone, the glass smooth against your fingertips.
Then the thought slams into you, unwelcome and sharp. ‘Naoya and I are dating now,’ your friend had whispered shouted in your ear while you were on the dancefloor with her. Your entire body locking up, hips freezing in place.
Right. That’s why you drank more than you should’ve. Your friend casually admitting she’s dating your piece-of-shit ex-boyfriend.
You lean your forehead against the cold metal of the pole. Another laugh slips out. This time dry and hollow. There’s nothing funny about any of this. The entire situation is fucked up.
She left the club not soon after she admitted to you about dating your ex, not satisfied with your reaction to her ‘news’. What a fucking bitch. You close your eyes, still leaning against the pole, and everything spins, as if you’re laundry in a dryer.
Opening your eyes you push off the pole. Taking three steps, you stumble again. Stupid fucking heels. With an annoyed grunt you crouch down to yank them off, only to promptly fall onto your ass. Huffing through your nose you sit down so you can better access your heels.
Eventually you wrangle the heels off. Standing again you brush down the back of your dress with one hand while the other dangles your shoes from your fingers.
This time you start walking home—still stumbling around, but no longer rolling your ankles with it.
The Tokyo streets glow with sodium lamps and neon signs that are blinking overhead. The streets are mostly empty, aside from a few stragglers and drunks passed out along the sidewalk.
It isn’t until ten minutes into your walk that you feel it—eyes. You glance around, confused. There’s no one you can see, just a small cat on the other side of the street that isn’t even watching you, finding more interest in it’s own paw. Shrugging you keep walking.
Five minutes later you cut into a narrow alley. A shortcut home you normally take after a night out with the girls, granted they are with you—safety in numbers or something. Your drunken mind isn’t really concerned with that right now, though. Your feet are cold, small stones digging into your toes where you’re walking, and you’re lucky you haven’t encountered something sharp yet.
A little bit further into the dark alley you feel it again, that heavy sense of being watched. Whipping your head around you see someone stand at the end of the alleyway. The person’s silhouette completely black, except for the stark white hair that’s illuminated by the streetlight from above. The second thing you note is how tall they are. And the third thing you notice is the eyes—they’re glowing. Piercing blue looking over at you.
He’s just… staring at you. But when he sees you looking at him, he takes a step towards you. Then another. And another. You back up, pointing a finger at him.
“Stay there!” you bark out, finger trembling slightly. “Stay,” you repeat, firmer. The man halts, one pale eyebrow lifting in amusement.
“That’s right. Good boy.” If you were sober, you’d cringe at calling a stranger good boy, but right now all you can think of is that you’re drunk, barefoot, in an alley, and this guy is, what—seven feet tall?
His face becomes clearer now, a bit of moonlight illuminating some of the planes of his face. His skin is porcelain-like, eyes like a kaleidoscope of every blue imaginable, and a smirk is on his face, clearly enjoying this entire interaction.
Right, you’re staring. You clear your throat. “I-I’m going now. You just… stay there.”
He only crosses his arms and leans against the wall, still watching. You slowly nod your head, taking a small step back. Okay, good, he’s staying right where he is. Where you told him to stay. Turning around you nearly scream bloody murder.
He’s right there.
A gasp slips from your lips, mouth dropping open while your eyes bug out of your skull. Did the alcohol in your system fuck you up so bad you somehow turned around slow enough for him to walk in front of you without you noticing it?
You crane your neck up to look at him, stumbling back slightly with the change of your head, before you steady yourself again. He’s smiling down at you, and it’s a nice smile, honestly. It would’ve been charming, if not for the fangs. They’re long, sharp, and very obvious.
Alarm bells blare in your head, muffled slightly by the badum badum badum of your heart in your ears. Impossibly blue eyes, inhuman speed, and now fangs.
“Vampire,” you whisper, voice barely audible.
The stranger’s smile widens. “Ding, ding, ding, sweetheart.”
You swallow hard, of course this would happen to you today out of all days, after being told your friend is fucking your ex and leaving you stranded, alone, in the club.
Your hand slips into your bag, fingers fumbling, digging, trying to search for the bag you had touched earlier that night. But the more you keep fumbling, the harder your heart is starting to beat. Did you make up the fact that you had the bag with you? He notices the motion, of course he does.
“Oh? Gonna pepper spray me? Call a friend?” there’s clear amusement in his voice, “Newsflash, sweetheart, I’m way too fast for that.”
Your fingers keep searching. Come on, come on, come on— There. The pads of your fingers skim over the plastic bag, and it crinkles under the motion. Bingo.
Your heart slams against your ribcage. God, please let that dumb folklore be right. You grab the bag an dump it onto the ground, a soft thud sounds through the alley as thousands of rice grains scatter across the tiles.
The vampire’s head snaps down. He stares for a few seconds, blinks, then crouches. He mutters something under his breath and begins to count, fast—really fucking fast.
You stare at this seven-foot, hulking creature for a few more seconds. Then you take one step back, and another, and another. Then you run, feet pounding against the floor down the alley.
You risk a glance over your shoulder, just hoping he isn’t fast enough to count all of that within seconds. Big mistake. He’s still counting, luckily. But… he looks kind of cute doing it, nevermind the part where he’s a seven-foot vampire.
You slow down, feet coming to a halt, before you turn back and walk up just enough to grab your phone from where it fell onto the ground.
Click.
He doesn’t look up, but the twitch of his fingers tell you he heard it. “Cute.”
Gojo has never seen something like this before. He didn’t expect to be pelted with grains of rice by a cute drunk girl he’d set his sights on the moment she stumbled out of the club. Worse, he has the compelling urge to count them all. He isn’t sure why, all he knows is that he has to count them.
It’s something he’ll look into when he gets home.
It was a smart move on your part, clearly having read some sort of vampire lore before—unless you throw rice at every creep you encounter. However you came back, feet still bare, one of your heels lay abandoned further down the alleyway.
Then you whispered something about how cute he was, as if he isn’t a whole seven feet of vampire.
Now? Now you’re sitting across from him, feet still bare and dirty with grime and small pebbles stuck to your toes—how you haven’t noticed is beyond him—heel danling from your fingers, and your dress is riding up your thighs.
You’re mumbling incoherently about your ex and your friend, not that he’s paying attention to it, all his focus is on the stupid grains of rice.
He isn’t sure why you aren’t running. You know he’s a vampire, having seen his speed, his fangs, his eyes—hell, you even whispered it, vampire. Yet you’re still sitting here, in front of him, as if you’re keeping him company.
He knows you’re drunk, he can smell it on your breath, and if that wasn’t the dead giveaway then the stumbling and walking back to a fucking vampire would be. No one would do that shit when they’re sober.
You’re recounting a story about your ex now, gesturing wildly into the cool night-air. He’s had to restart his count a total of three times already because you keep distracting him. The first time you accidentally kicked the pile when you went to sit down, apologising to him for fucking it up.
The second time you ‘accidentally’ smacked his arm when telling him something. You’d said it was accidental because you were gesturing, but he thinks it’s because he wasn’t paying attention to your story.
He can only hope that the third time just works out for him, because he really wants to sink his fangs into your glistening skin—apart from the sweat you’d certainly built up in the club there’s something else to it, maybe a shimmer you’d applied before leaving for the club earlier today.
He only has a few hundred grains of rice left when your phone rings. And just like anything else tonight, you pick it up without any hesitation.
Gojo can hear a man on the other side of the line, saying something snarky. He isn’t tuned into the conversation, but his ears could hear everything if he wanted to, but he’s still counting, and he’d rather focus on that and finally feed himself than listen to whatever is being said by you or the man.
3124 3125 3126 3127… He’s about to count the last grain of rice when you suddenly flip the phone to him, screen illuminating his skin in a mix of blue and green. 3159 grains of rice, all counted.
He finally looks up and sees a guy filling your screen. Faux blond hair with green roots, brown eyes, and a smirk on his face that quickly morphs into something else. Then you turn your phone back to yourself, slurring out a, “See, ‘m with someone. Now leave m’ alone, asshole.”
Gojo hears the call disconnect, sees the way your screen goes dark. The only light illuminating your skin now is the pale moonlight. Then you take a deep breath and promptly fling yourself backward onto the ground.
“See what I have to deal with?” your eyes find his, a small pout formed on your face while your brows furrow. Gojo doesn’t say anything, just looks at you with those piercing blue eyes. He crosses his arms over his chest and clears his throat. “I’m gonna give you a twenty-second head start, sweetheart. If I were you I’d take it.”
Your brows furrow in confusion this time, nose crinkling slightly. God, you really forgot, didn’t you?
He heaves a sigh and opens his mouth just enough to show his fangs. They glint in the moonlight, showing of just how sharp they are. You squint your eyes a bit, then they open wide again.
“Vampire,” you whisper again, voice fully trembling. But then you groan, it rumbles through your chest a bit, and kick your feet a little. “I don’ wanna runnnn.”
Gojo has to close his eyes for a second and take a deep breath. He likes the chase that comes from when people are afraid of him. Likes it even more when his prey think they can outrun him. They can’t, but he sure does like having them believe they can. Blood always tastes sweeter when there’s a hint of fear involved, after all.
He opens his eyes again and looks straight at you. Then he leans in a little, breath just shy of ghosting the shell of your ear.
“Run,” he whispers, voice sticky sweet as honey. He can see the way your eyes gloss over a bit. Then you’re scrambling upward, and dart out of the alley—your other heel clattering to the ground.
Gojo, true to his word, waits a full twenty seconds. Then he’s in front of you again, making you yelp and dash away again, stumbling over your own feet a little, crashing into the wall, scraping your hand on the rough stones.
The cat and mouse game continues for what he thinks is a full ten minutes. He can hear your heart pounding, blood rushing through your body, and your whispers of ‘Please don’t kill me, I’m way too hot’ and ‘I should’ve stayed home’ and ‘He is kinda cute, though.’
He ignores that last one.
It isn’t until you stumble up the steps of a house where he catches you. His broad chest pressed to your back, one arm wrapped tightly around your waist, fingers dipping into your sides,, while the other is planted next to your head on the door.
“Gotcha,” he whispers into your hair. You’re trembling in his grip, knees almost buckling out form under you. You’re pressed flat against the front door of your house.
You were so close, all you had to do was open it and you would’ve been fine.
You can feel the way his pecs are squished against your back. He’s hunched over you, entire frame leaning down so he can nose against your hair. His muscles are bulging out of his shirt, making you press your thighs together.
It’s a weird mixture of fear and arousal that’s shooting through you. You know he’s a vampire, know he can kill you in an instant—and maybe he will drain you of all your blood—but he’s also so tall. His entire hand splayed out over your tummy now.
He chuckles when he notices the way you’re pressing your thighs together. His cold breath fanning over your skin, almost like a night breeze caressing your face. “You gonna let me in, sweets?”
You know you shouldn’t. Know you should try to get out of his cold, undead grip as fast as you can. The door is right there, one step and you’d be free of him. One big step, you’d just have to get out of his grasp. Sure he has bulging muscles and probably inhuman strength, but you can twist your way out of this, can’t you? Just do a little shimmy and free yourself.
The big hand that’s on your stomach can’t possibly keep you right there, pressed against him, can it? Nevermind the fact that he has such thick forearms and biceps and triceps even Greek Gods would be jealous of.
Turning a bit to the left, you try to see if you have any wiggle room, only for him to chuckle once more. His fingers dig into your flesh a bit harder now, indenting the skin where he touches you. Welp, there goes your plan, straight out the window.
“Promise not to kill me?” You don’t dare to look at him, afraid his eyes will put you under a spell yet again. You know you should’ve ran the first time he told you to, but you were too out of your mind to fully grasp the situation. “Mhmm, just want some of your blood.”
That seems… reasonable enough. You fumble with your keys slightly, still trembling in your grip, the keys and keychains clinking against each other. It’s the only sound in the entire street, everyone else already being in bed—which is no surprise, considering you left the club at… three or something like that.
When you finally slot your keys into the hole, you twist it open, pushing the door open to your dark hallway.
You’re about to set a foot into your house when the guy tugs you back against his chest. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”
Right, he’s a vampire and not just some random hookup you dragged home. A very handsome vampire, though. If you’re going out, at least it’s by a hottie. Oh fuck, he really can just kill you. I mean, he just said he wouldn’t, but he can lie about it. Then again, he could’ve killed you ten times over already.
“What’s your name?” That seems to catch him off-guard. Blinking a few times, those baby blues looking you over in wonder a few times, and you can’t help but melt into him a bit—only for you to stand up straight again when you feel how fucking cold he is.
“Satoru,” is all he mumbles out, fangs poking out slightly. He really is cute for a terrifying creature.
Nodding your head you nudge the door open even further, extending your hand into your house with a flourish. “Come in, Satoru.”
The next second you’re picked up before he all but throws you onto your couch, your body bouncing a bit before he’s on you. A yelp leaves your lips, heart pounding out of your ribs, fingers shaking slightly, breaths heavy.
Right, he is a vampire with inhuman speed and strength. Your pupils dilate a bit, hairs standing on edge when he grins down at you with those too-sharp canines. His eyes almost seem to glow in this moment, face shadowed completely.
You’re frozen in place, reality settling in like someone poured a cold cup of water over your head to sober you up.
You just invited a vampire into your house. To drink your blood. Way to fucking go.
“Ready, sweets?” He murmurs down at you, picking up your hand where it lies limp beside you on the couch, pulse hammering in your ears. He brings your fingers up to his mouth, before wrapping his lips around the bloodied appendages, tongue laving over the wounds there. You’d honestly forgotten you even had them—too busy running away from him to notice just how scratched up your clammy palms were.
His saliva stings your skin, making you pull away, only for him to hold your wrist in place. He licks a broad stripe from your palms up to your fingers, leaving behind a red trail—blood and saliva mixed together.
When you don’t answer he grins a bit wider, lips slightly red by your blood. “Don’t worry, I’ll take care of you.”
With that he surges forward, one strong arm wrapping around your waist to keep you from squirming while the other quickly brushes away the hairs that are falling over your shoulder. His fangs puncture your skin just above your collarbone, and it feels like your nerves are on fire.
Your mouth opens in a scream, only to have it clamped shut by a big palm. Tears spring to your eyes, fat drops falling down the apples of your cheeks before they drip from your jawline onto the couch below.
You can feel the way your blood is leaving you. Satoru is sucking on the wound hard enough to make your eyes roll to the back of your skull—not in pleasure, but in pain. Pure agony running through your veins now.
From all the vampire lore, you whished the aphrodisiac bite was at least true. But instead of pleasure surging through you, it’s pain. Pure pain. You can feel the way your body jerks from the sensation, but Satoru just tightens his hold onto you, pushing you further into the couch.
The last thing you see before the dark takes ahold of you is the blue glow emitting from his eyes, casting the two of you in a soft, blue glare, making his pale hair stand out against the darkness of the room.
You wake up surrounded by softness. Blinking a few times you register just where you are—your own bed. Your pillow is soft and fluffy under your head, and your blanket is keeping you warm. Your head is absolutely pounding, a dull thud behind your eyes making you groan.
Just how much did you have to drink last night?
Thinking back on the night before, you can remember bits and pieces. You went out with your friend to celebrate… something, only for her to leave you alone at the club later that night.
Why did she leave you alone again?
Racking your brain, you try to fill in the gaps as good as you can. You remember drinking and dancing. Hips moving to the beat—well you tried to, but you probably were off-beat if you’re going to be honest—while your friend was laughing with you.
Then she leaned forward with a smile on her face and murmured something in your ear. What the fuck did she say that she had to leave?
You furrow your brows, closing your eyes once more. Right, right, it’s coming all back to you now. She told you she was dating Naoya out of all people. Even after you’d told her every minute detail about that scumbag, she still chose to be with him, destroying your trust in the process.
Fucking bitch. And then she just up and left you there to get home by yourself.
Okay, now you know why your head is pounding—having drank waayyy too much alcohol to at least have a good night by yourself. But how did you get home?
You pat around your bed to search for your phone, twisting your neck to look to your left side, only for a hiss to leave your lips when you feel just how much your neck hurts. Your hand shoots to the spot, only to find gauze under your fingertips.
Gauze? Why is there gauze on your neck out of all places.
You rub your head with your other hand, only to feel small scabs on your fingertips. Opening your eyes you look at your hand, only to see it being scabbed over at some places.
Right, you scratched your hand on the wall when running away from that cute vampire. …Wait, what??
Sitting up you look around your room, to hopefully see said vampire, but he’s nowhere to be found. A laugh bubbles up in your chest and leaves your lips. A vampire, how stupid is that. Your drunken mind probably made all of that up.
Seeing a weird silhouette in an alleyway sure is scary, so you just began to run back home. Yeah, yeah that must be it. Your drunken mind having conjured up a whole story about a guy that doesn’t exist. Vampires aren’t real; they’re just myths made up to scare children.
So why is there gauze on your collarbone?
Your head is pounding all the same, these silly questions surely can wait until after you had some water, or coffee.
Standing up you’re about to walk downstairs when you hear someone… humming? Your shoulders immediately tense up, feet planting themselves in their place. Why is there someone in your house?
Grabbing the nearest object—a vase with fake flowers, because nowadays it’s too much to ask guys to get you some flowers—you tiptoe down the stairs, careful to not make a sound. It’s one thing if there’s someone in your house, it’s another when they know you’re there.
On the last step you hear someone call out to you. “Oh, you’re awake. That’s good!”
You nearly drop the vase in shock, fingers slipping slightly, before you tighten your grip again. Your heart hammering out of your chest, goosebumps littering your skin, and before you can even do anything, a tall, white-haired man walks into view.
And suddenly everything from last night slams back into you. No, your mind hadn’t simply made up Satoru, it’s real. The gauze on your throat a bitter reminder that there are, in fact, vampires roaming the earth.
“What the fuck are you still doing in my house?” you ask him, setting the vase down onto your kitchen counter before walking up to him. You poke your finger against his arm, testing to see if he really is real, or if you might still be drunk. “You’re real, right?”
Gojo just chuckles at you, his fangs poking through his lips at your question. His fingers wrap themselves around your wrist—ice cold to the touch, making you tremble slightly from just how cold they are—stopping you from poking him any further.
“Duh, you can’t make up a face this pretty.” He gestures to his face with a small pout on his face. Okay, conceited much. You scrunch your nose up at that, looking him dead in the eye—the same eyes that glowed last night while he was feasting on you - is that the correct term? You’re not sure, but you don’t really care, either.
“As for your question, I stayed because I might’ve drained you a bit too much. The alcohol in your system made your blood thinner, so I had a harder time gauging just how much I drank. So I stayed to be certain you wouldn’t pass awa— anyway. Alcohol makes your blood taste bitter, by the way, Certainly didn’t help you weren’t as afraid as I wanted you to be,” he mumbles that last part under his breath.
“Not as afraid as you wanted me to be? I thought my heart was gonna crawl out of my mouth— can you let go of me? You’re cold as fuck,” you try to tug your wrist out of his grasp, only for him to tighten it just slightly, slender fingers enclosing around your wrist.
Grinning he leans down slightly, back hunched just slightly as he looks you in the eye. “Why? You didn’t seem to mind me touching you last night.”
You inhale sharply, the memory of him pressed against your back flooding your mind. His strong chest pressed against your back while his hand was splayed out over your tummy making you all hot and bothered— no, you can’t think like this, fucking stop it.
“Yeah, well, that was just me being drunk,” you mumble out.
He takes a step forward, and another, while you walk backwards, until your back hits the wall. The wall scratching your back slightly, straightening your spine. His hand plants itself next to your head, leaning forward until his nose is almost brushing yours. “You sure that’s all it was? I’m hurt, sweets. You’re saying you don’t find me cute anymore?”
Gulping you press your thighs together, your panties damp under your sleeping shorts, core hot and achy. There’s no denying he’s hot—not quite cute as you called him last night—but should you really do this? He’s a vampire, hot, sure, but still a bloodsucking creature. His grin widens when his eyes flick down to your thighs.
You know you shouldn’t do this. It’s irresponsible, downright stupid, but you can’t deny to yourself that he’s making you horny by just existing.
And suddenly a thought enters your mind, like someone whispered in your ear. Your friend—now ex-friend—is dating your ex. It makes your stomach flip a few times, trying to make sense of the situation you’re in right now.
Fuck it.
Your hands find his pecs that are flexed with the way he’s standing, fabric doing little to hide them. Your finger trails down to his abdomen where you can feel the clearly built muscles. You bat your lashes at him, tilting your head just slightly. “And what if I said I thought you were hot?”
“Then I’d ask to have another taste— a different taste this time,” he murmurs down at you. That’s all you needed, fisting the fabric of his shirt and pulling him down to meet you. Lips crashing against each other in a messy battle of teeth and tongue.
He groans into your mouth, carefully nipping at your lower lip, puncturing it slightly. He sucks on the little droplets of blood before he claims your mouth once more. Copper filling your taste buds, making you moan out slightly.
Then he suddenly picks you up, hands under your thighs while yours find purchase at his broad shoulders, clutching onto them, nails digging into his skin just slightly. He chuckles against your mouth, “I’m not going to drop you.”
And true to his word, he doesn’t drop you, but he does bring you upstairs at speeds you’ve never dreamed of having. He carefully lays you down onto the bed, matrass groaning under both your weight just slightly.
His lips disconnect from yours, and he has to keep himself from groaning out at the sight of your bloodied, kiss-bitten lips. All swollen for him. Gojo peppers featherlight kisses down your throat, until they find the gauze just above your collarbone.
Yelping you look down at him. He’s grinning up at you, blue eyes crinkling slightly while he carefully places another kiss onto the gauze. “That hurts, dickhead.”
“Hmmm, just showing my little blood bag some appreciation,” he purrs before his lips trail further down, all the way until he’s seated onto the floor, cold breath ghosting on your thighs, leaving behind slight goosebumps. “I’m not your personal blood bag.”
He just winks up at you before pressing a kiss to the fat of your thigh. Then one a little higher, another one to the apex of your thigh, and one on your hipbone. You’re squirming out at the feeling of his lips—cold to the touch, but oh so careful.
His fingers hook around your pajama shorts, looking up at you for permission. When you nod he pulls them off you, leaving you in your panties. His pupils dilate when they see the wet spot, “You’re soaked. All this for me?”
Rolling your eyes you look down at him, leaning on your elbows. “How about you touch me instead of being such a conc— oh fuck,” your head lolls back onto your shoulderblades, eyes fluttering shut slightly. His thumb presses onto your clit.
“What was that, sweetheart?” he chuckles when you moan out at the pressure he applies through your panties, thumb circling your twitchy clit. “That’s what I thought.”
He leans down to lick a broad stripe over your panties, moaning out at the taste of you—so sweet, and oh, how he wishes you weren’t drunk last night so he could’ve had a taste of this pussy earlier—lips wrapping around your nub and sucking on it slightly.
“Shit. Fuck— Satoru, right there,” your hand finds his head, fingers threading through his silky locks, pulling on them slightly when he sucks even harder, cheeks hollowing out. Pleasure shoots right through your core, thighs threatening to snap shut. Something that doesn’t go unnoticed by the white-haired man under you, big palms clasping your thighs and keeping them spread riiight open for him. “Just get those panties out of the way already!”
He releases his lips with a pop, making you sigh out. Grinning up at you, one of his fingers comes up to your swollen folds, rubbing them slightly—still with that damn fabric in the way.
“Someone’s eager. You want me to get rid of these cute panties?” He tilts his head slightly before his fingers creep further upwards,, until they hook into them, making you think he’s finally going to get them off you. Instead he pulls the fabric upward, stretching it over your poor twitchy cunt, “But they look so good on you— yeahhh look at that.”
His eyes are zeroed in on where the fabric disappears between your pussy lips slightly, stretching the fabric even further until you’re pushing at his head, whining out.
“Please, please just get them off,” you whine out, tears gathering in your eyes from the way he’s just playing with you, taking his sweet time while your hole is pulsing around nothing. He chuckles once more before letting the fabric snap! against your skin, having you gasp out.
“Guess I should give this pretty pussy what she deserves, huh?” He gives a few taps to your clit, thighs twitching with each pass of his fingers, before he finally hooks a finger around the gusset and pulls it aside, revealing your cunt to the open air.
Without any preamble he dives in, tongue flat against your twitchy clit. Your back immediately arches with the swipe of his tongue—this time without any fabric between the muscle and your aching clit.
One of his slender, cold fingers plunges itself into your soppy hole. Your fingers tighten in his hair, tugging on it slightly, moaning out at the intrusion. “Fuck— right there.”
He thrusts his finger in and out of you before adding another one. The cold touch such a stark contrast to your hot, needy core it has you keen out. Your legs are trembling in his hold, one of them still spread open by his other hand, while your own creeps down to hold your other leg open for him.
“Such a good girl,” he mumbles out against your core, pleasure shooting through you. He curls those long digits inside of you, trying to find that one spot inside of you while he very lightly nips on your clit, your walls clamping down on his digits. His fingers keep thrusting and curling inside of you, finding finding findi— you loudly moan into the air, head thrown back. Found it.
“F-fuck, Satoru, keep them there ‘m so close,” you sob out, thighs tensing up slightly while he continuously hits your g-spot with perfect precision. Your orgasm crashes over you, tiny fireworks exploding in your tummy. “Cumming— cumming.”
He stays down there, lapping up the slick that’s gushing out of you. Cold tongue dipping into your hole alongside his fingers, opening you up even further for him.
You go limp in his hold a minute later, and he finally detaches himself from your mound—lips shiny with spit and your arousal. Then he pulls his fingers from your hole, stringy juices webbing between his fingers when he spreads them, looking at them in wonder, before putting them in his mouth and moaning out at the sweet, sweet taste that’s you.
“Think you’re ready for me, baby?” He stands up already unbuckling his belt, and you have to swallow once you see his bulge. Fuck. He’s ginormous. You shouldn’t be surprised, this guy is seven-feet tall, everything about him is enormous compared to you, but still you can’t help the way your eyes are almost bulging out of your skull.
He pulls out his cock—angry, red tip swollen and glistening with pre—and wraps his fist around it, giving it a few tugs.
“That’s not gonna fit inside of me,” you blurt out, eyes transfixed on where his hand is still wrapped around his dick. He smirks at that, of course he does. He’s probably heard it a million times before, but of course you had to say it.
He leans forward, tip nudging your clit, coating himself in your arousal. “Relax, it’s gonna fit.”
Gulping you lay back slightly, opening your legs even further to accommodate him. He smiles at that, one hand clamping around your waist while the other guides his member towards your entrance. Taking a deep breath in, he pushes inside your fluttering walls.
A high-pitched moan leaves your lips, sweat breaking on your skin. The stretch is unbelievable—your walls fluttering uselessly around him, and this was just the tip. He hisses at the feeling of your walls clamping down on him—yes, actually hisses, fangs on full display. “Fuck, loosen up baby.”
His fingers come down to your sensitive clit, rubbing on it to keep you distracted from the intrusion—not that it helps. He pushes another inch inside of you, and tears are starting to spill down from your eyes, disappearing into your hairline.
Gojo looks at you, blue eyes almost completely black now. He can feel the way his dick twitches when he sees your tears. Leaning forward he balances on one forearm, tongue lapping up your tears, groaning at the salty taste of your tears.
“You’re too big,” you squeal, hand uselessly pushing against his abdomen. He merely presses a kiss to your cheek, then to the corner of your mouth, and finally his lips claim yours, tongue tracing the seam of your sealed lips.
He stays still like that for a little while, letting you get used to the way he’s stretching you out. When he feels you loosen up slightly he pulls his hips back until just his tip remains and pushes back in again, a bit further this time.
You moan out into his mouth, legs wrapping themselves around his waist, and your hands entangle themselves in his hair. “That’s it, knew you could do it.”
With a few more thrusts he finally bottoms out, his hips meeting yours. Tears are flowing free down your face and he has to resist the urge to just bite you with how cute you looked. Fuck, what he wouldn’t do to get a taste of you again—your blood surely much sweeter now.
He looks down, only to grin. Would you look at that. “Look down, sweetheart. See how well you’re taking me?” he grips your chin between his thumb and forefinger and angles your head down. Blinking a few times you look down and—oh! The print of his cock fully visible, bulging your tummy where he’s buried.
“You’re so deep,” you mumble out, slight awe in your voice, only for a broken moan to leave your lips seconds later. Gojo pulls out and thrusts back in, tip smooching your cervix. Again. And again. And again.
A creamy ring starting to circle around his base, balls slapping against your ass with each harsh thrust. Your fingers dig into his shoulders, leaving behind crescent shaped marks. You’re sobbing out into his neck, vision blurring slightly.
“Mhmm, I know.” He presses down onto your stomach where he can feel his own cock through your womb, and it has you keen out even more. Moans and groans and the lewd plap plap plap! of his hips fill the room.
Your legs begin to tremble, cock plummeting in and out of your soppy hole, the squelch it makes has your face heat up, a pretty blush forming on your face as you feel yourself near your second orgasm. After a few more thrusts, you come around him, clear liquid gushing out of you, spraying onto his abdomen, thighs and the sheets below you. Your vision whites out completely while your back arches, mouth forming an ‘o’ that you can’t seem to close.
Satoru hisses when he feels your walls clamp down onto his girth, speeding up his thrusts slightly. “Fuck, lemme cum inside, please.”
Your mind doesn’t register his request at first, too busy trembling around him. It’s only when he starts whining that you take note of his request. “Yes, yes ‘toru. ‘S okay.”
“Shit- need you to say it. Say it out loud for me, pretty,” he pleads with you, his own thighs tensing up slightly. “Y-you can cum inside, S’toru.”
That’s all it takes. He thrusts once more before stilling, his fat tip snug against your cervix while he spills inside of you. Ropes of cum keep coming, emptying his balls inside your greedy cunt completely. His forehead dropping down to yours.
The two of you lay there for a few moments, trying to catch your breath—well, it’s just you who has to catch their breath, but Satoru stays there for you—and calm down slightly.
“Soooo, you need permission to cum inside too, huh?” you giggle at the seven-foot vampire. He just groans, eyes fluttering shut. “Shut up.”
Synopsis: Sung Jinwoo is the highest-ranking hunter and the most powerful human being humanity has ever seen. So is Gojo Satoru. Both cocky, both confident, and both eager for more power, they compete against each other for each gate that seems to get more dangerous the farther and higher they go.
They figure your gate won’t be any different and that you will be the usual big baddie that they need to take care of. Another cog in the system. Until they manage to beat you and find out who you truly are behind your facade. Now the hunters are hellbent on keeping you to themselves. So, what’s another friendly competition? Only this time, the prize is you.
Disclaimer: I own none of the characters mentioned in this fic. However, as this is my writing, I do not give permission for my work to be reposted on any other sites that are not from my own accounts. Thank you!
Writer's Note: Soooo I wrote this fanfic about 2 years ago & decided to revise it cuz I looooved it so much!! I’ve been obsessed with Solo Leveling for a while now since S1 dropped (and I read the manhwa), but NOW?? Season 2 & Jinwoo Sung’s dub VA got me in a fucking chokehold. I implore y’all to watch the show if you haven’t yet.
Then I started thinking “Damn, Jinwoo is cocky af. He reminds me A LOT of Gojo”....so I got this nasty lil idea lol. This might only be 6 chapters tho cuz I didn’t want to make it TOO long. Just enough for plot AND porn. I hope y’all enjoy it! -Jazz
Credits: Divider made by @cursed-carmine!
Chapters: PREFACE. ONE. TWO. THREE. FOUR. FIVE. SIX (END).
PREFACE.
You have faced hunters far bigger and scarier than the two that you have met and have unfortunately become accustomed to.
Men who were brawnier, beefier, and oozed an aggression that only hunters can have.
You have killed most of these men. You’ve felt their bones break just by using your magic and have spilled their blood with your sword. None have made your gate their territory yet.
None of them have been strong enough to weaken you or make you submit to their power…yet.
However, standing between the two hunters–both of them looming over you as their toned bodies press into your front and back, sandwiched between pectorals and big forearms–you have never been more ready to drop to your knees and submit to two people in your life.
Their eyes, both an electric blue simmering with energy and unbridled power, stare down at you, the itty-bitty, shaking, and overstimulated cutie with the pointy ears who was once barking and biting at them moments before.
How did you get here?
Jinwoo takes a hand and gently caresses the back of it down your cheek. You resist the urge to lean your cheek into his touch, his long, piano fingers, calloused from hunting work, exciting you. A slight chuckle leaves his lips, finding humor in the way your body shakes like an autumn leaf ready to fall.
“Oh, you poor little thing,” he tuts. “You’re shivering. Are you scared of us?”
You can feel his powers working on you, tugging the truth out of your mouth despite your willpower screaming for you to stop. However, Jinwoo and his ways are just too strong. He could manipulate the moon to switch places with the sun if he saw fit. “Yes,” you confess against your will.
Jinwoo hums in satisfaction while Gojo softly groans, pressing his groin into your backside so you feel the unmistakable outline of his hard cock. “But you’re also aroused, aren’t you?” Jinwoo asks, his voice low and authoritative. “You want us to take you and fuck every single hole you’ve got, don’t you?”
Your body grows hot and tingly at the dirty, forbidden words leaving his mouth, laced in his soothing, deep voice that seems to make your head swim and your nipples tingle. Speaking of tingling, your pussy has seemed to take the brute of that sensation, positively creaming in your panties that have grown sticky and uncomfortable.
The mingling scents of the two hunters only make matters worse for you. “Y-Yes,” you weakly stammer.
The chortle that escapes Gojo is low and teasing. The epitome of sexy. “I like you vulgar like this, Jin,” he chuckles. “Or maybe that aphrodisiac kiss is doin’ more to me than I–or she–anticipated.”
He runs one of his hands over your arm, grinning when you flinch at his touch. It is as if your skin is being licked with fire. Every little touch seems to burn you.
Jinwoo, who you are very sure can read your mind as well as your body at this point, trails his hand up to cup your jaw. You can only let a tiny, inaudible gasp escape you as his lips ghost across your cheek, his minty breath fanning your face.
Gojo hums in your ear, no doubt teasing you, and you bite your lip to avoid moaning. “Dumb little slut, so desperate to be touched,” he mutters. “Even if that means it’s by the same guys who she was gonna kill just a few moments ago.”
Jinwoo’s hand falls from your cheek, to your dismay, and Gojo’s hand suddenly circles around your shoulder to grip your chin. Not enough to hurt you, but just enough to make you feel the strength in his hand.
“Please,” you whisper. “I’m sorry.” Your eyes tick up to stare into Jinwoo’s, those hooded eyes haunting you even as you look up into them now.
“Awww, sweetie,” Gojo coos, his cock throbbing against your ass, “you make it up to us, no problem.” Hope blooms in your chest like a flower. Maybe, just maybe, they will let you serve them in other raves or missions to prove your worth to them.
“How?” you ask, your voice breathy and small. It’s so seductive to the two hunters.
A smirk stretches across Gojo’s pink lips tinged with snake bites, the blood continuing to rush to his dick and press into you. “Say, Jinwoo…scratch my old proposition out. I just got another idea for a friendly competition.”
The black-haired hunter ticks his hooded, aquamarine eyes from you to his white-haired ‘colleague’. “Well, lay it on me.”
You can practically hear Gojo smiling as his hand snakes down to your neck, gripping your throat. “Whoever can make this cute little whore cum first…” His grip tightens, making you gasp and causing both of the hunters to snigger. “Wins.”
Suddenly, your stomach dips like you’re at the top of a rollercoaster about to go down the hill once Gojo’s new proposition hits your pointed ears.
“Wins what?” you whisper, your eyes growing wide and soft with fear. They couldn’t possibly…
The snow-haired hunter twists you around to face him for once, and the smile on his face scares you more than any monster or God ever could. It is a smile riddled with deviance, wickedness, and a promise of something that you may not like. And he doesn’t care.
ABOUT ME
Hi my name is Maressa, but you can call me Mar. I mainly write for fun and to better my English skills, because English is not my first language. I love reading books, making art and I also love One Piece and HxH.
I want my blog to be a safe space for everyone, so I will not tolerate any kind of discrimination or disrespect here! Keep it friendly please! 💕
Here I will let all the stories/mini series I have written so far. I own all of those and this is my only profile and account. I do not permit my works to be translated or reposted in any other platform.
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??
The fluorescent lights were blinding, and the footsteps and yells of urgent nurses and doctors filled the hospital hall.
But Simon didn’t notice any of it. His mind was like a broken record, repeating everything that happened, every opinion, every argument, every calculated benefit that led to this moment.
You, his wife just by paper, now in an operating room after a horrific break-in accident.
You were stabbed, right in the stomach after a stalker broke into your house and tried to force himself on you.
It all started when you both got married just for the benefits of it. You didn’t know each other before, but you both agreed, as long as it benefited you both.
From the start, you knew he wasn’t an easy person to deal with. Stoic, cold, very hard to read, didn’t talk much, and always kept to himself.
He was a ghost, literally. His name suited him in more ways than one.
So you kept your distance, stayed respectful, and tried your best not to bother him more than he already was.
And for Simon… well, let’s just say he didn’t even care at first. He saw you as nothing more than a woman he was married to on paper, nothing more, nothing less.
He kept his distance too, never bothering to talk, to ask, or even to acknowledge your presence in the house.
You kept observing him, his routine, his mannerisms, his habits, and you felt like he was actually approachable, just not in the usual way. You had to carefully choose your words and actions, and to you, he seemed… broken.
He had that aura about him, like he had endured more than what any normal person should.
He carried it with him in his posture, in the way he moved in silence, in the way he avoided small talk or anything that involved getting to know him.
But he carried it even more in his eyes. God, those eyes. They spoke far more than any word or gesture could.
You felt empathy towards him, and being who you were, you didn’t want him to think that you were a threat or a new irregularity in his life, so you decided to approach him.
At first, it was subtle. Small talk about nonsense, which he always responded to with one-word answers.
Small acts of kindness. Cooking for him, taking care of his things, being attentive and patient, just little things.
But it felt like approaching an injured animal.
You knew you didn’t have to do any of it. You guys were just married on paper anyway. Nothing sensual, nothing intimate, just two people co-existing in a house.
But you didn’t want to feel like a burden, and your intention was simply to turn him into a friend, to become comfortable around each other.
But for Simon, as time passed, each day with a new attempt from you started to annoy him.
He hated it. Every kind and attentive gesture from you made him feel more and more threatened.
Why would she act like this? What does she want from me?
So he started acting rude, distant, and cold.
You didn’t understand why he was acting like this. It wasn’t supposed to backfire on you, but you didn’t stop.
You tried everything you could think of, showed nothing but good intentions, patience, kindness…
Still nothing. Every gesture was met with rejection and rudeness.
So you finally accepted it. You kept your distance, stayed respectful, you even apologized for it.
He didn’t give you any proper answer, and that only made you feel more stupid.
Simon felt relieved. When you stopped, so did the threats.
Days passed as you both co-existed in the house, but the peace didn’t last long before strange things started happening.
Footsteps following you at night in dim streets, shadows disappearing as soon as you looked in their direction.
It happened everywhere you went. The pharmacy, the supermarket, the bank, the park, anywhere.
Someone was stalking you.
You thought it was just in your head, that you were imagining things, being paranoid, and you didn’t tell anyone.
Until one night. Simon was out, God knows where, and you were sitting on the couch eating pizza while watching a series when you noticed a shadow by the window.
You squinted your eyes, blinked quickly, but it didn’t disappear. It stayed there. It was a person.
You felt your heartbeat quicken. You muted the TV and stood up, walking slowly towards the window, and as you got closer, he walked away.
You ran towards the door and stepped outside to check, but he was gone.
Your hands shook violently. Suddenly, the idea of stepping outside felt incredibly stupid, so you ran back in and locked the door, breathing heavily as you did.
So the next day, you finally decided to tell Simon, because seemingly, now he was your only family member.
After a long day of him being at base, you let him rest for a bit. You didn’t want to crowd him the moment he came home.
So when you heard him moving around in his room, you finally built up the courage and walked to him, knocking gently on the door.
It only took a few seconds before he opened it. He was in civilian clothes, and you knew he was leaving again, like he did every night.
You took a deep breath and spoke.
“Hey Simon, can we talk for a moment? Please?” you asked politely.
“What is it?” he replied coldly.
“I, uh… are you going out again tonight?”
“Yeah.” His tone carried finality.
That made you hesitate for a moment, but you kept pushing.
“Can you… can you stay for the night? I don’t feel safe alone,” you asked quietly.
He raised an eyebrow, staring at you, his eyes piercing into yours like you had crossed a line.
“What are you? Ten?” he mocked.
“No… no, it’s just last night I—”
He cut you off. “I’m leaving. I’m not babysitting you. You’re a grown woman.”
With that, he pushed past you and walked towards the door, slamming it shut behind him, scoffing under his breath as he made his way to his car as quickly as he could.
Because why would he stay? When every added second with you made him feel things he had vowed he would never allow himself to feel?
Why would he stay when those eyes of yours made him feel safer than anything he had ever endured?
Why would he stay when your scent lingering around the house made him close his eyes just so his heart could calm down a little?
Why would he stay when your voice made his heart skip a beat every time you spoke to him with that gentle, patient tone?
He couldn’t.
He wouldn’t let his guard down. He wouldn’t let himself accept something so pure as this, because in his world, being soft got you killed. Betrayed. Broken.
And damn you for making him feel soft at all.
So he ran away. He always stayed away from you, wouldn’t come back home until he knew you were asleep. Not because he hated you.
But because he didn’t. And he didn’t know how to deal with it.
But now… when he came back at midnight and saw you on the ground, soaked in your own blood, your face pale from blood loss, he felt like his heart stopped.
So there he was now, sitting in the hospital hallway while they tried to save you, hands stained with your blood, replaying everything he had done to you, every harsh word and gesture meant to make you hate him.
How he ran away when you tried to ask for his protection, not even giving you the time to explain.
And now… regret was useless, because whether they saved you or not, he didn’t think he would ever forgive himself for this.
𝒃lurb ﹕ a 'secret' relationship between a manager and an opposing team's captain doesn't exactly remain secret for long.. ╱ 𝒘𝒄 # 1.3k
— 𝒂uthor's 𝒏ote ﹕ the ushijima version of distraction is here!! oh i love toshi sm ;) this one is shorter than oikawa's hope you don't mind
requested ☆
"why is he looking at l/n-san like she's a particularly difficult math problem?" tanaka whispers, shielding his eyes with his hand as if ushijima's gaze is the sun (theyre indoors..). "it's unsettling. he's trying to psych us out by targeting our managers!"
"maybe he's trying to intimidate our support system," nishinoya hisses back, puffing out his chest and stepping slightly in front of you. "don't worry, l/n! we'll protect you! he might be a very strong, but he hasn't met the power protection of the guardian deity yet!"
you sigh heavily, clicking your pen repeatedly and focusing very hard on your clipboard.
you try to keep your expression neutral. "he's just.. looking, guys. he's a very observant player. focus, come on – we're down by five points and the set is almost over."
tsukishima, however, is even more observant than usual today – and trust me, that's saying something. he leans back against the bench, intelligent eyes darting between you and the giant across the court.
he'd noticed the way your hand trembled slightly when ushijima had stepped up to serve, and he'd definitely noticed the nearly identical sports watches on both your wrists – a brand that was notoriously hard to get in this prefecture.
he hasn't said anything yet, but the smirk playing on his lips suggests he's putting the pieces of a very scandalous puzzle together.
and that's not a good sign.
the whistle blows for a timeout, and the gym goes quiet. as you step forward to hand daichi a water bottle, a large, looming shadow falls over you.
everyone – karasuno and shiratorizawa included – freezes in place. a hush has fallen across the gym.
ushijima wakatoshi had walked across the court, which certainly wasn't allowed. he was so tall that you have to peer up just to see his face, which remained as expressionless as a stone wall.
"y/n," he says. his voice is deep, carrying across the entire gym like he's announcing a royal decree.
"ushijima-san," you reply, your voice cracking slightly as you try to maintain a professional, 'manager to opponent' distance. you widen your eyes suggestively at him, 'ushijima-wakatoshi-you-better-shut-the-fuck-up-right-now'-i-swear-to–
you and your boyfriend had been doing a pretty good job at keeping things on the down low. so why was he acting like this now? "you're, erm, on the wrong side of the net. your coach is staring daggers at you."
but he doesn't move. he doesn't even acknowledge the rest of your team, who are currently staring with a mix of fear and confusion, which isn't exactly surprising since ushijima wakatoshi just walked across the court like it's nothing.
including tanaka and nishinoya. especially tanaka and nishinoya.
instead, ushijima reaches out, and for a terrifying second, tanaka and nishinoya look ready to launch a physical assault to save you – but ushijima merely reaches out and tucks a stray lock of hair behind your ear ever so gently.
"you forgot your lunch on my kitchen counter this morning," he rumbles matter of factly. not a question. "i brought it. it's currently in my gym bag. you should eat it. nutrition is vital for a manager's best performance, and you mentioned you felt off yesterday."
now, we all hear about silence being described in stories all the time, but they can't compare to the one that follows this. you can hear the distant sound of a bird chirping outside because no one in the gym is even breathing.
"kitchen.. counter?" hinata squeaks, tilting his head in confusion. "this.. morning? like.. the morning that happened today?"
tsukishima tuts, rolling his eyes. "no. last year's."
kageyama frowns. "that lunch must be very mouldy then, if it was from last year. l/n-san shouldn't eat it."
"idiot, i was being sarcasti-"
"wait," sugawara says, his eyes intrigued as he looks between your beet red face and ushijima's non expressive one. "you two.. live together? is that what 'kitchen counter' implies? ohoh-"
"our families are neighbors!" you blurt out, trying to save whatever scrap is left. "we've known each other since we were kids!"
ushijima frowns slightly, looking at you with a hint of disapproval. "that is an incomplete and flawed explanation, y/n. we've been in a relationship for fourteen months now. why are you omitting the truth?"
why are you telling the truth? you think sourly, but you're not too mad. in fact..
"it is inefficient to lie when the evidence of our cohabitation – even if only for breakfast somedays – is so apparent." ushijima finishes.
yeah.
"FOURTEEN MONTHS?!" the karasuno bench explodes in a flurry of pure shock.
on the other side of the net, tendou is doubled over laughing, slapping his knee as if saying, 'oh, what a kneeslapper!' "oh, wakatoshi-kun! you're so blunt! look at them, they look like they've seen a ghost! you really know how to kill the vibe, you ju-"
"ushijima-san," daichi says, stepping forward with his left eye twitching uncontrollably. "you can't just.. cross the court and claim our manager during a match."
ushijima turns his gaze to daichi, looking at him with the same interest he might show a mere weed. "i'm not claiming her. she's a person with her own thoughts and has chosen to remain at an underperforming school despite my advice. she should have come to shiratorizawa – the volleyball program here is superior, and the commute would be shorter for us both. it'd allow for twenty more minutes of sleep per day."
he then looked back at you, ignoring the collective gasp (mainly from tanaka and nishinoya) from the karasuno team at the underperforming comment.
"i'll wait by the bus after the match. i have the salmon onigiri your mother made for me to give to you. i also have the sweater you left in my car."
"wakatoshi, go back to your team!" you hiss, pushing at his solid chest with your face red. no use, though. it's like trying to move a brick wall.
"very well," he says, nodding respectfully to kiyoko, who watches with an amused smile.
as he walks back to his side, tendou drapes an arm over his shoulders, whispering something about romantic dominance, while ushijima just looks confused.
the match resumed, but karasuno was a wreck. every time ushijima spiked the ball, tanaka would scream, "GET YOUR HANDS OFF OUR MANAGER, YOU MOUNTAIN!" which only resulted in ushijima looking bewildered because, technically, he wasn't touching you at the moment.
even hinata was distracted, whispering, "ushijima? boyfriend?" every time he rotated to the front.
when the game ends, with shiratorizawa unsurprisingly taking the win, the teams begin to pack up. you're just trying to avoid the interrogation glares from your teammates.
"so," tsukishima drawls, walking past you. "he.. is your boyfriend? i have to say, your taste is… interesting."
"he's very sweet once you get to know him!" you defend, narrowing your eyes at the blond.
just then, the gym doors open. ushijima's standing there, already changed out of his jersey. he's holding a small, insulated lunch bag with a little cat pattern on it – your lunch bag.
"y/n. the rice will get cold," he calls out across the gym.
you sigh, waving a hand to your 'are you guys seeing what i'm seeing' eyed team. "i'll see you guys on monday. don't.. don't make this a thing in the group chat, okay? please."
"it's already a thing!" nishinoya wails as you walk away. hinata nods in agreement. "he stole our manager! how are we supposed to win against a guy who gives our manager salmon onigiri?!"
as you reached ushijima, he takes your bag from you without a word, swinging it over his shoulder alongside his own.
"did you find the match satisfactory?" he asks, looking at you as you walk toward the gates. "your team has improved, though their defensive positioning is still quite erratic."
"it was fine, toshi. a bit dramatic, though, thanks to you."
"i don't understand," he says, looking perplexed as he blinks at you.
"yeah.. don't worry about it."
sooo hope that satisfied you and i'm so sorry you had to wait two whole months 😭🙏🙏 i didn't know what to do for the title so erm
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just people having the assumption that your boyfriend is scrawny and small because he enjoys art and pottery and has a garden he takes diligent care of. and you don't correct them because you know that their reactions to seeing aang is too good to pass up.
when they see aang walk into the room, their attention is immediately drawn to him. it's impossible to not look at him; he's an extremely handsome man who towers over most and you can't look away from that.
so when aang approaches you, joyful like a golden retriever as he hugs you tightly and plants a kiss on your smiling lips, everyone falls quiet.
then you say, a little bit smug:
"this is my boyfriend, aang. y'know, the one who loves art, pottery and gardening."
tags: pseudo-incest, older woman/younger man, no y/n, little brother caleb.
1 | 2 | 3
Your heart skips a beat. What startles you most of all is the casual way Caleb says it, smiling down at you like he just made an off-hand comment about the weather—but that means it’s just harmless, right? When’s the last time you kissed his cheek, anyway? A long time ago. These days you don’t initiate touch as much, and if you do it’s to stroke his hair, or pat his shoulder. Safe.
Maybe he just misses you.
You shift, turning your torso more towards him, and plant a chaste kiss on his cheek. “Good luck tomorrow, baby. Though I know you don’t need luck to win.”
Caleb freezes for a moment. Red blooms over his face along with genuine surprise, and then his brows furrow in concentration. He leans in close to you, his bruised nose almost brushing against yours. The arm around your waist has turned into steel.
“I want another one.”
You adopt Caleb and do your best to raise him right. He has his own ideas about what you should mean to each other.
“Jie, I’m home.”
“Welcome back,” you say, glancing up from your laptop briefly to give Caleb a smile. He toes off his shoes and drops his bag onto his usual chair as he passes you. His hair is freshly wet—he likes to shower after practice, before coming home. “Did you have a good day? How was class?”
“It was fine.” Caleb rounds the table, and you hear the fridge open and close. You take off your glasses and rub your forehead, sighing. Caleb’s warm hands land on your shoulders and squeeze down, thumbs digging into your sorest spot. You groan in bliss. “Work?” he asks while you melt under him.
“Mm-hmm,” you say, eyes closed. “Just trying to finish up before Jake gets here.” You crack one eye open to glance at the oven; dinner will be done in ten.
Caleb clicks his tongue, and for a moment his touch crosses from relaxing to painful. You open your mouth to tell him so, but Caleb beats you to it. He curls around you from behind, leaning down and wrapping his big arms around you. His bicep brushes your chin. He’s filled out so much recently—and at the same time you’ve never seen him leaner. You mourn the baby fat melting off his cheeks, but with how much time he spends in the gym you suppose it’s only natural.
And he seems to like it. Moving his body, browsing recipes. There’s a permanent stack of books on nutritional data on the kitchen counter. The top one of them, the oldest, was a gift from you, and has been lovingly dog-eared and annotated since you first started teaching your little brother his way around the kitchen. At the time it was a means to an end—a way to stop him from hoarding food in his bedroom that would inevitably spoil, or to keep him from overeating at every meal like it would be his last. You didn’t understand, at first. You thought he was just hungry. A growing boy.
But then the accidents kept happening. When you’ve been given what you wanted for so long you’re bound to clutch it tightly, to want to hide it, to squirrel it away, to stuff yourself on it—because who knows when you’ll be able to again? Deprivation rebounds and ricochets off the wall, only to slam into you with the force of a thousand suns eating you away with their light.
Upon this realisation you felt sick yourself—nausea and anger mixed into one stomach-churning cocktail that rose with each time you rubbed Caleb’s back as he heaved on the bathroom floor. Thus the books and the cooking lessons.
If he knows how to make the food himself, you reasoned, maybe he’ll stop being afraid of being deprived from it. Understanding what he’s eating and how it nourishes his body has helped, to the extent that he no longer stuffs himself to the point of being sick, except you sometimes worry that the pendulum has swung a little too far to the opposite direction. Meals are planned into the minute details, down to the decimal; aside from today’s exception you hardly cook anymore. But Caleb says he enjoys, it so you don’t complain. Your little brother has long since surpassed your abilities in the kitchen.
“Jake the jerk,” he huffs next to your ear. “Do you remember last time you cooked for him he said his mom made it better?”
You remember. You try not to grimace even though Caleb can’t see your face, and hope you sound normal when you speak. “And he said sorry for that.”
“Yeah, ‘cause I made him.”
Caleb nuzzles against your cheek, squeezing you tighter in his hug. You indulge him and yourself for a moment before placing a hand on his arm and gently pushing away. “Be nice. Want to help set the table while I clean up?”
Though he loosens his arms Caleb refuses to be pushed away entirely. “You look pretty,” he says. “Is that new?”
You look down, and stiffen slightly when you realise that from Caleb’s vantage point he’s been able to look down your blouse. Not enough to be inappropriate. It’s just a little step up from your normal comfortable-cute datewear in the hopes of smoothing over last week’s fight with Jake. Putting in the proverbial effort he accused you of slacking on. “Yep,” you say casually, and move to stand up from your chair.
It’s hard, sometimes, to find the right balance with Caleb. Kisses on your cheek that linger, long hugs where he presses his whole body against yours. You’re not blind. It’s just that kind of age where he’s naturally more curious, about his body and others’, and you’re the first and closest thing in his vicinity. You try to keep an appropriate distance; hugs are fine. Cheek kisses allowed. But you stop cuddling with him during your movie nights. You don’t let him sleep in your bed anymore; it was a bad habit, anyway, and Caleb runs so hot you always wake up sweating when he does. Maybe you’ve spoiled him a little too much, indulged his more child-like needs for a little too long, but you can’t beat yourself up for it overlong. Caleb has told you very little about what his life was like before he became yours—both in the orphanage and other foster homes. But it’s clear that whatever he’s experienced wasn’t good, and had precious little amounts of the affection he so desperately craves.
What’s the harm in giving a child what it needs? And Caleb is yours—your baby. Your little brother. You’d kill anyone who dares to touch him.
But now that he’s getting closer and closer to adulthood it’s time to let your baby bird leave the nest. There’s so much more to see in the world. It’s bad enough that he insisted he keep living at home while he’s started college—you’ve told him a million times not to worry, that you can afford it, that you’ll be fine on your own—but he wouldn’t budge.
Eventually you left it be. Once Caleb gets something in his head there’s no moving him. You’re hoping that the allure of college life and inconvenience of commuting will eventually naturally make him realise that he’s better off getting a dorm room somewhere.
“There’s going to be a tournament soon,” Caleb says while he puts out plates. “Will you come watch?”
“Oh!” You brighten while you shuffle your work papers into a neat stack. “Of course I’ll come watch. When is it? Let me check my calender.”
“Saturday, two weeks from now,” Caleb says. You tap through your phone.
“So soon, huh? Time really—” you stop short, finger landing on the day in question. It’s the weekend you’re supposed to go to one of Jake’s work dinners. It’s nothing grand, but it’ll look good if you’re there with him—or so he told you. You press your lips together, trying to calculate if you can make it to both; but track and field usually runs late, and these dinner parties always have at least an hour or so of small-talk leading up to them.
“What’s wrong?” Caleb asks. He’s placed the last cutlery on the table, and leans against it while he watches you fiddle with your calender. His face is carefully blank, which you hate. His way of masking his disappointment.
“Nothing,” you say. “Just, um. I had something planned already. Dinner with Jake. But it’s just a work event.” You smile at him, trying to look reassuring. “I’ll be there, baby. Don’t worry. I’ll talk to him.”
Caleb’s face breaks out in a smile, and he opens his mouth to say something—but the bell rings, and you startle. The oven beeps—right on cue—and you hurriedly shove your work things under the coffee table. Jake already complains enough about your overtime. He doesn’t need to know you were working until the last minute till his arrival.
“Hey babe,” Jake says when you open the door. He’s carrying flowers. He presents them with a half-smile, which you return with more than a little relief. That’s a good sign. Looks like he’s ready to move on from your fight, too.
“Hi,” you say, and kiss him while you take the bouquet. “These are for me? They’re gorgeous.” And cliché. You don’t like red roses. But it’s the effort that counts, and flowers are flowers.
“Thought you would,” Jake says, a little smug, and takes off his shoes and jacket. “Smells good in here.”
“Hmm. Me, or the flowers?”
Jake laughs a little, wrapping one arm around your waist. His hand trails lower to squeeze your ass. “Can it be both? You look nice, by the way. Didn’t I say you would if you tried a little—”
“Hi,” Caleb says. He’s standing where the hallway becomes the kitchen, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, and gives Jake a tight smile. Jake stiffens in surprise, and the hand on your ass quickly disappears.
“Ah,” Jake says. “Hey, buddy. I thought you might’ve moved out by now. With college and all.”
“Nope,” Caleb says. He’s still smiling. “No plans of leaving anytime soon.”
There’s an awkward pause. “Food’s as good as ready,” you say, forcing cheer into your voice. “Let me put away the flowers, and then we’ll eat.”
“Good?”
“Better than last time,” Jake winks, and you give him a strained smile. Well, that’s something at least. “Could do with a little more salt, though. Could you—”
“Did you know that just two to four tablespoons of salt can kill you instantly?” Caleb says. You pause, horrified, right when you’re about to take a bite. You kick Caleb’s leg. Behave, you say with your eyes. Caleb smiles, and puts the salt container in front of Jake’s plate. “Help yourself.”
Jake eyes the salt container warily for a few moments before carefully sprinkling a small amount on his food. “You learn that in college?”
“No. I’m studying to become a pilot, not a dietician.”
“And he’s at the top of his class,” you say, both proud and desperate to switch topics. “Even though he’s doing a double major. You know, he showed me the math he does for his physics class—I couldn’t make sense of it at all. Even though I was the one who helped him with his homework when he was little.”
“So you figured you’d keep living at home, huh?” Jake says, and takes another bite. “Must be nice to have a big sister who takes care of everything for you. College isn’t exactly cheap these days, is it?”
This time Jake is the one at the receiving end of your withering stare. He has the conscience to wilt under it a little, and to look away with an uncomfortable expression on his face. As he should. What’s he thinking, picking on a kid?
“I’m on a full scholarship, actually,” Caleb says, and ladles more food onto your plate. He makes sure you get the best of it, fishing out a few bigger pieces of meat to add to your bowl. “I run track and field, and as long as I keep winning medals my sister has nothing to worry about.” He tilts his head, and there’s that smile again. Tight and mirthless, a glazed surface with nothing beyond the outer rind. “There’s a tournament pretty soon, actually. In two weeks. Jiejie always comes to watch me, even though it’s on the weekend.”
Jake frowns, then stiffens. He looks at you. “We have plans on Saturday.”
Fuckkk. Okay. That is not how you had wanted to bring that up. You straighten, lowering your cutlery. “I wanted to talk to you about that.”
Jake stops eating mid-chew. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” he says. He slumps back a little in his seat. “Really? Are you serious? You’re going to cancel last minute for some college students running around?”
“I could do both,” you try. “I wanted to ask if I could maybe get there right when the actual dinner begins? You always spend time walking and talking before then, anyway—”
“Yeah, it’s almost like that’s the whole point of these things.” Jake has abandoned the food on his plate and runs a hand through his hair. “I seriously can’t believe—we agreed that you’d be making more effort. Show up when I need you. And now you’re telling me to go fuck myself, who cares about what you promised? The only thing that matters to you is me me me—”
“Shut the fuck up,” Caleb says sharply. “Don’t talk to my sister like that.”
“Caleb!” you say. “Apologise. Right now.”
Caleb’s jaw tenses. He looks Jake straight in the eye, and says: “Sorry, jie.”
“Not to me,” you despair. You know that Caleb knows what you meant. “Jake—I’m sorry, could you give us a moment—”
“Actually, I think Jake and I should talk.”
Caleb sounds calm as he says so, but there’s something simmering under the surface. Water about to boil over. It’s the kind of restless energy that makes you worry for him. He’s usually so well-behaved, your little brother, polite and obedient, hard-working and admired by his peers, but sometimes there’s a look in his eyes that’s almost angry. You don’t know at what. At you? You’ve asked him. He says no, of course not. He’s not angry, and if he were it wouldn’t be at you. But it hasn’t let you go. It’d alright, if he were angry. There’s scars on his shoulder, round and small and mean, burnt into the delicate thin skin close to the bone. Barely visibly, with the stretch marks from his growth spurts fanning delicately over his back, and even then they’re hidden under his clothes most of the time. But you noticed. It filled you with a viscous rage. Even now you can taste it if you look for it, an acrid undercurrent coating your carefully cooked dishes.
You would welcome it, if he were angry. Perhaps it’s more disconcerting that he isn’t. Instead there’s this restlessness, this almost-flight, an agitation that moves the air. Maybe it’s a mother’s instinct, or a sister’s, or maybe it’s just you, but it makes you want to cradle Caleb in your arms and take everything that he wants to unleash on the world. Just give it to me, you want to tell him. Just take it out on me. If you need to break something with your hands you can break my heart. It’s soft, and will give way easily. For you, it always has.
Jake looks as surprised as you are when Caleb says this, but then one corner of his mouth ticks up. “You know what, buddy? I think you’re right. Man to man, yeah?” He rises from his chair, jerking his head to the hallway. “Let’s step outside for a bit.”
“This is ridiculous,” you say. But Caleb rises too, placing a hand on your shoulder as he does.
“I’ll be right back,” he says. The smile is real this time, directed at you alone, and you instinctively soften.
“But—” you say hesitantly.
“It’s fine, jie. Don’t worry.”
But you do worry. You watch your boyfriend walk out after Caleb. The door smacks shut, and two pairs of feet walk down the stairs leading up to the apartment. You sit there, alone, in your kitchen, everyone’s plates still half-full. You realise you’re still holding your spoon.
“This is ridiculous,” you say again. No one is here to hear it but yourself. You sit back in your chair and wait one minute. Two. Five—
The door swings open, and you step over your apartment’s threshold in your slippers. The sky is still awash with the last of today’s sunset, but the shadows around your apartment complex have already deepened. You can’t see Caleb and Jake immediately, but you can hear their voices from nearby. Or at least—you can hear Jake’s voice. He’s loud and agitated, which sets you on edge. You step down the stairs quickly. One floor, then a turn and down the other:
just in time to see Jake punch Caleb in the face.
For a moment the world stops. The colours of the the sky seep together in your eyes until they mix a dirty, bloody red, and in one blink and the next you’re there, hands seizing Jake by the collar.
“You piece of—”
“He started it!” Jake’s face is contorted in a mix of shock and defensive anger, like he can’t quite believe what just happened either. “He started it—let go of me, listen—”
Caleb is curled over himself, one hand clutching his nose, and when he looks up at you his eyes are watery. Your vision blurs, and you nearly lose yourself to it. “Baby,” you say, shoving Jake to the side. “What happened? Does it hurt? Let me see, come here.”
“Oh, please,” Jake’s indignant voice says from the side. “I didn’t even hit him that hard. He’s—”
“Shut up,” you say. There’s blood dripping down Caleb’s nose. “Shut the fuck up. I swear to God if you don’t shut up and stay put I’ll make sure you spend the night behind bars.” Then, to Caleb: “Where does it hurt? Pinch it here, like this. That’ll make the blood stop. Don’t tilt back your head.”
“My nose,” Caleb says. His voice is nasal and scratchy. “Hurts. And under my eye a bit.”
“He started it,” Jake says again. He sounds rattled. “He was egging me on. He dared me to hit him—I swear, babe. He’s—listen, he’s crazy. You know the shit this kid says about you? He talks about you like he owns you. He told me about one of your ex-boyfriends, that he made sure they never last, and that I wouldn’t be any different because I’m a coward. And then I said, you’re crazy, and I’m not a coward, and then he said that you already have everything you need! Implying himself!”
You stare at Jake. He looks small under the faint glow of your apartment complex’ lamplight. He’s sweating, and his collar is askew from where you grabbed him. “You’re crazy,” you say.
For some reason this is what sets Jake off. Maybe it’s the detached way you say it. Maybe it’s the way you look at him when you do, like you’ve just discovered a dead bug under your pillow, or maybe it’s that this has been brewing for a while. Like it does so often with your boyfriends.
The shock on his face morphs to one of anger, and his lip curls in a sneer.
“I’m—?! You’re joking. You’re joking,” Jake says, and he actually laughs. “What the hell. Are you in on it? Is this your thing? Are you—are you fucking your little brother?” Every muscle goes rigid in your body. What? When Jake realises the only thing you’re giving him is silent, angry confusion, he deflates a little, but his anger doesn’t diminish. “I looked at your phone. I know the kind of shit he sends you. The selfies—and you save them. In your camera roll, there’s tons of—shirtless things. Thirst traps. You know.” Jake waves his hand irritably. “You know what I mean.”
“I—what? Shirtless—?” You’re at a loss for a moment, and it must show on your face, because Jake’s cheeks flush. “You mean gym photos? Or from track and field? You think those are thirst traps? From a—Caleb’s still just a kid. Are you out of your mind?”
“They—that’s what they looked like!” he sputters. “And you saved them, anyway—why else would you do that?”
“Because my phone is set to save—that’s not the point. You went through my phone!” you say, equal parts angry and horrified. “What the fuck, Jake!”
“I had to!” he says. “You get so—you’re so distant sometimes! I can’t get a hold of you, and you keep blowing me off, and I just thought there was someone else. I wanted to make sure.”
“Thanks,” you say, seething. “For the vote of confidence. You didn’t think talking about it would help? I can’t believe—I hardly have the time to get a good night’s sleep. Let alone for a—a sidepiece—”
“Then why are you even with me at all!” Jake says bitterly. His voice keeps rising, and this time there’s something brittle about it. “If you don’t have time for me anyway!” He looks away and swallows. “I’m not asking for much, you know that, right? Any other girl would be glad I put up with her bullshit as long as I have with yours, but all you do is take it for granted. And don’t you give me the—try talking to you about it? When it always becomes a fight?”
“That’s not true,” you say, cheeks heating. It is kind of true. Serious conversations with Jake do, most of the time, lead to arguments. You’ve just kind of instinctively started to avoid them. Keeping the peace is better than letting him yell at you.
“It is! You know it is! And you know why that happens? Because you don’t compromise. It’s your way or the fucking highway. Your shit always comes first. Which—it’s not normal. You know that, right? That it’s not normal? Your little brother—he’s not even your real brother! But he’s fucked in the head. The way he looks at you, or how he clings to you—I didn’t say anything, ‘cause I just thought he was like that. But no one sends his sister a photo where you can see his dick through his sweatpa—”
You smack him. Hard. Jake’s head swivels all the way to the side, and he stumbles back. Your palm tingles with the pulse of your heartbeat. “If you ever touch my brother again I’ll kill you,” you say. You note distantly that you’re breathing hard. “I’ll send you your stuff. This is over.”
You turn around. Caleb’s still standing there, watching the scene unfold passively. You grab his hand as you walk by him, tugging him to follow you up the stairs. Back home. He goes easily. His fingers thread through yours even though you know you must be squeezing him to the point of pain, but he doesn’t say anything. He just lets you lead him.
Only when the door closes behind you does he speak.
“Jie,” he says gently. “Don’t cry.”
“I’m not crying,” you say. You’re crying. You can feel the tears trickle over your cheeks. “Sit down. I’m getting the first aid kit.”
You furiously wipe at your face in that brief moment of privacy and force yourself to get it together. You’re fine. It’s Caleb that’s hurting. Jake punched him. He punched Caleb. You want to kill him. You want to go out and punch him until he’s bleeding too, until he cries, until something snaps, until it drips red and thick out of him until it stains the earth. You clean the smear of it off Caleb’s mouth and chin. “Keep leaning forward,” you tell Caleb. The bleeding has stopped, and you inspect his nose with gentle, careful fingers. “Does that hurt?”
“It’s sore,” he admits.
“I bet.” You wrap an ice-pack in a towel and hand it to him. “Hold this to your face. Carefully. Does your head hurt? Ringing ears, feeling dizzy?”
Caleb shakes his head. “I’m fine. My nose just hurts.”
“If it gets worse you’ll let me know, okay? Can you promise me?” You look your little brother in the eyes. “Even if it’s the middle of the night. It doesn’t matter.”
“I promise, jie. I’m fine. It just hurts.”
“Okay. Okay.” You let out a trembling breth. “I’m so sorry, baby. I’m so sorry. I never should have—I’m so sorry for letting that happen. You’re going to be okay. It doesn’t look crooked. You’re still just as handsome.”
“I’m sorry for ruining dinner,” Caleb says, smothered from behind the ice-pick, and you nearly start crying all over again.
“It’s not your fault. None of this is your fault, okay? Oh—just look at this… Should we go to the ER after all?”
“Jie,” Caleb says. His free hand has caught yours. He squeezes it. He’s so warm. “I’m okay.”
“Of course you are,” you say. “Of course. I’m sorry.” You feel a little dizzy suddenly. Adrenaline catching up with you. You grab a chair and drag it over, across from where Caleb’s sitting. It’s a relief to sit down even when your body is still shaking somewhat. Anger and shock and a sickening, gnawing feeling in your stomach. “What Jake said earlier,” you say, very seriously, “was because he was feeling threatened, and insecure, and paranoid. Which I should’ve seen earlier, that he was feeling that way. I’m sorry I didn’t. But that has nothing to do with you. Do you understand? He was just using you as a scapegoat for those feelings. I would never,” you squeeze Caleb’s free hand, “I would never use you like that. With the photos, or… Or the other things he said. I’d never do that. You’re always safe with me. Okay? Do you believe that?”
The ice-pack partly hides Caleb’s face, but somehow he looks bitter. Upset that he got hit, of course. Maybe disappointed, too. That he had to hear these accusations flung at his big sister, or that your taste in men is consistently awful, or both. He doesn’t meet your eyes. “I know. I understand.”
The iron grip of anxiety on your heart eases slightly. “Okay. You’ll let me know if you want to talk about it more?”
Caleb shrugs a little. “Jake’s an asshole.” Like that explains everything. You wish it would. You worry that some of the things your now ex-boyfriend said have a hint of truth in them. Maybe you really didn’t allow for any compromises. Got too caught up in your own life, and didn’t pay enough attention to Jake’s. But it’s not because you didn’t care. You do care. You do—it’s just that between work and sleep and chores there’s so little time left, and when it comes to your little brother and your boyfriend the former will win, every time. You told Jake that, when you first started dating. You said he could think of you a single mom, that your baby would always come first, and he joked that he’d always been into MILFs. You remember laughing.
How could he say that you and Caleb were—
“Okay. Yes. He’s a huge asshole. I can’t believe he hit you…” You look under the ice-pack aside, and click your tongue. The bruise is already starting to form. “What really happened? Were the things he said—” true? you want to ask. But you hesitate. You don’t want to believe it could be true. No way. Not your baby. He’d never say that. And your previous boyfriends—that’s not Caleb’s fault either. It’s just yours. “What happened?” you ask again instead.
Caleb shrugs again. “I didn’t really say anything. Just that I didn’t like the way he spoke to you, and he got angry. He started yelling about that you were none of my business.” Caleb’s mouth tightens. “But you are my business.”
You sigh. “You don’t have to stand up for me, baby. Okay? Your big sister can handle herself. I’m real strong.”
“I’m stronger,” Caleb huffs, and you finally smile a little. The absurdity of the situation—sitting here with an ice-pack to his face, just having been hit by your boyfriend—ex-boyfriend, now—after everything that just happened—your little brother is still just as stubborn and just as competitive.
“I know you are,” you say, and Caleb smiles too. “I know. But let jie handle this, okay? You don’t have to worry about me. You just focus on school. And keeping that icepack on your nose.”
You look at all the food remaining on the table, now gone cold, and your shoulders sag a little. You’re going to be eating leftovers for days. You stand up from your chair, intending to start putting things away and cleaning up to the kitchen, but Caleb hooks his pinky around yours before you can leave. “I love you, jie.”
You squeeze your finger. “Love you more.”
Two weeks fly by. You go through the motions of post-break-up blues: you spend long hours on the phone with Tara and Simone, which results in both tears from upset and tears from laughter; you clean out your closet, tossing out Jake’s stuff he left lying about in a cardboard box; and you re-watch your favourite historical romance movies. With Caleb, of course. It’s like he knows that you’re weaker to his requests to cuddle during this time. It doesn’t even take much; he just sits down next to you, wraps his arms around you, and drags you onto his lap. You halfheartedly scold him, and then stay put exactly where you are. A terrible example.
Just this once, you tell yourself, and then once becomes every time. But you miss touch more than you thought you would, which is a guilty sort of realisation. Jake’s words echo in your head. Why are you even with me at all? Just for a warm body? For someone that feels comfortable and familiar, and who you can trust to see you as you are without recoiling?
But it’s the longest a relationship of yours has lasted. Together for over a year. Jake’s anniversary surprise had to be rescheduled because Caleb got sick, but still. He was nice about it at the time. He had a bit of a temper, but he was also easy-going, and though he yelled at you in his outbursts he was also quick to apologise.
Speaking of which—
Your phone buzzes on the coffee table. When you lean forward to get it Caleb’s arm around your waist loosens to let you, but stays anchored by splaying his wide palm across your stomach. It’s only for a moment, but he’s so warm that it gives you a strange rush of butterflies—then you’re already leaning back against him, and Caleb’s arm slots neatly back into place where it was before. You rest your head against his shoulder while you swipe to see who texted you. Today’s movie plays quietly in the background; the female lead is wandering around in a mansion filled with marble statues, pausing before each one with a pensive look on her face.
Jake 19:07
srry about what happened
can we talk?
“Who is it?” Caleb asks. He turns his head, cheek pressing against your temple, as he reads over your shoulder. “Ew,” he says with real disgust. “Why are you still texting him? I thought you blocked his number. Should I block it for you now?”
Without waiting for a reply Caleb promptly plucks your phone from your hands.
“Hey, give that—”
You grab for it, but Caleb simply lifts his arm above his head. The one around your waist squeezes you flush against him to hold you in place. “You’re not getting back together, right?”
You look at your little brother with a scowl, but it melts away when you see the faint bruising around his nose bridge. It bleeds into under his left eye. It’s faint now, but a week ago it was a nasty dark purple. “Of course not. He probably just wants to come pick up this things.”
“You should’ve just thrown it all out,” Caleb sniffs. But he lowers his arm, and you quickly snatch your phone from his hand. “When is he coming? I’ll make sure I’m home.”
“You don’t have to do that,” you say, but you’re touched. You might have been with Jake the longest, but his was also the ugliest break-up you’ve experienced. It’s not the first time one of your exes has expressed annoyance or discomfort about Caleb, but never like this. No one’s ever hit him, or outright told you that he’s messed up in the head, or accused you of…
Well. Point is, you’re not in a hurry to see Jake again. Especially not alone.
“Duh, ‘course I do. Want me to ask Gid to come too? You won’t even have to see jerkface.”
“Gideon is always welcome,” you smile. “But it’s okay. I’ll deal with him myself. Besides,” you tap Caleb arm with your phone, “you’ve got other things to worry about. Are you all set for tomorrow? Need me to help with anything?”
“No, I got it. Oh, but—will you put my knee braces on for me? Before the tournament starts?”
You raise an eyebrow and look up at your brother. “Forgot how to do it yourself?”
Caleb smiles. “Yep. You gotta help me out, jie.”
That makes you laugh. “Dummy. Sure. I’ll do it. Is it like a good luck thing?”
“Something like that. If you really wanted to give me good luck I want a kiss too.”
Your heart skips a beat. What startles you most of all is the casual way Caleb says it, smiling down at you like he just made an off-hand comment about the weather—but that means it’s just harmless, right? When’s the last time you kissed his cheek, anyway? A long time ago. These days you don’t initiate touch as much, and if you do it’s to stroke his hair, or pat his shoulder. Safe.
Maybe he just misses you.
You shift, turning your torso more towards him, and plant a chaste kiss on his cheek. “Good luck tomorrow, baby. Though I know you don’t need luck to win.”
Caleb freezes for a moment. Red blooms over his face along with genuine surprise, and then his brows furrow in concentration. He leans in close to you, his bruised nose almost brushing against yours. The arm around your waist has turned into steel.
“I want another one.”
“Wh—” Your proximity is making you flush, too, and you push against his chest. “Since when are you so greedy? That’s all you’re getting.” You pointedly turn away from him, back to the movie you haven’t been paying attention to. Caleb makes a small sound of dismay in the back of his throat, and his hand squeezes you before begrudgingly settling back into your previous cuddling position. Even without looking at him you can tell he’s sulking.
“If I’m greedy it’s your fault. You raised me to be like this.”
You laugh. “Sure, sure. It’s my fault. I’ll make sure to be extra strict from now on.” You halfheartedly begin extracting yourself from Caleb’s arms, but the second he understands what you’re doing he wraps both arms around you and throws one leg over your thighs.
“Stop it,” he scowls. “It’s already too late for me, anyway.”
You smile a little, placing one hand over Caleb’s thigh. He’s so strong. His legs pump so fast when he runs, a blur in the wind, the sun in his eyes illuminating them to a brilliant, violent purple that scatters over the track field as he goes. “It’s not too late for anything,” you say. “You’ve got the whole world ahead of you. You’ll see.”
It’s a wonderful thing. Bittersweet. Three years he’s been yours, going on four, but it feels like it’s always been this way. You and your little brother. They’ve been the best and happiest years of your life. The most challenging and the most rewarding—to see him grow into such a handsome, wonderful young man; to see him work hard and excel, and to know that you were able to give him what he needed to thrive. Your pride and joy. You want him to believe it, that the whole world is his to take. Anything he wants.
You must know, the male lead says on the screen, surely you must know, it was all for you.
“Caleb,” you say after a while of watching the movie. He turns his head to you. “I meant to ask. Are you still bothered by what Jake said? About the…” The thirst traps. Somehow you just can’t bring yourself to say it. “…the photos. You haven’t sent me any since—well, since Jake was here. And you don’t have to,” you add quickly. “I was just wondering. If everything was okay.”
“You wanna see my photos?” Caleb has lit up, and you fight to keep the smile off your face. His joy has always been so infectious, and when he grins wide, his one sharp little tooth slipping over his lower lip, it’s especially hard not to join him. You talked him out of getting it fixed two years ago. You couldn’t bear it if you never heard his slight lisp again. It didn’t take much effort; you said you thought it looked cute the way it does now, and he never brought it up again. “You should’ve just said so, jie. I took lots. You wanna see now?”
“Sure,” you laugh. Caleb fishes his phone out of his pocket and swipes the lockscreen. It’s a photo of you, which always makes you feel a little strange and mushy inside. He opens his photos app and scrolls through a bunch of lecture notes, screenshots of powerpoint presentations, and for a second you think that’s you in there, or at the least that looks like your hair and back, but you blink and it’s gone. Caleb’s hand has curled around the other side of your waist, thumb brushing just under your boob. You’re about to adjust your position when he slows his scroll. On the screen his naked chest comes into view.
“Got my personal best here,” he says proudly. The Caleb in the photo is sitting on a machine, grinning at the camera. It’s a little hard to see the numbers on the weights, but there are a lot of them. He’s sweaty and flushed; it looks like he took his shirt off halfway through to mop it from his forehead, because his hair is mussed. He swipes through the photos slowly, telling you about them as he goes; this was track from two days ago, here he’s doing warmups, this is from a new regimen he’s been trying at the gym. You listen and nod, understanding most but not everything he says about reps and weights and intervals, and watch Caleb swipe through his selfies. He’s looking into the camera in most of them, usually held up from above his head so you can see his pecs and abs, and in some of them you can see Gideon and Patrick making a silly face in the background. He pauses on one that’s taken from where he’s holding his phone in his lap, because he’s looking down, and you can see—
No one sends his sister a photo where you can see his dick through his sweatpants.
You bite the inside of your cheek and keep your eyes on Caleb’s face. An accident. It happens. It’s more visibly noticeable with grey sweatpants too, which Caleb seems to prefer wearing.
Not a big deal.
It’s not the first time, anyway. But back then you’d just dismissed it and moved on. Now Jake’s voice is still fresh in your head, which makes you overly conscious—too aware of Caleb’s body, which he seems so impatiently set on shedding of its boyishness. In such a rush to grow up already.
The film credits roll. “Looks like you’re doing great,” you tell him, and Caleb preens. “Just don’t overdo it, okay? No rushing through your warm-ups or cool-downs either.”
“Yes ma’am.” Caleb clicks his phone off and puts it back in his pocket. “I didn’t send you anything lately ‘cause I thought you might feel weird about it now. Because of jerkface.”
So that’s what it was after all. You soften and pat Caleb’s leg to signal you’re getting up. “Don’t worry about that, okay? I always want to know what you’re doing and how training’s going. You can just forget what he said.” You stretch and eye the dishes that are waiting for you in the sink. “I’m going to clean up a bit. Are you taking a bath tonight?”
“I’ll do it,” Caleb says, and rises. He places his hands on your hips as he moves past you, but instead of gently nudging you aside to make room for him it’s almost like he does it to achieve the opposite; his whole body brushes against yours, young and big and strong, and for just a moment there’s a man in your living room, not a boy, and you feel a strange zing in your lower stomach.
Then he steps forward, and the moment vanishes. You follow him to the kitchen. “It’s my turn today. Why don’t you—”
“It’s fine,” Caleb says. He turns on the tap, cutlery clattering under the rush of water. “You had a long day, right? I’ll take care of the rest.”
You shake your head and join him at the kitchen counter, grabbing a clean towel to dry off whatever he’s washed. “College isn’t enough?” you tease him. “You’re studying to be a husband, too?”
Caleb laughs. He keeps his eyes on the soapy water, but the tips of his ears betray him. “Sure. As long as you’re my instructor, jie.” He hands you another dripping plate and smiles. “Am I doing a good job?”
“What kind of reward will you ask for if I say yes?”
Caleb turns off the water. Bent over the sink like this he can look up at you through his lashes—thick and beautiful, a dark frame around his eyes that makes the violet shine even brighter. The DAA heartthrob, you’ve heard Gideon call him. “Hearing you say it is enough.”
Someday he’s going to make someone very happy. You smile, a little wistful, and pet Caleb’s head. He leans into it like he always does, nuzzling the soft strands against your palm. It’s grown quite a bit since you last cut it, brushing past his brows. You should give him a trim soon. “You’re doing a fine job, my star pupil. Keep it up and you’ll really become a great husband someday.”
Caleb makes a low sound in his throat, pleased. He grabs your hand, ruffling it over his head, then brings it to his mouth to lick a flat broad stripe over your palm. His eyes, dark and heavy, bore into yours. It takes a second for you to catch up with reality, caught in the path of his light, but when it does you jerk away from him with a jolt.
He laughs while you smack his arm in retaliation. “Guh—Caleb, gross!”
Hello. This is a sideblog all about Love and Deepspace, with a heavy dose of Sylus. I write fanfiction about lads so if you have an ao3 account, you can find me on ao3 under the pseudonym little bomb (formerly infiltraitorN7). My inbox is open and I love to hear from readers and lads fans, but I don't have notifications on to preserve my sanity, so responses may be not be immediate. I follow from @escargoated so if you see a shrimp in your notifs just ignore them. A masterlist of the fic I've posted so far is below if you're interested.
Caleb
For a long, long time
wholesome apple boy series (completed)
Sylus
Oneshots:
The river
The holiday party
The game
The jog
control
Sylus Qin, Girl Dad
Creature Feature with Sylus Qin
Good Boy
The dress part 1 | The dress part 2 | ao3 version of The dress, both parts
hook, line, sinker
a soft landing
here be dragons
the intruder part 1 | part 2
father figure series, an innocent birdcage re-write: (ongoing)
a kiss with a fist
if you could only see the beast you’ve made of me
gone are the days of begging, the days of theft
montage of lost things, shining trinkets of grief, you made me climb and then you shut the gate
The Sylus Series (In which Sylus...)(completed)
Zayne
there but for the grace of god
Lastly, I love receiving comments and feedback on what I write and share, so please feel free to say hi and send asks and yell at me in tags. However, please don't feed my writing to any AI or LLM programs or plagiarize it.
Now imagine golden retriever!reader who joins the 141, and clearly doesn't fit in, right?
You're everything people think of when they picture a golden retriever hybrid, full of energy and joy. You always seem to have your ears perked up for something, even mundane stuff makes you smile.
Your tail seems to constantly thump against the mats when you spar with johnny, treating it as more like a play-fight. Afternoon range-practice is met with excited barks when you place a solid round with gaz. You seem far too happy to resource logistics with ghost, following him through the halls like a lost puppy. Even price, you can't hid your excitement with, practically vibrating with energy whenever you get your new schedule.
It all paints a...concerning picture. You have skill, thats undoubted, but...do you have the mental ability needed? You seem better fit to socialize and play with the recruits, not trudge through battlefields and slit throats, you're a golden retriever after all.
The thing is, golden retrievers are made for the hunt, bred for it.
A fact the team becomes uncomfortably aware of when you tag along to retrieve a target alive. You're stood on point with price and gaz, tail wagging viciously and all too happy in the middle of the woods.
The second price clears the team to move, you shoot far ahead at a sprint. Ghost swears over comms, tries to yell at you to join back, but you only huff in dismissal.
Two hours later, far too fast, the team is staring in shock at the target in front of them. The target, who is currently bloodied and bruised to hell. One of his arms sits at an odd angle.
"You said I could hurt him!" You comment cheerfully, tail still wagging. There's a concerning amount of blood dripping down your chin and covering your gear. "Look! He's still conscious!"
You say it like you're arguing over points with gaz, or trying to get a compliment out of ghost. All while being covered in blood from a task done more efficiently than the others could have.
Dark Male! Charlotte La Bouff x childhood friend Reader x Slightly Male! Tiana
The night you first told Tiano you'd love him till the river ran backward, except you didn't say it like that, because you were eight years old and what you actually said was:
"I'm gonna marry the best man in all New Orleans."
And Tiano, ten and already too serious for his britches, didn't even look up from the pot he was stirring on his mama's stove, just a little kitchen stool dragged over so he could reach.
"Then you best learn to like waitin'," he stated. "On account of the best cook in New Orleans ain't gonna have time for foolishness."
"It ain't foolishness." You'd stomped your foot. "It's a wish."
"Wishin' on stars." He'd shaken his head, ladling a taste, blowing on it, frowning the way his daddy frowned.
"My daddy says you can wish all you want, but you gotta dig in an' do the work too. Here." And he had held the spoon out across the little kitchen, steam curling up between you.
"Tell me what it needs."
You'd tasted it. Gumbo, thin and over-salted and the best thing your tongue ever met.
"It's perfect," you breathed.
And Tiano had smiled, that rare, slow, hard-won smile that you had spend the rest of your life chasing like a fool chases the morning star.
"Naw," he said. "But it's gettin' there."
⭒────𓆏𓆏𓆏────⭒
Twenty years didn't change Tiano much. He got taller, got two jobs and dreams of a third, and has a restaurant of his own, a sign with his mama's name on it, a place where the whole world could come sit down and be fed.
What twenty years did change was you, because the went and turned itself into something that kept you up nights.
You only ever told one living soul.
"Tiano?" Charlie La Bouff near about dropped his teacup, while his golden curls bounced، a laugh that could rattle the chandeliers clear across the parish escaped his lips.
"Sugar, you been holdin' out on me! Oh, this is just the most romantic thing I ever heard, and I have heard plenty, on account of I read three romance novels a week!"
"Hush, Charlie, somebody'll hear you." You'd twisted your handkerchief into a knot. "I need a favor. A real one. You're his friend, he trusts you. I want you to put in a good word. Tell him how I feel. I can't get the words out my own mouth, I just go all to pieces."
And for one half of one heartbeat, Charlie La Bouff went quiet for a while.
You should have seen it. Lord, you should have seen it, the way his eyes went cold and thoughtful, the way a card sharp looks at a hand he means to win. But then the sunshine came pouring right back into his face and he clasped both your hands in his.
"Why, of course I will." He squeezed. "You leave it all to Charlie. We are gonna get you your heart's desire, and that is a promise. Cross my heart and hope to wear last season's gloves."
You laughed as you believed him.
That was your first mistake. And surely It was not your last.
⭒────𓆏𓆏𓆏────⭒
Charlie came back two days later with a face full of trouble he was pretending to be sorry about.
"Oh, sugar." He sat you down. He took your hands again Charlie was forever taking your hands. "I talked to him. I did. And I want you to be brave now, you hear?"
Your stomach dropped clean through the floorboards.
"What'd he say?"
"He said..." Charlie sighed, big and theatrical, dabbing at a dry eye. "He said he cares for you. Awful much. As a friend. Said you two been pals since you were knee-high and he just can't see it any other way, and he'd hate to lose you over it." He patted your knee.
"He's married to that kitchen, darlin'. You said so your own self when you were children. Some men just don't have room*."
It was so close to true that it cut clean to the bone. You'd heard Tiano say it, 'the best cook in New Orleans ain't gonna have time for foolishness' and here was the proof, twenty years come due.
"But!" Charlie brightened, snapping his fan open. "I have got just the thing to mend a broken heart, and her name is Naveen."
"Charlie —"
"Princess Naveen of Maldonia! Visitin' for the whole season, and oh, she is a vision, all dark eyes and that accent that goes right through you. My daddy's throwin' a masquerade and you are going, you are gonna speak with her and dance with me, you are gonna forget all about kitchens and good words and feelin' sorry for yourself." He hauled you up by both hands.
"Trust Charlie. Charlie always knows best about love."
"You don't think I oughta just talk to Tiano myself? Just to be sure."
"And humiliate the poor man twice?" Charlie pressed a hand to his chest, scandalized. "After he was so gentle about it? Sugar, no. That's cruel. You wouldn't want to be cruel, would you?"
"...No."
"Course you wouldn't. You've got too good a heart." He smiled. "Now let's go find you a dress."
So you never asked Tiano. Charlie made sure of it, at every supper, every dance, every time you so much as drifted toward the kitchen door, there was Charlie, pink and persistent, hooking your arm and steering you off toward him.
⭒────𓆏𓆏𓆏────⭒
Princess Naveen was everything Charlie promised and the worst luck you ever had, because she was wonderful, and that made it impossible to hate her.
She swept into New Orleans on a cloud of trouble, there was a story there, something about a spell and a swamp and a kiss that went sideways, too strange to repeat in polite company, and by the end of it all, she had hung her whole golden heart on a working man with flour on his apron.
"You know what I like about him?" she'd told the whole party at the wedding, lazy and radiant, lifting her glass toward Tiano.
"He does not want anything from me. Everybody wants something from a princess. Tiano, he just wants to feed people. To build the thing he dreamed. I have done many foolish things in my life," and her voice had gone soft, "But loving this man is the only one I would do again, and again, a thousand times again."
And Tiano, your Tiano, had looked at her like she was the last star left in the sky.
You stood in the back of the church in the dress you had sewn yourself, and you clapped till your hands stung, while you smiled so hard your face ached, and not one living soul knew that you were dying.
Charlie found you afterward, by the punch bowl. He pressed a glass into your hand.
"Don't you fret now, sugar," he murmured, and there was something almost tender in it. "Some folks just aren't meant for each other. But you've always got me."
You told yourself that was kindness.
It wasn't.
It was just a down payment.
⭒────𓆏𓆏𓆏────⭒
Grief is patient. And so was Charlie.
He was there with flowers and that big laugh that filled a room so full there wasn't space left over for sorrow. His daddy, Big Daddy La Bouff, wept happy tears.
The whole city threw a party that lasted three days. You wore white and told yourself this was a fine kind of love, a comfortable kind, the kind a sensible person ought to be grateful for.
"You won't regret it!" Big Daddy had sobbed, hugging you till your ribs creaked. "Charlie's been sweet on you years. Years! Couldn't make that boy so much as glance at another soul!"
Indeed, Charlie was a wonderful husband for two whole years.
He had brought you many gifts, expensive jewelry, fine dresses, and even handmade crafts bearing both your names, fashioned for memory.
Never once had you felt bored in his company, for he was a boundless thing, restless and bright with energy.
But, at the same time, you had not noticed the ugly glares he cast at any man who drew too close, nor how he would humiliate those same men before a crowd, dragging their pasts into the open air like weapons.
At least he had never struck you, never treated you the way most men treated their wives in that era.
⭒────𓆏𓆏𓆏────⭒
Yet Charlie's lies, unfortunately for him, didn't last.
You learned it on an ordinary Tuesday, at Tiano's Palace, the restaurant Tiano finally built, named for a fool nickname Naveen had given him that he'd never had the heart to scrape off the sign.
You'd come to fetch Charlie, who was holding court at the best table. Tiano caught your elbow by the kitchen door, wiping his hands on his apron, that old, old gesture, and your fool heart did its old, old thing.
"Can I ask you somethin'?" His brow was furrowed. "Been eatin' at me a long while. Years, if I'm honest, an' I don't say things twice so listen good." He lowered his voice.
"Back before the princess. Before any of it. You an' me, we were close as anything. An' then one day Charlie come to me, said you'd told him plain you only saw me as a friend. That I oughta quit moonin' an' leave you be." His eyes look into yours.
"Was that true? You ever say that?"
"He told you what?" Your voice cracked in shock.
"Tiano...I went to Charlie. I asked him to match us. To tell you how I felt, 'cause I couldn't get the words out myself. He came back an' said you didn't want me. As a friend, he said. Just a friend."
"He told me you wanted nothin' to do with me," you exclaimed. "And he told you I only wanted a friend. Same lie, just turned 'round backward, so we'd never go lookin' at each other again."
"Aw, hell," Tiano said softly, as he pressed the heel of his hand to his eyes. "He's the one steered me at Naveen. Told me she is my true love, and assured me I'd be a fool to say no." A bitter breath left the young man.
"An' I believed him. Figured you'd already turned me down, so what was the harm? I named my whole restaurant off a joke that woman made, 'cause I couldn't stand to name it the thing I wanted to."
You couldn't breathe. "Which was?"
Tiano didn't answer, because he didn't have to. He just looked at you twenty years of it sitting in his eyes, and that was answer enough to break a body in two.
"He did it on purpose," you said, and the fury came up your spine like floodwater. "I handed him my whole heart an' asked him to carry it 'cross the room, an' he threw it in the river. Then he stood there two more years catchin' the pieces."
"Then I reckon," Tiano said, low and steady and principled as bedrock, "you got somethin' to say to your husband."
⭒────𓆏𓆏𓆏────⭒
You came home to be met with the sight of your husband peeling an orange in the big parlor, humming to himself like a man without one care in all the world.
"You ruined it," You snapped "I asked you to match me with Tiano. I trusted you with the realest thing I ever felt. An' you went an' told him I only wanted a friend, an' you told me he said the same, then you shoved him at Naveen so there'd be no chance left at all. You did it all. From the very first day."
Charlie did not look up from his orange.
"Mm," he said. "Took you long enough, sugar."
The whole room dropped cold.
"I want a divorce, Charlie."
He finally looked at you.
And the strangest thing happened to his face. The sunshine drained right out of it, not into anger, that would've been a mercy. But into something worse.
"Now, sugar." He set the silver knife down with a soft little click sound. "You don't mean that. You're upset, an' that's all right, I forgive you. Lord knows I've had practice." He rose, unhurried, and crossed the floor.
"You wanna know the funny thing? You came to me. You did. Walked right up an' asked me to hand you over to another man. An' I thought, well, now. Why would I go an' do a foolish thing like that?"
"Perhaps because I asked you to do so!"
"You asked me to give you away!" The laugh came, but cold now, nothing like the chandelier-rattler you'd loved.
"An' I am not in the habit of givin' away things I want, sugar. Never have been. Ask my daddy. I see a thing I like, I get it, an' I do not share."
"You stole my whole life."
"I cleared the table for myself!" He spread his hands, elegant, reasonable, monstrous in his reasonableness.
"Tiano would've made you second to a soup pot, I just made sure he never came knockin', an' I steered him off at that princess so he'd be good an' married to clean out the way."
He took your face in both hands, gentle as anything, and you felt the gentleness for the cage it was.
"An' I would do every lick of it again. Twice."
"Let go of me."
"You're not listenin'." Soft. Smiling. His thumb tracing your cheek, his eyes not blinking once.
"There ain't a lawyer in this parish my daddy don't own. There ain't a door in all New Orleans I won't have locked 'fore you reach it. You go on an' ask me for your divorce, sugar. Ask me a hundred times. I will smile, an' I will say no," He leaned in close, and the whisper that came out was the truest thing he'd said in years.
"I waited half my life to have you to myself. You really think I'd let a little thing like the truth take you off me now?"
At that moment you remember what he said to you, after the wedding.
'You wished on a star,' Charlie had reminded you on your wedding night, 'and look, here I am.'
It made you realise that the moment Charlie eavesdropped on you both, is the moment that sealed your fate.
description: you grew up alongside the winchester boys, usually stuck babysitting them while your dads were off hunting. sam was sweet, dean was a menace, and somehow you survived both. years later, bobby calls you in to help with a case...and dean winchester is still just as much trouble as you remember.
pairing: dean winchester x hunter!reader (fem!reader)
tags: dean winchester x you, no y/n, childhood friends to lovers, shared history, childhood crush, sexual tension, bickering as a love language, backseat of the impala, hunter family lore, "our dads thought we'd get married", fluff and smut, season 1-3 vibes, comfort fic, bobby singer saw this coming YEARS ago
TW: NSFW (18+) minors do not interact!!, PiV, unprotected, drinking
WC: 5.0k
A/N: requested by my love @bitterestwillow i hope you enjoyyyy:)))
reblogs are a writer's best friend<3
please! let me know if you want more supernatural fics, i lowkey am obsessed with writing sam and dean...dean gives like au eddie vibes
also, ofc i had to use a wendigo episode picture of dean, like COME ON
Bobby’s kitchen smelled like coffee grounds, motor oil, and something burnt that Dean had sworn twenty minutes ago was “still edible.” It wasn’t.
Sam sat at the table with a lore book spread open in front of him while Dean leaned back in his chair, boots hooked on another seat, flipping a knife through his fingers.
“So let me get this straight,” Dean said slowly. “This thing can mimic voices, disappear, and apparently rip a guy’s jaw clean off?”
“Not apparently,” Sam muttered, eyes scanning the page. “It did.”
Dean grimaced. “Awesome. Love that.”
Bobby shuffled past them, carrying another stack of books. “You two done bitchin’ or you wanna actually solve the case?”
Dean pointed his knife toward him. “I’m solving. Aggressively.”
“Yeah, well, aggressive ain’t helping when none of us know what the hell this thing is.” Bobby dropped the books onto the table with a heavy thud, sending dust puffing into the air. “Closest thing I found was some old Men of Letters mention from the seventies.”
Sam frowned. “That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
Dean sighed dramatically. “Great. So we’re screwed.”
Bobby rolled his eyes. “Not entirely. I called somebody.”
Dean perked up a little. “Oh yeah? Who?”
“Lafontaine.”
Dean blinked, and Sam’s eyebrows lifted slightly in recognition.
And immediately, Dean barked out a laugh. “No way. Old man Lafontaine’s still alive?”
Bobby gave him a look. “Barely.”
“Man,” Dean chuckled, sitting forward now, “that guy used to scare the hell outta me.”
“Yeah,” Sam said dryly, “because you tried stealing his truck when you were twelve.”
“I was borrowing it.”
“You drove it into a ditch.”
Dean pointed at Sam. “Allegedly.”
Bobby snorted. “Well, he knows more about weird occult crap than anybody I trust. Said he’d send over everything he had.”
Dean nodded. “Alright. Cool.”
“Wait,” Dean said slowly. “Did he say he was comin’ himself?”
Before Bobby could answer, there was a knock at the door, three sharp taps. Bobby jerked his chin toward Dean. “Get that.”
Dean stood, stretching as he crossed the room. “If this guy’s still wearing those creepy snake skin boots, I’m leavin’.”
He swung the door open casually and froze. You stood on the porch with a duffel bag slung over your shoulder and a folder tucked under your arm. Older, definitely. But not by much.
Still wearing that same unimpressed expression you used to give him when he mouthed off as a teenager. Your eyes flicked over him once, then twice. And your mouth slowly pulled into a smirk.
“Well,” you said. “If it isn’t the pain in my ass.”
Dean stared, like actually stared. Because there was just absolutely no way. No friggin’ way.
The girl who used to force him and Sam to brush their teeth before bed while your dads were out hunting was standing on Bobby Singer’s porch looking like that. Behind him, Sam nearly choked trying not to laugh.
Dean finally found his voice. “Ain’t no way.”
You tilted your head. “That bad, huh?”
Dean looked you up and down again, almost offended by the universe itself.
“No,” he said immediately. “No, it’s— What the hell happened to you?”
You scoffed, brushing past him into the house. “Puberty. You should try it.”
Sam outright laughed this time.
Dean turned slowly toward his brother. “Did you know?”
Sam lifted both hands innocently. “I had a suspicion.”
Bobby already looked deeply entertained by the entire thing. “Good. Everybody’s here. Sit down.”
You dropped your duffel beside the table before pulling out a thick journal absolutely covered in sticky notes, while Dean couldn’t stop staring.
“What?” you asked flatly.
Dean blinked. “You’re—”
“Careful.”
He narrowed his eyes slightly. “Still bossy.”
“And you’re still annoying.” You opened the journal. “Nice to see nothing’s changed.”
Dean let out a breathy laugh through his nose. God, you sounded exactly the same. Which was somehow worse.
“You know,” you continued while flipping pages, “most people say hello before staring at somebody like they just rose from the dead.”
Dean leaned against the table. “I’m processing.”
“Slowly, apparently.”
Sam looked between the two of you with growing amusement. “Wow. This is exactly how I remember you guys.”
Dean pointed at you without looking away. “She used to bully me.”
You gasped theatrically. “I kept you alive.”
“You handcuffed me to a motel bed one time!”
“You tried to follow our dads on a vamp nest run!”
“I was thirteen!”
“And stupid!”
Dean looked at Bobby incredulously. “See? This. This is what I dealt with.”
You looked over finally, eyes glittering with amusement now. “Funny. I remember you following me around like a lost puppy.”
Dean barked out a laugh. “Please.”
“You cried when I left for a hunt once.”
Sam covered his mouth immediately.
Dean whipped around. “I did not.”
“You absolutely did,” Sam said.
“I was like nine!”
You grinned for the first time fully, and Dean honestly forgot what Bobby had even been saying before you walked in. Because this was not the awkward pigtailed girl who used to shove him away from cursed objects and yell at him to wear a jacket. This was—
“Well?” you asked, catching him staring again.
Dean cleared his throat immediately. “You got info on the monster, or you just come here to psychologically torture me?”
Your smile sharpened. “Oh, Dean,” you said. “Why not both?”
You flipped open the journal, all business now. “Okay,” you said, pushing a page toward Sam. “Your victims weren’t dealing with a ghost.”
Sam adjusted in his chair immediately, scanning the symbols scribbled across the paper. “Then what is it?”
“A Veskar.”
Dean frowned. “A what now?”
You pointed toward one of the sketches. “Old parasitic entity. Mostly Eastern European folklore. They attach themselves to abandoned places, feed on paranoia, fear, isolation— all the fun stuff.”
“Okay,” Dean said slowly. “And the jaw-ripping thing?”
“They hunt through sound mimicry. Lure prey deeper in, disorient them, then attack.”
Dean grimaced. “Still hate that.”
“They’re rare,” you continued. “Mostly because hunters usually die before figuring out what they are.”
“Comforting,” Sam muttered.
You ignored him.
“The important thing is they can’t fully manifest unless they anchor themselves to something physical.”
Bobby nodded slightly from the kitchen counter like he already knew where you were going.
“So what’s the anchor?” he asked.
You tapped the page. “Silver.”
Dean blinked. “Silver?”
“Not pure silver. Melted-down religious objects usually. Crosses, rosaries, grave ornaments. They create nests with it.” You looked at Sam. “The abandoned church near the mill?”
Sam nodded. “Yeah.”
“That’s your spot.”
Dean leaned forward now, focused despite himself. “So what kills it?”
You hesitated for half a second.
“Fire works temporarily. Silver blades can wound it.” Then your expression flattened. “Decapitation’s the only permanent kill.”
Dean snorted softly. “Of course it is.”
“You asked.”
Sam flipped another page in the journal. “These symbols…”
“Containment marks,” you answered. “If we can pin it long enough, it can’t phase.”
Bobby pointed toward Dean with a beer bottle. “Hear that? Means you actually gotta use your brain tomorrow.”
Dean scoffed. “I always use my brain.”
You and Sam both looked at him.
Dean frowned. “Rude.”
You started organizing papers across the table. “Alright. Sam and I can work the lore angle tonight, narrow down nesting habits. Dean—”
Dean immediately pointed at himself. “Why do I feel like I’m getting the dumb task?”
“Because you usually do.”
Bobby barked out another laugh, and Dean looked personally betrayed. “Bobby, you hearing this disrespect?”
“Deserved.”
You continued without missing a beat. “You and Bobby hit the church at dawn. Look for silver deposits, religious artifacts, signs of nesting.”
Dean crossed his arms. “And what’re you doing?”
“Making sure you don’t accidentally get yourselves killed.”
“Aw,” Dean said mockingly. “You still care about me.”
You rolled your eyes so hard it was practically affectionate. “Please. I care about Sam more.”
Dean placed a hand dramatically over his heart. “That’s evil.”
Bobby moved around the kitchen, already pulling mugs down from the cabinets. “You stayin’ here tonight?”
You looked up. “If that’s okay.”
Bobby stared at you as if the question itself offended him. “Kid,” he said softly, “you always got a place here.”
The room quieted for just a second. Dean noticed the tiny shift in your expression immediately, the way your shoulders loosened a little, how your face softened in a way he hadn’t seen yet tonight.
“Thanks, Uncle Bobby.”
There it was. Uncle Bobby.
Dean remembered hearing it a thousand times growing up. Usually, right before Bobby patched up your scraped knees or yelled at all three of you for roughhousing near weapons. Bobby grunted like he was pretending the affection embarrassed him.
“You eat yet?”
“Gas station peanuts count?”
“No.”
“Then no.”
“Jesus,” Bobby muttered, already moving toward the fridge. “Hunters are hopeless.”
You smiled faintly. Dean watched as Bobby checked your shoulder for injuries, absentmindedly. The way he automatically grabbed your favorite whiskey from the cabinet without asking, like muscle memory. It did something weird to Dean’s chest.
Before he could think too hard about it, you stood and walked toward the liquor cabinet yourself.
“You still keep the good stuff hidden?” you asked.
“From Dean? Damn right.”
“Seriously?” Dean called from the living room.
You grabbed the bottle with a victorious hum anyway and poured yourself a glass, then another smaller one. You slid it across the counter toward Bobby, and his face softened immediately.
“Well,” he muttered. “Ain’t you sweet.”
“Don’t get used to it.”
Dean watched you lean back against the counter, whiskey glass in hand, talking quietly with Bobby while Sam reread the lore. And honestly? It was screwing with him a little. Because in his head, you were still sixteen years old, yelling at him for teaching Sam curse words.
Not…Not this. Not grown up. Not pretty enough to make him forget what conversation he was in halfway through.
You caught him staring again from across the room, your eyebrow lifting slowly. Dean immediately looked away and grabbed a beer while Sam smirked into his book. Dean kicked his chair hard enough to make him glare.
“Shut up.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You were thinkin’ it loud.”
A couple of hours later, Bobby finally shoved himself up from his chair with a groan loud enough to rival the pipes in the house.
“I’m too old for this crap,” he muttered, pointing a finger between the three of you. “Don’t stay up all night bein’ idiots.”
“No promises,” Dean said immediately.
“Especially you.”
Dean grinned.
Bobby paused beside you on his way out, squeezing your shoulder once. “Night, kid.”
Your expression softened again. “Night, Uncle Bobby.”
Then he disappeared down the hall, bedroom door creaking shut a few seconds later. The TV played quietly in the background. Some old western Bobby definitely fell asleep watching earlier. You swirled the whiskey in your glass lazily before taking another sip.
“So,” Sam said carefully, leaning back in his chair. “How’s your dad?”
You snorted softly. “Still alive somehow. Complains about his knees every five minutes now.”
Dean grinned into his beer. “Good. Means karma’s finally hitting him.”
“You say that like your dad wasn’t just as bad.”
Dean pointed at you. “My father never made us run five miles because we ‘looked energetic.’”
You nearly choked laughing. “Yes, he did.”
“That was one time.”
Sam deadpanned from beside him. “It was not one time.”
You laughed harder at that, head tipping back slightly, and Dean found himself staring again before he could stop it. God, that laugh was exactly the same. Maybe a little lower now. But still the same laugh that used to echo through crappy motel rooms while the four of you survived off takeout and stolen cable.
“You know,” Sam said, smiling faintly, “those were actually some of the most normal parts of our childhood.”
You looked at him softer then. “Yeah?”
Sam nodded. “Seriously. Whenever your dad and ours hunted together…” He shrugged lightly. “It felt normal.”
Dean scoffed. “Speak for yourself. She ran that house like a tiny dictator.”
You gasped. “Excuse me? I kept you both alive.”
“You made schedules.”
“You needed schedules!”
Dean pointed accusingly. “You grounded me once!”
“You snuck out to steal a Playboy from the motel lobby.”
“I was curious!”
“You were fifteen!”
Sam laughed quietly into his drink. Dean turned toward him immediately. “Don’t act innocent. You were her favorite.”
Sam smirked. “Because I listened.”
“Because you were adorable,” you corrected.
Dean looked horrified. “I was adorable.”
“No,” you said instantly. “You were a menace.”
Sam outright snorted. You pointed toward Dean with your whiskey glass. “You wanna know what he used to do?”
Dean narrowed his eyes immediately. “No.”
“He would wait until I fell asleep—”
“Okay, no—”
“—and then put fake spiders in my shoes because he thought that was good pay-back for grounding him.”
Sam burst out laughing while Dean defended himself immediately. “IT WAS FUNNY.”
“You are literally evil.”
Dean grinned shamelessly. “Yeah, and then you chased me around a motel parking lot with a tire iron.”
Your mouth twitched. “Deserved.”
Sam shook his head fondly. “You guys were insane together.”
That made you laugh quietly into your drink. “God,” you muttered. “Our dads used to hate leaving us alone together.”
Dean barked a laugh. “No, they didn’t. They thought it was hilarious.”
You groaned immediately. “Don’t remind me.”
Sam looked between you both curiously. “Wait… are you talking about the marriage thing?”
Dean immediately covered his face with one hand. “Oh, my God.”
You looked equally mortified. “Absolutely not.”
Sam started laughing before either of you could stop him.
Dean pointed at him. “You are enjoying this way too much.”
“I forgot about that!” Sam wheezed.
“Because it was traumatic,” you muttered.
Dean groaned dramatically. “Every damn time we got in trouble—”
You pointed at him, already laughing. “‘One day you two are gonna get married and terrorize some poor town together.’”
Dean dropped his head against the back of the chair. “I can literally hear Bobby saying it.”
“And my dad!” you laughed. “‘Look at ‘em. Already acting like an old married couple.’”
Sam was losing it now. Dean shook his head hard. “No, because they were insane. We were constantly trying to kill each other.”
“Exactly,” you said.
“You broke my nose once.”
“You deserved it.”
“You bent my butterfly knife!”
“You called me bossy!”
“You are bossy!”
You both stopped at the exact same time. Silence.
Then Sam quietly muttered into his drink, “Yeah. You’re definitely getting married.”
Dean grabbed a pretzel off the table and launched it at his forehead immediately, which made Sam laugh harder. And you were smiling at Dean in that same old way you used to when you were kids. All sharp edges and challenges, like every fight between you, had always secretly been fun.
Dean stared for half a second too long again. Your smile faded into something smaller, slightly leaning towards curious. And Dean suddenly became very interested in his beer bottle.
Sam eventually stood with a long stretch, groaning as his back cracked.
“Alright,” he muttered. “I’m done reliving Dean’s humiliating childhood stories for one night.”
Dean pointed at him immediately. “You were there too, jackass.”
“Yeah, but nobody handcuffed me to a motel sink because I ‘chewed too loud.’”
You looked entirely unapologetic. “You did chew too loud.”
Sam laughed, shaking his head as he grabbed his book. “Night, you two.”
“Night, Sammy.”
“Goodnight.”
Then he disappeared down the hallway, leaving the living room oddly quiet. The TV murmured softly in the background while rain tapped lightly against the junkyard windows outside. You took another sip of whiskey, and Dean watched your fingers turn the glass slowly against your knee.
“Y’know,” he said after a minute, voice quieter now, “I always figured you’d get out.”
Your eyes flicked toward him. “Hunting?”
Dean nodded. “You used to talk about it all the time.” He shrugged lightly. “College. Apartment somewhere. Normal life.”
You smiled faintly at that. “Yeah.”
“What happened?”
You looked down into your drink for a second before answering. “The same thing that happened to you, probably.”
Dean didn’t say anything, so you leaned back deeper into the couch cushions.
“The hunter lifestyle never really leaves you,” you said softly. “Even when you try to walk away from it.”
Dean’s jaw tightened slightly, because yeah. He knew exactly what you meant.
You continued after a beat. “I tried once.”
Dean looked over fully now. “Really?”
“Mhm.”
“What, like… serious tried?”
You nodded slowly. “Couple years.” A tiny laugh left you. “Waitressed in Nebraska.”
Dean blinked. “Nebraska?”
“Don’t laugh.”
“I’m trying not to.”
“You are failing.”
Dean grinned a little into his beer bottle.
You shook your head. “I had an apartment. Plants.” You looked genuinely offended by the memory. “Dean, I kept killing every damn one.”
He laughed softly.
“Couldn’t sleep right,” you admitted after a second. “Every noise sounded wrong. Every town felt temporary.” Your eyes lifted toward him again. “Eventually I heard about a hunt nearby and…”
“You went.”
“Yeah.”
Dean nodded once like he understood perfectly, probably because he did.
“You?” you asked. “You ever really try?”
Dean stared at the label peeling off his beer bottle. “Once or twice.”
Lisa flickered through his head for half a second before he shoved it away. You must’ve seen something on his face because your expression softened slightly.
“That bad, huh?”
Dean huffed a quiet laugh. “Something like that.” Then Dean glanced sideways at you, something mischievous slowly creeping into his expression.
“Oh, my God.”
You immediately narrowed your eyes. “What?”
“Do you remember—”
“No.”
“I haven’t even said anything yet.”
“I know that look. The answer’s still no.”
Dean laughed, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. “The Impala.”
You physically groaned. “Oh, come on.”
Dean grinned wider immediately. “You remember.”
“I wish I didn’t.”
“You absolutely do.”
You covered your face briefly with one hand. “We were teenagers.”
“Yeah,” Dean said. “Teenagers makin’ excellent decisions.”
You pointed at him. “Your father was twenty feet away.”
“At a bar.”
“Nearby.”
Dean shrugged. “Still counts.”
You laughed despite yourself, shaking your head. God, Dean remembered that night vividly. Rainstorm outside. The backseat of the Impala. You whisper-yelling at him to stop laughing because someone would hear.
Dean smirked into his drink. “You kissed me first.”
Your jaw dropped immediately. “I absolutely did not.”
“You absolutely did.”
“You flirted with me for like six straight months!”
“Worked, didn’t it?”
You rolled your eyes hard, but you were smiling now. Dean noticed, and then noticed how close you were sitting suddenly. At some point during the conversation, you’d both drifted toward the middle cushion without realizing it, to where your knees were almost touching.
Dean’s gaze dropped briefly to your mouth before he could stop himself, and your smile faded just slightly when you caught it. But neither of you looked away.
“You know,” you said softly, “you were kind of an ass back then.”
Dean snorted. “Back then?”
You laughed under your breath, then Dean leaned a little closer.
“So were you.”
“Oh, absolutely.”
“You drove me insane.”
“You drove me insane first.”
Dean’s eyes flicked between yours. God, there it was again. That same tension you used to dance around when you were younger, before life got messy and bloody and complicated. Only now, neither of you was sixteen anymore. Neither of you was pretending not to notice it.
“You still do,” Dean admitted quietly.
Your breath caught a little, just enough for him to notice. And then, you kissed him. Quick at first, like maybe you were testing if it was a bad idea. Dean answered immediately, one hand coming up to your jaw instinctively as he kissed you back harder.
And wow. Yeah. He remembered this, too. The whiskey on your tongue. The way you grabbed his flannel like you were annoyed about wanting him. You pulled back barely an inch, laughing softly against his mouth.
“This is such a bad idea.”
Dean grinned, forehead resting against yours. “Probably.” Then he kissed you again anyway.
He shifted you onto his lap in one quick and eager motion, his hands gripping your hips as your mouths moved together in a slow, heated kiss that had been building for the last twenty minutes. His tongue slid against yours, tasting like whiskey and cheap mint mouthwash. Every time you rocked against him, you felt how hard he already was beneath his jeans.
Dean pulled back just enough to breathe against your lips, green eyes dark with want. His thumb brushed your bottom lip, voice rough and low.
“Been thinking about this since you got here,” he murmured. “Hell, been thinking about it for years.”
Your breath hitched, because of course, the thought had slipped your mind once or twice. The frantic making out, hands under clothes, the way he’d groaned your name like a prayer when you ground down on him. You’d been interrupted by Sam before anything more could happen.
Dean’s lips curved into that cocky smirk, but his eyes were soft. “We’ve got unfinished business, sweetheart. Don’t y’think?”
You didn’t even hesitate. “Yes.”
He kissed you hard once more, then lifted you off his lap like you weighed nothing. You grabbed jackets and slipped out the back door quietly. Bobby was upstairs snoring, and Sam was out cold in some dusty guest room a few doors down.
The cool night air hit your flushed skin as Dean opened the back door of the Impala and guided you inside. The second the door shut, it was like a dam broke.
Dean pulled you into his lap again, hands sliding under your shirt to cup your breasts as he kissed you deep and filthy. “Been dying to get you back in this car,” he growled against your neck, teeth grazing your pulse point. “Gonna make you feel so good, baby.”
You moaned as he tugged your shirt off, his mouth latching onto one nipple while his hand worked the other. He was rough but attentive, sucking and biting just hard enough to make you arch into him. Your fingers tangled in his hair, tugging the way you knew he liked.
“Dean… please.”
“Look at you,” he breathed, eyes raking over your face. “So fucking perfect. Always have been.”
He lay you back across the wide leather seat, hovering over you. “Been dreaming about this for years,” he growled against your neck, kissing and biting his way down your body. He yanked your jeans and panties down in one rough motion, tossing them aside.
Dean settled between your thighs, pushing your legs wide. He looked up at you with that wicked smirk. “Gonna take my time with you first.”
He didn’t wait. His mouth descended on you, hot and hungry. The first slow lick from your entrance to your clit made your back arch. Dean groaned at your taste, like he’d finally gotten something he’d been craving forever.
“Shit, you taste even better than I imagined,” he muttered, then dove back in.
His tongue worked you expertly; long, flat licks followed by tight circles around your clit. He sucked the sensitive bundle of nerves into his mouth, humming in satisfaction when your hips jerked. Two thick fingers pushed inside you, curling and stroking that perfect spot while his mouth devoured you. The wet, obscene sounds of him eating you out filled the car.
You moaned loudly, one hand fisting his short hair, the other gripping the edge of the seat. Dean’s free hand pressed down on your lower stomach, holding you in place as he fucked you with his fingers and sucked on your clit.
“Dean—fuck—right there—”
He doubled down, sucking harder, fingers pumping faster. Your thighs started trembling around his head. He looked up at you, eyes locked on yours as he worked you closer and closer to the edge.
“Such attitude, now you’re begging me to please you. Are you close, sweetheart?”
You nodded eagerly, desperately pushing his head down to chase his touch.
He grinned against your center and mufflily ordered, “Come for me, then.”
The orgasm hit you hard. Your back bowed off the seat as you cried out his name, thighs clamping around his head. Dean didn’t stop, licking you through every wave until you were shaking and oversensitive.
Only then did he pull back, lips shiny with your arousal, wearing a proud, filthy grin. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and crawled up your body, kissing you deeply so you could taste yourself on his tongue.
“You’re so fucking hot when you come for me,” he murmured, grinding his hard cock against your thigh. “But I’m nowhere near done with you.”
He shoved his jeans down with urgency, then flipped you onto your hands and knees, positioning himself behind you. One hand gripped your hip, the other slid up your back and fisted your hair, pulling just enough to make you gasp.
He pushed into you in one deep thrust, bottoming out with a groan. “Fuck, so tight… perfect little pussy.”
Dean set a hard, steady rhythm, hips snapping against your ass, and the car rocked with every thrust. He leaned over you, biting your shoulder as he fucked you deeper.
“You like that? Been waiting years to bend you over in this car and fuck you raw,” he growled, voice low and dirty. “Tell me how good it feels, baby.”
“So good—Dean, harder—”
He gave you what you wanted, pounding into you with deep, powerful strokes while his hand reached around to rub your clit. The mix of rough and attentive was dizzying. Every time you moaned his name, he rewarded you with a particularly deep thrust or a filthy compliment.
When you got close again, he pulled you up so your back was against his chest, one arm wrapped around your waist, the other still working your clit. He kissed your neck, teeth grazing your skin.
“Come for me again. Wanna feel you squeezing my cock this time.”
You shattered around him, clenching hard as your second orgasm crashed over you. Dean followed right after with a deep, guttural groan, burying himself to the hilt as he came.
He stayed inside you for a long moment, both of you catching your breath. Then he pulled out gently and pulled you into his arms. He grabbed the blanket from the trunk and wrapped it around both of you, shifting so you were curled up against his chest in the backseat.
Dean’s hand stroked slowly up and down your bare back, pressing soft kisses to your forehead, your temple, and your hair. The rough, kinky side was gone, replaced by the gentle, protective Dean only you and Sam ever saw.
“You okay?” he asked softly, voice warm. “Didn’t go too hard?”
“I’m perfect,” you whispered, nuzzling into his neck. “That was, uh… worth the wait.”
He chuckled, the sound vibrating through his chest. “Damn right it was.”
The smell of coffee was what did it; strong, burnt, unmistakably Bobby Singer coffee. Dean stirred first with a groan, face buried somewhere warm and familiar. You. His arm was heavy around your waist beneath an old quilt Bobby had thrown over the two of you sometime during the night.
At some point after the… backseat incident, you’d stumbled inside half asleep, laughing quietly and stealing blankets from Bobby’s linen closet before collapsing together onto the couch.
Dean vaguely remembered you threatening to kick him if he snored. Now, morning light filtered weakly through the junkyard windows, washing the room gold. Dean blinked sleepily, then immediately tensed.
Because Bobby was standing over the couch, holding a coffee mug and looking deeply unimpressed. “Well,” Bobby said flatly. “Ain’t this cute?”
You made a sleepy noise beside Dean, face still buried against his chest.
Dean squeezed his eyes shut briefly. “Oh no.”
Your eyebrows furrowed as you slowly woke up. “What?”
Then Bobby’s voice registered, and your eyes flew open. “Oh, my God.”
Dean started laughing immediately as you jerked upright so fast the blanket tangled around your legs.
Bobby looked between the two of you. “Seriously?” he asked. “On my couch?”
“Not on the couch,” you defended instantly, hair a complete mess.
Bobby looked between the two of you, then outside to the Impala, then back at Dean. “Well, as long as it ain't on my furniture…”
Dean was still half laughing, arm thrown over his face now.
You pointed accusingly at Bobby. “You knew this was gonna happen eventually.”
Bobby snorted. “Yeah. Didn’t mean I wanted visual confirmation.”
Dean sat up slowly, rubbing his face. “Morning to you, too, sunshine.”
Bobby narrowed his eyes at him. “Boy, I practically watched this girl grow up. You think I enjoy waking up and finding Winchester draped all over her?”
Dean grinned shamelessly. “Draped?”
“Dean,” you hissed, mortified.
He looked over at you and nearly lost it again because your face was bright red while you tried unsuccessfully to fix your hair.
“You’re laughin’ way too hard for somebody who started this,” you muttered.
Dean pointed at himself. “Me?”
“You kissed me back!”
“You kissed me first!”
Bobby made a gagging noise. “Alright, enough. I don’t need the damn play-by-play.”
You groaned, dropping your face into your hands. “This is humiliating.”
“Actually,” Dean said, stretching lazily against the couch cushions, “this is probably the best morning I’ve had in months.”
You looked over at him despite yourself. And unfortunately…unfortunately Dean looked very good in the morning. Sleepy voice. Flannel half open. That stupid smug grin.
You rolled your eyes immediately to save yourself. “Shut up.”
Bobby shook his head, muttering something about “kids” despite the two of you being fully grown adults. Then he pointed toward the kitchen with his coffee mug.
“Get up. Case ain’t gonna solve itself.”
Dean groaned dramatically, and you threw the blanket off both of you and stood first, stretching your arms above your head. Dean watched the motion automatically, and Bobby caught him.
“Boy,” Bobby warned.
Dean straightened immediately. “I’m respectful.”
“Bull.”
You snorted loudly while walking toward the kitchen. Dean followed close behind without even thinking about it, and Bobby watched the two of you go with the exhausted expression of a man who had seen this coming for about twenty years.
-> not canon-compliant ⋆ no current romantic love-interest ⋆ non-story compliant storyline ⋆ reader is nonchalant about a lot ⋆ gender-neutral ⋆ reader is around 17 years old ⋆ reader is not a hero ⋆ this’ll probably be very boring ⋆ not proofread
♫ currently playing: Restless - untitled
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D I R E C T O R Y
prologue [you are here] -> chapter 1
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-> Being the child of Bruce Wayne came with its ups and downs, the man is good, your father? He tries his best.
But you’re quiet, the most you’ve ever reached out for something was when you need a form signed for school. Despite having dealt with more difficult children than yourself, he for some reason gave up sooner with you than the others. Maybe it was the fact you really were his blood related child? No, he wasn’t this way with Damian.
Maybe it was the fact you chose not to be a vigilante, to be normal. Everyone was surprised when they heard that from you, guess they all expected it. The only person who didn’t care was Jason, he was relieved if anything, he was also the one closest to you before— it happened.
Never had it ever crossed your mind that this would be the reason your family began to isolate you, whether on purpose or not. Dick became elusive, only appearing before you to keep up the older brother image, Jason hardly ever came home, not that it was strange, Tim despite being the closest in age to you was always locked in his room or out on patrol, Cass was, quiet to say the least, not unusual. Stephanie tried but you were not compliant to her trying, not on purpose but it was just the way things were.
Damian grew to ignore you after your lack of reaction to him and his words, and Duke was the nicest, didn’t push, always greeted you even if it wasn’t reciprocated. Watching them come into the house, one year after another only further pushed you down the list of importance, it’s only thanks to Alfred’s consistency that you still even had a plate at the table. You saw in his eyes he was apologetic to the happenings around you, yet you insistent that it was not necessary for him to speak with your dad.
Speaking of the man, his priorities skewed with the new attendance of people in manor. It’s hard to remember the last time you even spoke to him without the conversation ending in ten seconds. God, you haven’t even gotten some of their contact info, you’ve got Dick’s from years ago, Jason’s as well, though you’re sure his number has changed in recent times— Duke and Stephanie’s, and your dad’s which you don’t use. Their texts dwindled down overtime.
It did hurt, a subtle ache in your chest whenever they had dinner without you, or left without goodbye. Thankfully you weren’t without your own company, Isla and Oliver, you made friends with them on your first day of middle school and stuck together since. Keeping your relations to the Wayne family secret until you were sure they wouldn’t leave you over it.
Or use you, both were viable options.
But they didn’t care, if anything, opening up about your estrangement only led them to resent your family. Ironic given that Isla was a huge Red Hood fan and Oliver was partial to Nightwing.
You kept their secrets though, no reason to share it.
It was only one day that things changed, your room, the original one, in the middle of the hall surrounded by everyone else’s. It became far too loud and hard to sneak your friends in without being noticed, so you moved— not out, can’t until you’re legally eighteen, but into a more quiet part of the house, turning one of the abandoned guest rooms into your sanctuary, close to another exit so your friends didn’t have to run out the front door every time. With Alfred’s help of course, it was already fully furnished, just needed to move your valuables down.
Taking down your clothes, posters and pictures, everything to make your room feel like home. You also may or may not have gotten a mini fridge and snack drawer using Bruce’s money, it didn’t make a dent in his account so he wouldn’t notice, now it was much easier to house your friends. The freedom helped push away the ache you’d have, the one you’d get when you laid in bed knowing that not a single person would question your lack of presence at dinner.
Oliver and Isla were more than happy to welcome you into their homes as well, Isla lived with her mom, dad in metropolis since they were divorced. Oliver with his older brother, mom and dad, kindly you informed Alfred of every single departure because it’d be cruel not to, and you also asked him to keep your absence hush from your family.
Annoyingly, even though they ignored you most of the time they still questioned your disappearances when they didn’t first ask Alfred, playing it off like they cared but it was truly just the hero in them making sure you didn’t get into trouble. Maybe that counted as caring.
For once in your life thing managed to move at a steady pace, you kept your outside life with your friends seperate from the one you hardly had with your family, can you guess who threw a wrench in that plan?
I can.
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-> that’s the prologue completed, it’ll preferably be short, only around a chapter or two if I can help it. But I have a habit of writing too much, so we have to wait.
First piece of writing on this account, hope it’s alright.
