The Tri-Wizard Tournament was just around the corner, a prestigious, dangerous tradition between the Wizarding Schools.
As one of the top students at Ilvermorny, the Northern American school of witchcraft and wizardry, you were among the delegation of students observing the tournament at Hogwarts this year.
Upon arriving, you immediately noticed the differences between the schools. Hogwarts buzzed with liveliness and laughter in stark contrast to Ilvermorny's rigorous focus and silence.
As Dumbledore began introducing each school, you listened eagerly behind the Beauxbaton girls until you heard your cue.
"Welcome Ilvermorny, from Northern America!"
The hall erupted into applause and cheers as your delegation burst into the hall, performing impressive charm work to showcase Ilvermorny's magical prowess.
Among the first students to enter, you cast your charms and glided across the floor effortlessly, following suit of your Headmistress as you made your way to the front of the hall. Simultaneously, you took in the sight of all the Hogwarts students, their colors blending in seamlessly as many curious looks were directed your way.
Just then, your gaze locked with a striking pair of grey eyes–a warmth beginning to spread within you.
A boy in yellow, with a charming smile adorning his face, stared at you intensely, his pupils seemingly getting brighter the longer he held eye contact with you. His silky brown hair was slightly tousled, contrasting his neatly put-together robes.
Seeing this mysterious boy made your heart skip a beat, and seeing you, so did his. But you quickly refocused to avoid messing up the routine and infuriating your Headmistress, completing your part with precision.
Still, as the applause of the Great Hall filled the air after your entrance ended, you couldn't help but glance back in the boy's direction.
To your surprise, he was still staring at you.
–
The announcements for the Tri-Wizard Champions were approaching fast. Everyone was on edge, placing bets on who they thought would be chosen.
You quickly learned that the boy staring at you was none other than Cedric Diggory, a well-liked boy at Hogwarts with a rather enthusiastic fan club.
Most bets were placed on him, Angelina Johnson–a talented quidditch player you've talked to once–and a few others whose names you couldn't quite recall. Many students, however, were bummed out by the age limit, including some of your new friends: the 'Golden Trio' and the ever-mischievous Weasley twins.
"Come on, Cedric. Put it in!" a student shouted, pushing him forward toward the age line where the goblet of fire was placed. You were sitting beside Hermoine chatting idly when his group of supporters practically shoved him into the circle.
Cedric smirked as the crowd eagerly watched him, not yet noticing your presence before turning to face the goblet. But as he approached, he caught your eye.
Cedric's steps faltered for a moment, his gaze lingering on your face before flashing you a flirtatious smile and dropping his name into the flames, attempting to impress you with his courageousness.
And to no surprise, it worked.
You were so distracted by Cedric's lingering stare and his dashing smile that you hadn't noticed Fred and George Weasley preparing their scheme to outsmart the age line.
“It’s not going to work,” Hermione muttered with a knowing sigh, rolling her eyes as the twins popped into view with their usual shenanigans.
"Oh, yeah?" George grinned.
"And why is that Granger?" Fred added, finishing each other's thoughts.
The brunette huffed before pointing at a faint white ring surrounding the goblet.
"You see that? That is an age line. Dumbledore drew it himself", she said as if that alone explained the futility of their plan.
"You really think you could fool Dumbledore?"
You nodded in agreement, amused by their determination. But despite Hermione’s warning, the twins proceeded to act out their plan: drinking an unknown potion and crossing the line anyway, only to be flung back spectacularly. The entire hall roared with laughter as not only did their botched potion leave them with beards, but the two brothers began scrambling to blame each other.
Hours later, after dinner had wrapped up, the time finally came for the selection of the champions.
As expected, Cedric, Fleur, and Krum were chosen by the goblet and called to represent their respective schools. But just as you thought it was over, two more names shot out of the Goblet. To your shock, one of them was your own, and the other, Harry Potter.
Your mind reeled. How did your name end up in the Goblet? You were only supposed to be observing, not competing. All eyes turned toward you and Harry as you nervously made your way toward the other champions. Cedric included as he too couldn't fathom how your name was entered into the goblet.
As you walked forward, you met your headmistress’s gaze. She looked at you with an expression of confusion and disapproval, but there was no turning back now.
Though you hadn't expected this, the competitive spirit that Ilvermorny had fostered in you began to surface. You weren’t one to back down from a challenge, and whatever lay ahead, you would face it head-on.
–
The day after the selection, things were beginning to get more hectic. Ron and Harry were arguing, the Weasley twins kept pestering you about how you got your name entered, and some of your classmates began making snide comments–calling you "cheater" and "show-off".
It was getting to you. You just needed a break away from everyone.
But, as you were making your way back to your room, trying to figure out your next steps now that the first task was being kept a closely guarded secret, a warm voice called out behind you.
"Hey, you!"
You turned around, instantly meeting those familiar grey eyes. A smile tugged at your lips.
"Cedric."
The boy’s lips curled into a smile–at the fact that you knew his name–as he jogged up to you, slightly out of breath.
"I've got something you might find useful for the first task," he said, a playful gleam in his eyes. Suddenly feeling bold, you stepped closer. Your face now inches from his, teasing him slightly.
"Oh? And what's that, Diggory?" you asked, your curiosity peaked.
He leaned in, voice dropping to a whisper. "The first task. It's dragons."
You noticed the way his eyes flickered across your face, a nervous swallow betraying his calm demeanor as he quickly glanced away and stepped back to regain his composure.
"Hagrid showed Harry earlier, and he ended up telling me. Thought I’d give you a heads-up... since out of all the champions, I’m rooting for you to make it through," he added with a wink before turning to leave.
You smiled as you watched him walk away, your heart racing with both excitement and anticipation–not just because of the tournament, but because you knew you were going to start liking Cedric, more than you cared to admit.
Unknowingly to you, he also began to feel the exact same way.
–
You were grateful Cedric had warned you about the first task. Normally you were confident in everything you did, but as your turn approached your anxiety spiked. To top it off, you were finding it difficult to face the reality that you were up against the Hungarian Horntail—the most dangerous of all the dragons.
"It's almost your turn, [your name]" your Headmistress called, peeking through the curtains as she watched Fleur narrowly escape with the golden egg in her hands. The crowd's cheers confirmed her success.
"Three of our champions have now faced their dragon and so each one of them shall proceed to the next task! And now, our fourth contestant from Ilvermorny," Dumbledore's voice boomed, "[your name]!"
Taking a deep breath, you rose from your seat next to Harry, whispering, "Wish me luck, Potter," before stepping into the arena. Anxiety swirled your chest as you got closer, but you kept your composure as the large applause to your appearance washed over you. You spotted some of your classmates cheering in the stands–Hermoine and Ron smiling with thumbs up and of course, Cedric clapping in the front row, cheering your name. But sat next to him was a girl in blue who looked at you with cold indifference.
It was unsettling–just the realization that strangers who didn't know you had already fostered a sense of hatred towards you. But, you pushed it aside, refocusing on the task. The golden egg gleamed a few feet ahead of you, but before you could move any closer, a thunderous roar echoed from behind sending chills down your spine. There it was: the Hungarian Horntail flaring its nostrils and preparing to lunge in your direction. Before it could pounce on you, you veered to the left, casting weak spells as you ran; Most missed, and those that landed only inflicted minimal damage.
Panic proceeded to bubble up inside you as the scent of smoke began to fill the air—the dragon was preparing to unleash its deadly flames. Quickly, you bolted and hid behind a large rock.
But then you had an idea. A risky one, but if successful would stun the dragon.
From your cover, you sprang out, shouting, "Glacius!" Ice formed in the dragon's throat, cutting off its fiery breath. The crowd roared seeing the dragon struggle and thrash its neck around. Seizing the moment, you then cast "Depulso!" sending rocks and debris hurtling toward the creature, knocking it backward and creating more distance between you two.
This gave you a critical opening.
With the dragon momentarily dazed, you sprinted full speed toward the golden egg.
Though its flames were silenced, the beast still swung at you, its massive claws just missing as it gained on you. Casting a few more spells to slow it down, you found yourself just a few feet from your goal. Simultaneously in the stands, Cedric watched with clenched fists, his expression torn between admiration and worry, as he watched the dragon attempt to take hits at you.
He had only just begun to like you, and seeing you in such danger made his heart pound like crazy.
Luckily for you though, with a final burst of energy, you lunged forward and were able to snatch the golden egg, narrowly dodging the dragon’s sweeping tail. The crowd erupted into thunderous applause and Cedric shot to his feet, cheering louder than anyone– oblivious to the jealous glares from the girl beside him and the confused glances from his fan club.
But as he stood there, his heart pounding, Cedric couldn't shake the feeling of relief that washed over him. You two were supposed to be competing against each other, yet all he cared about was knowing you were safe. Why did he feel so much lighter, so much happier, just watching you succeed?
Perhaps it wasn’t about competition anymore. Somewhere between his stolen glances and quiet admiration, you had already begun to charm your way into his heart. And now, knowing he’d have more time in your presence, that thought alone was enough to make him forget the tournament, the rivalries, and the jealous stares around him.
All that mattered was you.
AN:: I LOVE CEDRIC SMSMS also i hope to maybe make this a series idk we'll see :') also pls I'm fixing errors over time and trying to improve it as we speak T_T
Every cell. Every fiber felt like it was trying to break free from your body. You had no idea what you were about to learn, and your implosion felt inevitable if you didn’t find out.
The head of the Butterfly Mansion, the Insect Hashira, greeted you at the door. “Thank you for coming so swiftly, and by yourself. I am aware of your father-in-law's condition as well as how young your brother-in-law is.” She slid on a pair of white linen gloves before continuing.
“I’m sure you would like to know why my crow alerted you so suddenly.” If you weren’t wracked with panic, you would’ve admired her graceful, natural beauty. It seemed her almost enigmatic equanimity was the only thing keeping those around her, including you from spiraling.
Her measured countenance and calm voice couldn’t have contrasted more with the state of the room around her. Three kakushi were slumped over each other, their faces to the wall quietly crying. Meanwhile other small girls with similar butterfly hair clips went in and out of the room beyond her with a controlled franticness.
“Please listen to me carefully.” Her amethyst eyes pierced yours with a seriousness that was frankly, unsettling. “There was a confrontation between the Flame Pillar and the 3rd most powerful demon of Kibutsuji’s ranks about an hour ago.” Your breath catches in your throat, at the words. The 3rd most powerful demon?
“He sustained severe transfixion trauma to his epigastric region. We moved quickly, and kept the demon’s limb in place as long as we could, and in that time he was able to stop most of the blood loss using a breathing technique.” Your hand shakily covers your mouth, the savagery of the attack, and the horror of such an injury were almost too much for you.
“The amount of pain he is managing while conscious is unnatural, and quite concerning. We have been trying to sedate him since he arrived, but he begged to wait until you got here.” Her sharp gaze left you finally, shifting to the floor. “Despite his state, he was quite stubborn, and resisted our attempts to give it to him anyway.”
You speak in a tensed whisper, “C-can I see him?” Each syllable was dragged from the pit of your body, you needed every bit of strength to not lose all composure.
“Yes, quickly please. I trust you understand the criticality of this situation.” Shinobu looked over her shoulder to a young girl with bright blue eyes and pigtails as she turned into the room that seemed to be at the heart of the commotion in the Butterfly Mansion.
“Aoi… please pull up the sheet on the Flame Pillar.” The girl’s brow furrowed in concentration, releases as she sees you, expression softening as she nods to Shinobu before disappearing behind the room’s entryway.
“You can go ahead now.” Shinobu tells you finally. Upon her permission you begin hurrying into the room Aoi just turned into. “I just want to remind you we are doing all we can, and he is relatively stable for now… but… just be prepared…”
You look over your shoulder back at Shinobu, words failing you before going in. The air hung heavy beyond the doorway, three little girls stood to the back wall awaiting orders while the slightly older girl, Aoi lighty ran a damp cloth over Kyojuro’s forehead. Delusionally, you imagined it was due to his warmth, the perpetual warmth emanating from his body everywhere he went, and not the onset of a stress induced fever and intense pain.
He laid, left eye wrapped in layers of bandage wrapping around his head, the thin hospital bed linens drawn to the base of his neck. Each of his labored inhale and exhale audible, a testament to his will actively clinging him to consciousness and keeping the looming threat of bleeding out at bay.
His right eye fluttered open at your presence even without saying a word, the keen instincts of a warrior sharp as ever.
“My flam-ACK.” He jumped to sit up, only for a guttural cough to send an abrupt jolt through his body, putting him onto his back. Laying immobilized once again, his breathing intensifying.
“Rengoku-sama! Your wound! Shinobu-san told you not to move!” The little voice of one of the young girls behind you calls out her voice cracking, riddled with fear.
His face contorts in discomfort, straining to utter “My apologies…” The words tumble out almost as if he doesn’t even know who he is saying it to; the little girls, you, himself, or maybe someone not even there.
You look deeply into his uninjured eye, the bright golden orb that even now was completely free of clouds. You kneel at his bedside, feeling tears beginning to burn in the corners of your own eyes, you try to keep your tone as reassuring as possible and not let on how terrified you are. “Everything is going to be ok, alright?”
His lips curl into a soft smile, his gaze softens, melting into yours like a stream of amber. You waited anxiously for a response, any response.
“Are you in pain?” His gentle expression remains unchanged as if he had just awoken from an afternoon nap, looking back at you.
“Not anymore… If you’re here, I won’t feel a thing. I am fine, please do not worry.” His eye clamps shut as another searing pain courses through his body, making his breathing stutter again with a curt strangled groan. Despite what he said, it was clear he was in agony.
“Kyojuro…” Your brow furrows with concern as your eyes rake over his battered form. You look deeply into his eye intently trying to imprint every detail into your mind, as if the light may drain from it at any moment.
You didn’t even hear Shinobu’s delicate footsteps on the wooden floors or notice her until you looked up to see her at his opposite bedside, you were taken aback by her sudden presence. You shouldn’t be surprised, she is a hashira after all.
“I’m sorry. We cannot wait any longer for the sedative. The more time goes without it…” She spoke solemnly, as though she knew what she needed to do, but almost didn’t have the heart to do it, almost.
You felt one of the three small girls try to pull you back by your arm, “Ma’am please! Shinobu-san needs to work, you need to leave this room!” The words don’t even faze you, unmoving from your spot at his bedside. Making it clear to the entire Butterfly Mansion your stubbornness was only matched by Kyojuro’s himself.
“Please don’t take him from me, not now. Please don't let someone else abandon me.”
The words echo in your mind, like a cacophony of a lifetime of anxiety thrust to the surface all at once.
“She can stay. I’ll allow it.” Shinobu spoke, not taking her focus from the vial as she filled it with a solution, flicking it firmly to disperse any air bubbles.
You feel the small girl release your arm going back to stand with the other two. You kept looking at Kyojuro, scared to look away, as if it was the last time you would ever bask in the warmth of his gaze.
“My flame, let me tell you a few things.” His voice was steady but strained, each word laced with sincerity.
“You don’t need to say anything… just save your strength.” You felt as though you were pleading with him at this point.
“You’ve done enough, just rest.”
You want to say to him, but you could see the seriousness on his face. Every man deserves to do with their last moments what they wish, and if these were just that, you would not be the one to deny him that.
“Please, I want you to tell Senjuro he ought to follow the path he knows to be true, whatever path that may be. Remind my father to take care of his body.”
You look at Shinobu, almost as if to ask if there should be more witnesses to what could be the last words of the Flame Hashira, but she continued working, not even glancing down at you as she began administering the vial.
“And I want you to know that I love you.”
The tears you held in your eyes finally began to escape, your vision was cloaked in obscurity, but what did it even matter? As if anything was truly clear right now.
“I love you too.” That was clear to you if nothing else. What were otherwise the three most beautiful words one could utter to another, felt like they were just another deep wound you both inflicted each other with. Had he even heard what you said? Knowing him, he would feel personally responsible for the notion that another person would be agonizing over his condition.
The onslaught of emotion finally manifests in a strangled sob, wiping the tears from your eyes with the back of your sleeve. Seeing his golden iris enveloped beneath his closed eyelid and breathing softened, it is obvious the vial Shinobu gave him had already taken effect.
Pressing the back of two fingers to his forehead, the only thing that you can use to ground yourself is that same unyielding warmth he radiated.
—————————————
You aren’t sure how many hours you’d been in the room. Time didn’t feel like it was passing. Maybe a part of you thought that if you kept looking at him long enough, you could pretend maybe he was finally getting the rest he deserved and not in a catatonic, forced respite from the wound that should have taken his life.
“You should go home. I’ll keep an eye on him personally.” Shinobu's voice was lighter than the chirp of a sparrow. “Trust me, the best recovery is sleep. Sometimes slayers sleep for months here, regaining their strength.”
You cock your head over your shoulder to look at her, eyes wide and mouth agape. She raised a pointed finger, she was like a doll the way a perpetual contentment was painted to her face, it was a bit uncanny.
“Not that I’m saying this will happen here. I induced the comatose state he is in, so everything is controlled, I made the compound so that he would naturally awaken when his body is in better condition.”
This woman was truly a genius apothecarist, how did she even learn to make such a solution?
“I see…” You didn’t want to stand yet; you craved just a moment more in his presence. You try to smile at her genuinely, but you knew it must have looked just as contrived as hers did. You didn’t have Kyojuro’s gift—the ability to smile authentically and joyfully, no matter how bleak things appeared.
“Before you go, can I give you his personal effects?” Your eyes moved from the floor to meet hers, nodding with the same polite smile still plastered on.
Shinobu took a package that couldn’t have contained more than a couple items from one of the youngest girls that helped around the Butterfly Mansion, transferring it into your grasp.
Removing the thread and paper encasing the items, Shinobu stood unmoving before you, her eyes following your hands. Despite the smile she armed herself with, her gaze deepened, like this was something she understood all too well.
Seeing the familiar kaen pattern, you stroked the back of your hand across the sturdy fabric of the Flame Hashira haori. Only to freeze as you feel something solid wrapped inside of it. Without hesitation, you reached within the white accented garment to pull out a rectangular box.
Could it be? Sliding the lid from the basin of the firm container to see delicate metal and crystal intertwined to make a plum blossom hairpin, the same kind that had saved your life not long ago. Your hands tremble uncontrollably as you remove it from its resting place.
“We found it in his pocket, even with the aftermath of the battle and the panic as he was rushed in, he implored us to be gentle in handling it…”
After your first hairpin broke he must’ve planned to bring a new one for you that morning. Even with a gaping wound, he was concerning himself with being able to offer you an undamaged gift to replace the one he initially gave you when you arrived.
You clutched the package as if it was sacred, like maybe that if you didn’t, it would all slip through your grasp and cease to be like everything seemed to at the moment.
“Thank you for everything…” You finally broke the silence, your voice barely above a whisper. You lower yourself to bow to Shinobu, before leaving, perhaps leaving a part of yourself behind as you do.
—————————————
There was a general malaise of silence at the house in contrast to the mid morning light, seemingly blanketing the grounds as if it was just another day. Something felt wrong about returning here alone from the Butterfly Estate. You scoured for the younger Rengoku, no doubt wanting– needing an update on the state of his older brother.
You finally found him sitting alone in a room holding a sheathed sword in his lap. His head lowered as if in surrender, he was trembling as if terrified of what laid beneath the sheath.
You didn’t even know Senjuro owned a blade, it seemed ornamental at best. It looked as though it had never used a day since it was forged.
Upon seeing you, his hazed and shaky expression was replaced with a mix of worry. Before he could ask you the burning question that had no doubt been haunting him, you notice a patch of tender skin on his cheek, an abrasion that looked as though it would bruise.
“What happened to your face?” You lean lower yourself next to him to inspect, running your thumb over the skin, flushed red and running warm from the inflammation.
He turned his face to conceal the sore cheek from your view, putting his own hand over it. “One of the other swordsmen that joined brother on the mission came by the house…” His gaze faltered, shifting to looking at the ground. “He wanted to apologize… he was ashamed, for not being able to do more in that battle.”
“Father began insulting my brother, then suddenly was enraged by the slayer. Things began escalating. I tried to protect the slayer, and Father hit me…”
You couldn’t believe the words you heard. You were sickened to your core. Beyond the scope of a Hashira, the scope of a patriarch, how could a father act this way?
Words are one thing, as merciless as they were, especially to a man fighting for his life, but to strike someone so much smaller and weaker was despicable. Both were so egregious, it was impossible to even say which was worse.
Taking a moment, you calmed yourself down, grounding your thoughts before responding. “Are you ok?”
Senjuro kept his face angled down and the evidence of the violence that had occurred in your own home while you were out.
“I’m fine… this is nothing.” He dragged his sleeve across his eyes with a soft sniffle, you could see how hard he worked to hide his emotions coming to the surface, there was something more important to him. “My brother… is he…?”
“He’s… sleeping, that’s all. They’re doing everything they can… ” You feel a lump forming in your throat at the words. You didn’t want to acknowledge what you were both thinking just as much as Senjuro didn’t want to.
“I-I see.” His gaze stayed low to the ground, even as his fists balled at his sides with resolve. “Maybe… it will work now. It has to.”
Senjuro shakily removed the blade from its cover, sticking it straight in the air, looking up at it with anticipation. The sword quivered in the trembling hands of the boy. He looked up at it as if it was a beacon with the ability to connect him to a higher power. He stared up, waiting for something, anything to happen. Releasing a resigned exhale, his head dropped as the tears he had desperately held back began to flow freely.
“I really don’t have any talent at all.” He looked up at you, dejection etched into every one of his features, “I prayed this day would never come, I knew I wouldn’t ever be able to carry on the Flame Hashira. This time, more than ever, my nichirin sword needed to change color. But even now, it refuses to. All because I simply don’t have what it takes.”
He set the sword down, his palms face up on his knees, silently sitting on the tatami floors. You wrap your arms around him, feeling him starting to shudder against you punctuating each sharp sob.
“Do you want to know what your brother told me to tell you before he fell asleep?” You lower your voice to a murmur.
“Wh-What did he say?” he stuttered, his lips pursed and voice trembling, but there remained a glint of hope evident as he stared at you, waiting intently to hear.
You spoke steadily, trying to fully encapsulate the sincerity of Kyojuro’s words, hoping if he could hear his brother’s voice through you, maybe it would comfort him in ways you never could. “‘Walk the path you know to be true, whatever path that may be.’”
He looked up at you, his glassy eyes widened, you could see him absorbing every syllable as if it was from a holy text leading him into enlightenment when the shoji door flew open to both of your shock.
“Senjuro! What did I tell you about the blubbering? I can hear your pathetic crying from across the house! As if Kyojuro hadn’t done enough, you had to show that Sun Breather how weak you are too! As if our family couldn’t be any more humiliated!”
Senjuro’s face drained of color, his pupils trembling at the intimidating figure in the doorway.
“You’re the eldest son of this family now, so learn something from your fool of a brother!” He gritted his teeth, now speaking to no one in particular. “Trying to supplement his own inferiority, trying to make up for our insignificant bloodline, I have no doubt he used that cursed form to try to salvage a battle he was doomed to lose from the start. He should’ve never even picked up a sword to begin with!”
Cursed form? Sun Breather? Did he mean the boy with the earrings that Senjuro spoke of? You had learned to ignore most of what Shinjuro said; these ravings were likely just another temper tantrum fueled by the stuporous overindulgence he found at the bottom of several bottles.
The discomfort hung like a chill in the air, filling the space between the fragmented inanities of the harsh words echoing through the room. Shinjuro finally lumbered away, the jug still tied around his wrist. You sat in the silence left in his wake, almost envisioning Kyojuro in that hospital bed, each breath he took and each pound within his chest a cry of hope.
You close your eyes for a moment before speaking in a hushed voice to Senjuro, “Your brother believes in you, always has. He’s fighting so he can be sure to come home and remind you of that himself.”
—————————————
“This hurts like hell!” The Sound Hashira grumbled to no one in particular. Kyojuro could only watch as his fellow Hashira limped from the doorway into the hospital bed the Butterfly Mansion staff had apathetically pointed to.
The young nurses reassuring him that the Insect Hashira would be there “when she gets the chance” to treat his injuries. The adrenaline from battle must’ve finally dissipated by the time he reached the Butterfly Mansion.
After settling in with a few labored breaths, the man finally turned to his side, noticing Kyojuro in the bed beside him.“Rengoku? How long have you been up? Why are you still here?”
“A few hours. Kocho has been keeping a close eye before she discharges me, but I should be good to go by now. Nevermind that though, what happened to you?” He had never seen the Sound Pillar as battered and bloody as he appeared before him now.
“Remember how I was organizing some infiltration into the Entertainment District? Looking for an upper rank?” Kyojuro nodded intently, he was well aware of the operation in the Sound Pillar’s sector before he even boarded the train.
“Well, we found it. The district is leveled, but we defeated the threat. And look, the two of us are matching now, and I even got one up on you.” The man gestured to his own covered eye before waving his left arm, permanently disfigured.
Even in this state, Uzui always had something to say to lighten the mood. Kyojuro always respected that trait in him, it was one of the primary reasons they got along as well as they did.
“You didn’t…” Kyojuro searched for the right word to describe the Sound Pillar's hobbled gait as he made his way from the entrance to the cot where he was now confined, as respectfully as possible. “Ambulate… yourself all the way from Yoshiwara I hope?”
“Oh, absolutely not.” The Sound Hashira shook his head with pride. “My wives were there for me, of course. But Kocho said they couldn’t help me inside. Something about a very strict rule with spouses not being allowed to enter the Butterfly Mansion for any reason.”
Uzui spoke with restlessness, trying to get comfortable in the hospital bed clearly not befitting his frame before trying to read the face of the Flame Pillar beside him. “Did she tell you about that too?”
Kyojuro’s eyebrows knit together. “I was not aware of such a policy…” He said slowly, as if he was trying to figure out what his fellow pillar was referring to with each word. He affixed his gaze upon his comrade’s arm, bandaged shoddily in the heat of battle, severed at the wrist.
“As a dual wielder…” His lips pursed as he analyzed the sight before him. “You may have to adapt your swordsmanship.”
Kyojuro chuckled before resting his hand lightly on the covered wound punctured into his abdomen, “I was quite concerned for myself, but fortunately recovery is an option for me as well. It’s all of no matter, we will just have to train harder and get back to where we were!”
Uzui studied the face of the Flame Hashira looking for any shred of sarcasm. “A-are you serious?” His eyes widened with shock, glancing down at the tightly wrapped bandages over Kyojuro’s chest.
“Of course I am, what are you trying to say?” Kyojuro looked at the Sound Pillar inquisitively.
The Sound Hashira exhaled sharply, lowering his eyes resolutely with a soft smile, “I’m stepping down. I’m done fighting.” Upon processing the rest of what Kyojuro confidently announced to him his head jerked to face him in disbelief. “You aren’t actually considering going back are you?”
“But as pillars-” Kyojuro was cut off mid sentence, his curiosity now only building with what his friend was telling him.
“I like to think I’m Lord Uzui Tengen before I’m the Sound Pillar.” He declared matter of factly, before his tone devolved back into its characteristic quippiness. “You’ve always blurred that line, but most bastards lucky enough to take a hole in the chest and live would see themselves the same.”
Kyojuro tried to think back to the exact moment of impact, the demonic fist piercing his flesh, in the face of what could only be described as certain death had he drawn a distinction between the two?
Kyojuro’s ponderance was interrupted by the petite form of the Insect Pillar shadowed by the younger girl with blue eyes and pigtails coming in the doorway seemingly with no urgency at all. “Thank gods!” Uzui exclaimed, the exasperation ripe in his voice. “I thought you all forgot about me!”
Kocho spoke her voice sweet and light as ever complimented by the poignant, contented countenance she always had. “Oh dear! Of course not!” She gestured to the three youngest Butterfly Mansion girls to bring her a tray with some instruments and antiseptics.
Tears formed in the corner of their eyes as they approached the Sound Hashira’s bedside to hand it off to their master, clinging to each other and hurrying away once they did as they were instructed.
“Hey Kocho, do you have any painkillers or anything before you stitch me up?” Uzui spoke with a tinge of desperation, one he was clearly trying to suppress in the presence of others.
“Unfortunately, I don't recall we have anything strong enough for you here.” The Insect Pillar spoke with a curt sharpness.
The blue-eyed nurse with pigtails was much easier to read than her master. Even with the grimace she typically bore while concentrating on work, there was a particular scorn in her eyes that seemed to run deep. She stared daggers at the Sound Pillar, it was truly a distaste only unpleasant familiarity can foster.
The Insect Pillar worked, doing little to prepare her patient for her next action, hastily attending to the injuries of her fellow Hashira. Her doll-like smile unchanging as heavy handedly she doused his deep lacerations with antiseptic before stitching them shut with fresh bandages.
Upon finishing, she walked away without another word or so much as a check in to ask how the Sound Pillar was feeling now, even though she hadn’t seemed to be rushing to another bedside as she retreated without a second glance
Uzui released the grit of his teeth following his treatment, sincerity filling his tone. “About your injury, sorry I didn’t come see you. I had my crow watch closely; it told me you were stable in Kocho’s care, although maybe that should’ve been something that worried me more than it did.” He squirmed in place momentarily, no doubt feeling some residual discomfort in the absence of anything to ease his pain before being treated.
Kyojuro shook his head “No, the staff here is the picture of gentleness and care for its patients, Kocho and all her sisters treated me with the utmost kindness and consideration.”
Uzui looked out the doorway to see the three youngest Butterfly Sisters looking at him with aversion, still on the verge of tears, while the blue-eyed pigtailed nurse’s contemptuous stare only intensified in her master’s absence.
The Sound Hashira chuckled to himself blithely. “Huh. You don’t say.”
His gaze moved from the main room beyond the doorway back to Kyojuro in the hospital bed beside him. “I just couldn’t bring myself to leave the district once I stopped getting updates from my girls.” A playful smirk crossed his face again as his solemn tone brightened, “I figured mere Upper Three wouldn’t be enough to take you out. I trust you understand.”
Kyojuro looked at him knowingly with a reassuring smile, “Of course. No need to explain any further.”
“You know, the kids that were on the train with you volunteered to come to the district with me. The Kamado boy in particular gushed on and on, don’t be surprised if you start getting fan mail from him.”
A warm smile crept across Kyojuro’s features at the mention. Hearing they had all recovered quickly and been assigned another mission while he had been out, made every drop of blood shed feel all the more worth it. He really had been able to protect them as he was expected to after the train incident, even if he in the end failed to finish off the upper rank.
“Ah yes, young Kamado. Truly good natured. I’m sure he would speak fondly of anyone who fought by his side.” He folded his arms across his chest assuredly as he always seemed to when he felt idle.
The Sound Pillar moved his one good arm casually behind his head. “I don’t think just ‘anyone’ could have done what you did in the first place.”
Uzui sighed. “You’ve done good, Mister Flame Pillar. I think you deserve to just be Rengoku now.” Kyojuro tried to hide the thoughtful pensivity welling behind his eyes before spreading across his face. Kyojuro knew he had always been able to read like a book, trying as he might to hide how he felt.
“Ugh. No need to do the Tomioka face.” The Sound Hashira said less than affectionately, He feigned annoyance, but his genuine concern was evident. “It’s up to you of course, but I think you should take a cue from me and go home to your wife now. Give my best to your mini-me.”
—————————————
By the time Kocho had let him leave the Butterfly Mansion, she wrapped his bandages extra taught, surely expecting he would have removed them the minute he was out of her sight. She was not wrong, he had definitely contemplated tearing them off before he returned to his home.
But he knew he ought to leave them for now. Show the bare wound? Too disturbing. An eyepatch felt too drastic, permanent. Even though he was told to be cautiously optimistic at best on recovering his sight in that eye, bandages gave the hopeful impression to both his family and himself that regaining his vision was not out of the realm of possibility just yet.
And there was the matter of crutches. He’d declined the nurses’ offer without a second thought. He wasn’t above using them, of course—he had used crutches before when it was necessary.
But this time felt different. This time, he had come closer to death than he ever had before, closer than he had ever imagined. The weight of that knowledge was still fresh, he liked to think that was to blame for the piercing sensation beneath his ribs rather than the obvious.
Turning the corner into his ancestral home, he was not surprised to see his brother doing his daily chores per usual. Senjuro swept the entryway with a thousand yard stare. His gaze was unfocused, the bristles haphazardly brushing over the floor as if he wasn’t truly seeing it beneath him. He seemed to move mechanically as if the incessant noise in his head left him catatonic.
As much as he wished Senjuro would let others help him, he knew productivity usually brought him peace of mind. Likely now more than ever thanks to his extended stay at the Butterfly Mansion riddling them all with uncertainty.
Upon seeing him, Senjuro dropped his broom, his hazed expression replaced with overjoy. He ran over stopping himself in his tracks before jumping into his still recovering older brother’s arms.
Senjuro’s smile faltered as he took a small, hesitant step back, his gaze flickering down to Kyojuro’s chest, then back up to his face. He looked scared to get any closer, as if Kyojuro was made of glass and the slightest touch would make him shatter before his eyes. Kyojuro slowly opened his arms, donning his iconic smile brimming with warmth and familiarity. A simple reassurance.
That was all needed for Senjuro’s momentary unease to be erased. Without a second thought, Senjuro closed the distance, throwing his arms around his elder brother in a tight embrace.
He let out a slight hmph slightly faltering backward for a moment. The pressure against his abdomen was not exactly comfortable, but that did not stop him from tightening his own arms around his little brother.
“Thank gods Kanroji-san brought some sweet potato and sakura mochi earlier! I would’ve made more if we had gotten a crow you were discharged!”
Kyojuro did not have the heart to tell Senjuro he had been living off extra salted miso soups and herbal tea since awakening, and was told to continue doing so until breathing was more comfortable.
Kocho had mentioned that at least three times as he left the manor. She must’ve correctly suspected yet again his own appetite was a potential hazard to his recovery. Even castella cake was too solid and dense for him to consume in his condition.
“I will have to thank my former tsuguko for her thoughtfulness when I see her next!” He tried to remain as lighthearted as possible as he declared what no one ever believed they would live to hear him say. “As delicious as that sounds, I am not hungry at the moment!”
“Not hungry?” Senjuro repeated, his voice tinged with disbelief. “You?” His eyes raked over his elder brother searching for the cause of such an anomaly.
Just as Senjuro inspected the state of him, Kyojuro noticed the dark circles beneath his brother’s eyes, and the complexion of his face paler than he remembered.
“I am simply so full of energy and vitality I have no need for anything to eat! Why don’t you off from your chores for the rest of the day, Senjuro!”
“A-are you sure?” Senjuro swiftly took his broom back into his hands as if to prove he had no reason to not continue as he was.
Kyojuro put a hand on his brother’s shoulder, a gesture that always seemed to make Senjuro feel more at ease. “Certainly, you look as though you could use rest. I will take over for you”
Not being deterred in the slightest Senjuro replied, “No I can do it I promise!” Senjuro swiftly took his broom back into his hands as if to prove he had no reason to not continue as he was before Kyojuro came.
“She’s doing the laundry for me already outside. So at least let me do the rest of the chores!” The younger Rengoku boy seemed almost frantic as he tried to prove that he was still more than capable of carrying out his perceived responsibilities.
Kyojuro was momentarily taken aback looking into the fuzzy silhouette of a reflection of himself, one that went deeper than their appearance.
He had spent the better part of his life encouraging and reassuring his brother, for this exact reason. He had foolishly believed that maybe that would be enough for Senjuro to ignore the example that had been before him since their mother had died nearly a decade ago.
There were many things he was capable of protecting him from, however there remained some things he could only try to ward off. He was more than happy to act as a human shield to all the unpleasantness of the world he had dealt with himself.
That was not to say his brother was delicate. Senjuro’s meek and sensitive exterior was not beguiling of his fiercely loyal and indomitable spirit. His patience was seemingly boundless, while being the most empathetic person Kyojuro had ever met. Senjuro’s maturity was indeed far beyond his years.
In spite of all of this, Kyojuro wanted him to have had a normal and carefree childhood. Maybe if they were another family under different circumstances, in some kind of a perfect world, Senjuro would not be confined to doing household work all day. He would have a plethora of friends to enjoy the blissful innocence of juvenility, with two loving parents at home, and no perceived expectations he was forced to inherit or self-condemnate over.
Most of all he would not feel the need to fight for the validation of others, or establish his worth in his actions. While he could not protect him from loss or neglect, surely he could do that much even now.
There was no use grieving over what could have been, the reality was Senjuro had begun to take after his own tendencies. Something he could never forgive himself for being the cause of if it went too far. His own resolve was still strong, but he could at least try to set an example of self preservation when Senjuro was watching.
He took the broom from Senjuro’s hands once again, leaning it against the wall beside them.”Why don’t we both take some time off today!” He proclaimed as confidently as possible. Senjuro’s shoulders, which had been taut with unease, dropped and with them Kyojuro breathed his own sigh of relief.
He no longer protested his elder brother’s suggestion to get some rest. Kyojuro walked his little brother to his room. As he followed, the younger boy barely lifted his head, his gaze still unfocused, lost in the exhaustion that clung to him.
Tucking him into his futon, Kyojuro adjusted the pillow beneath his brother’s head, fluffing it gently, even though he knew Senjuro wouldn’t mind either way. He moved deliberately, his smile unchanged despite his mind spinning. He couldn’t help but hope that his little brother wouldn’t notice the subtle shift in Kyojuro’s actions today—the slight urgency in his insistence.
Perhaps fatigue dulled Senjuro’s emotional intelligence enough that he failed to detect the thinly veiled half-heartedness behind him emphasizing they deserve to both call it for the day. He had been home for moments, and on bedrest before that while Senjuro had been beside himself with worry, maintaining their home. Kyojuro felt dread pool in his stomach, the thought nearly sickened him.
Once making sure his little brother was comfortable in his futon, he rose from his crouched position to his feet again, clamping his eyes shut with a sharp exhale at the shooting pain through his abdomen at the sudden movement.
Luckily, Senjuro had succumbed to exhaustion the moment his head touched the pillow, sparing him any more anxiety over his big brother’s condition.
He was embarrassed at how rapidly even the simplest tasks; walking, standing, really had exhausted him. Kocho had not necessarily given him advice on activity now that he was no longer in critical condition, she just reiterated not putting “undue strain” on the body. As vague as that was, he figured he must be experiencing some version of that as his breath became more labored as he walked through the corridors of his own home.
Almost as if moving against his will, he lowered himself into his futon. He hoped maybe he could get some sleep as soundly as Senjuro, his head barely made contact with the pillow before he drifted off even with rays of early evening daybreak still illuminating the sky.
He was happy he had managed to soothe the terrifying thoughts eating his little brother from the inside while he was recovering at the Butterfly Mansion.
Hopefully, Senjuro genuinely believed things were right in the world again, and that he had no need to prove himself to those around him any further. If he did genuinely believe that, Kyojuro envied it.
—————————————
The laundry had kept you busy from the late afternoon until the sun hung low in the sky, and you were grateful for the long days of summer, which offered a grace period of a few more hours of safety outside.
You must have looked strange in your tsumugi woven silk kimono, churning laundry by the creek. You wiped a bead of sweat from your brow, before brushing your hands over your hair to ensure the hairpin was still in place. You refocused on the task at hand, gripping the sentakubō with both hands once again.
The water stirring and forming small whirlpools as you plunge the wooden paddle into the melange of soaking garments with a slosh. You raise the paddle up before submerging it again, fabric swirling in the sekken infused water.
These were the ancient methods Senjuro had told you had been used for centuries in the family.
“Drinkable well water is too precious to be used on clothes, there is flowing mountain water just beyond the gates by a small grove of wisteria trees. That’s where we have done laundry for as far back as I know of.”
The fatigue evident in his every motion momentarily ceased for him to give you particular instructions before you handle the household laundry on your own for the first time.
In Tokyo, you heard some families had found ways to pump water into their homes. No access to wells or streams necessary. You were unsure whether to be skeptical or amazed at the Western innovations being integrated at breakneck speed into the capital, but the Rengoku family seemed utterly disinterested and unimpressed by anything that brought them away from the techniques of the past.
Regardless of the flow of time, the Rengoku family had yet to betray the techniques of their ancestors that had never failed them before.
Perhaps they felt both indebted and venerated by the practices that had upheld their name through generations of Flame Pillars and centuries of war against man-eating evil. Each Hashira over the ages living long enough to pass on every aspect, no matter how trivial, of traditional lifestyle to their children and then their children’s children.
Proof of demons and time alike being unable to erode them into nothing more than history, a bloodline persisting even today, against all odds.
Your nose prickled at the herbal scent of the laundry solution you had handled for the past few hours soaking, scrubbing the items against the ridges of a washboard before draping each clean textile over a clothesline to dry in the tepid air.
It was dull, tedious, and somewhat exhausting work, but anything to take your mind and a piece of your heart from the Butterfly Mansion was a welcome distraction.
As you carried out mundane household chores as of late, you had made it more engaging by picturing Kyojuro watching you with pride, a glint of familiar affection in his eye.
It only pushed you harder to put your all into everything you did, regardless of how unremarkable it may seem to others. That was what he would no doubt do in your shoes.
—————————————
You had expected Senjuro to be milling about getting things done for the same reason when you arrived back at the estate.The broom leaned against the wall of the engawa was telling enough to you he must’ve finished his daily tasks up and retired into the house for the time being. It might have been slightly unusual, but not anything provoking much cause for concern otherwise.
You looked forward to idleness for the remainder of the evening. Slipping into fresh clothes, you made your way to your room, eager to lie down and rest.
As you walk the corridor, a blur of fiery colors ignites in your peripheral vision beyond the sliding door of a room that had sat empty as of late. Was that? You freeze in disbelief.
“Kyojuro?” The name slips from your lips before you can stop it, even though you know the chances of him hearing you from this distance without even seeing your lips were low, but it doesn’t stop your heart from leaping in your chest nevertheless.
Eventually he must sense your presence, his unwrapped eye meeting yours, and in that instant, it feels like everything else fades away. He shifts from his reclined position to sit upright. Even just sitting up in his futon, you notice the subtle tension in his body, the familiar way his arms instinctively cross in front of him—, a pose you know he adopts when idle, as idle as he was capable of being anyway.
You had seen him like this before, when he was always on guard, always ready for battle. The weight of responsibility had never left him, even when he wasn’t fighting. But now, in this quiet moment, it felt almost surreal. You felt a wave of relief flood over you—he was here. He was home.
You didn’t know whether to run over to him, break down into tears, fall to your knees thanking every god and spirit that was looking out for him, or all three at the same time. He watches you with that familiar intensity in his eyes, but there's something softer now, an unspoken heaviness in his gaze
“You were resting… I’m sorry for the disruption.” You did something you hadn’t done since you arrived at the house, lowering your head into a bow. It simply felt appropriate, the least you could do was show your respect, as unnatural as it felt. Kyojuro blinked, taken aback by your gesture, his brows clenching together in confusion as he watched you.
There was a moment where his eyes seemed to search yours, as if uncertain how to respond, had a distance that great grown between you? You raised from your bow before he could tell you it was ‘not necessary for the likes of him,’ your grasp taking hold of the edge of the shoji door to drag it shut.
“I’ll let you enjoy some peace and quiet.” Your words felt inauthentic as you spoke, it wasn’t what you wanted, but it felt like what you deserved. You wished you knew what to say to him, but how could you? You could do nothing but watch helplessly while he writhed in pain waiting for you at the Butterfly Mansion.
Standing by watching the sparks fade his eyes, feeling the room grow colder and colder still. Was that really all you could do?
Every night since then, you had hoped for a miracle, that you would wake up and he would be back. Now here he was and all you could do was grapple with the futility of your every effort against the inevitable, one that would have come to pass with or without your consent. Like almost all else in his life, he overcame this on his own.
He tilted his head to the side trying to catch your downturned gaze with a soft smile, “You know” He paused until your glassy eyes met his. “I’ve had enough ‘peace and quiet’ for this lifetime.”
He hesitated for a heartbeat, there was an almost imperceptible urgency in his tone, as though the simple request held more than he could express. “I would enjoy your companionship…” His eye locked onto yours, and you could hear him telling you what he truly felt, but couldn’t bring himself to say, “Please don’t leave me alone…”
Your fists closed around your sleeves as you looked on from the doorway.
“Could I lay beside you?” You meant to ask gracefully, but a tremble caught itself at the end of your words. In spite of you both being wedded, something ignited embarrassment within you at your own request. You weren’t quite sure what his experience with such things were, but you certainly had none to speak of.
You had been confident everything would be ok, but a part of you filled with dread at every crow that flew overhead. Terrified, one of them was Shinobu-san informing you regrettably that they had failed, and he was gone. You just wanted to be close to him, close enough to hold onto and hope he wouldn’t come so close to slipping away from you again.
“Absolutely!” His boyish excitement quickly commanding sincerity, his voice lowering to just above a breathy whisper “I mean… you do not need to ask. I am yours after all.”
If anything was capable of soothing the apprehension you felt, it was hearing him deliver an enthusiastic exclamation. You studied him, your eyes drifted down again to his arms crossed on top of his chest. Whether be a barrage of responsibility or self doubt, he always carried a tension palpable in every fiber.
In a gentler world that asked for less of someone like him, maybe he wouldn’t need to. But even if he was not of that world, you could create a piece of it for him to dwell in. A place both his weary body and mind could be at ease.
You lowered yourself into the futon, trying to not focus on your heart, beginning to quicken, as the sound of his breath became audible each inhale and following exhale affirming to you he was alive, and he was yours.
“Am I making you nervous?” You asked genuinely, seeing his shoulders tighten and arms stitch together more tautly and a rouge flush across his cheeks even in the low light.
He conveniently subverted your inquiry, rebounding it back to you.“You are not nervous, are you, my flame?” His tone seemed to waver in its usual certainty.
“Not with you…” Even the intoxicating stillness, you cannot help but notice his strained comportment. “You’re so stiff…”
He spoke no doubt a bit louder than even he anticipated, “Not stiff!” His sudden surge in volume took you back, the abruptness of his response leaving you momentarily unsettled. But as his words settled into the space between you, you quickly found yourself adjusting again into comfort.
“Just a habit, I assure you.” His voice was softer this time, a hint of something more raw slipping through his usual certainty. “I have been trained to be vigilant, at all times. I suppose it’s just how I’ve learned to exist.”
“Hm. I see…” Your brow furrowed, pursing your lips together almost imperceivably. You extend your arms to place one hand on each of his shoulders, meeting his gaze you search the embers of his unbandaged iris for any sign of discomfort before cupping your hands.
You, for only a moment, feel the heat of his gaze rake over, consuming each inch of your form. It was enough to make your skin prickle under its blistering intensity. Being used as its fuel, a slow burn ignited in your chest, radiating outward in waves, trailing sparks down to your fingertips and toes. You pry your eyes from your own hands back to his blistering stare to catch his lashes flutter briefly, clenching his eyes shut as if mentally reprimanding himself.
Your palms take in the dense sinews forming sharp lines and curved ridges beneath your palms, before you push them down from their contraction. His arms finally dropping from their cross to his sides. You try to cut through the tension imparting a squeeze in a circular motion to the corded muscle between your thumb and fingers.
As the pressure deepened, a soft, involuntary shudder rippled through him, a sudden tremor that surged from his shoulders down to his spine. It caused him to partially heave forward, his posture faltering as his head tilted to the side. A strangled sound—somewhere between a gasp and a whimper—escaped his lips.
You pull back your hands instinctively. “I-I didn’t mean…”
He shifted slightly, avoiding your gaze for a brief moment, the blush deepening down to his neck. “I... I think I made a rather odd sound just now... My sincerest apologies” He spoke just above a murmur, his tone uncharacteristically timid, and pupils blown wide. “I must have broken my Total Concentration Breathing. I-I just… did not expect that to feel so good.”
After a moment, his voice came again, a little more vulnerable than usual, almost tentative. “May I hold you?” For a man so often brimming with confidence and conviction, this sudden bashfulness was endearing, almost disarming.
You echoed the words that had made your heart flutter since you heard them, “I am yours after all.” As the moments stretched on, the world outside began to blur, your breaths falling in sync with his. His hand trailed absentmindedly through your hair, his touch lulling you closer to sleep. Just before the haze of slumber overtook you, you felt him press the lightest kiss to your temple, his lips lingering as though committing the moment to memory.
And so, wrapped in his embrace, safe within the steady glow of his presence, you drifted off. For even in sleep, you knew you were wholly his, and he, yours.
—————————————
Kyojuro found himself restless with the first breaks of light, the flecks of dawn slowly spreading from the base of the horizon as the sky remained inked with the deep indigo of night.
He sat up, given the opaque darkness of the sky it was hard to believe that golden rays of light would cut through the boundless pitch black expanse above him.
Since he had awoken, he had begun to be enchanted by things he had never paid much mind to before. The way the dawn happened to bleed into night, if there was nothing else you could rely on in this world, there was solace to be found in the consistency of daybreak.
No matter how empty the void of night seemed, the dawn would overcome it anyway, illuminating the heavens without fail. Admirable. It was truly admirable.
Turning his gaze toward you, his heart softened even further. You lay curled beside him, your expression serene in the half-light, your hair tousled from sleep. Kyojuro couldn’t help but smile—bright and warm, though he kept it quiet, not wanting to disturb you. He leaned down and pressed a feather-light kiss to the crest of your hairline, lingering for a moment as if to savor the touch.
"Rest well," he whispered, his voice low and affectionate. Carefully, he slipped from the futon, each movement deliberate and gentle so as not to disturb the stillness that wrapped around you like a cocoon.
While cooking was outside his expertise, he was more than capable of boiling water in a hagama with tea leaves.
As he entered the main room to prepare it, he noticed his father already seated with his gaze fixed on the sky. Kyojuro’s instincts made him want to turn around and recede right then and there, before stopping himself.
“You are up early, Father.” Kyojuro shifted his head to the side almost as if to hide his face. He could hardly bring himself to face the former Flame Hashira. In his father's eyes, the cold sweat on his brow and the ghostly pallor of his skin would no doubt serve as a (half) living testament to the very words he had insisted upon to Kyojuro for years.
His hand quivered as he sprinkled a spoonful of the tea leaves into water before beginning to boil them together on the wood stove.
Shinjuro hardly acknowledged the presence of another behind him more than a quick glance over the shoulder. His expression was as equally austere and annoyed as usual.
Similar to how Shinjuro kept his eyes firmly locked onto the slow ascent of the sun, Kyojuro relegated his own gaze to the kettle on the stove, barely looking away as the silence was intermittently broken by the sound of chimes swaying in the breeze.
When the water adopted the greenish hue from the tea leaves, he removed the hagama from the heat.
“Uh... tea, Father?” Kyojuro said as he set out two cups just in case. It was unusual enough his father was awake at dawn, and out of his room. He rarely saw Shinjuro eat or drink much, usually sleeping or drinking the day away, it would be even more unusual for him to break that pattern. But, he felt obliged to ask him anyway.
Shinjuro spoke, his voice gruff as it had been as long as Kyojuro could remember. “Sure.” He paused for a long time before adding, “Thank you…”
Kyojuro looked up with shock, but only to look at the back of Shinjuro’s head once again. He poured the liquid into the cups, curls of steam wafting from each one with an earthy aroma.
With one in each hand he brought it over to where his father sat at the edge of the room, the sky fading from nox to a peach tone as the apex of the sun became visible over the horizon line.
He lowered his head as he placed the cup on the ground, Shinjuro’s scarred hand wrapping around it where it sat. Kyojuro slowly backed away from where he resided to leave him be.
“You can sit, son.” Shinjuro said, finally turning over his shoulder to meet Kyojuro’s gaze. Kyojuro moved closer again trepidatiously before lowering himself to the ground with a sharp exhale, the pressure on his wound making his face twist momentarily as he did so.
Kyojuro could not help but notice the thick, pungent smell of sake—a scent that had been a constant companion to his father for as long as he could remember—was completely absent this morning.
“In nearly 20 years as a pillar, I used that damned form three times.” Shinjuro spoke, his eyes not leaving the sky as he took a sip of the tea in his hand. “You’ve used it twice that I know of, but it’s been more times than that, right?”
Kyojuro did not even want to reply to his father’s probing, it would not matter anyway, they both knew the answer to the question.
The former pillar’s jaw clenched in grim recognition of Kyojuro's telling silence. However, the response was not angered, but seemed shackled with the heaviness of frustration.
Kyojuro took a long drink of the cup of tea in his hand, it was easier than thinking of the right thing to say.
Shinjuro continued, his voice steady but carrying a hint of weariness. “I practically memorized each word of the chronicles. The Breath of Flames like every other breath will always be derivative. Yet our swordsmen are the only ones who refuse to believe that. Neither the chosen ones nor those blissfully content with their own mediocrity use anything as foolish or self destructive as that damn 9th form.”
Kyojuro knows the destruction he spoke of all too well. The gelatinous cartilage protecting the shoulders, knees, elbows, hip flexors, ankles, spine, it was all fickle.
Once the body has worn it down, usually through decades upon decades of usage the grating discomfort of bone on bone friction rarely goes away, in many cases it can leave one chair bound from the intensity of every joint aching.
While all such an affliction can happen naturally with the flow of time, but the amount of power emitted from the 9th form was anything but natural.
The records of the ways of Flame Breathing made this clear to the user. Even by the standard of breath forms, which already amplify the body beyond its innate threshold, the concentration of power in the 9th form of Flame Breathing was exceptionally great.
The amount of strain on the body by the 9th form was more than some could handle. Some Flame Pillars of the past did not have the composition to use it more than once or twice at absolute most. The immense pressure on the body had a way of hastening degeneration. The form was strictly a last resort when facing a foe that needed to be defeated at all costs.
The brighter and hotter a flame burns, the sooner it flickers out. Yet each time he was left with no other option but to use it, he did so without hesitation.
He had always fought to save lives with his body as little more than collateral in the grand scheme of his duty, so what did a few adverse side effects matter if it allowed him to prevail against a powerful demon that could go on to devour dozens?
Shinjuro muttered under his breath bitterly as if trying to suppress a visceral growl gathering in his lungs at the words alone. “The Breath of Flames, the Flame Hashira mantle, all of it, who gives a damn about a line of talentless fools breaking themselves just to end up average. It’s just a pitiful tale, nothing more. I’ve asked myself over and over why anyone would want to pass that on to the next generations.”
He shook his head slowly with an exhale, his knuckles becoming lighter as he gripped his cup more tightly before releasing it again. “I knew I should’ve destroyed the infernal pages of the Flame Hashira Chronicles a long time ago.”
Kyojuro’s tone became calmer than even he knew it to be, almost as if unconsciously imitating the softness of how his own mother spoke to him all those years ago. “Whether it is pitiful or not, it memorializes their will. Their triumph, their struggle, none of it will go unnoticed, and they will be remembered fondly for their bravery and their role in our history.”
Shinjuro was quiet for a moment, his gaze distant still settled on the peach streaks as they became gold across the sky. “Did you ever read about my predecessor?” He grumbled with narrowed eyes.
Kyojuro’s brow furrowed into thought before replying. “Our grandfather, yes of course. I read about every Flame Hashira. It is a shame Senjuro and I never met him.”
“Trust me, you’re lucky you only ever read about him.” Shinjuro let out a forced chuckle before taking another sip. “Obsessed with the family legacy, he’d probably have carved ‘Flame Hashira’ into my chest the day I was born if he thought it would keep me from forgetting who I was meant to be. And just my luck—I happened to be the bastard’s only child. That meant all his expectations, all his delusions about immortality through legacy, fell squarely on my shoulders.”
Kyojuro heard a pain in his father’s voice that he had only caught a handful of times before—a rare, almost fleeting vulnerability that Shinjuro rarely allowed anyone to see. His mind drifted back to faded, gilded memories. When his father’s smile had been constant, his pride unwavering. He could still recall the way his father’s eyes would light up as he passed down his sword skills to him and Senjuro, enthusiastic and patient.
Those memories were growing hazy with time, as though they were trapped in the mist of nostalgia, but the warmth they stirred within him was unmistakable. It was the kind of warmth that invigorated him—like the very ichorous blood of the Flame Hashira flowed through his veins, and he was destined for greatness.
“Perhaps…” Kyojuro murmured, his voice wistful, “Perhaps… He must have seen potential in you… " His eyes fell to the ground, his chest felt hollow as if the air was being drawn from it. "And that was the reason he pushed you so hard and did not ever give up on you...”
Shinjuro’s lips pressed together into a firm line. “Potential? No. He didn’t see me. Not as a person. I was a tool, a means to an end—a way to keep the Rengoku name alive, to make himself feel like he mattered.”
Shinjuro's voice held calm, but kept carrying the crushing weight of resignation.“Part of me wanted to show him I would be the last Flame Breathing user,” His eyes stayed distant, unblinking.
“Just let our name die out, fade into oblivion as a fragment of history. Just so my miserable old man’s last thought would be regret. That nothing he tried his damndest to maintain would last after one generation. I refused to be another cog in the perpetual machine.”
Kyojuro looked down at the swirls of green fluid in the cup as he held it in his lap. His voice curious as he looked over, as though trying to understand a piece of the past he had never been allowed to see. “What changed your mind?”
“Your mother…” Shinjuro’s lips twisted slightly, but not with anger—more like a quiet bitterness that he no longer had the energy to hide under anger or indifference. “But just like everything else, it was all futile, just a beautiful dream she was kind enough to let me believe in. Even for just a little while.”
Kyojuro’s eyes flickered, a quiet understanding passing between them at her mention.
Shinjuro let out a long sigh, setting his cup down with a soft clink, though his movements remained languid. “I don’t know if she fell victim to the suffering fate has ordained for us by becoming my bride. Maybe she stood a chance before then. But not us, if you’re born into it, you don’t have a choice, it's your cross to bear whether you want it or not. That’s the cruel joke. That’s the purgatory we’re bound to.”
The sun was higher now, and the colors in the sky deepened, casting a warm glow over everything.
Shinjuro’s voice broke the stillness again, his voice softer now than Kyojuro had known in so long. “I never wanted to be the kind of man to force a son to swing a sword until he vomited and his hands were torn open and bleeding. I should’ve never let either of you boys touch a blade. Just let the cycle end and be free. But you and Senjuro... you were always drawn to it. Always. I could see it in your eyes.”
His gaze turned, albeit reluctantly, to Kyojuro, meeting his gaze in earnest. “We can’t help it, can we? It's in our blood I suppose.”
The sun was fully risen now, casting a golden glow over the room, spilling warmth across the tatami floor. Shinjuro, still staring out at the horizon, sighed deeply, a silent self condemnation. “I wasn’t capable of protecting Ruka, or the many junior swordsmen, or countless civilians, but I once hoped even a good for nothing father could protect his own children if nothing else.”
Kyojuro’s eyes lingered on his father, the warmth of the rising sun casting a gentle light on the hard lines of Shinjuro’s face. He didn’t know what he could possibly say.
Kyojuro sat in the silence that followed his father's words, the weight of Shinjuro’s rare admission lingering in the air. He could feel the old, familiar tension between them, but it was softer now—more fragile, like the delicate balance of the morning light spilling across the floor.
Shinjuro’s voice was both steady and solemn. "Kyojuro, you are a better man than I. You and your brother both. A strong man can learn from a weaker one how to become even stronger."
The words were unexpected, catching Kyojuro off guard. He glanced up at his father, his eyes searching the features of Shinjuro’s face for some sign that this wasn’t just another passing moment of wistful resignation. But there was no mistaking the sincerity in his tone. Kyojuro’s chest tightened, though he didn’t fully know why.
Shinjuro took a breath, his gaze fixed on the distant horizon, a faraway look in his eyes. “Just remember, you have a whole life ahead of you. It’s yours to do with what you wish.”
There was something in Shinjuro’s words that stirred in Kyojuro—a faint flicker of hope, like a spark in the dark. He wanted to say something, to respond, but the weight of the moment was so heavy, so rare, that all he could do was nod.
Shinjuro shifted slightly, the moment passing as quickly as it had come. He stood slowly, his movements deliberate, before leaving on heavy footsteps.
There was something in Shinjuro’s words that stirred in Kyojuro—a faint flicker of hope, like a spark in the dark. He wanted to say something, to respond, but the weight of the moment was so heavy, so rare, that all he could do was nod.
Shinjuro shifted slightly, the moment passing as quickly as it had come. He stood slowly, his movements deliberate, as though the weight of his own body was a burden he carried with resignation.
He gave Kyojuro one last look, something softer than usual in his eyes, before he turned toward the door. "I’m going to go check on Senjuro. He’s been having nightmares lately."
Kyojuro’s gaze lingered on his father’s retreating back. The room felt quieter now, the silence settling between them like something solid. He wanted to speak—wanted to say something that could erase the years of distance between them, and his father’s regrets.
The warmth of the sun seemed to spill into his very bones, filling the hollow places with a kind of quiet understanding. It wasn't a resolution. It wasn’t a grand moment of reconciliation. But it was something.
A rare crack in the wall that had always stood between them. And for the first time in a long while, Kyojuro thought maybe, just maybe, it was a step toward something else. Something better.
—————————————
He awoke to start the day as he had nearly every day for the past. Getting ready at dawn as he always did, cautious not to awaken you in the room beyond the thin panel walls. Donning his corps uniform kaen haori, against Kocho’s advice to receive help.
Moving deliberately he raised his arms to twist the thick honey blonde layers of his hair, he felt a sharp pang in his abdomen. He froze in place, his eyes widened before clenching shut. The pain forcing him to grip the edge of the nearest furniture for support.
His hand moved from his chest back to his sides as he opened his eyes slowly, a hint of embarrassment creeping over him. It was as if he feared that when his eyelids lifted, he would find disappointed faces gazing back at him.
He continued the routine that made him worthy of the rank of Hashira. His resolve only strengthened, it would not matter so long as he could prove to himself, he was still strong, the capable protector of others.
The sun’s early light casting across his face, he moved with purpose across the same grounds that he and generations of Flame Pillars before him honed their skills in the heart of the ancestral estate. The ground beneath him was packed earth, worn smooth from endless footfalls.
Unsheathing his katana, he took a deep breath, grip tightening on the handle of his garnet nichirin sword. But the blade that was once a weightless extension of himself felt heavier, more cumbersome.
Performing the stances he had forged into his very bones with the years. His fluidity between each form was lacking. Even in total concentration he found himself sputtering if his chest expanded too much on the inhale. Beads of sweat rolled down his temple in the Summer sun, the brine making the unhealed gash across his eye socket sting lightly.
He was not blessed with the near supernatural acuteness of sense others possessed. Some of his comrades had such heightened perception, blindness itself was not even a burden. But he was quite the opposite, since the mission he lost most of his hearing, he had learned to instead rely on his vision to be fully aware of his surroundings at all times.
In the line of duty, he even had trained himself to reduce the frequency of blinking so as to not let his own inability to perceive his surroundings with his other senses create an opening for an enemy to strike.
Each swing and subsequent sharp ache in his abdomen was a reminder that not long ago, a demon had punched straight through his body as if he were hollow. A lifetime of working towards becoming a paragon of invincibility rendered worthless in an instant.
He had spent his life mastering control over every part of his own body. Every fiber, every nerve ending. The idea he was spared by chance was nauseating. By chance, the blow didn’t destroy any vital organs, killing him instantly. By chance, the kakushi were able to move him quickly enough. By chance, he managed to wake up from Kocho’s induced sleep at all.
Kyojuro shifted into the next stance, forcing his body to remember the rhythm of each fiery surge of power. He longed for the zone he could so easily slip into. When each cell of his body felt as though it burned with the intensity of his soul, no amount of pain or exhaustion could dampen it.
The searing tenacity, the flow. Wiping his brow he found the warm flow he desired, albeit in a drastically different form. A crimson streak across the back of his hand was the last thing he saw before sanguine blood obscured the vision in his left eye once again. Pressing the heel of his hand against his eye once again in an attempt to stop the seep from the wound.
—————————————
You were well aware of Kyojuro’s routine, if he was off bed rest chances are he would go back to it even against the better judgment of others, and probably himself too.
So when you saw him sitting with his back to the house, cross legged in the middle of the training field, his katana sheathed on his right side a change from it usually placed on his left. Stranger than that, you had rarely seen him take breaks much less fully sit down on the grass.
“Are you alr-You’re bleeding!” Once you were within his earshot, you
He looked over his shoulder with his right eye anxiously following your exclamatory reaction. He assured you with a forced cheerfulness, though the flicker of uncertainty in his voice betrayed the bravado. “Although,” he continued, his tone lowering slightly, “I fear if Senjuro sees me like this, he might go into a panic…”
As much as you wanted to scold him for neglecting his own wellbeing for the sake of others yet again, he had a point. Senjuro had just been in a state of shock wondering if he would ever see his brother again. The last thing he needed was to see Kyojuro hurt yet again.
“Yes! I-I’ll get some first aid!”
You moved briskly back to the house to retrieve some standard medical supplies. Coming out to sit on his left side in the grass, mimicking his seated position with his back to the home. From the way you angled yourself, legs folding to your side, if Senjuro happened to walk by, perhaps he would just figure you both were basking in the sun on a nice day and nothing more.
You slowly shake your head as you begin to wet the clean cloth with rubbing alcohol. “You are an exceptionally lucky man, you know that?”
He chuckled lightly, a glowing smile spreading across his face. “I suppose I am if a beautiful lady is willing to take care of me.”
You sigh, glancing down for a moment fighting back a grin that will no doubt spread to you like a contagion. “Look up please.” As you asked, his irises shifted upwards as you moved the cloth in your hand toward him, the laceration across his left eye freshly reopened on full display, stretching clear across his eyelid and nearly severing his eyebrow.
“Flattery will get you nowhere, Kyojuro Rengoku. You know what I mean.” You can’t help but smile through the scoff you force out, your attempts to remain stern and impress upon him seriousness foiled.
Holding the damp cloth with a steady grip, you approach his eye with utmost caution, ensuring you don’t accidentally brush against his ink-black lashes. You carefully touch the rag to his face, disinfecting the length of the wound, your movements deliberate and gentle.
“No! I am merely speaking the truth you are-” His proclamation was halted by a wince at the sting from the antiseptic’s contact with the raw wound.
“I’m sorry if that hurts.” Your brow furrows as you pull the cloth away, necessary as it was to do, it pained you to be the cause of any further bodily discomfort for him.
You take a minute to find the most appropriate way to say what you mean, for both of your sakes. “First they weren’t sure you would…”
You meet his gaze tacitly before continuing. “Then Shinobu-san tells you the chances of retaining sight in your left eye was nonexistent, and here you are breathing and seeing and yet you still keep pushing yourself to the point of coming apart at the seams.” You try to mask your unease, seeing him continue working himself beyond his limits, when he is already so fragile at the moment.
“At least wear the eyepatch the Butterfly Mansion issued you!” You implore with something of a half smile. The sheer stubbornness with which he dismissed every injury, no matter how serious, would be humorous if it wasn’t so deeply concerning.
“Oh please, I need no such thing! I’m doing nothing I cannot handle, I assure you.” That authoritative voice, brimming with optimism. It was so easy to hear it, and blindly take each word as fact. But you know better by now, you could’ve told him every bone in his body was broken beyond repair and he would probably still respond that way. Even so, you want to trust him to stay within his means.
“Ok, ok you’re ‘fine.’ I understand.” You reply resignedly speaking on your exhale. “Just please just take care of your eye. You’ve always had the most lovely eyes…” You say looking deeply into the golden rimmed eyes of the man before you.
Usually, when those spoke of the Rengoku family, they used the word "powerful" to describe their distinctive features—sharp cheekbones, avian-esque orbs, blazing hair, and the aura of intensity that seemed to radiate from them. They served as yet another irrefutable motif that connected each Flame Pillar to the long legacy of unrivaled swordsmen bearing the Rengoku name.
“Powerful” was no doubt a compliment. He had always taken pride in the honor of possessing the iconic visage of his courageous ancestors. “Lovely” was different though. It felt intimate, a word that captured a softness. One rarely used when likening the fierce warriors of the Rengoku lineage with description, or him by that association.
“If you like them, then I am only more excited by the prospect of passing them onto our children one day!” He exclaimed, the ever present ember burning behind his gaze billowing into a roaring inferno with joyous fervor.
Your cheeks flushed like a watercolor canvas, rosy hues blooming across your complexion. He could only surmise in that moment the evident dilation of your pupils to be a product of shock, at worse maybe even discomfort.
He had gotten overzealous again, it was all too easy for him to put his foot in his mouth and take someone aback when he felt impassioned enthusiasm overflowing from him. However, you didn’t seem jarred or off put by his sudden pronouncement. You gaze warmed, softly smiling back at him.
“Yes, me too.” Your voice on the gentle breeze was as steady and sincere.
But for a moment, it all fell away. The corps, his family legacy, the pillars, all of it. Holding her knees gently on the grassy Earth beside him, looking back at him. Rays of light catching against her skin, wrapping around her like a golden embrace, illuminating her form with a radiance that seemed almost otherworldly. Her hair danced in the breeze, tousling it to frame her face with an effervescent allure.
He felt warmth creeping up his cheeks, just as it had for her moments ago. He desperately tried to suppress the flush as he turned his gaze downward, focusing intently on the ground.
Death or disablement. Kyojuro knew these to be the only two circumstances in which a pillar could honorably resign from their post. Here he was, neither dead nor maimed. The verdict ought to be clear as day. He was more than aware of the inevitable weakness that all humans must experience in time.
But to face that inevitability when he could still do so much? If he could swing a katana, he had a duty to serve. Right? His father should have continued serving as the Flame Hashira until he lost his sharpness to age.
But the day Mother passed, something died in Father, or maybe something already dead within him had begun to fester. Kyojuro always told himself that he would not succumb to the same fate, despair would not be the death of him, certainly not if even an Upper Rank wasn’t.
“I have… a friend… who is thinking about their future as a Hashira.” Kyojuro spoke with an uncharacteristic softness, fingers fidgeting with the hilt of his sword.
You looked at him inquisitively before having what you believe to be a revelation. “You mean the Sound Pillar?”
“Oh… right, yes. Uzui, of course.” Kyojuro's words stumbled out, a nervous smile flickering on his lips, eyes darting away, as if relieved to hear you identify the former Hashira, already settled on retirement.
“If he decides to retire, does it mean he has lost his passion? Or maybe he is running away?” His voice raised closer to its usual vivacity, but the typical enthusiasm felt infected with an air of apprehension. His fingers tightened around the sword’s hilt, outlining the flame insignia swordguard with a deliberate motion of his thumb.
Before you could even think to answer, he pressed on with another question, his urgency palpable.
“What if…” He paused, lightly clearing his throat adding the aforementioned yet again, his cadence returning to its equilibrium. “My friend…”
He looked deeply into your eyes, the bright vermillion honeycomb pools poured into yours like a gentle ray of sunlight at dawn, adorning everything within with its warmth. His words regained their normal directness in earnest. “Is worried the person he loves might not want him anymore, if he isn’t strong?”
You tilt your head, your gaze previously riddled with intrigue tempered tacitly at his probing, you understood now. “I’m certain the people in his life value him for more than something as superficial as his strength.”
You put your palms flat behind you on the tufts of grass leaning back to feel the sun warm your face.
“I don’t think of ‘strong’ as a person, I think of it as a state of being. We are all allowed to be weak and rely on the strength of others, and when others are weak we can give them our strength. No one person has to be strong all the time.”
More importantly, you saw through the electric personality of the natural born leader to all and the brave exterior of the warrior. You saw the man beneath it all. The kind of soul that was as tender as it was resiliently fortuitous.
Hanging on every word you notice the intertwine of his arms, crossed against his chest as he clung on your every word with rapt attentiveness. You straighten your posture leaning toward him, interlocking your fingers to the corded sinews of his forearms, pulling them from their interwoven tensed state as you had done before.
You took his worn hands in your own. “Well I hope you tell ‘your friend’ as much. Although, I would like to ask you something now if you would allow me.”
“Of course my flame, anything.” he replied, his voice filled with earnestness, a bright smile spreading across his face.
“Did you remember what I told you in the Butterfly Mansion? The last thing I said to you before you lost consciousness?”
His eyes narrowed as they trailed off into thought. He racked his brain for the last moment of light before his eyelids fell heavily as the sounds around him dissipated into silence. Before the oblivion of the serum he was injected with took effect, only muffled words cut by sobs come to mind.
“Please forgive me, I cannot recall.” He bowed his head remorsefully before meeting you again with a hopeful countenance. “Would you tell me again, my flame?”
A rosy hue rouges your cheeks as you fidget from side to side where you sat, part of you didn’t want to tear your gaze from the safety of the trodden Earth . But you couldn’t stand the idea of missing a moment basking in the bright eyes of the man you nearly lost.
“I told you that I loved you...” Your voice was a murmur, barely above a whisper, and as your heart skipped a beat in your chest. “I love you. I meant it, I love who you are. That will not be changed by what you are.”
“I have never found many things in life that I could not bring myself to love, or so I thought.” “What a fool I was. I did not even know what that word meant back then. What a truly lucky man I am.”
You would’ve liked to sappily argue that it was, in fact, you who was the lucky one. However, you knew the endless back-and-forth that would’ve followed if you did.
So instead, you let both your body and heart bask in warmth from two separate suns—one worlds away, and one right beside you. You let the moment linger between you, content in the quiet truth that you didn’t need to say it aloud for him to know you felt the same.
content: smut, fast and furious!au, gojo x reader, tension, teasing & flirting, jealous!sukuna, slight angst, illegal street races, fluff, explicit sexual descriptions, piv sex, dry humping, oral m & f recieving, car sex
synopsis: Retired from street racing, you opted to tuning cars, only test driving them all by yourself, in peace and safety. Until the star of the streets crashes straight into your heart. You can’t help but keep meeting him, despite the danger of him finding out you work for his biggest rival. And god forbid the chaos that would ensue, if said rival found out you like to sneak around behind his back with the Gojo Satoru. And if it came down to it, were you able to sever ties with with an old friend to pursue the one who makes your heart race?
word count: 12k
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It is a few minutes past midnight in Tokyo when the streets are almost entirely empty, save for people occasionally heading to the train station to catch the last train for the night. That aside, the streets felt alive regardless of their desolateness as you were sitting in the dark red Mazda rx-7 that you had finished modifying by 2pm and decided to take a nap before you took his new weapon on a test drive.
Which is what you are doing right now, as your foot presses down on the gas pedal and the monster of a car you had brought to life, speeds through the streets of Tokyo. Racing past all the brightly coloured neon lights that make the city feel alive, you can feel the adrenaline soaring through every vein of your body. Spreading out from your hands on the steering wheel and up from your feet at the pedals, lighting up every artery which carried the rush through your body, reaching your heart and filling a void that had been infesting your body long enough so you had become almost entirely numb to it.
This was merely a test run. Just you and the car you’d spend over the past month on, dedicated for it to turn out perfect. No flags, no stakes, no crew, no bets.
You drive fast, able to see what’s in front of you just fine, but if you’d look out of the windows at the side of the car, you’d only see a blurr of colors. Yes, this is the way you liked it best, only you and the car, alone and in peace.
Or at least, so you thought.
A few streets away, driving into your direction, is an almost equally fast white Nissan gt-r. Inside of it, a driver with a spiky head of hair in the same, pure, bright shade.
He didn’t plan on racing tonight. Only bothering to drive through the city at this hour to scope out a rival build. And it’s not just any rival’s build. It’s the one that never plays fair, the only one who could challenge him enough to try and sneak a peek into his garage at night, the only one he’d lost to in the past 3 years. Ever since he was 25, he’d won any race he participated in and even before that, he rarely lost.
Until he raced Sukuna.
They always seemed to be eye to eye on races, one winning over the other, just to have the results turned around in the next race. But he was an adrenaline seeker at heart, so it’s not a surprise that when he sees your car speeding through the brightly illuminated streets of Tokyo under the dark night sky, he accelerates the speed of his car to catch up with you.
You hear the faint sound of another vehicle approaching yours from behind at rapid speed. Looking through the rearview mirror, you see the the icy white gt-r coming up right behind you, threatening to overtake. Your eyes narrow, you know this car— who it belongs to.
Satoru Gojo. The star of the streets, so they say. His name circles around like the smoke in every lane with each drift. He is the reason you sometimes have to spend day and night, listening to Sukuna rage, while you tune the fuck out of his car, convincing you to implement dangerous mechanisms in order to reach the car’s highest potential.
You did with this car. He insisted despite all your concerns. You weren’t too keen to try it out yourself. You’d quit street racing for a reason.
And yet, when you see the white gt-r approaching, you can feel the thrill of a real race come back. You love tuning and are content with only test driving all on your own, in peace, at least you kept telling yourself you didn’t miss racing that much.
And you don’t, for the most part. But he is a real challenge. The star of the streets racing you completely unprompted? You couldn’t turn away from this unspoken race, even if you wanted to. So you accelerate your car’s speed even more. A silent battle between your cars begins, with him almost overtaking multiple times, he kept you chasing him and you let him chase you. You both are playing a game. Racing through the streets, fully aware that you both are teasing eachother.
Until he speeds up significantly, rounding corners with an incredible trust in his abilities and his car. Your drifts are clean and precise, though your car isn’t as fast as his. It could be. Due to the mechanism you installed. As much as your rational mind tried to hold you back, you use it to almost it’s fullest potential, racing past him, engine roaring. After having proved to yourself and him that you still got it, you brake behind an old supermarket and bring your car to a stand. Getting out and leaning your back against the cold surface of the car to calm your racing heart. Of course, he’s right behind you, pulling up a few seconds later and getting out of his car. You watch him out of the corner of your eye. He’s freakishly tall and relaxed. With a cocky grin on his face despite having lost to you, although it wasn’t a real race.
“Didn’t think i’d find somebody else dumb enough to hit those turns at that speed, with nothing but risks at stake at that.”
“Especially not someone so gorgeous.”
You half scoff half laugh at that. Turning to look at him. You’d known he was hot, seen him from afar at races before. But standing here before you, you truly notices just how much of a pretty man he was. His light eyes and hair shining under the low streetlights as he walks up to you. And then there was his voice, that carefree, cocky and somehow gentle tone that soothed the racing thrill in your mind that made you tilt your head at him and ask,“You always chase someone halfway through the city then?” His voice although still teasing is more intense, like his gaze that’s fixed on you. “Only when they’re worth chasing.”
Repressing a smile as you seize up his car to avoid eye contact, you decide to add “You’d be even faster on your right turns, if you got your suspension rebalanced and dropped a few pounds off the front end.”
Eyes widening slightly in awe he steps closer to you, “Oh? You tune?” and inquiring more when you nod, gesturing to the rx-7 “That’s also your work?” Which you confirm and he steps closer to admire it further, although his admiration for the car is short lived as he focuses his pretty eyes on you. One hand that was trailing over the hood of your car stopping dangerously close to where your hip rests, standing right before you, voice deeper and measured but it keeps it’s teasing edge. “Wanna take a look at mine next?” Somehow, with the unsubtle way he is checking you out, you get the feeling he isn’t talking about his car.
Any other day you probably would have just brushed him off, he’s the biggest rival of Sukuna and his crew. The people you usually tune for, if Sukuna knew you are even entertaining the idea… you don’t even want to think about what he’s do, much less risk finding out by chance.But with fresh adrenaline still running through your veins and the way his warm hand rests just a little too close to the hem of your skirt overrides all rational thought. “I guess maybe you could come by sometime.”
“Maybe? You need some convincing?” And his fingers trail over your hip at the hem of your skirt. His touch is light but it ignites a fire within you. Still, you don’t let your guard down and gently take his hand from your hip, though with hesitation, your warm hands lingering on his cold, soft but strong ones for a few seconds too long. “Bring your car, and cash. Not your hands. And you can come by.” The sound of his laugh followed you all the way back home, after you’d given him your number and said, you’d give him a date (one where you knew neither Sukuna nor one of his acquaintances would be around).
You are ripped from your sleep the next day by your door slamming open and a gruff voice, “Why the fuck are you still asleep?”.
Better question. Why the fuck had you given him the spare keys to your house again??? It may have been around 2pm, but you didn’t appreciate being woken up like this, no matter the time. Opening your eyes, you see his pink head of hair and as usual, a scowl tugging at his face. “I need my car.” Hurling a pillow at him, which he catches effortlessly with an amused scoff, you turn your head back into your spare pillow and muffledly respond something about five more minutes.
Your phone kept ringing as you explained the car’s mechanics next to him, until it got on his nerves and he went to grab it. “Can you tell whoever that is to fuck off?”. Quickly, you snatch it out of his grasp before he can look at your screen, snapping back “Can you mind your fucking business?” He grunts irritably, the glare on his face deepening and turning back to the car. You repress letting out a sigh of relief as you notice the messages you prevented him from seeing. It was Gojo. The very same man he was bragging about beating with this car not even five minutes later.
Really, you don’t know why he bothers to act this way over you when he’s literally the one taking another girl home every race—scratch that. He probably doesn’t even wait until they’re home and just fucks them in the car that you tuned. It’s not like you care who he sleeps with but his hypocrisy gets on your nerves. You’d already explained to him multiple times you were cool with whatever he’s doing, but you want no part of it, if he’s not all for you. He didn’t understand that. Not that you expected him to. But there was this weird tension whenever you two were alone and the focus wasn’t soely on cars or tactics. Or when a guy would hit on you and Sukuna would go intimidate him, but every time you asked what that was about, he’d just tell you they’re all shitty assholes.
Like he isn’t one himself.
Safe to say, you feel like a weight is lifted off your shoulders the moment he gets into -your- his newly tuned car and drives off.
You’d been ignoring Gojo while he was here, too scared of the risk of Sukuna seeing who texted you. He was already weirdly angry everytime a guy would even hint at flirting with you— you don’t want to know experience the way he’d act up if he found out you were meeting up with his biggest rival behind his back, while driving his car.
Oh, and he was ecstatic when he saw your name on his screen. He’d expected a snarky text back but your call was a nice surprise. “Heyy sweetheart. Already miss me?”
“I’m free now. If you wanna come over and have me check out your car.”, you try to sound indifferent to seeing him again.
There’s a pause on the line, not because he’s caught off guard but because he’s savouring it. Leaning his head back and cheesing, you can hear the grin in his voice. “Ahh, didn’t think i would hear from you so soon. And so eager too— should i be flattered or worried?”
“Don’t read too much into it. I just don’t have any other plans today.”
He grabs his keys and you can hear them jingling faintly over the line. “Guess i should just count myself lucky you decided you want me to fill your time.”
Letting out a sigh, you don’t know if you’re going to regret this or have a fun time with -him- his car that you’d dreamt about working on. “See you then.” Hanging up before he can answer, you text him your address and decide to put on an outfit that’s cuter than your oversized, stained shirt. Twenty minutes later, you can hear tires screeching on the street in front of your garage. You walk outside and wave him into your garage. Inside he gets out of his car, whistling as he looks you up and down. “Heyy gorgeous.”
“You don’t need to call me all that.”, you turn around to hide your blush, fumbling with some tools, but he walks up behind you, his voice vibrating in your ear. “You haven’t even told me your name. What am i supposed to call you?”
You turn around to face him and almost blush again at his closeness. You… hadn’t?
“Weren’t you bothered you that you don’t have a name to put to this handsome face? I know i was— am.”
“You think really highly of yourself.”, you look back into his eyes and give him your name, which he repeats a few times as if savouring it, then leans closer, chuckling. “The name’s Gojo Satoru, but you can call me Satoru.”
“I know.” Fuck. You and your big fucking mouth. You had a reasonable explanation that he seems to already be piecing together, but…
“Ahh i see, my name precedes me, as a mechanic, you’d know the name of one of Tokyo’s biggest street racers. Well, now i’m really flattered.” …you really don’t need to inflate any man’s ego.
“It’s not a big deal. People talk a lot all the time.” Putting a hand on his chest, and letting it linger on him for longer than it needs to because— damn he’s ripped as fuck, you shove him away to escape the hot, suffocating distance.
You let go and turn to his car, it really was a beautiful car -beautiful car belonging to a beautiful man-.
One of your hands trails over the hood of his nissan gt-r, crouching down to examine the front bumper, you try to focus, shuddering as you remember how solid his chest had just felt under your palm.
“Looks clean for the most part, but your left tire is under inflated, you’re loosing speed on your right turns and risk delaying them if it deflates even more.” You absentmindedly speak, while examining his car, adding, “and if you really wanted it to gain speed, you could switch the bumper to a lighter one, but that’s really just me being petty.”
Gojo is utterly impressed by your meticulousness, his mouth slightly agape, stunned as he watches you examine his car, it doesn’t help that your skirt had ridden up just the slightest bit. He swallows hard, regaining his composure before laughing, “So you’re saying i’m a pretty amazing driver for winning left and right, despite being handicapped?”
Well, yes, pretty much exactly that. But it’s not like you’re going to give him the satisfaction of saying that aloud. Glancing back at him over your shoulder with a raised brow, you reply, “I’m saying, you need to take better care of your car and run your mouth less, if you don’t want to crash into a ditch in your next sharp turn at high speed.”
When you stand back up and fully look at him, he almost looks like he’s… pouting? With his bottom lip pushed out, pretty and glossy from him probably running his tongue over it. It made you wonder what else he could do with it, if he would kiss you gently and slowly run his tongue along your mouth, or if he would plunge it right in, kissing messy and needy. -You could bet a hundred dollars that you could make him beg.-
“I’m treating her veryyyyy well.”
You snap out of wherever your imagination was running and tilt your head at his insistence in full confusion. “What? Who?”
He nods his head towards his car. “Her.”
“Her..?” you sceptically raise one of your eyebrows. “You really refer to your car like it’s a woman?” Not being able to bite back the urge to tease him, you stifle a giggle with one hand. “So desperate you need to project your lack of a love life onto your car? Do you kiss her goodnight too?”
Unashamed, he walks closer to you, winking. “Only if she’s been good.”
“Oh, so your love is conditional? Tsk tsk… she deserves better.”
He rests his hand against the side of his car, caging you in, just like when you first met. He gives you space to move away— you don’t. “No, my love is unconditional but I believe in… performance based rewards.”
You force out a chuckle, hoping he doesn’t notice your blush. “Wow. Lucky her.”
He leans down, his face hovering only inches away from yours, “Jealous?”
A scoff escapes your mouth, it’s weaker than you want it to be, “Of your car? You’re ridiculous…” And yet, you lean in too, only slightly but it gives him enough confidence to place the hand that was on his car on your waist. Barely, but enough to let you know that the desire in his eyes was burning just for you.
“Are you sure? You’ve been eyeing me like you want me to take you for a ride instead.”
Your breath hitches, his lips brush yours and his low voice sends an evil flutter down your stomach, making you core spasm and coat your panties with sticky arousal, when he adds “Or would you prefer i leave the riding to you, princess?”
This time, he’s definitely not talking about cars. And you’re glad he isn’t. You lean in, your hands fisting his shirt as your lips lock onto his and he deepens the kiss almost immediately. His lips are soft and the kiss is slow, but passionate. He tightens his grip on your waist, pushing your back against the surface of his car. You gasp when he shoves one knee between your legs, putting friction on your aching clit, “Gojo—“
“—Satoru, baby. Call me Satoru.” He’d been teasing you with nicknames, but the way he called you baby so naturally, so confident, made your head spin. “Fuck, okay. Satoru.”
He humms against your jaw, between kisses he plants on it, “Hm?”
“W-what about your car?”
Chuckling, he picks you up, both hands on your hips as your legs wrap around his waist and he places you on the hood of his car.
“My car? She’s not going anywhere.”
Rolling your eyes at the female connotation he forces onto his car, you pull away a bit, “No, seriously. Didn’t you come to let me tune it?”
“That can wait.” And he’s kissing you again, more hungrily, hands on your thighs, kneading them and pulling you flush against him. His clothed, hardening cock brushing against your core and he lets out a soft moan as he starts grinding against you—a loud crash and the metal echoing from the fall breaks the moment.
He pulls away and you do too, standing up but holding onto the side of his car, knees still weakened. You let out a sigh of relief as you see that it was just a wrench, you’d placed carelessly on the edge of your table. Meanwhile Satoru lets out a groan, his forehead dropping to your shoulder as he stands behind you, “Not your shop trying to cockblock you.”
Not being able to repress a small laugh, you push his head off of you and pat his cheek, stepping away to pick up the wrench and put it where it belongs. “Good. Maybe it has better judgement than we do.”
After mutually agreeing that he’d come back in a few days where he’d get lighter bumper for his car, since you had none that specifically fit his car, you fixed his tires and tell him goodbye.
He’s lingering on the outside of his car door, fumbling with the keys in his hand as if he’s nervous. “Um. I’ll see you.”
Your eyes narrow a bit at his behavior but you shrug it off, “…Yeah, just make sure you tell me before you plan to come ov—“
And he hugs you goodbye, his strong arms only encircling your body for a short moment before he slips into his car and drives off.
You’re left dumbfounded, with heated cheeks and a racing heart.
Suguru is leaned under the hood of his black ccxr, the garage smelling like burnt rubber and metal as Satoru walks in, sunglasses pushed back on into his soft hair.
“Thought you wanted to go for a drive?”, Suguru’s voice echoes from beneah his car.
“I am.” Satoru circles his car and taps the front bumper just in time for Suguru to see as he slides out from under his car. “Figured i should swap this to a lighter one though.”
Raising an eyebrow, the raven haired man questions, “Lighter? Seriously?”
The former shrugs, “Every millisecond counts, right?”
With a sigh, Suguru gets up and wipes his hands on a rag, muttering, “Overambitious but sure. I’ve got time right now. I’ll help you put it on.”
Twirling his keys around his finger, Satoru’s
already opening his car door and shaking his head, “Nah, i’m good.” He grins. “I’m taking it to an actual professional.”
Suguru’s brows knit together in confusion. They always tune their cars together. Always have.
“Seriously?”
“Yup. She’s a real professional— real pretty too.”, Satoru leans against his car with one arm, internally swooning over you.
“Uh-huh.” Assuming he’s trying to find a euphemism for a hookup because why else would he suddenly get his car tuned by someone else, when they’ve been doing it together for years. “…so…. it’s not actually about cars?”
Confused, Satoru’s nose scrunches up. “Ehhh? No no no, it is. She rebalanced my suspension last time, my car runs smooth as hell now.”
Now that makes Suguru deadpan. “I’ve been telling you to get your tires fixed for weeks, Satoru.” And he’d always brush him off.
With a silly pink flush on his pale cheeks, Satoru just sheepishly chuckles, making Suguru prod further. “Are you gonna tell me who this actual professional is?”
Satoru only grins and gets into his car, waving at him cheekily, “Wouldn’t you like to know.”
After he drove outside, Suguru was left standing there, staring at the empty space where his car had been. And then his lips curl into a sly smile as he recalls the times he’d caught him smiling at his phone or sneaking away to make a call…
You’re currently stirring the pasta you’d made yourself for dinner and were very much looking forward to eating. It’s been three days and you haven’t received a single text from Satoru. Maybe he just had a lot to do, or maybe he hasn’t been able to get a lighter bumper yet. There are other possibilities you don’t want to consider because you realize that you really barely know him. You suppose, maybe it’s different because you’ve known of him beforehand, while he’s met you for the first time a few weeks ago. Still, it felt weird. He’d been spamming you with texts and calls before he’d been to your garage, but now? Does it have something to do with what you did—or almost did, in your garage? Maybe it was about that awkward goodbye you’d had. You shake your head vehemently. Stupid stupid stupid stupid thoughts. It really isn’t that serious.
Or maybe it is, because the doorbell rings only a few seconds after and instead of your fear of Sukuna coming over becoming reality, It’s the white haired fool.
“I thought i told you to call, or text me before you come over!”
God, you don’t even want to think about what if Sukuna actually was here, if he’d been the one to open the door… A shudder runs down your spine but you snap out of it when you see his eyes on you, and instead of the usual teasing, carefree look, he seems concerned. About you? Why?
“Hey… Sorry about that.” He slowly steps inside when you automatically move to the side. “Are you okay?”
Luckily, you recover quickly from your overthinking habits and are able to smile, “Yeah yeah, just…” you smack the back of his head with your palm, “don’t show up unannounced. Do you even know that you look like a major creep?” You also wondered why he didn’t bother texting you, but you weren’t about to bring that up, when you just decided that it isn’t that serious.
He ruffles his head where you smacked him, not because it hurts because he’s grinning like that just made his day. “Sorry, sorry. I promise, i won’t forget again.” adding a quieter, “Are you gonna kick me out?”
You did contemplate it for a moment but you don’t actually want him to leave.
“Depends. Are you hungry?”
He blinks, confused. “Huh? Like what— like, for you? Hell yeah! You know, i’ve actually been dreaming about—“
You interrupt him with another smack to his head, before he can finish that sentence. “I mean actual food, dumbass. I made pasta.”
“Oh. Ohhhhh.” For a moment, he’s actually flustered but that quickly switches back to his usual attitude, “So we’re eating together? Like a married couple? Are you going to feed me too?”
You grimace as you turn off the stove. “Absolutely fucking not.”
Chuckling with that casual tone of his, he leans against your fridge, “so… you’ve been thinking about me?”
Your hands pause, hovering over the pots. “What?”
“Weeellll, earlier, when you opened the door, you looked like you’ve seen a ghost. But not in the bad kind, more like ‘oh wow, i’ve been totally imagining this moment but i’m not prepared for it’ kind of way.”
You snort a laugh. He wasn’t all that wrong, you were thinking about him more than you wanted to but this scenario was just so ridiculous and outright cocky.
“Have you ever considered that i just wasn’t expecting anyone? Don’t flatter yourself too much.”
He shrugs, “Ehh, yeah, sure. But of course i prefer the version where you’ve been fantasising about me.”
You’d definitely put double chilli powder in his portion sauce.
After deciding you’ve felt enough satisfaction from seeing him suffer and squirm, lips red and puffy from the spice, you even told him and agreed to switch plates because you can handle spicy food. And then he was actually able to enjoy the food you made.
For a while, you two eat in comfortable silence, but then he asks a question that’s been on his mind ever since he first met you.
“You know, you’ve got hella skills behind the wheel. But i’ve never seen you in a proper race, or heard of you and i sure as hell know you’d be talked about if you’d participate in bigger events.”
“Not everyone cares for that.”
He pouts, with his slightly reddened and plumped lips from the spice, he looks cute. “Sure but… i guess i’m wondering. Why don’t you race?”
To which you pause, stirring the pasta on your plate around, “Ah… long story, i guess.”
Satoru rests his head on his palm, “Not like i’ve got somewhere to be.”
Placing your fork down with a sigh you relent, “Okay, it’s not actually a long story.”
He nods, waiting for you to continue.
“I kinda had an accident.”, you mumble almost under your breath.
“Like a bad one?”
You shrug, “I dunno. Don’t remember.”
Leaning forward on the table, he prods, his blue eyes soft but seemingly piercing right through you, “So you’re afraid?”
“No.” Your answer comes out a little too quickly, more like a reflex, so you add, “I mean, maybe, a little. But mainly… someone else sort of made me.”
His eyes widen, “Someone made you?“
Shaking your head you exhale deeply, “Not really but kind of. He just kept saying that i’ll get myself killed and made a fuss, so i just…”
Satoru stays quiet for a moment, not judging you but thinking, trying to understand. “And you let him tell you what to do?”
“I wouldn’t say that… i just-“ you trail off, fixing your thoughts for a second. “since i can’t remember the accident… i guess he wasn’t too far off, i may have been reckless, i was younger. So after i recovered, i stuck to tuning and as you know, occasionally test drive, but not real races… it’s just safer that way.”
Putting your last tools away after having attached the lighter bumper to his car and checked all of his tires again, which were fine now, curtesy to you, you lean back on your workbench and face Satoru— who’s eyes are surprisingly trained on you instead of the car you’d tuned. You were explaining something about his car, rambling even. Showing your nerdy tendencies when it came to cars and their mechanics, though when you notice the way he is staring, you trail off and your cheeks flush the tiniest bit. “What?”
He smiles, looking at you the same way he had after he realized you were seriously asking him to eat dinner with you earlier. It wasn’t a cocky, relaxed smile, it was soft and genuine, his eyes fixed on you in a way that makes you feel seen. You weren’t used to this… gentleness, to someone being so attentive of you.
“Nothing, nothing… i just think you’re really cute like this.”
Yous stomach flutters dangerously, the way it has been with him. He keeps getting to you in a way no one ever has before. It scares the shit out of you because you’re not used to being vulnerable. But you find yourself not wanting to run. You aren’t sure if you want to take the risk of being hurt for him, although deep down you know that you do. You let him in time and time again, almost involuntarily because it just came so easy, so naturally with him.
Yous stomach flutters dangerously, the way it has been with him. He keeps getting to you in a way no one ever has before. It scares the shit out of you because you’re not used to being vulnerable. But you find yourself not wanting to run. You aren’t sure if you want to take the risk of being hurt for him, although deep down you know that you do. You let him in time and time again, almost involuntarily because it just came so easy, so naturally with him.
“Cute..? Really?” Brushing hair out of your face that was messy, sticking up and to your forehead, desperately needing a shower, stains on your shirt and you were rambling about car mechanics—and he thinks you’re cute??
He nods, looking unfazed on the surface but in the short time you’ve known him, you’ve never seen him pick on his nails and the redness that was more intense than usual while he stepped forward also doesn’t escape your attention. Until the teasing edge in his voice comes back and he grins boyishly, “Yeah, i mean, you were so focused, putting your all into my car and then you’re nerding off about mechanics… Like whew, are you trying to seduce me?”
You bite your lip, returning his grin, “So it’s working?”
You don’t notice that he pulled a stack of cash out of his pocket until he takes your hand and places it in your palm, eyes widening at the fact that it’s far more than you’d ever charge for exchanging the bumper and fixing his tires, you were about to protest but he winks at you and reassures you before you can. “A bit extra. Consider it a thank you for uh… everything. Dinner too, it was great. Though, i’ll take you out properly next time. I mean… if you want?”
Almost immediately, without even thinking about it, you reply, “Yeah. Of course.”
He squeezes your hand with both of his. “Great. And don’t worry about the Cash, it’s fine, really.” Then he adds, in a confident, cocky tone, “I’ll get it back in at the next race anyways. I’ll go all out, i promise, it’d be a disservice to the work you put into my car.”
He says it as if you did anything special. You barely did anything at all to his car but he’s so appreciative, it’s heartwarming.
Though it doesn’t last long because internally, your mind is screaming. The race in a week. He told you about it while you were working on his car earlier but you were too focused on what you were doing to put the pieces together until now. And you feel like an idiot. The race. The stupid race. It’s the same one Sukuna’s been telling you about. The one for which he convinced you to install a multi staged nitrous kit for and rid the car of all limitations that were there for safety. Thinking about the monster you’d created in doing so, made you nauseous already. But realizing that Satoru will be there, racing against that? The possibilities of everything that could happen make your throat close up.
You don’t even notice that your breathing has slowed and you are trembling until warm, strong, calloused hands squeeze yours and you look up to see blue eyes piercing through you, his eyebrows furrowed in worry. He says your name a few times and you blink. At his hands on your trembling ones, the door to your garage, the ceiling lights, his car and at him. He’s saying your name, with a softness that makes you want to curl up into his chest and cry.
But why are you so vulnerable now? It’s fine. It’s okay. Whatever happened at races had never been your business. You never cared. Never cared that Sukuna would be racing against Satoru, until you got to know him and he was everything. Offered you everything Sukuna never could in his wildest dreams. Seeing you— caring about what he sees in a way Sukuna would never even dare try.
He places one hand on your shoulder, and rubs your back comfortingly, his voice so assured and kind, “I’ll be safe. I promise you. Nothing is going to happen to me.”
He interprets your reaction as a sign of the lingering fear of your accident you’d mentioned earlier.
“That’s not what i’m worried about.” You reply, steadying your voice.
It isn’t the car you are worried about, your tuning is, despite the mechanism, safe and secure enough to last. Neither are you worried about Sukuna playing dirty. He is too cocky for tricks.
Satoru tilts his head, still rubbing your back, “You sure? Because it’s totally fine if you are. I get it, it’s scary. You may not remember the accident but that doesn’t mean you can’t be scared.”
Taking a deep breath, you silently wrap your arms around him. Hoping that he’ll remain this sweet to you after the race. Hoping that nothing will change.
You’re worried because essentially, you’re betraying him. Betraying both of them.
And you don’t think Satoru will see it that way, you know he’ll try his best to reason and be understanding the same way he is now. But Sukuna? He’s a ticking time bomb and it makes you sick thinking about what he might do when he finds out. He’s big on loyalty. Incredibly so.
Pushing these thoughts away, you are grounded to the present moment by Satoru’s warmth. The way his chin rests on the top of your head, his strong arms around you and tones chest against your cheek. Inhaling his scent, you’re calming down. In this moment, everything is alright. So you stop worrying and focus on the now.
Eventually, both of you pull away and you’re calm again. At peace and safe, as you always seem to be with him.
After he is sure you’re safe he says his goodbye, opening his car door, but before he can get in, you grab his chin and kiss him. It’s a messy kiss when your lips meet and you pour all of your worries and affection for him in it. He tugs you closer by the waist, fingers digging into your skin beneath the shirt and moans breathily when you bite his lower lip, sucking on it.
He pulls back slightly, eyes darkened and wide with need, his voice rough and low,
“If you keep kissing me like that, i might have to drop down on one knee and put a ring on your pretty fingers.”
Gently swatting his chest, you gasp, cheeks flushed, “Don’t… don’t just say stuff like that.”
He nuzzles his forehead against yours, “You’re right, by the time i actually do, i won’t spoil the surprise like this.”
“You’re insane.”, you breathe out as your hands slide from his cheeks to the back of his head, closing your eyes for a second.
“Do you know what’s actually insane?”, he pulls his forehead away to look down at you, hands gripping your hips and pulling your body closer against the hard, hot planes of his chest. Your heart pounds in your chest as you wait for him to continue.
“That i haven’t properly tasted you yet.”
Before you can properly react he lifts you up with his hands grabbing your ass, making you instinctively wrap your legs around his waist.
“You’re so beautiful.” He places you down on the hood of his car. The sleek metal of the car cools the heated skin of your bare legs beneath your shorts.
Your hands are still clutching his shoulders, head spinning as you reply to him, “Wait, but i’m all gross after working on your car—“
His hands caress your thighs almost reverently, “No- god, no. I swear you’re the sexiest woman ever. You could never be gross to me.”
His hands on your thighs slide dangerously high, barely slipping beneath your shorts but so so close to where you need him most as he keeps talking with a low, breathy voice, his eyes almost hungry. “Please, just let me eat you out. Right now. You don’t need to do anything. I’ll take care of you if you’ll let me.”
You look up at him with wide eyes, frozen for a moment as your legs wrap around his waist tighter to keep him close.
“I need to taste you, just this once… —or maybe a hundred times more but please let me do this right now.”
He keeps mumbling, planting soft, deliberate kisses over your neck.
And fuck, you need him probably just as much. So you cup his face and kiss him again, whispering against his lips, “Just shut up and do it.”
That’s all he needs because he immediately drops to his knees in front of you, tugging your shorts and panties off, tossing them somewhere neither of you care to look.
He spreads your legs and places them on his shoulders, his face between your thighs, which he places messy, wet kisses all over.
You’re about to tell him to hurry, tugging your hands in his fluffy white hair to pull him closer, when his tongue licks a long stripe over your already wet folds.
A strangled gasp escapes you when he sinks his tongue into your pussy immediately after. His hands are gripping your thighs, as he thrusts his tongue into you. “Fuckkkk, you taste so good…”, he mutters against your skin, his low voice vibrating against your core.
Breathlessly, you whine, “Satoru, please… more…”
And you don’t need to tell him twice because he’s eating you out, licking, kissing, sucking on your clit like a starved man.
You keep him in place as he sucks on your clit, his teeth gently pulling on it, making your legs tremble around his head as you feel the pressure building up even further in your lower stomach. “Oh, fuck! I’m so close.”
That only makes him suck on your clit harder, more desperately. By the time he slides two fingers inside of you, you’re falling apart in his mouth, over his hand, on his car. He gently places kisses around your cunt, looking up at your glazed over expression through white lashes, while he slowly thrusts his fingers inside for a few more times to prolong your high.
He pulls them out after a bit, sucking your slick off of them, but instead of getting up, he stays on his knees for a bit, rubbing your thighs while looking up at you.
You tiredly tug on his hair, wanting him closer, so he stands up and wraps his arms around you, lifting you up and kissing you softly. You can taste yourself on his lips and it makes you hum into the kiss.
He carries you into your house, letting you point the way to the bathroom and he showers together with you, his hands all over you, caressing your body sensually, keeping his eyes on you as if he’s admiring you.
Later in bed, he’s laying next to you, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face and you can feel him hesitate— see the question forming in his head as he speaks, “Do you want me to leave?”, his voice is gentle and low. He’s not asking out of insecurity but out of respect for you, giving you the space to pull away if you wanted to.
Your brows furrow and you shake your head, taking his hand and placing it on your waist, shifting closer to him, “What? Don’t be stupid.”, you pull him into a kiss, slow and needy, tongues meeting and you suck on his bottom lip to hear that whiney sound he makes when you do.
He pulls you closer by your waist and deepens the kiss. One of your hands trails over his bare chest, taking in the hard planes of his muscles under your fingertips, sliding down over his v-line, to the hem of his pants. He trails his hands upwards to tug off your shirt, his lips trailing down from your jaw to your neck, to your collarbones and now exposed breats. “God, baby, you’re so gorgeous.” And you feel him shift to hover above you, his hands kneading the flesh of your breasts, popping one nipple into his mouth and sucking on it, tongue flicking over the bud, making surges of pleasure shoot through you.
Your own hand tugs down his pants, freeing his hard cock. Wrapping your hand around him and stroking slowly, you feel just how big he is. He gasps and releases your nipple, going back up to kiss you, wet and sloppy, whining into your mouth as you stroke him.
One of his hands slides down into your panties, running his fingers over your already dripping cunt, “You’re so wet for me”, he mumbles into your skin, sinking two fingers knuckle deep into you. You squeeze his cock harder in your hand when he scissors his fingers just right and both of you moan in unison.
You release his cock to take off your panties but he’s already pulling them down with your free hand, tossing them into a corner for the second time that day.
His hands grip your thighs and he lines himself up with your cunt, sliding his tip through your wet folds, making you whine,
“Satoru, fuck me already.”
He chuckles breathlessly against the skin of your neck, tingling you there.
“So impatient… i’m on it, sweetheart, don’t worry.” A loud moan falls from your lips when he finally sinks his entire length inside of you, pausing and gripping your thighs as if to compose himself.
He starts thrusting in slowly, shallowly, one hand cupping your breast and squeezing. When he sees your pretty eyes looking up at him with need, he picks up the pace, bottoming out until only the tip remains inside of you and slamming back in. His hips snapping against yours, stretching you out so good. Your legs wrap around his waist but he takes one and lifts it up over his shoulder, the new angle allowing him to reach even deeper. “Fuck, you’re so tight..”
Your nails rake over his back, leaving red lines all over, and that only seems to turn him on more because he rubs your clit with one hand in response. “Oh yes, just like that!” You moan and clench tighter around him, his own hips stutter slightly but he holds himself back, pushing you over the edge first. Your eyes are locked on his, mouth open in silent, breathy moans as the tsunami of pleasure crashes over you, clinging onto him.
He keeps thrusting into you, hand releasing your clit and tangling in your hair, lightly pulling on it, “I’m gonna— shit— Should i pull out?”
Your arms only wrap around his back tighter in response, shaking your head, “Want it inside.”
He looks at you with need and keeps rutting into you, replying with a breathy voice, “Fuck, okay.”
And he thrusts deeply inside of you, hips staggering, pressing against yours as you feel his warm cum fill your belly.
He rides out his high by shallowly thrusting into you a few more times, stuffing his cum inside of your cunt, his forehead resting against yours, savouring the moment of being connected to you physically.
After a moment of letting you both catch your breath, he pulls his head away to look at you, his hands cupping your face and capturing your lips in a slow, deep kiss.
He rolls his softening cock for a few more times, still nestled inside of your cum filled cunt, whispering your name against your lips.
When he pulls out, he lays his head down on your chest and you caress his hair. You’re both silent for a moment until he looks up and places another kiss on your lips, like he can’t get enough of you, “You’re so perfect.”
He says it so earnestly, like it’s nothing, it makes your stomach flutter and cheeks heat up.
“And you’re ridiculous..”
“Ridiculously hot.” He smirks and you giggle tiredly, “Sure sure.”
You settle properly into bed, nuzzling against eachother after he cleaned you up, tiredness overcoming both of you, he sleepily rubs your back, your eyes closing and you only nod against his chest when he speaks, “I meant everything i said.”
And you believe him.
A few days pass and the time span leading up to the race gets shorter. Satoru and you stay in contact, calling sometimes but often texting eachother. It’s easy with him, you can feel your affection and care grow for him day by day, no matter how much you try to ignore the butterflies in your stomach whenever you see his name light up your screen. You barely even think about the conflict that you knew was bound to come when they— especially Sukuna, find out about you having been tangled up in them both.
Until reality snaps back in.
Currently, you’re eating dinner with Sukuna and his crew after coming over and doing some last check-ups to ensure his car was flawless for the upcoming race. And you’d stayed over to eat dinner, like you always did before a bigger race. Just with the difference that earlier, when you and him were closer—when he wasn’t a complete asshole towards you—you’d stay the night and he’d often fuck you till sunrise.
But ever since he started entertaining more and more women, while you were around and he’d see you less whenever you said you didn’t feel like warming his bed, you broke it off, the entire weird-whatever-exactly-it-was friends with benefits thing. You didn’t have feelings for him like that, but it sucked being treated the way you were and okayyy, maybe you liked him a little more than you’d wanted to admit, or else you wouldn’t have longed for him to be all over you outside of bed too.
You are over it though. Have been.
Shots are being passed around, which you refuse, you’re more in your head than usually. Sukuna is an asshole but he’d been your friend… or something… for years. Did he really deserve that you fucked his biggest rival, one that he’s told you countless times that he despises, behind his back?
When you bring your plate to the kitchen after dinner, he’s there. Studying you with his usual scowl, but his eyes seemed more brooding than sharp. Before you can ask him what his problem is, he asks, “You good?”
You blink. Since when did he care?
“Fine. Just tired.”
“Hm.” He tilts his head at you, his voice so… unusually gentle. “Stay the night.”
Not a question, a demand. Just how you knew him. And so casually too— you don’t know if you want to yell at him or pretend you’re nor fazed at all. You don’t have the chance to do either, when your phone vibrates on the kitchen counter. A call. If this wasn’t some insurance scam, then it could only be one other person calling you after the sun had long set. Sukuna glances at it, and your hand moves quickly as you grab it, scared he’d see. “Give me a sec.”
You step away and try to keep your voice down, hushedly talking into the speaker, “Hey… you know, you probably picked the worst possible time to call.”
“You in trouble or something? Everything okay?”
Biting your lip and glancing back over the shoulder, hoping Sukuna is far enough away to overhear anything and exhaling when you notice that he probably is. “All good, just bad timing, as i said. But i am glad you called. I’ll call you back?”
You can hear the grin in his voice, “Sure thing, sweetheart.”
To which you lightheartedly roll your eyes, repressing a smile and ultimately hang up. It’s funny how quickly you can go from almost spiraling in the pain you’d been through due to Sukuna, to feeling wanted. With Satoru you feel grounded, like you’re not just an afterthought or there out of convenience. He makes you feel like you’re his priority in a way that seems so natural that it’s easy to forget how little time you’ve actually known him, if you don’t keep reminding yourself. Despite all the adrenaline and thrill he brings, it just feels easy with him, comfortable and reliable.
Stepping back into the kitchen, it feels as if the balloon of bliss was popped with only a snarl. “Who the fuck was that?”
“Mind your business. Don’t you have a ton of women to call back instead of bothering me?”
He sighs, exhausted, as if you’ve been the one who was pushing his limits. “Just answer the question.”
His tone, which seems genuine enough catches you off-guard, but it’s not enough to undermine the fact that you’re over his antics. “I don’t owe you shit.”
Instead of getting angry, he seems to try to figure you out, “You don’t. But you’ve never hid anything.”
Yeah, maybe. But you don’t reply. You don’t want to yell at him. You want to give into him even less. You’re over it. You want Satoru, even if it made you feel guilty.
“Don’t tell me this is about a guy.”, he scoffs a disbelieving laugh, almost as if the notion was too ridiculous to be true. But when you still don’t respond, he looks conflicted between repulsed and… offended? “You’re kidding. And i always thought you were too cold for some shit like that.”, he mutters, the insult sliding out because he’s confronted with something he doesn’t want to face. A defense you’d witnessed and experienced more times than you can count.
Too cold? Does that asshole even know you?? Too fucking cold???
No. You were loyal, unwaveringly so. Available too. To warm his bed and cool his temper like— and you were there.
Until it started to feel like standing in traffic, waiting to get hit.
You inhale sharply, you’re too tired to argue and you know it’s meaningless too. “Just drop it, Sukuna. I’m going home.”
Grabbing your things, you walk towards his front door, he doesn’t follow. You turn around, eyes softening the slightest bit. Even you don’t know why, you suppose you’ve known his hardened shell enough to be able to tell when something managed to get through. And somehow you also knew, that you not screaming at him, cut through him harder than any yell or hit ever could.
“Get some sleep. And don’t be reckless.”
Then you’re out of the door.
Almost instinctively, you call Satoru after driving a few metres away from Sukuna’s house. He picks up after the second ring, voice light and happy, “Heyy, gorgeous. That was quick. You missed me so much?”
“Yeah yeah…” you swallow, “um, are you home and have some time by chance?”
You try to keep your voice even but he picks up the tightnessin it and his own tone gets more serious, worrying.
“Yeah. Always for you.” he says quickly, “Are you okay? Do you need me to come pick you up from somewhere or something?”
“No, no, i’m in my car.” You hesitate, you didn’t only call him because you said you would, it was like an instinct, a subconscious gesture because you know he’d comfort you. “Do… do you think i could come over?” Biting your lip, you almost regret asking, feeling vulnerable and weak but his response is— as it always is, safe, assured, comforting and natural. “Of course. I just have a friend over right now but if you need space i can tell him to—“
You shake your head as if he can see it and interrupt him, “It’s fine. I don’t want you to send him away for me or anything, that’s really not necessary.”
A small pause and your phone vibrates, “Okay, if you’re sure. I sent you my address. See you soon, sweetheart.”
When you arrive, his garage is open and you see a tall man with silky, long, black hair tied into a half up half down, turning around to look at your car as you park it in Satoru’s driveway.
Satoru is already walking towards you as you step out of your car, his expression softens as soon as he sees you.
“Hey.” You murmur, looking at him, your hands fiddling with your keys.
He doesn’t hesitate, opening his arms for a hug with a soft, “Come here.”
And you let him embrace you, wrapping your arms around his waist, his firm, warm muscles surrounding you, inhaling his cologne.
“Bad day?”
You shrug in his hold, already having calmed down, “Something like that.”
Both of you pull away and look eachother into the eyes for a moment, until Satoru clears his throat and gestures to the man in his garage, “This is Suguru, he’s an old friend, the oldest, really.” Then he gestures to you, “And this is…” he hesitates before grinning, “the best and prettiest mechanic i know.”
The raven haired man’s lips curl into a sly, knowing smile, “Ahhh, so this is her.”
“Her?” You tilt your head questioningly at Satoru, but before he can respond, his friend clarifies, “Nothing. Just didn’t know who he kept running off to see or smile at his phone.”
Satoru chuckles and pushes you towards the door that connects his garage to his house, chuckling sheepishly, “Yeah yeah. Come in, i’ll make you— uh, whatever you want.”
The evening passes comfortably and the atmosphere is relaxed, harmonic. Despite Suguru being a stranger, conversation over dinner flows smoothly between you three. You didn’t feel excluded, despite them being best friends since elementary school and you… just being there, essentially. You found out that Suguru also races and that they’ve been into cars since forever, started racing in high school and gotten into tuning together.
You were surprised, “So you’ve known eachother for that long and were friends the entire time?”
“Unfortunately”, Suguru said with a small smirk.
Satoru threw a dish towel at him in response.
Eventually, Suguru said his goodbye, told you it was nice to meet you and teased Satoru about behaving around you.
Now, you’re laying in his bed, in his shirt, next to him in only loose sweats. He absentmindedly plays with your hair and pulls your head onto his chest, you drape your leg over his in response.
“You’re okay?” he murmurs for the nth time today, to which you nod against him.
A comfortable silence stretches over you. There’s so much you could say.
So much you probably should say.
But for now, it feels easier to just be with him. You’d like to think he feels the same, nothing indicates that he doesn’t and almost everything indicates that he does. You’re still cautious.
But you do want him to know at the same time, “I liked today.”
His hand keeps caressing your hair, more deliberate now, “Me too.”
You’re stirred awake by the slow, rhythmic brush of a warm chest behind you and soft breaths on your neck. You feel something hard press insistently against your ass. Blinking your eyes open, you shift a little under Satoru’s arm that’s hugging you close to him by your waist.
The movement earns a low groan from him, his arm pulling you closer and his hips twitching forwards just slightly, but enough for you to feel the entirety of his hard length.
“Morning, gorgeous.” He mumbles with his raspy, sleepy voice.
“You’re hard.”
He humms against your neck, keeping you close, “Mhm. Can’t help it. You’re so warm and soft.”
You try to turn around to face him but he’s holding you tighter, only making you rub your ass against his erection. “Stay.” He rolls his hips against your ass, burying his face in your neck, “Just a little.”
“Satoru…”, you mumble and press your ass against him harder, making him hiss, “Fuck, you feel so good… just stay like this…”
The friction of his hard cock grinding into you from behind makes you clench your thighs together and you whisper, “You’re unbelievable..”
“You make me like this.”
One of his hands slides under your shirt, warm against your skin, splaying out over your stomach. The other hand on your hip, keeping you close against him. He rolls his hips against you in slow, firm grinds, breath hitching against your neck.
The friction of it sends a jolt of pleasure through you, making you ache for more.
“Satoru, more…” Impatiently, you try to turn around in his hold again, “Let me on top.”
He stills his movements, letting out a groan against your neck. “Fuck, baby, you can’t just say that and expect me to stay sane.”
You manage to turn around, thighs sliding over his hips to straddle him, His hands immediately flying to your hips as he shifts his own, bucking up slightly to adjust.
“God, look at you.” His eyes are trained on you, filled with want. “Prettiest thing i’ve ever woken up to.”
And so is he, with his white hair sticking up, messy from sleep, cheeks flushed and looking at you, with his beautiful blue eyes like you’re the only girl in the world.
You grind your hips down over his, feeling the friction of his hard, clothes cock against your clit. Every slow roll of your hips, every impatient thrust of his, sends shivers down your spine and pleasure up your core. Soaking through your panties and his boxers as both of you keep moving against eachother.
It doesn’t take long for your dizzy, sleepy selves to come, simultaneously finishing in your underwear as you keep rolling your hips, more desperately now.
He pulls you down to his chest, “I don’t think i can wake up any other way from now on.”
If it was up to you, he wouldn’t have to.
You settle for kissing him sweetly and falling back into his arms instead.
A breeze of wind cools Satoru’s face as he rolls own the window of his car, eyes narrowing as he looks out to assess the other contestants, looking for someone who can challenge him, looking for Sukuna, with whom he had an ongoing rivalry and who never failed to put up a good race.
When the next car pulls up, his head turns towards the sound and he has to do a double take at the car in question.
It’s not just a car. It’s the car, a dark red Mazda rx-7.
The car that you drove when he first met you and raced him through Tokyo’s streets with.
But instead of you being inside your car, it’s a pink haired man with face tattoos and permanent scowl. Sukuna.
Something in his head clicks into place.
Leaning his elbow out of the window as he drives up next to him, he whistles, “Nice car. Where’d you get that tuned?”, His lips turn into a dark, smug smile, “Looks like whoever worked on it must really know what she’s doing. Must be a pretty amazing mechanic you got.”
Sukuna’s eyes immediately snap to him, jaw tightening. He hates that tone, all too cocky, all too knowing. Knowing about you. You know Satoru. Is he the reason for your distant behavior? Is he the one behind the calls and texts you’ve been hiding? His hand tightens on his steering wheel, forcing his eyes back onto the road. He can’t afford to snap before the race, it could start any minute now. “Watch your mouth and worry about yourself.”
He rolls up his window and focuses onto the guy giving the signal for the start of the race. But the tension hangs thick between them.
This rivalry isn’t just about who crosses the finish line first anymore.
Now it’s about you.
The start signal is given shortly after.
Engines roar and they’re off in the blink of an eye.
Tires screech, rubber burns against pavement.
The other contestants far behind, Sukuna and Satoru racing for first head on.
The world blurs past in streaks of light and sound. Every turn is precise, brutal. Every second is a battle. Sukuna gains on the straight. Satoru steals it back on the curve. They’re neck and neck, barely a breath between them.
And in the end, a millisecond decides.
The difference between fury and victory.
Satoru won. Sukuna came in second.
You didn’t even want to come here today, but Sukuna had insisted on stringing you along, in case he needs your skills.
But now he lost, came in second, barely missing first place and makes snarky side comments like you intended for this.
You don’t know why he is so pissed off at you like it was your fault he only came in second.
Snapping at you over something you didn’t care to listen to, again. you’ve seriously had enough of his attitude.
“Sukuna, what the fuck is your problem?”
His eyes snap to you and he walks closer, towering over you as his voice sharpens, “What’s my problem? Do you think i’m stupid? You’re really fucking around with that bastard behind my back like it’s nothing, like i—“
A familiar voice cuts through the tension.
“Back the fuck off of her!”
It’s Satoru. Striding over to you with determination and a fierce look of disgust in his eyes, but not directed at you.
That’s all the confirmation Sukuna needs. You really know that bastard. Had been meeting him behind his back— probably fucking him too. It’s not his business but you were apart of his crew. You tuned his cars, helped him strategize for years. All of that just to turn to his biggest fucking rival of all people? That’s a betrayal he’d never expected from you.
His glare snaps from Satoru to you, “You’re such a disloyal little whore, playing for both sides like you didn’t belong to me— my crew for all this time.” voice lowering, he adds, “for a moment, i thought something was genuinely going on with you, was worried too,” he laughs cruelly, leaning closer with a patronising tone, “but apparently it is about someone else. you really just can’t keep your legs closed like a—“
The seething tone makes your stomach turn, but before you can respond, can defend yourself, can explain to him how he treated you like shit for this to happen and you just got too tired to tolerate it for longer, that you never fucking belonged to anyone—
A sharp sound cuts through the air as Satoru’s fist collides with Sukuna’s jaw before he can even finish his sentence.
The force of it sends him stumbling backwards, Satoru now standing right next to you, eyes narrowed in disgust, “You don’t get to talk to her like that.”
You’re frozen in place, staring at Satoru not hesitating to step in to defend you, until Sukuna charges at him, “You’re really going to fight for her? As if she’s worth it?”
His fist swings back at Satoru, who doesn’t flinch but meet his advances. “Oh, she’s worth far more than that, even you know that she is. Or else, why are you swinging back?”
A commotion starts to form from the remaining people who’d came to watch the race, now intrigued by the fight between the notorious rivals, surprisingly not about the race, but about you.
“You don’t know shit about her. She was mine—“
But you’ve seriously had enough, throwing your shoe, hitting Sukuna’s head with it, you snap, “I was never yours. I was never anyone’s. I never belonged to you nor your crew, not the scene. I stuck by you but i got too fucking tired of you treating me like shit. And i’m not sorry for choosing me first this time.”
You feel like you’re in some stupid tv-show with the people having formed a circle around you. The fight has died down and Satoru gently puts his hand om your lower back in concern for you.
Sukuna scoffs harshly and turns away, “You made your choice, picked a side. Just hope he’s worth it.”
Satoru leads you away from the people, who started to dissolve when the fight ended, some disappointed, some still curious. His voice is soft, nothing like the angry tone he had moments ago, “Are you okay?”
“I didn’t need anyone to fight for me, you know.” You nod and get in as he opens his car door for you, “but thank you for doing it anyways.”
He gets in on the other side, “Of course not. I just couldn’t listen to that bastard speaking to you that way.”
You nod, placing a hand on his thigh as he starts driving, asking you if you want to go with him to his place or if he should drive you to yours, to which you agree to go with him.
Unable to keep your eyes off of him, you assess the way he looks, hair ruffles and partly sticking to his forehead, light bruises forming on his jaw, some on his arm, and his knuckles split.
You can’t help but think the way he swung at Sukuna for disrespecting you, without a second thought, was incredibly hot and he looks so sexy like this too.
“You’re staring.”
“Can’t help it.” You shrug, caressing his thigh with your hand, “It’s unfair how hot you look right now.”
He chuckles, glancing over at you, “Yeah? Didn’t know you were into beat up men.”
Placing a small kiss on his cheek, you shift your hand upwards, “You didn’t get beat up. You did the punching. For me.”
He exhales sharply, glancing down at your hand that’s creeping dangerously close to his zipper. “Are you trying to make me crash the car?”
Unzipping his jeans slowly, you shake your head sweetly. “Just wanna show you my appreciation properly. You’re a great driver, you know, you’ll be fine.”
His breath hitches when you pull his cock out and lean down to lick a stripe up against it. You can feel it harden as you wrap one hand around him and swirl your tongue over his tip. Above you, he’s muttering curses under his breath, eyes focused on the road, knuckles turning white from how hard he’s gripping the steering wheel.
You take his cock into your mouth, slowly taking him in, inch by inch and hear a low groan from him.
Bobbing your head up and down around his shaft, you can feel him twitch inside your mouth already. “Fuck, fuck, baby, you’re killing me.”
You’re swirling your tongue around him, feeling every vein against it.
When you hollow your cheeks and suck him off faster, you feel his car swerve to the side, stopping on a secluded area of the road. “Oh, fuck… C’mere.”
He pulls you up by your hair and crashes his lips against yours fervently. His eyes are lidded, voice thick with need, “Backseat?”
And you nod, climbing into the back of the car, he follows and pulls you right into his lap there.
You’re both breathing heavily when he pulls your panties to the side and lines himself up with you, letting you sink onto his length.
But you need him too much to go slow.
You bounce up and down on his thick shaft, to which he grabs your hips tighter and bucks his own up into yours, meeting your thrusts.
The windows of the car fog up as both of you moan and pant in pleasure. your hands tangled in his soft white hair, tugging on the strands as he kisses all over your neck, mumbling curses and praises under his breath, “Fuck, you’re so unreal. Making me feel so good, baby.”
You keep up the pace, your hips stuttering as he rubs your clit with his fingers, messy and fast. Your vision goes blurry and you feel him twitch inside of you as you clench around him, falling apart over him. He’s spilling inside of you, gripping your hips tightly and letting out a loud moan into your ear before stilling entirely.
A few minutes of sitting in his lap, basking in his comforting warmth pass and now you’re both gathering your clothes, so you can drive back to his home. While doing so, you notice something missing. “My shoe…”, you’d left it where you threw it at Sukuna.
Satoru laughs, full of genuine mirth and something akin to pride for you as he remembers the moment and ruffles your already messy hair. “I’ll buy you new ones.”
“You don’t have to do that.”
He pulls you into him with an arm on your waist, his voice shifting to something more serious. “I want to. I’ll buy you anything else you need or want too. Because you’re the most amazing woman i’ve ever had the pleasure to meet.”
You blush, stomach fluttering with joy and he cups your face, “I know it may sound crazy but when i’m with you, everything just makes sense and feels right.”
Your heart skips a beat and you’re silent for a moment, hesitating slightly. But it just feels right— exactly like he said, here in his car under the nightly lit streets of Tokyo, and most importantly with him.
“What he said isn’t true, by the way.”
“Huh?”, his brows furrow in confusion for a second, before he nods, taking your hand in his reassuringly. “Oh, no of course not. I never thought you were any of these things—“
You squeeze his hand and shake your head, “I mean, about you, that you don’t know me. I feel seen with you. Really seen. Like you get me.”
There’s a pause and you steady your breath, mustering up the courage to confess, “I think i’m falling in love with you. Maybe i already have.”
His pupils are blown as he looks at you, his hand still cupping your cheek, gently stroking it. “I’m glad. Because i already have.”
You lean into his hand, looking at him with your lips slightly parted and he chuckles lightly.
“Don’t be surprised. How could i not love you?”
For the first time since you stopped racing, the growing hole that has been eating away at your heart has been fixed. Patched and filled with Satoru.
You aren’t numb to it anymore. You feel everything, you feel him.
꒰ your very reserved, reclusive roommate satoru is a peculiar boy who’s far too concerned with how you spend your tuesdays. ꒱
ᴍᴅɴɪ. 12.5k. f!reader. no curses, roommates au. pure domestic fluff. angst. roomies + dumb-dumbs to lovers. some suggestive language, no smut. profanity. shy/domestic!satoru. yuuji’s an innocent, quirky neighbor. sfw. reposted.
having satoru as a roommate doesn’t necessarily cause you any problems in your everyday life, but boy is he a rather peculiar man from time to time.
sharing space with him is an overall easygoing and even enjoyable experience due to his reserved and borderline reclusive nature.
he’s quiet, rarely has guests, and doesn’t pester you. he’s also quite domestic, which usually indirectly benefits you. his areas are well-kept and consistently clean. he seems to enjoy cooking. from time to time, when you’re gone for the entire day from morning until night, either at work or shuffling through campus, you come home to an extra serving waiting on the stove seemingly just for you even though he’s never anywhere in sight.
admittedly, you did eat his extras without permission the first time, but now, he delegates them to you.
he wakes up incredibly early each morning, so with you finally consuming your second meal of the day alone in the dimly lit kitchen at 11:30 pm, it never feels like an appropriate time to thank him.
instead, you leave a sticky note that reads — thank you for the food. i ate well! — on the coffee machine each time, the first place he looks in the morning.
you know this because each day, promptly at 7:15 am, you’re roused from your slumber by the pleasant aroma of coffee beans brewing and clinging to the air, seeping through all the walls.
it’s a habit of his that cultivates comfort, a sense of home.
you don’t even like coffee, but his routine is oddly like an alarm, a signal to your body that the day is beginning and rising with him. shortly after his brew begins, your eyes flutter open, humming contentedly as you take in the scent and stretch the sleep out of your limbs.
satoru is kind enough.
he doesn’t make many demands of you and asks for a reasonable amount to rent out his spare room.
of all the people and places you could have secured last-minute housing for university, you’re quite fortunate to end up with satoru. he’s a simple guy, not one for many words, communicating in mostly hums, sighs, and head mechanisms when you actually see him come slinking out of his bedroom or enter quietly from wherever he spends his day.
but despite being mostly pleasant and tolerable, he still has these odd idiosyncrasies that make you quirk a brow at him, utterly perplexed.
firstly, he nitpicks the number of paper towels you use at once.
on one of the rare occasions that you both linger in the common space simultaneously on a day other than tuesday, you wash your hands in front of him.
naturally, like any other person, you grab paper towels to dry them, and you can feel his eyes locked on your side profile as he watches from the dining table.
his eyes, little seas you can drown in, shamelessly bore into you; he analyzes you carefully, judges you.
you meet his eyes slowly, feeling unusually nervous as if you’re being heavily and thoroughly scrutinized. “uh…is everything okay?”
“you use a lot of sheets of paper towels at once.” he notes quietly, never tearing his gaze from yours. “it’s pretty wasteful.”
he admittedly didn’t state it with malice, just moderate concern. when he says it, you look down between your palms where a bundle of paper towels are bunched up and on their way to becoming waste indeed.
you can admit that it’s more than you actually needed, but it’s such an odd thing to want to observe and take note of, such a specific behavior to apply feedback to.
you look back up at him, blinking slowly.
“sorry?” you offer half-heartedly. “is there a certain amount you’d like me to use at a time?”
you try your damndest not to let the severity of your bubbling agitation show, but you hear it slip in the way you offer him a careless apology and defensively inquire about a solution.
to your dismay, satoru only hums, considering your notion. “ideally, paper towels should only be used for spills and messes, as to not permanently stain our cloth towels. considering there are two hundred and eight sheets in total, at an average cost of five dollars per roll, making each sheet worth just under two-point-five cents, it’d be objectively more cost-efficient and environmentally friendly if you simply…place a cloth towel there specifically for you to dry your hands with and ensure to include it in your laundry cycle regularly. that’s what i do. it…seems like the most reasonable option.”
“uh…huh.” you say slowly, trying to wrap your mind around why it took a boy who hardly ever speaks so many words to arrive at a very simple conclusion: put a hand towel there instead. “i’ll put a towel there. i’m sorry for being wasteful.”
he nods, his hard gaze finally moving back to previous stimuli. “thank you for acknowledging my concern, y/n.”
in truth, you don’t even get a chance to add a towel. satoru does it himself.
the next time you’re in the kitchen, you notice that satoru’s placed an additional hand towel folded carefully and identically right next to his.
the sight causes you to shake your head and laugh very softly, lips tilting up into a grin.
what a peculiar boy.
coupled with his obtuse observational interests is satoru’s odd attachment to tiny, mundane instances within his routine.
specifically, everyone coming home on time.
every tuesday you only have a single class in the morning, and you also have a day off from work, so you usually stroll back into the apartment by mid-afternoon.
satoru is never there when you arrive home and you don’t know much about what he does with his time during the day. at most, you know he’s already graduated university.
you know he must make decent money, considering his capacity for keeping the entire house’s basic needs met by keeping food on the table, so you know he has to do something during the daytime.
what it is? you’re uncertain, but he always carries a backpack stuffed full, and his laptop is always tucked securely under his arm within a protective sleeve.
satoru is a habitual creature through and through, dancing in the spaces of predictability with perceivable glee.
he arrives back home by 4:30 fairly consistently. by that time, you’re usually engrossed in a book, spread out on the living room floor studying, or curled up on the couch watching dramas whenever he arrives. you never make eye contact or redirect your attention from what it’s already fixated on, but you do always absentmindedly greet him the same way each time: “welcome home.” he always gives you a small hello and immediately retreats back to his room without another word.
sometime around six o’clock, he emerges from his room and comes to the common space to ask if you want dinner.
tuesday evening is the only occasion during the week you’re able to eat the things he makes fresh, rather than reheating them. and you both sit in an incredibly comforting, idle silence while you eat.
there’s never expectations to entertain one another or engage in meaningless small talk. you compliment his meal, thank him, and tell him you ate well.
it’s never a lie. satoru is an exceptional cook.
but on one particular tuesday in question, he comes stumbling into the apartment at 2:45 pm, significantly earlier than usual, and he’s in an evident frenzy.
he comes in, kicks his shoes off at the door with little regard [ unlike him ], and moans begrudgingly as he shuffles back toward his room, his defeat loud and palpable.
“welcom—” the greeting dies on your lips, hearing his long string of audible dread and looking after him as he scurries down the hall. “satoru?” you call after him.
you watch his tall figure pause and turn back towards you when he hears you, his ceruleans eyes round and wide with apprehension and fear. “yes?”
“rough day?” you ask him softly, trying not to overwhelm him even more. “you’re home pretty early and you have this distinct look of terror.”
you try to joke lightheartedly, but he sighs in response, looking down at his feet. “it is a rough day and it’s only going to get worse. i don’t know what to do.”
“do you need help with something?”
“i…i think so? i have friends coming over. i’ve never had anyone over here. i don’t…do that. i’ve never made that much food. i feel like i won’t be able to get done in time and clean myself up.”
“you seem really stressed out about this. how many people are coming?”
“…two,” he answers sheepishly. “but additional mouths to feed means more time and honestly, y/n, i don’t have any time. i left work early so i could try to make this happen, but now it means i’m going to be behind on the schedule i put together for my project at work and this is…it’s…it’s fucking up my routine. it’s stressing me out. i’m sorry. i’m sorry. i know i’m just blubbering and prattling right now.”
“satoru,” you say softly, giving him a sympathetic smile. “it’s okay. i get it. i hate when my day gets thrown off, too. i’m not doing anything particularly important if you want help with making dinner. are there things you need from the store or anything? i can take care of that while you wash up and relax for a bit.”
he’s quiet for a moment as if he doesn’t know what to say. he just stares at you with an unreadable expression, nods once — quite curtly — and turns back toward his room. you don’t take it any kind of way, knowing he often responds pretty similarly.
you figure he just isn’t used to requesting or receiving help, but it’s fine. you can and will still do it.
satoru doesn’t realize what a load he takes off your shoulder by providing you with regular meals. in your mind, the least you can do is eat well, be mindful of your paper towel use, and offer helpful hands when applicable.
later when the two of you are prepping dinner and simultaneously trying to make the apartment feel ‘guest ready’, you keep noticing satoru glancing over at you, but he doesn’t speak. actually, he hardly says anything at all the entire time you work together.
it’s such a strange contradiction because he presents himself as shy and reserved because he simply dosen’t speak, but when he does speak, he seems to either talk a mile a minute or be unnecessarily long-winded at an average speed.
there isn’t really an in-between thus far, and you’d lived with him for nearly a year.
unable to endure any more of his silent but blatant gazes, you snap your head to him, a little curious and also frustrated. “why are you staring at me? did i do something again?”
“no,” his head shakes as he blinks, seeming a bit taken aback by your tone. “i was…thinking that i’m really grateful that you were willing to help me with this. i don’t have enough time to finish all my work. i don’t have enough time to see my friends or have dinner with them. i don’t have enough time to spend with myself. but i’m trying to do it anyway because…it matters, you know? but i was…having an anxiety attack earlier. i get really stuck on my routines. inconsistencies just make my brain itch. i was feeling really overwhelmed and your offer to go gather the things i needed just so i could shower and breathe for ten minutes…meant…a lot to me. so…thank you. also…i’m sorry…for staring. i have this really bad habit of not knowing what to say, so i say nothing or…say everything.”
to his apparent surprise, you giggle, and his eyes widen a bit at the sound.
“yeah, i noticed that about you, actually.” you place a comforting hand on his shoulder. “no problem. we’ve been here together for a while now, yeah? it’s only natural that sometimes we need to rely on each other. it’s kind of like how you leave me your extras from dinner for when i get home. i…otherwise would only eat once a day most days. i move around a lot. i forget about it, and by the time i get home, i’m too exhausted to make food. i’m grateful for how you’re willing to help me, too.”
you didn’t expect to see his face flush red and for him to look down as if looking at his feet would make the bright tips of his ears disappear. “yeah…no problem. i guess you’re right.”
“so…what is it that you do for work? what’s so time-consuming that you essentially have no life outside of it?” you ask.
although you’re curious about his line of work, you ask him about himself for his benefit, so he doesn’t feel embarrassed about feeling flustered after your exchange. you’re starting to figure out that although satoru appears and presents as if his lack of social involvement is a personal preference and choice, being a loner is not a stylistic choice but an inevitable outcome because he’s clearly socially inept.
when you guys eat in thick silence, it’s not because he’s just so comfortable he doesn’t feel the need to speak; he doesn’t know what to say, so he opts for absolutely nothing.
small talk is likely not something he’s familiar with or perhaps even cares about. he has to be coaxed out of his fretful foundation just to express that he needs help. he communicates in grunts, nods, and sighs because it’s easier than navigating a flow of back and forth in conversation.
“i’m a video game designer. i…work on actions and movements mostly. like, when characters engage in combat or how they interact with certain parts of the environment in open-world games? i’m part of the team that goes behind creating things like that. we give the characters life and motion. it’s…pretty cool considering it’s been my dream job since i was a teenager, but it’s a lot of hard work. we’re working on a really important game right now. it could put our little spot on the map with other big-name game-developing companies like epic games and santa monica studio, so i have to do my best. i can’t let my team down.”
you hum, impressed. “that’s actually really cool. i kind of figured you were a nerd in some capacity, but you’re a cool nerd with a cool job.”
he laughs then, light and quiet but saccharine sweet. “i wouldn’t say i’m a nerd. i have a deep understanding of my personal interests. it doesn’t make me nerdy. just knowledgeable.” a nod of agreement.
“no, it doesn’t make you nerdy, but telling someone they use too many paper towels and proceeding to itemize the cost of a single sheet on a whim is…not, not nerdy.” you explain, clicking your tongue.
he pouts. “i thought that information was relevant to helping you understand my stance.”
“i would have understood even if you didn’t explain, satoru. it’s your apartment and you buy all the paper towels. it’s not wrong for you to, without explanation, tell me to be mindful of my excessive use.”
satoru looks you over, his expression laden with confusion, lips pursed and eyes just staring at you while blinking blankly. “but you clearly were bothered by me bringing it up, so that’s why i elaborated like that.”
“i wasn’t bothered you brought it up. i just thought you were peculiar. and you still have not been able to escape those allegations, by the way. it’s alright, though. even if we end up having to indict you for your oddities, i’ll still accept you.”
it’s quiet between you both then. satoru seems to have nothing else to offer to the little exchange, and that’s fine with you because when you peek at him again as he’s chopping up vegetables, you notice his tiny smile.
and you note that the subtle little smile doesn’t leave him for the entirety of the evening.
you sit quietly on the opposite side of the room, midding — uninvolved but happily present — observing him engage with his work friends, suguru and shoko. he seems quite comfortable with them. his speech becomes fluid, easy, and even exciting. you see a little sparkle in his eyes when they talk about games and how suguru is close to finishing is personal passion project. he must love gaming a lot. you wonder if video game development is really the dream or just the dream career, and maybe his real passion is something more novel and less technical.
regardless, you can’t help the sheer feeling of pride that swirls around in your chest seeing him like this: engaged, involved, lively.
it gives you a subtle little smile of your own.
and you note that the subtle little smile doesn’t leave you for the entirety of the evening.
among all other observations, the ultimate characteristic of satoru’s that confirms the strength of his idiosyncracies is how he’s far too concerned about how you choose to spend your tuesdays.
it starts the week after you help him prepare his tiny dinner party for his friends, the most peculiar aspects of his behavior. it’s all because on one particular tuesday in question, you never come home after class.
your friend and co-worker, ari, has a date with a boy she’s been flirting with for a while, so you agree to switch shifts. you’re tired, hanging on by a thread, but you reallly need the extra money for the week.
today in exchange for a day you don’t have class and you can stay home the entire day, a fair and even trade.
꒰ you work as a waitress at a small restaurant near the university. most students come here between classes on their lunches, so it’s a small but heavily populated establishment. when you volunteer to work on busy days, your boss advances you what you make for that day at the end of the night. ꒱
while cleaning off the table of a guest who just left, you receive repeated text messages, making your brows furrow as your phone shot signal after signal in quick succession. who could possibly be texting you this urgently?
no one ever does.
you glance at the time. 4:32 pm. satoru usually wanders through the door right around now. your brows lift in light shock as you see he’s the source of the incessant sounding.
4:32 pm. satoru: are you safe? you’re not at home.
4:33 pm. satoru: it’s tuesday. you’re usually home when i get here. my routine is thrown off.
you roll your eyes reading his messages. he’s being hyperbolic and overdramatic, but for what? is it really so important that you’re there just to say two words he hardly acknowledges only to hole up in his room until he’s ready to make dinner?
maybe this is his attempt at humor.
you chuckle at the thought of it. satoru is so socially awkward that his jokes don’t even land; they just float in the air, suspended until someone gets it.
4:34 pm. you: you’re being incredibly dramatic. i’m at work. very alive and well. making money to keep feeding us.
4:34 pm. satoru: objectively incorrect. i buy all of our food?
4:40 pm. satoru: look. no one was here to welcome me home and now i’m back, but don’t feel an ounce of welcome about it.
you laugh at his response, very heartily, right in the middle of a restaurant, inwardly beaming with pride because he made a joke. and it was actually kind of funny. only kind of.
you start to wonder why it matters so much to you if he grows into himself and becomes comfortable enough to speak freely and easily. why do you feel so invested in his character development? regardless, you hope to see him come out of his shell more. it’s becoming of him.
4:41 pm. satoru: will you make it in time for dinner or another long night?
4:44 pm. you: probably not. it’s pretty busy and we’re already short-staffed. another long night. aiming to be back by ten tonight. i have homework due at midnight.
4:45 pm. satoru: okay…understood. godspeed.
work goes by as it does.
it’s always the same formula and equation, just different bodies and times of day. you finally come strolling home at 10:05 pm. you’re already tired, but knowing you still have to finish your homework and submit it online is making the exhaustion feel heavier than it probably is.
when you head inside, you expect it to be dark, only the light above the stove left on as per usual, but instead, all of the lights are on, the tv is chattering with excitement, playing some kind of variety show, and there’s a spicy, thick aroma in the air that makes you pause briefly to breathe it in.
it’s so pleasant. and warm. you walk in, greeted by a scent that feels like a long embrace.
as you walk through the door, you look to your immediate left where the open layout kitchen is placed, satoru stands next to the stove, chopping vegetables carefully on the counter.
“welcome home.”
he announces it casually, just as you always do for him, but does not tear his attention away from his task.
you don’t know what exactly this is, the anomaly in his behaviorial pattern. you aren’t sure what to name the feelings that attach to it, either, but you appreciate it because today you have an anomaly of your own.
you understand it right then: what he means when he says he came back but he didn’t feel welcomed home.
you’re always only ‘coming back’ but walking in and being welcomed by him, it feels more like ‘coming home’.
you note that there might just be a difference.
your voice is tepid and content when you finlly speak.
“hey, you’re up pretty late.” he only hums in response. you wander over to him, keeping a good grip on all your belongings. “cooking dinner at this hour? pretty unlike you. huh, your routine really did get messed up.”
his lips quirk. “yeah, i worked more when i came home instead of eating. i’m still catching up from last week. but i noticed i was starving and then i realized it was almost ten. so i figured i might as well just commit to a curve in my routine. but…what about yours?”
his inquiry surprises you a little because he’s initiating small talk with you. at first, your lips just part. “my…routine? uh…yeah, it got thrown off majorly today. i have an assignment due by midnight. i thought i was going to turn it in by this afternoon, but i got paid in advance for this shift, so that was nice.”
he stops cutting his carrots then and places the knife down calmly. and then, he just looks at you. it was a very normal look that you could give anyone: stranger, acquaintance, or friend.
it was just a simple look, but for some reason, when his eyes meet yours, your heart starts to pick up its rhythm, and you swear you can hear the thump of it crescendoing in your ears.
he’s so…handsome.
it’s not that you’ve never looked at him before. it’s not that you aren’t already aware that he’s a good-looking man. anyone with eyes and reason can see that. it’s just that right now you’re looking at him and he seems like his features have changed, like someone raised the saturation and sharpness of his existence. his jawline seems sharper. his blue eyes seem more potent, gleaming cooly. his lips are supple, pink, pouty, and curved quite romantically.
he looks like a walking beckoning for affection.
his pearly hair is tousled, all in disarray like he’s been running his fingers through tirelessly. his clothes seem to cling to the thickness of his frame, outlining the definition of his muscular build.
he quite obviously works out. you didn’t notice that before, the way fabric bulges around his arms and shoulders. his feathery lashes flutter around lapis when he blinks, all that angelic beauty just swirling around. you haven’t looked at him this thoroughly before.
god, he’s pretty.
“you should make sure you respect your resting day routines. you seem to work really hard with…everything you’re doing.” satoru’s voice is soft and caring, cradling his own declaration tenderly.
smiling, you nod, swallowing down how flustered suddenly you feel inside, hoping the quickening of your breath doesn’t give it away. “i hear you. it was a one-time thing anyway. now…need help?”
“don’t you have homework?” his voice is perplexed. “go work on it. i’ll call you when i’m done.”
to this, you reject his suggestion with a shake of your head. “no can do. i think i’m too tired and will take my loss with grace for the sake of a decent meal before midnight. i’ll ask again…need help?”
you don’t say what you really mean right then: i think i’d rather spend time in silence with you.
it looks like he’s only barely started, likely working on a base for some sort of soup. he has so many scraps laid out everywhere.
satoru clears his throat. “uh…yeah…yeah, i do.”
“on it,” you say resolutely. “let me put my stuff up and change really quick. it’ll only take me five and i’ll be back to help.”
after that, you don’t see satoru for the rest of the week.
tuesday is really the only day your schedules coordinate enough to see each other even in passing.
you don’t miss how disappointment settles in your chest every single time you wander inside at ten or eleven and you don’t see him standing there in the kitchen, back turned to you, nonchalantly welcoming you home.
you don’t miss the way you stop yourself from texting him and telling him exactly what he told you: look. no one is here to welcome me back home and now i’m back but don’t feel an ounce of welcome about it.
but on the following monday, you receive a surprising notification.
1:08 pm. satoru: i would like to formally request permanent assistance with dinner on tuesday evenings. unless work or other contractual obligations prevent participation. it is much more efficient with two sets of hands. and since we both eat, it’s the most ethical and fair.
his formality makes you giggle, as it’s so aligned with who you now understand him to be. once again, smiling fondly to yourself, you think of what a peculiar boy he is.
his request at its core is perfectly fair. he does buy all the food and cook it but you both enjoy the fruits of his labor, so if it’s a regular thing, you realistically should help him without a single qualm.
that’s the line of reasoning you offer for the sheer speed of your response, agreeing to give away your tuesdays to him: in all fairness.
1:09 pm. you: sure thing toru.
you don’t miss the way it’s the first time you’ve ever called him by or given him any kind of nickname. you don’t miss the way you feel nervous to send it to him, as if being denied casual exchanges with him will have a significant impact on your emotions.
now you’re the one acting peculiarly.
so, for three weeks, on three consecutive tuesdays, you and satoru rally together in the kitchen, pick a recipe to follow, assign your roles, complete your duties, and successfully make meals together around six o’clock.
for three consecutive tuesdays, you sit together at the table and eat well, sometimes in silence, but sometimes in comfortable, slow-paced conversation. the most surprising evolution is the budding presence of his attempts at small talk.
“i don’t know how i feel about this recipe.” satoru admits after devouring the meat he’s made. “i don’t care for this marinade at all.”
you, mouth full and consumption bordering barbaric, look confused. when you swallow, you have to inquire about why he feels this way. it’s quite literally delicious. and you can’t fathom him not liking it considering he ate all of it.
“what? you didn’t like it? how? i think it’s incredible. probably your best yet. the meat is so, so tender and it’s very flavorful but not overwhelming. it goes really well with this little sauce we made!”
“you enjoyed it?” satoru asks you. you notice then that he’s biting his lip rather nervously. “or are you only saying that because we spent a considerable amount of time on this one?”
you grin, rolling your eyes. “why would i lie? you’re a good cook, toru. seriously…i’ve never not enjoyed the food you’ve cooked. you did really well on the meat. and judging by your happy plate, i think you know that.”
you figure out quickly that it isn’t that he doesn’t like it, but that he wants someone else to say he did a good job but doesn’t want to ask directly until an opinion is already offered.
he even seeks praise awkwardly. how endearing.
he doesn’t speak, only lowers his head with that subtle little smile you’ve come to find yourself craving the sight of.
admittedly, you enjoy this little tradition that the two of you are building. you feel excited for him to come home, eager for him to finish resting up and come out at six, ready to get started, ready to talk to you or just stand by your side. moreover, you really enjoy not eating dinner alone.
you enjoy his proximity even in your settled silence.
it always feels more like home when he’s here and you are, too, both parallel or perpendicular to the other.
“this is nice.” you tell him warmly. “i kinda like our new tradition.”
“oh,” he breathes softly. “i…”
his head rises quickly and he looks at you, those icy eyes you’ve grown particularly fond of now slightly widened. you don’t know if you’re just seeing what your own unspoken feelings want to see, but it looks like longing looking back at you. his hand rests on the table and you glance down, only for a fraction of a moment, considering reaching your own out to find the answer to a theory you’ve constructed in the last few weeks: you think his hands might be incredibly soft.
“well, um. i…that’s…good to know. i think that maybe…um, i…”
꒰ your mind begs you to let it be known that he’s stammering and you’re staring, but your thoughts are ever so slightly somewhere else. ꒱
you notice when he washes his hands, he pats them dry lightly with his towel. delicate. and he always opens the drawer below immediately after to pull out a tiny bottle of hand cream. every single time. he applies a dollop and rubs it all in gingerly. he makes sure to get all the nooks and crannies of his hands, the dips and the divots. thorough. patient. soft. satin. he seems to care a great deal about his hands, takes good care of them and the things they touch. you lick your lips and look away.
“i’m sorry…i…uh…don’t know what to say i think and…”
you cut him off. “is it a mutual understanding?”
“what?”
“do you…like our little tradition as well?” a slow, timid, soundless nod. you respond with tilted lips. “then…you can just say…i like it, too.”
he doesn’t take his eyes off of you, but the look he gives you is becoming a little bit clearer, and you can’t look directly for too long or you’ll melt right before him, because gojo satoru turns out to be a lot like the sun, and if you aren’t careful, your heart might try to become like spring and bloom for him.
“i…like it, too.” he says finally.
humming, you turn your attention back towards your food, looking away, and for the first time, being the one with nothing left to say.
all the things you want to say officially teeter off the cusp of amiability and drop straight into a giant vat of arousal.
after a moment, your body becomes so hot you can’t stand just sitting there anymore, so dinner ends abruptly with satoru telling you to leave your dishes and he’ll take care of them.
you only nod and offer him a quiet thank you and a friendly goodnight. then you wander off to your room in a daze wondering if he noticed you squirming in your seat.
he’s so fucking domestic you’re about to cum off the strength of existing in the same house as him.
and that’s not good. because you’re always in the same house as him.
the things you watch him do in the kitchen, it’s all just so homely.
there’s a kind of strength in a man who appreciates homemaking that makes you weak.
telling you to make sure to preheat the oven, putting on his oven mitts to check on the food, setting timers, and tying an apron around his waist. cutting vegetables. using measuring cups. ‘slice, y/n. no dice. here, let me show you. watch.’ the way his triceps and biceps flex at the motion of his very intentional cuts, the way he’s always rolling up his fucking sleeves, even when they’re short-sleeved shirts like a goddamn tease, basically begging to be turned into a husband and a father overnight.
it’s absolutely sickening.
and you officially want him so bad that you want to throw up.
the orgasm you have in your room, stifling the sound of your moans and the sound of you quietly calling out his name when you did, spells it out quite clearly for you even if you don’t want to acknowledge it outright.
it’s absolutely sickening.
on thursday, another anomaly occurs in your schedule. a few actually, and all of them are pleasant.
the first anomaly is relaxation.
you don’t have class and since ari keeps up her end of the deal, you have an entire day at home to enjoy your day and your alone time. but, as usual, you wake to the pleasant aroma of coffee. you smile even harder knowing there’s nowhere for you to be so you can move as quickly or as slowly as you like. this means you don’t have to hop out of bed and immediately get ready.
it means that maybe you can go have coffee with satoru before he leaves for the day. you don’t even like coffee…but you like him. and that’s more than enough reason to get you out of bed, tidy yourself a bit, and go sauntering out of your room to ask for a cup of hot liquid you’ll never consume.
you’re more of a tea or hot chocolate kind of girl, but there’s a first time for everything, and maybe having coffee will taste better if drinking it means spending even a fractal of time with him.
this initiates the occurrence of the next anomaly.
“good morning,” you say pleasantly.
a yelp. a jolt. a wince and a hiss.
a ‘fuck, fuck, fuck’.
a resounding crash.
the sound of shattered ceramic.
he clearly isn’t expecting you to be up or to greet him. you wince at the sound of glass and lean over to see that he’s dropped and broken the mug he was holding: your mug. your favorite one. the one your grandmother made for you with her own two hands.
there’s coffee pooling everywhere, all over the floor, and satoru moans dreadfully.
“shit!” he exclaims. “you scared the bejeezus out of me. i’m so, so sorry. i didn’t mean…i didn’t mean to break it. i’m sorry, y/n. i really am.”
the mug means the world to you, as your grandmother is much older now and unable to make little crafts for you like this anymore. it’s the only one of its kind. the only one that would ever be. and now it’s in pieces on the kitchen floor, a little sea of java surrounding the sad, jagged portions of loving sentiment.
“i’m sorry i scared you.” you say softly, trying hard not to cry. you don’t want to make him feel bad. you don’t want him to feel bad at all. “it’s okay, toru. it’s okay. i’ll get towels.”
once you grab towels and come back to help him clean it up, he’s deep in a spell of unnerved groaning, just a long, drawn-out whine that goes on under his breath for a while.
“please don’t be upset.” he pleads, frowning. “i’m so, so sorry.”
you smile softly, shaking your head. “i’m not upset, toru. are you hurt at all? from the coffee? i heard you hiss.”
“i’m okay. it splashed on me, but it didn’t burn me or anything.”
you place the two large towels down to soak up all the liquid on the ground. satoru focuses on picking up each piece of the broken mug. as you watch him through the top of your eyes, you wonder just why he’s using your mug to begin with.
“i’m not used to you being awake so early.” he admits, slightly embarrassed of how a simple good morning resulted in this. “but…good morning to you, too.”
you just can’t help it. you giggle. peculiar boy.
“if you want…you…you can pick one of my mugs to take in its place.” he offers, biting his lip.
you nod and say okay for a few reasons: one. you absolutely want something of his and that is a microscopic guilty desire you have. two. he seems like it’ll bother him a lot if he can’t rectify the situation in some way. you saying it’s okay doesn’t appear to suffice. three. see reasons one and two, then combine them.
as he’s showing you his plethora of available mugs, you catch yourself smiling because…he has all of these mugs of his own, but…he was drinking his morning coffee out of yours.
you survey them all and find this one white, ceramic mug that says ‘create’ on it. it’s oddly shaped, looking nearly homemade. irregular. odd. it’s the most satoru mug of them all. that’s the one you want. you point to it.
“i’ll take that one.” you tell him.
for a brief moment, he hesitates, pouting cutely, but his lips slowly become tilted upward. “of course you will. that one’s my favorite. i made it in my high school art class, but…okay. okay. a mug for a mug. you can keep it. drink your coffee out of it well…and frequently…or it might start to feel neglected. it’s an extroverted kind of mug.”
if you knew it wouldn’t result in one of the most blatant forms of rejection you’ll ever face, because satoru is nothing if not brutally honest, you would have kissed him right then. you really would have.
but, instead, you’ll take the mug and use it well just as he asks, and maybe he’ll try to sneak in a hidden smile by just tilting the corner of his lips, and maybe you’ll spot his dimple because of it, and maybe the sight of it will make your heart flutter and breath hitch, and maybe it ꒰ in its own way ꒱ could be just as good as a kiss.
a homemade mug for a homemade mug. you’ll keep it indeed.
“want to have coffee before you leave for work?” you ask, even knowing well that you’ll be wasting perfectly good coffee, even knowing how upset he’ll be if he knows.
but it feels worth it when he nods, offering you that coy smile you find yourself anticipating nowadays. and you both do, in total silence, sit at the table over a cup of coffee, stealing glances every now and then. when he asks why you haven’t touched your coffee, you lie and say you prefer it with creamer, to which he turns his nose up in disgust.
“creamer is a forbidden substance in this house.” he informs you. “but…if…if it really is a dealbreaker for your coffee enjoyment, i’ll make sure to get you some. what kind do you like?”
the next time you go grocery shopping for us, honey? why don’t you just ask me to pop the question right now?
you don’t care for coffee. you don’t care for creamer, but you care very, very dearly about the prospect of satoru getting any kind of special thing for you, with you in mind, with the purpose of making an experience better for you.
꒰ you know plenty of special things he can give you to make the experience better. and it didn’t even cost money. and he can use his perfect hands as much as he likes. ꒱
“hazelnut,” you lie with a smile. “that’s my favorite.”
the third anomaly occurs much later in the day when you’re home alone and you’re lounging in the living room, wondering if thursday will get to be a second tuesday with satoru since you’ll both be home.
unexpectedly, there’s a knock at the door. your brows furrow. you didn’t order any food. you didn’t expect a delivery. satoru always tells you if anyone is dropping by.
when you walk up to the door, peeping out of the hole, you see a remarkably handsome man standing on the other side.
you open the door carefully, revealing a boy, likely around your age, with soft pink, shaggy hair, and a smile on his face that seems like it might melt anything in sight that just so happens to perceive it. he has little dimples on his cheeks when he smiles.
he, much like satoru, is very pretty.
“hi…can i…help you?” you ask timidly, not fully coming outside the door, head and a portion of your torso poking out.
he might be attractive, but he’s still a stranger.
he scratches the back of his head. “oh…uh, hi!…my name is yuuji? i just moved into that unit about a week ago.” he explains, jerking a thumb back towards his front door, #1103r, right across from you and satoru’s #1104r. your brows lift in sheer surprise.
“oh! i didn’t even know the unit was empty.” you laugh. “welcome to the complex…and the hall. it’s fairly quiet, so i hope you aren’t a partier.”
laughing, he shakes his head. “a baker, not a partier. i spend my spare time making sweet treats. you might smell me baking a lot, though. i…uh…i actually was coming to ask if you had butter? or margarine? i’ve started making cupcakes, but i didn’t get butter at the store, and i didn’t want to leave out to the store…because i already started. so, i figured i could come to introduce myself…and ask a neighborly favor?”
he puts his hands together in a small plea.
wow, the boys in this building really do enjoy wholesome activities.
smiling, you nod. “sure, give me a second, i’ll be right back.” when you come back to the door with an entire package of butter, he smiles wide, making his eyes crinkle. “i hope that’ll be enough.”
“more than, i’ll bring back what i don’t use.” he promises. “ah, you’re a lifesaver. thanks!”
“happy to help. welcome to the building, yuuji.” now, the exchange should be complete but he’s still just standing there. “well…if that’s all…”
“what was your name? did you already tell me?” he asks suddenly, confused. “sorry, i wanted to say your name, too, because it seems respectful since you said my name, but i was trying to rack my brain for what you said your name was…”
“i didn’t.” you clarify, chuckling at his spaciness. “it’s y/n.”
“y/n. hm, i like it. it suits you somehow. anyway, thanks, y/n the neighbor. yuuji the baker will see you again soon to return his butter hostage and maybe offer a treat forged of his deepest gratitude.” a lopsided grin and a wink.
when he leaves, you close the door and just stand there for a moment recalling the entire exchange. he’s handsome, a bit spacey, but so friendly…so friendly he was flirty. you’ll never complain about having eye candy for a neighbor, but…you don’t want satoru to get the wrong idea…if he starts talking to you more…
you quickly shake the thought away, reminding yourself to return to reality from the depth of your personal delusion. satoru is not interested in you in that way by any means. he, at most, wants to become friends, which is understandable for a person he’ll be living with for an additional year. that’s fair. you want to be friends, too.
you just also want him to talk you through his day while he’s fingering you, that’s all.
the next anomaly occurs at five pm when satoru come home much later than he usually does. for him, thirty minutes late is a lot. it throws off his routine.
“welcome home.” you say casually as he strolls in.
you try your best to appear as if you’re as unfazed as ever about his entry. you try not to make it disgustingly obvious that you aren’t just there relaxing anymore; you’re waiting. for him to come home. to welcome him back. this time, though, he doesn’t respond curtly as he ducks back towards his room. you hear the rustling of plastic bags as he sets them down on the dining table. he then waltzes over to you and lays a palm flat on the crown of your head.
“hey,” he breathes.
in movies or dramas, this is the moment where your world freezes, just becoming so petrified that even time doesn’t dare to move. you gulp hard, your heart racing even more so than it initially did in anticipation. what are you supposed to do?
“did you…enjoy your day off?” he asks. “did you rest enough?”
“um…” your voice trails, mind still entranced by his hand resting on top of your hand. it’s such a gentle gesture, so soft and timid, like him. such a well-suited affection for his kind of temperament. “i had…a relaxing day. it was nice.”
you manage to speak, but you stare ahead toward the door, not bold enough to look at the face he’s making while he touches you. he finally lowers his hand and inside, you’re screaming about it, protesting profusely to the removal of his closeness.
“what about you? was work okay?” you ask, breathing returning to normal as he heads back to the dining table to un-bag his things. the first thing he takes out is a little bottle of hazelnut creamer, and your heart is so warm you think it’s become nothing but a puddle of adoring liquid.
“work was less stressful. we’re close to done with this project, so now there’s not as much silence in the office. everyone is slowly starting to act like real people again. it was driving me insane. when intense projects happen, it disrupts my routine so much. people stop saying good morning. i don’t feel comfortable saying anything more than i already don’t. and i think the secretary hates me because i kept messing up my report and printing it incorrectly. it created unnecessary work for her and it wasted a lot of paper. i made sure to pick some up while i was at the store to replace it, but…” he stops suddenly and frowns. “sorry, i just realized i was rambling again.”
you can’t hide your loving smile even if you bother trying. “you’re talking about your day. there’s nothing wrong with that, especially if the person you’re talking to wants to know all the seemingly useless details.”
satoru has this habit of just peering at you at times when you respond to his long-windedness with openness to experience. and boy were you dangerously open to experiencing him.
“and…do you…?” he asks you slowly, his head tilting to the side. “…want to hear even the unimportant details?”
you shrug casually and nod once. you decide on an endearing response with a touch of humor to soften the landing for your heart as it’s doing its somersaults. “i don’t mind hearing about your day in great detail…it’s like listening to an audiobook for free.”
he rolls his eyes, lips quirking. “you…” a soft shake of the head. “anyway, what’d you do today? stay on the couch engrossed in your dramas?”
“i cleaned up a bit, did some homework, met our new neighbor, and binged on a drama, yes.”
his brows furrow. “we didn’t already have a neighbor?”
“that’s what i said! i didn’t know the unit across the hall was empty, but he came by to ask if he could have some butter and introduce himself.”
satoru’s face scrunches up, slightly disgusted and confused. “butter? like…to just eat?”
“toru, what?” you ask laughing. “no, dummy. he’s a baker. he started making cupcakes and realized he didn’t have any. he said he’d bring back the excess.”
again, a repulsed display of emotion. “y/n, i don’t want any food back after it’s left this flat. there are all kinds of new germs and particles on it now. why would i consume that or allow you to? what kind of person do you take me for? god only knows what he does in that unit. and if he double dips? if he sticks his fingers in his mouth and touches the container without washing his hands? ew. there’s no way for us to even verify. the number of available and unfavorable possibilities is disgusting in itself. and bakers seem like the ‘lick their fingers clean’ type, so…he can keep the butter. i’ll get us more.”
you purse your lips together, clasping them shut to keep your amused smile from showing how endearing you find him to be and also to keep from laughing at his sheer seriousness, at how comical all his particularities are but adorable in the same breath. peculiar as ever.
“okay, if he tries to return it, i’ll reject it.”
“that would be best.” he nods curtly. “i’m making dinner in a little while…do you…want to help me? or will it throw your relaxation routine off?”
you snort. “toru, i don’t have a relaxation routine. the relaxation is disrupting the routine in a good way. but yes…what are we making?”
and there it is again, that little smile that makes you want to clutch at your chest.
that’s the final anomaly. making dinner with satoru. having a second tuesday is another wonderful disruption to the routine.
the following tuesday, you’re giddy as you head home from class. you aren’t sure what moment does it for you, but you’ve settled comfortably into the fact that you like satoru, that given the opportunity, you’ll peel back every single layer of his existence to taste and lick and know every part of him.
it doesn’t bother you to be just friends and roommates with him, though. you guys live together. even if something comes of it, if it goes south, it’ll really destroy the living dynamic you guys have cultivated, which is quite comfortable. gentle. tender. homely.
besides, he reserves special kinds of platonic affections for you that suffice.
as you approach the building, you see your neighbor, yuuji, struggling to balance a tall stack of white, flat boxes while he tries to open the door to the building. you jog up and hold it open for him to help.
“ah, thank you, y/n the neighbor.” he says graciously. “saving me yet again.”
yuuji is nice enough but he seems to be quirky in his own way. you’re starting to wonder if it’s a prerequisite for being accepted for housing in this place.
as it stands, though, tensions are high between your household and his.
when he returned the butter, yuuji was immensely offended by satoru’s suggestion that he ‘tainted the butter with his baker’s breath’ and demanded that he take back the butter, to which satoru’s lip curled up in disgust as he emphasized that he especially didn’t want it then.
it ended with yuuji leaving the butter by the door and sitting it on the ground, both oddballs unwilling to claim the absurdity.
you ended up picking it up and throwing it away.
while it was a comical event all around, seeing the two of them standing in the doorway trading glares over the sanitation of butter was one of the strangest, oddest, most random things you’ve witnessed.
“do you need help, yuuji?” you ask laughing. “you look like you’re one, fragile step away from it all crumbling down.”
he sighs. “if you don’t mind and it won’t taint your precious hands to touch my baker’s boxes, then yes, you may help me.”
“for the record, i have absolutely no stock or stance in the butter sanitation conundrum. i am but an innocent bystander. so, no, your baker’s boxes aren’t at risk of tainting my hands.” you roll your eyes at him. “you’re really dramatic, you know.”
“criticizing me is not helpful.” he notes. “and i’m not certain, but i thought you asked to help.”
“fine,” you grumble, grabbing a stack of the boxes out of his hands. “what’s all this for anyway?”
he smiles triumphantly. “i got my first big gig as a freelance baker. i’m making fifty spiderman cupcakes for a five-year-old’s birthday party tomorrow.”
“wow, that’s really cool. congrats on that one. are you excited?”
“excited…is certainly a word. maybe not one i’d use to describe this, but a word nonetheless. if you can’t tell by the thick layer of perspiration and sweat gathering on my forehead, everything is great and not stressful at all.”
you pout, oddly concerned for his results. “are you going to be able to pull it off?”
“well, the thing is that…no?” he laughs and so do you. “my friend megumi was supposed to be my helper so i could pull it off, but apparently chasing skirts is more important than making and icing cupcakes for a child’s birthday party. i wouldn’t know since i respect the brotherly code of conduct and would never, but it is what is. i hope he gets laid.”
you nod. “me too…but i hope he has a hard time performing. he shouldn’t have bailed on you. this seems…important to you.”
“ah, y/n the neighbor is observant, yuuji notes.” he narrates himself in the third person. “it is pretty important to me. but…just to me.”
that upset you deeply. you know what it’s like to have your dream not be taken seriously. all this time, you’ve been in school for anthropology.
no one really sees the benefit or believes in what you want to do, which is why you’re basically out here trying to prove your entire family wrong, that you’re capable of developing a strong, steady life without meeting their endless expectations. you hate the idea that yuuji is clearly very passionate about baking, about doing this kind of custom work, but his friends aren’t supporting him, and now he’s scrambling.
“do you have to be a talented baker to be a baker’s assistant?” you ask biting your lip.
his eyes twinkle. “not at all! you just need two hands and a decent enough ability to follow a series of simple directions.”
nodding resolutely, you smile. “then consider me self-appointed as the baker’s elf. let’s go get these cupcakes made, yuuji the baker.” to this, he beams.
“y/n the neighbor is starting to seem a bit like a friendly neighborhood spiderman herself.”
making cupcakes from scratch is no fucking joke.
there’s so many steps. it really is a series of simple directions, but if those simple directions are off even by a little, it ruins the batch and you have to start again. you didn’t realize how time-consuming it would be. in fact, you didn’t really keep up with the time, but when you catch a glimpse of it on his television, it’s already eight ‘o clock, and your eyes widen.
“shit! i need to go to my apartment.” you tell him urgently. “are you okay from here or should i come back?”
yuuji shakes his head smiling. “you’ve done so much. i just need to finish working on these last fifteen. i got it. thank you so much, y/n. you didn’t have to help but you did. it means a lot.”
“no problem, but next time, i expect to take home one of my own.”
he laughs. “next time?”
“yuuji the baker seems to need help a lot.” you say with a shrug before ducking out quickly. “see you later!”
even though you’re only across the hall, you feel like you’re going to walk in and be in an insane amount of trouble. you haven’t even bothered looking at your phone. when you walk in, satoru is sitting on the couch, but his head snaps up to you immediately.
“you’re okay!” he says, relief evident in his voice as he stands to his feet. “where have you been? i hadn’t heard from you in hours and i got really worried about you.”
he walks over to you but keeps a small distance between your bodies, looking you over for any sign of harm. your entire face heats up. you feel yourself shrinking in as you take a breath.
“sorry,” you say, looking down at your feet. “i was across the hall. i was helping yuuji wi—“
he cuts you off, brows knitting together, lips in a frustrated pout. “the unsanitary baker? why?”
“if you would let me finish…” you snap, giving him a hard look. “his friend bailed on helping him and he got his first big order as a freelance baker. i was home so i helped. i was really busy so i wasn’t keeping track of time well. you wouldn’t believe how hard it is it make cupcakes from scratch.” an exasperated sigh leaves your lips just recounting the last few hours mentally.
he’s not looking at you anymore when he speaks next.
“you baked cupcakes with him?” he asked. “like…you baked them together?”
you feel confused but nod. “…yes? that’s what ‘helping’ would entail in this situation. he was stressed and i felt bad because i know what it’s like for no one to truly believe in you.”
“fine,” he spits, lips set in a hard line. “i hope it got done. dinner’s on the stove.” he walks past you toward the hallway then, his back turned. “and please wash your hands before you touch anything.”
then…he just walks straight to his room without another word, leaving you feeling perplexed by his response.
his bedroom door closes a little harder than usual and you fear you may have made a grave mistake by hanging out with yuuji, especially when it’s abundantly clear upon their first interaction that they’re unlikely to get along well. so, maybe he feels like bailing on cooking to hang out with yuuji and not even letting him know is a jerk move and god, you agree.
since that event, the rest of the week is very awkward.
even though you don’t see each other often on weekdays already, you have this inkling that satoru’s avoiding you at all costs. he even stops making his coffee; he just slips out into the early morning. you wake up close to ten am, very late, for every day it occurs.
an obnoxious disruption in your routine, and he doesn’t make dinner at all. you go to bed pouting and hungry.
but another anomaly occurs when tuesday rolls around again: you wake to find that your class has been canceled. ever the diligent student, you check your emails daily. when you finally get around to grabbing your phone in the morning, it’s the first thing you do.
to your surprise, the one class you have is canceled due to the professor being ill. you take great pleasure in this beautiful disruption because the regular routine within the home is now also back in motion and you wake to the heavenly scent of colombian.
you wander out into the living room. satoru leans back against the marble counter, sipping quietly from a dark-colored mug.
“good morning,” you announce quietly, making sure not to frighten him.
his eyes dart to your presence, and you just pause where you are, unsure if proceeding any closer is safe.
“morning,” a short and dull response. “you’re up early.”
you shake your head, playing with your hands nervously. “i’m always up this early. the smell of your coffee wakes me up every morning. i just usually stay in my room and get ready.”
“oh,” his voice is small. after a long pause, he asks, “is it bothersome?”
to answer, you smile lazily and offer another small head shake. “not at all. it’s actually my favorite alarm. very quiet and very pleasant. i’ve been waking up late the last week nearly. my routine…is thrown off.”
with all the gall in the world, he scoffs. “since when do you care about keeping a routine?”
“what?” you ask softly, voice slightly wounded and face fluttering into confusion. “what do you mean?”
“you skipped out on our routine last week and that didn’t seem to matter to you at all.” he states simply. your guilty eyes look at your nervously shuffling feet. “so, what is it? why did you hang out with him and bake with him?”
you’re not sure if it’s the irritated tone he’s now choosing to take with you or the underlying insinuation that you, a grown woman, owe him a reasonable explanation for why you exert autonomy and choose to help others. as if you did something morally reprehensible by helping yuuji.
you’re not even certain satoru is actually, fully angry that you bailed so much as he’s angry about who you were with and what you were doing instead, which is still unfathomable why it’s his business.
yes, you should have let him know and you can own that because you know he probably waited a while for you to show back up and you never did, but you’re not going to stand here and let him reprimand you for hanging out at your neighbor’s unit just because he’s decided he doesn’t like him for quite literally no real reason at all.
“um, are you my father?” you ask, your face scrunching up in frustration. “he’s our new neighbor, satoru. he needed help. i’m just being kind, and i like hanging out with him. he’s funny an—”
he cuts you off. “you like hanging out with him?”
“yes…?”
it’s silent between the two of you then, his eyes going blank and glossy. “why? what’s so special about his place? why would you prefer spending tuesday there?”
you’re genuinely appalled by his response.
you expect he may not like the idea of you hanging out with someone he dislikes, but he’s not your parent or your partner, and he’s only become a friend recently. the way you feel like you’re being forced to justify your very simple, very innocent actions of helping yuuji is absolutely unacceptable because no matter how many times you say it, telling satoru you did it because yuuji needed help and it was important for him to have it is not a sufficient explanation for him.
but it’s the truth and it not being enough for him is not necessarily your burden to bear.
“satoru, i don’t owe you an explanation as to why i had a good time hanging out with him and helping him make cupcakes so his first, real order can lead to more. i don’t have to explain anything i choose to do with anyone. i don’t owe you or your ego elaboration.”
“well…” his voice trails and he’s quiet for a minute as his skin slowly reddens and he nervously bites his lower lip. when he looks at you again and speaks, his voice is incredibly soft, unbearably wounded, and pained. “i want an explanation anyway. because i thought you liked spending your tuesday nights with me, but you went over there instead of staying to see me and make dinner together. and you didn’t even tell me. just left me waiting on you. what’s that about?”
the sheer shock and confusion of his confession must be evident on your face. you feel your mouth part as if you want to speak but you don’t. your brows knit together, trying to make sense of his stance so you can properly answer his question. your heart is already racing because…it seems satoru may have developed feelings of his own…toward you.
“wait…wait…” your voice trails, you’re still looking up, eyes blinking rapidly and narrowing, not in a sinister way but dubious, because as it stands, your current theory that he may have feelings for you, too, is truly unfounded and is permeated by perplexity. “is…is that why you’re upset?” you ask him. “because i ended up helping him and missing one tuesday with you?”
he sighs and nods, frustration exuding in his body language as if you stated the utter obvious simply to upset him. “you told me you liked our little tradition to cook together, but then picked another guy to make food with the very next week? an unsanitary one at that? and…and…you know what? i want to do that with you. making dinner isn’t fun on my own. not on tuesdays. not if you’re not here with me, and especially not if you’re not here because you’re over there and want to be there more than you want to be here. with me.”
your question comes out suddenly with your tone layered in urgency. “satoru…do you like me?”
he just stares at you, mouth slightly agape, looking as if you’ve asked a stupid question yet again. as if he were soundlessly asking ‘you’re not serious, right?’
his next comment confirms your intuition and also attests to your ability to read his expressions now.
“y/n, are you seriously asking me that? are you oblivious? after all this time? as if it wasn’t completely obvious that i do.”
you snort. “satoru, if you liked me all this time, it was absolutely, undeniably, irrevocably not obvious.”
“i gave you a hand towel that matches mine and placed them next to each other.” he details with a flat voice and a roll of his eyes.
you look at him, growing progressively more flabbergasted by his position in the ongoing argument. he lives in a delusional mental world where he thinks his feelings, in all their silent conquest, will be thoroughly known and understood. even though you’ve never spoken to him about anything of the sort.
“satoru…you do realize you criticized me for the number of paper towels i used, right? i thought you were just…solving the problem you created.”
he has the audacity to groan. “i’ve made dinner for you to eat when you come home since the first time you left me a sticky note apologizing for eating my extras.”
“yes, because you always make excess. that’s what you said!”
you huff, arms folding over your chest. he can’t seriously believe he has a little avalanche of decent examples of his ‘liking you’ being obvious. there’s just no way. he would have to be completely disregarding every other aspect of objective reality except his own thoughts and perception in order to come to the conclusion that placing a hand towel on a bar or letting you have the extra food he makes regardless are his attempts to court you. as if.
“i got upset when you filled in for a coworker on a tuesday instead of coming home and i was only distressed because you weren’t here to tell me welcome home. i told you i didn’t feel welcomed without it!”
now his voice is raising, aghast and disbelieving.
you shrug, just staring at him with flat affect and dawning freshly picked neutrality. “i thought you were joking and finally developing a sense of humor. i was proud of you.”
a squeak. he’s watching all his ridiculous reasonings be debunked and he just continues trailing down the list of them, much to your dismay. because if he’d just shut up for a moment, you can get off the topic of what would have made it obvious and move on to something way more important, much more impactful.
is he going to kiss you soon or what? so peculiar. he’d rather argue you down than take his shot with you and watch himself hit a bullseye.
“i gave you my special mug to keep for your own because you said you wanted it.” another eye roll.
“you broke my own special mug and told me to pick the one i wanted! i thought it was an eye for an eye. a mug for a mug!”
he gestures towards the refrigerator. “i brought creamer, a banned substance, into this apartment for you.”
“it’s creamer, satoru, not a confession. please be serious.”
this time, his voice is small and sheepish. “i started giving you…head pats.”
you can’t refute the intimacy of that one. you know it. he knows it. the smug smirk on his face not only knows it but is gloating about it. “fine, you got me there, but that still isn’t enough to infer romantic interest.”
“y/n, i blatantly asked you to make it a permanent date with me to make dinner together on tuesdays. how much more obvious do i need to be?”
you furiously shake your head, protesting his claim. “you formally requested assistance with dinner on tuesdays. the word date was not aforementioned. you made it seem mandatory. in fact, you said it was only fair.”
now, he’s blushing furiously, the tips of his ears going red.
“it’s not mandatory, per se. it’s just the principle. and even still, you say that as a counter, yet you went over to his place instead of coming home to be with me…doing the cooking we agreed on and mutually enjoyed.”
you scoff. “but it’s not mandatory to cook?”
“well cooking isn’t mandatory, but it is mandatory that you genuinely like me back if we’re going to be doing domestic things like making meals to eat together. consistently. and openly. so when you do it with me for weeks and tell me entirely unprovoked that you like doing it with me, it gives the impression you want to be domestic with me. i only spend time at home, so i take that very seriously. i was starting to feel played with.”
you won’t lie. all of his nonsense is just that: nonsense.
but the idea that you left him feeling like you were giving mixed signals or like you were stringing him along for the fun of it deeply wounds you inside, because you also like him a hell of a lot.
you would never go off and be intentionally confusing.
“i wish you had said it clearly. we would have been on the same page a long time ago probably. i wouldn’t be spending a single tuesday there if i knew why you wanted me here.”
“i genuinely don’t understand how you didn’t notice.” he grumbles.
“i genuinely don’t understand how you could possibly think i would?” you counter, the statement falling from your lips like a question that requires clarification.
he steps closer to you, and for the first time, you see something new in his eyes: determination, passion, need, and desire.
your breath catches in your throat when one hand goes to your waist, tugging you closer to him, the other cupping your cheek.
your heart.
that’s all you can hear is your heart thumping wildly in your chest as if it might combust.
“how is this for being crystal clear? y/n, i like making dinner for you and with you. i like that our hand towels are matching and next to each other. i like that the smell of my coffee wakes you up in the morning…i want to be the one that wakes you up in the mornings. so…with that being said, it’s tuesday and i want to make dinner with you tonight. if you want to make dinner with me, understand that you’re consenting to complete romantic affiliation.”
“understood,”
it comes out with no hesitation, your eyes glancing between his baby blues and his pretty, tinted lips begging and beckoning.
“so, you’ll make dinner with me and consent to romantic affiliation?” he confirms, a lopsided grin forming. his choice of words begs a chuckle from you.
grinning, you nod. “toru, are you seriously asking me that? are you oblivious?”
“can i kiss you now? i’ve been dying to for the last month, admittedly.”
you pout, feigning a great deal of disappointment and concern. “if you don’t know the answer, then maybe i really should go back across the hall…”
his grip on your waist tightens, a soft thumb caressing your cheek and there’s that subtle smile you adore. “we’re definitely kissing because you have to be quiet. like right now.”
you laugh. “wow. that one was actually really funny.”
“what?” he asks, thrown by your response.
“oh nothing,” you sing. “c’mere, you.”
smiling at your urge to draw him in, he leans down then, no longer willing to waste time being idle with you or just staring into each other until you can’t take it. when his lips touch yours, the only thing you can think about is how soft they are, how smooth, silk against velvet.
all you can think about is how gently he keeps you against his torso, how shyly his lips move with yours like he just wants to test you out and know how you feel, like his lips have more to offer, but much like his conversational skill, you’ll have to coax him out of his timidity.
when you both pull apart, you reach your hand up to touch his, tugging very gently on his fingers. he obliges your silent request for his hand just watching you with an enamored gaze, moving his palm from your face and allowing you to tangle your hands together.
you officially love his hands very much. you felt his hand on your cheek and now you feel it wrapped around every space of your fingers.
the most peculiar thing of all about satoru seems to be just how correct your theory is: his hands are like fucking satin, and they take immaculate care of anything they’re tasked with touching.
a song of past romance a royal / greek au gojo fic
pairing ⸺ suitor/king!gojo x princess!reader
summary ⸺ king gojo satoru of ithaca travels to sparta, seeking to win over who they say is the most beautiful mortal woman's heart. so when he sees you upon his arrival weaving under an olive tree, looking goddess-sent, he immediately loses the plot and concludes that it must be you that the tales and legends must talk about. it is not, but gojo has chosen who his queen will be. as gojo continues to break down your walls with his endless devotion and silver tongue, you must decide: will you let duty and your loved ones's expectations decide your fate, or will you choose the man who would defy even the heavens to claim you as his queen ?
warnings ⸺ smut, p i v sex, oral f recieving, whimpering gojo agenda <3, fluff, a big of angst if you squint, some insecurity, pining, banterTM, gojo is really whipped for reader, odypen inspired (this one's for my epic/pjo baddies), extensive greek mythology knowledge not needed, athena is tired of gojo lol, jealousy, helen is a sassy diva, not totally accurate to the lore of the illiad bc i just use the premise, mentions of children/pregnancy at the end if you squint, semi edited, art by @/yunonoaii
a/n my hyperfixation made me write this lol. you dont need to know anything about greek mythology to read this fic it's more of a period piece / royal au :3
general masterlist
You had registered the young man’s presence for quite some time now.
Ever since your beloved cousin Helen—the most beautiful woman in the world, the kallikomos, kalliparēios Helen—had come of age, your palace had been plagued by an unceasing tide of suitors. Even a respite alone in the garden, in peace, was not guaranteed to you; just as the ivory haired suitor (who thought himself furitive) that had been sneaking and skirting around you for a while now, there were countless of men on the palace grounds desperate to even get a glimpse of what the countless legends and tales about Helen had described.
Though, you weren’t jealous of your lovely cousin—you loved her to death. But it was getting on your nerves, because you had hoped for a quiet evening relaxing under the olive tree you were sitting in. This mn, however, was different.
For some time now, the ivory-haired suitor had been skirting the edges of your sanctuary, moving as though he thought himself invisible. You could feel his gaze, sharp and intent, as you alternated between weaving and reading. His persistence should have irritated you. And yet, there was something amusing about his poor attempt at stealth.
The telltale rustle of grass betrayed him once again. You sighed, tucking a stray lock of hair behind your ear before reaching up to gather it all, baring the curve of your neck to the evening breeze.
The stalker suitor tripped with a loud thud.
You blinked. Then, sighing once more, you set down your spindle and turned. "I know you’re there," you called, unimpressed.
Silence, then a low chuckle.
When he finally stepped into the open, your disinterested gaze lifted—and promptly widened.
Tall. Broad-shouldered. The build of a warrior, yet the face of a prince. A mischievous, almost boyish charm softened the sharp lines of his features, but his striking blue eyes gleamed with something untamed.
Helen would have a field day with him. Like that one thing she said about how she looovedd versatile men, the ones that could manhandle you but also whimper. Or whatever.
Then, to your utter shock, he dropped to one knee, extending his hand toward you in a bold gesture of devotion. His demeanor was confident, but you saw him sporting a hue of pink on his cheeks. It was rather cute, but any feelings of fondness disappeared at his next words.
"O’ Helen—" the suitor began, his voice rich with reverence, "fairest of all women, whose beauty outshines even the dawn—"
You exhaled sharply through your nose. Of course.
"—permit me but a moment to bask in your radiance, for no mortal man could gaze upon you and remain unchanged—"
Your fingers curled tightly around the threads of your spindle.
"—grant me the honor of—"
"Try again," you cut in, your voice deceptively sweet.
The suitor paused mid-sentence, blinking up at you.
"Pardon?"
You raised an unimpressed brow, tilting your head. "If you’re going to wax poetic, you might at least direct it toward the right woman."
His lips parted, then pressed into a puzzled frown. He tilted his head, sharp blue eyes scanning your face as if trying to decipher a riddle. "But… you are Helen," he said slowly, as if testing the words.
You let out a short laugh, shaking your head. "Afraid not."
A pause.
His gaze flickered over you again, as if he could will you into being Helen just by staring hard enough. "Are you sure?"
You gave him a look. "I would hope I know my own name."
His brows drew together, clearly struggling to process this revelation. "But you’re—you’re sitting under an olive tree, looking vaguely divine. Your hair caught the light just now in a way that seemed very… goddess-sent. You have the whole tragic air of someone who is probably devastatingly beautiful and sought after by hundreds."
You blinked, trying to fight the heat creeping up your neck. You shouldn’t be affected by his bromides, for his words must be a ploy to gain back his image after offending you. "Is that supposed to be an apology?"
He squinted. "More like a logical assessment of my mistake."
You sighed. "Well, your 'logical assessment' is incorrect."
He sat back on his heels, regarding you with blatant skepticism. "I don’t know," he said slowly. "I came here for Helen. You’re here. And you're lovely. Seems like a very Helen thing to do."
You gave him a flat stare in return. "What, exist?"
"Exactly."
You rolled your eyes. "I see why they make you fight instead of think."
At that, the suitor huffed a short laugh, his earlier embarrassment giving way to something more amused, more interested. "Alright," he conceded, crossing his arms over his knee. "If you aren’t Helen, then who are you?"
You leaned back against the tree, allowing yourself a small, satisfied smirk. "The woman you just proposed to by accident."
He blinked. Then groaned, dragging a hand down his face. "The gods are laughing at me."
"As they should," you replied smoothly.
To your surprise, he grinned. "That makes two of us, then," he mused, tilting his head at you. "I get the feeling you enjoy seeing men suffer."
A non committal hum from you. “Maybe, maybe not.” With that, you began weaving once more, giving him the signal that his presence and platitudes were no longer needed.
Yet, he remained.
You could feel his gaze lingering, heavy with an amusement that refused to wane. He had the look of someone thoroughly entertained, and that irritated you more than anything. Having conversed with him, you knew he was sharper than the average suitor—quick-witted, quicker still to recover from his blunders. Though he had not done anything to overtly suggest it, there was something about him that set him apart. It was a feeling—an air around him, something god-graced.
You paid it no mind.
He had not meant for you to be the one on the receiving end of his affection, and it would do you no good to cling to a man who had come here seeking another. He was meant to lose his mind over Helen, not take interest in you.
"Tell me your name," he said suddenly, breaking the silence.
You didn't pause in your weaving. "Why?"
A short huff of laughter. "I figure if I’m already embarrassing myself in front of a woman, I should at least know which one."
You shot him a sidelong glance, unimpressed. "Bold of you to assume you’ll be staying long enough for it to matter."
His grin deepened. "Well, now I have to stay, just to prove you wrong."
You sighed, shaking your head. "You’re insufferable."
"I’ve been told worse," he admitted. Then, leaning forward just slightly, he added, "Though never by a woman whose name I don’t know."
You lifted a brow at him, unimpressed. "And do you have a name, then, mysterious suitor?"
His expression shifted, something proud yet teasing gleaming in those striking blue eyes.
"Gojo Satoru," he declared, as if it should mean something to you. "Of Ithaca."
You hummed, as if considering. "Never heard of it."
He blinked, then scoffed. "Never heard of Ithaca?" He placed a hand over his chest in mock offense. "A land of brilliant minds, fierce warriors, and some say the most handsome men to ever walk the earth—"
"Ah," you interjected, dry. "That explains it."
He smirked. "Explains what?"
"Why I’ve never heard of it."
A beat of silence. Then, to your dismay, he laughed—fully, unabashedly, as if you’d just handed him the greatest gift in the world.
You huffed, returning your attention to your weaving. "Now that you have a name to be proud of, surely you can be on your way."
"Not yet," he said, far too easily.
You didn’t look up. "Why?"
"Because you haven’t given me yours."
You didn’t miss the way his voice dipped, taking on something smoother, something more coaxing. He was trying to charm it out of you, as if your name was a prize worth winning.
"Perhaps I simply don’t wish to give it," you mused, feigning disinterest.
"Perhaps you’re afraid," he countered.
You did look up at that, leveling him with an unimpressed stare. "Afraid?"
He shrugged, utterly unbothered. "That if I know your name, I’ll never forget it." His gaze flickered to your hands, to the weaving that had slowed ever so slightly. "And maybe… neither will you."
You forced yourself to resume your work, your fingers steady despite the odd flutter in your chest. "You think too highly of yourself, Gojo Satoru of Ithaca."
"I’m told it’s my greatest flaw," he admitted, smirking. "Well—one of many."
You ignored him, the rhythmic motion of your weaving serving as a convenient distraction.
Gojo exhaled, as if relenting—though something told you he was nowhere near finished with you. He rocked back on his heels, eyeing you with unconcealed interest. "Alright, mystery woman," he drawled. "If you won’t give me your name, I suppose I’ll have to keep guessing."
You didn't dignify that with a response.
But somehow, you knew—this would not be the last time Gojo Satoru of Ithaca sought you out.
He had yet to claim your name.
No matter how cunningly he pried, no matter how sweetly he coaxed, you remained steadfast, denying him that small but significant victory.
Satoru had undoubtedly set sail for Sparta in search of a worthy challenge and a faithful bride—but he had not expected to find both in one woman. You were a puzzle, divine and elusive, a riddle spun by the Fates themselves. And for a man who relished the thrill of unraveling mysteries, you were the most captivating enigma he had ever encountered.
Not since the day he bested the enchanted boar—a feat that had drawn Athena’s keen eye and earned him her favor—had he felt such a rush.
He’d dare say you were the first one he’s felt an affinity for, despite the countless of women and candidates he had faced ever since becoming the king of Ithaca.
But before he could ponder more on the thought, he sensed a presence, tensing immediately. Heavy-set footsteps, trying to be quiet in the hallway they were both in.
Satoru crossed his arms, halted where he was. “I know you’re there.”
A laugh barked out in a deep voice. “Perceptive like they say, Gojo Satoru of Ithaca.”
Satoru watched as Toji Fushiguro sauntered toward him, his movements unhurried, yet carrying the unmistakable confidence of a seasoned warrior. The man was broad-shouldered, his presence commanding, the kind of brute who could cleave a man in half with a single swing of his blade. Yet his grin—sharp, knowing—held more calculation than recklessness.
Toji came to a stop before him, arms crossed, weight shifted onto one foot like he had all the time in the world, smirking. "No wonder Athena’s got her eye on you."
Satoru tilted his head, feigning nonchalance. "I do have a way of impressing gods and mortals alike," he mused. "Though I imagine you didn’t come all this way just to admire me."
“Just assessing the competition,” Toji hums in response, eyes still assessing Satoru. He was trying to plan three steps ahead; unfortunately for him, Satoru was ten steps ahead.
“There is no competition,” comes Satoru’s cool response.
Toji studied Satoru for a moment, his sharp green eyes narrowing slightly. Then, with an amused scoff, he asked, "You’re not here to fight for Helen’s hand? Are you crazy?”
Satoru let out a low chuckle, shaking his head as if the very thought was amusing. "Helen?" he echoed, letting the name roll from his tongue with deliberate care. He lifted a hand, absently brushing an imaginary speck of dust from his sleeve. "No, I’m afraid I have no interest in her."
Toji studied him, eyes narrowing. "She’s the most beautiful woman in the world."
Satoru did not deny it. "So they say."
"And yet," Toji pressed, his tone skeptical, "you aren’t here for her?"
Satoru finally looked at him properly, his head tilting, his gaze alight with something teasing, something unreadable. "Not in the way you are." He let the words settle between them before continuing, his tone almost indulgent. "You’re welcome to her."
Toji’s mouth pressed into a thin line. His instincts told him Satoru was not lying, yet something about the Ithacan’s expression, the way he carried himself, the glint in those striking blue eyes—it all made him wary. He had met many warriors in his time, but this was no brute with a sword, no hotheaded prince desperate to claim a prize.
Satoru Gojo was something else entirely.
"So what is it, then?" Toji asked, crossing his arms tighter, his voice edged with suspicion. "You sailed all this way, and for what? A festival?"
Satoru’s smirk deepened, his expression inscrutable. "Let’s just say Sparta has given me a rather interesting puzzle."
Toji scoffed but let it drop, running a hand through his dark hair. "Whatever," he muttered. "If you're really not here for Helen, then maybe you can help me."
Satoru hummed in vague interest. "Oh?"
"I intend to win her," Toji stated plainly. "But I could use an extra hand in ensuring things go my way."
Satoru did not answer immediately. Instead, he turned his gaze upward, as though admiring the vaulted ceilings of the hall, as though considering some grander design that only he could see. Then, with the ease of a man wholly unbothered by the concerns of others, he exhaled through his nose, the beginnings of a smile playing at the corners of his lips.
"Don't worry about it," he said at last, his voice rich with something almost too smooth, too assured. "Everything is already falling into place."
Toji stiffened slightly at the words, his war-honed instincts bristling at their implication. He did not like things he could not predict, and Gojo Satoru of Ithaca was proving to be as unreadable as the gods themselves.
His brows lowered. "And what the hell does that mean?"
But Satoru only laughed, turning on his heel, the faintest shimmer of torchlight catching in his silver-white hair.
"Guess you’ll just have to wait and see."
And with that, he strode off, his footsteps unhurried, leaving Toji standing in the flickering shadows, frowning after him.
The great hall of Sparta was alive with the clash of bronze and the roars of men. The suitors, assembled from all corners of Greece, fought with a desperation that could only belong to those who sought glory and the hand of Helen. Blades flashed, spears thrust, and the resounding clamor of shields meeting shields filled the air like the din of battle.
Satoru Gojo of Ithaca stood at the edge of the fray, watching with a detached amusement. He had not drawn his blade, nor did he so much as feign interest in the chaos unfolding before him. Instead, his arms were loosely crossed, his posture relaxed, his sharp blue gaze studying each warrior as though they were mere pieces on a game board.
Meanwhile, you and Helen watched from the shade of a marble colonnade, seated atop a cushioned bench where servants had arranged fruits and wine for the both of you. But neither of you reached for the offerings; your gazes remained transfixed on the chaos below.
You shook your head at the ridiculous display. "It must be nice to be fought for by so many men," you murmured, resting your chin in your palm.
Helen sighed daintily—in a way that was so typically Helen it made you smile fondly—her hair catching the afternoon light like threads spun from the sun itself. “I will admit that it has its advantages.”
You cast her a dry look before gesturing at the men below. “Helen,” you shook your head, sighing exasperatedly, “they’re savages. They’re beating each other senselessly. Does this not disgust you?”
Instead, your cousin’s beautiful lips curled up in a knowing smile, teasing you, “Jealous, my dear cousin?”
“No.” But the answer came a little too quickly, a little too defensively. The yells and violence was a display of brutishness—but you would not be truthful to yourself if you didn’t admit that you were a bit envious of the attention your cousin was getting.
However, one would be a fool to confuse your sentiments for bitterness—as a princess yourself, there were no shortage of men who would be here to get you as a prize, if they did not get Helen. No shortage of men wondering who is he? Who is the man who’ll have the princess as his wife?
But unfortunately, it seemed that your father, the Spartan king Icarius, had other plans, for he would not let any man be your husband so easily. In fact, he did not wish you to marry and be taken away from him.
It was safe to say that not much male attention was on you due to this obstacle.
Helen showed no reaction to your response, but only hummed. “This fighting—sooner or later, you’re going to be in my shoes. You’re going to have to choose at one point, too, my dear.”
“Says who?” You scoffed, turning your eyes back to the courtyard. “Do not forget Helen, these men want power. Power so they can tower above each other, place themselves above all others.”
Helen shrugged. “So what?”
You shook your head. “Silly Helen. Wouldn’t you prefer some intellectual prowess over some…savage?”
Before Helen could reply, a shift in the air drew both of your attention back to the courtyard.
The chaos had stilled, if only for a moment. A singular figure stood at the center of it all, his ivory hair catching the wind, his stance languid yet poised.
That suitor.
The gathered nobles whispered among themselves, exchanging glances as Satoru approached the high table where the King of Sparta, Tyndareus, sat watching. The aged king stroked his beard, his expression unreadable as the Ithacan prince stopped before him, offering a bow that barely concealed the glint of mischief in his eyes.
"Your Majesty," Satoru began smoothly, "it seems we have our victor. But before we move forward, I believe there is an agreement that must be made."
The murmurs in the hall grew louder. Tyndareus narrowed his eyes slightly. "Speak, Gojo of Ithaca."
Satoru straightened, clasping his hands behind his back. "These men have come from every kingdom in Greece, each seeking the honor of marrying your daughter. Such a prize, however, comes with its dangers. Whoever wins Helen’s hand will earn not just her love but the envy and ire of the rest." He paused, letting the weight of his words settle over the hall. "If left unchecked, this jealousy could lead to war."
Tyndareus’s jaw tightened. It was a concern he himself had harbored, though few had dared to speak it outright.
Satoru’s lips curled at the edges, his voice turning smooth, persuasive. "I propose an oath. Let every suitor here, whether victorious or defeated, swear allegiance to Helen’s chosen husband. Let them vow, upon the gods, to uphold this union and defend it should any outside force seek to undo it. In doing so, Sparta ensures peace among the great kingdoms, rather than sows the seeds of discord."
Silence fell over the hall. The assembled nobles exchanged glances, the weight of the proposal heavy in the air. Even Toji, ever the warrior, raised a brow in consideration.
Tyndareus studied Satoru for a long moment, his fingers tapping against the armrest of his throne. Then, slowly, he nodded. "You are wise beyond your years, Gojo of Ithaca. Your proposal is sound. Let it be done."
A herald stepped forward, calling for the gathered suitors to kneel. One by one, they bent the knee, placing their hands over their hearts, swearing their loyalty to Helen’s future husband, binding themselves to an oath that would shape the course of history.
As the final echoes of the vow rang through the hall, Satoru turned his gaze to Toji, his smirk deepening ever so slightly. The pieces were falling into place, just as he had foreseen.
Meanwhile, in your place—where you and Helen were spectating the whole event away from common sight—Helen nudged you slightly, voice hushed in interest you hadn’t seen her display for any suitor yet. “Did you see that—the way he sweet talked my father?” Her gentle eyes widened in a way that could kill a man. “Who is he?”
You had no answer. Because, truthfully, you were wondering the same thing.
The palace gardens were quiet at this hour, bathed in the golden glow of the late afternoon sun. The scent of myrrh and olive trees lingered in the air, mixing with the faint salt of the distant sea. You sat with Helen beneath the shade of a vine-laden pergola, her back pressed against your legs as you wove your fingers through her silken strands, carefully braiding them into an intricate plait.
Helen, ever the restless one, sighed dramatically. “Do you suppose I should be flattered or terrified?”
You didn’t have to ask what she meant. The courtyard had been in an uproar for hours after the suitors’ oath had been sworn. Servants gossiped in hushed tones, and noblewomen tittered behind their veils. The future queen of Sparta had just gained the loyalty of every warrior present—whether she wanted it or not.
“Why not both?” you mused, separating another section of her hair.
Helen laughed, tossing her head slightly. “It is one thing to be the object of admiration. It is quite another to be the cause of bloodshed.”
You hummed in acknowledgment, though your fingers stilled when she spoke again, voice full of mischief.
“Did you see him?”
You resumed braiding. “Who?”
Helen turned just enough to throw you an incredulous look. “Who?” she repeated, mockingly. “As if you do not know exactly who I speak of. Gojo Satoru of Ithaca.”
You clicked your tongue. “Oh, him.”
“Oh, him?” Helen scoffed. “Do not play coy, cousin. He commanded that entire courtyard without lifting a blade.”
You smiled, but she could not see you. “That only proves he is cunning,” you pointed out, keeping your voice neutral.
“That proves he is powerful,” Helen countered, shifting as you tugged lightly at her braid. “He held those men in the palm of his hand.”
Barking out a laugh, you continued your work. “Or perhaps he simply enjoys hearing himself speak.”
Helen laughed, tilting her head back against your lap. “You wound me with your dullness. Do you not see? There was something about him. He has the air of a man accustomed to winning.”
You tried not to scowl. Of course he did.
And if Helen had her eye on him, there was no chance for you.
The thought settled in your chest like a stone.
It was not as though you had entertained any hopes—but you were not blind. The way he had looked at you in the hallways, the way he had tried to coax your name from you, the way he had seemed amused by your defiance. It had sparked something treacherous inside of you, something unspoken and foolish.
Because no man, no matter how powerful or wise, would ever choose you over Helen.
You forced your thoughts aside and tightened the braid. “And what of Toji Fushiguro?” you asked lightly, forcing the subject to change. “I noticed you watching him as well.”
Helen hummed, pleased with the shift in conversation. “A brute, but a striking one. I imagine he fights as well as he looks.”
You snorted. “I imagine he thinks with his fists.”
“All the better,” Helen teased. “I should not mind a warrior who throws me over his shoulder and carries me off.”
You rolled your eyes, but you giggled regardless. “You are insufferable.”
Helen twisted, kneeling so that you were now face to face. She reached for your hair, her fingers beginning to weave it into a braid of your own.
“You say I am insufferable, but you have yet to deny that Gojo Satoru is worth admiring,” she murmured.
You sighed exasperatedly, looking anywhere except for your cousin’s eyes. “Must we discuss this?”
Helen’s fingers worked deftly, her expression smug. “It is only natural to discuss the most intriguing men.”
“And yet I am sure you are doing it to torment me.”
“Perhaps a little.” Helen’s grin softened as she studied you. “You would not be so opposed to him if you did not find him interesting.”
You swallowed, looking away. “That is not—”
“You braid my hair with such care,” she interrupted, looping another section of yours. “And yet, you guard your own thoughts as if I am the enemy.”
You closed your eyes briefly, inhaling the scent of lavender and sun-warmed stone. Helen had always been perceptive when she wished to be.
“There is nothing to guard,” you murmured.
Helen merely smiled, finishing your braid with a satisfied tug.
But the knowing look in her eyes unsettled you more than any battle in the courtyard ever could.
Despite coming for Helen, Satoru continuously seeks your presence.
Your presence is intoxicating, even the smallest of glimpses of you enough to induce a feeling, one he’d liken to eating the gods’ ambrosia or drinking the finest nectar. Every time he saw you, it was passing moments in the hallways of the palace or sneaked glances while you were in the garden—your chin up, posture proud. Your eyes downcast as if you had no interest in the countless of men among you. The light only returned when you were weaving, or discussing with your cousin.
But Satoru had not been able to see you more than just those miniscule, fleeting moments—it was your accursed father that kept an eye on you during dinners, his withered glare threatening all suitors, as if to remind them: You’re here for Helen, and keep my daughter out of this, for she is not a prize you can easily win.
Little did he know Satoru loved challenges.
So he thanks the gods that an annual Spartan festival is thoroughly celebrated in the palace today.
The hall is the spitting image of revelry. Men adorn their finest tunics while women have braids of flowers and cloths, wine, fresh fruits, and meat are plentiful on all tables. There’s singing, there’s dancing, and, best of all, there’s you.
Satoru’s been observing you for quite some time now. It wouldn’t be fair to call it something akin to a predator stalking his prey; no, you far from being bested by Satoru. More like a bird waiting for all the weaker mates to filter themselves out.
They were like peacocks, the men that came up to you, with the way they flared their artificial grandeur. Each time a young man sat next to you, you remained aloof, giving them nothing but a bunch of polite glances and nods. But it was clear that what ever your responses or questions were, they were nonplussed. Satoru almost felt bad for the fools if it weren’t for how they were encroaching on his time to finally talk to you.
It was the opening that a particularly witless and brutish man had given him—the guy basically leaves the seat next to you, almost in tears from whatever you had said to him, but you only blinked as Satoru approached.
Satoru slid into the recently vacated seat beside you with the grace of a man who had never been denied anything in his life. He draped an arm over the back of his chair, all effortless ease, as if he had been waiting for this moment all night.
"Whatever you said to him, I’d like to hear it," he mused, his lips quirking in amusement. "Though I do hope you go a little easier on me—I’m rather sensitive, you see."
Your gaze flickered to him, unimpressed, though there was something almost imperceptible in your eyes—mild intrigue, perhaps.
"If you are so easily wounded, Your Majesty, then I fear you are not prepared for a Spartan woman’s words."
His grin widened. "Oh, but I live for danger."
You hummed, noncommittal, before returning your attention to the food before you. Satoru, however, found himself transfixed by the way you reached for a slice of fruit, your fingers delicate yet decisive as you brought it to your lips. You took a slow, deliberate bite, and for the first time in his life, Satoru forgot how to speak.
It was absurd, really. He had seen beautiful women eat before—Helen herself had a practiced elegance to it—but there was something about you. Something about the unthinking ease with which you did it, how your lips parted just slightly before closing around the fruit, how you chewed with quiet, effortless grace, unbothered by the weight of hungry gazes that lingered on you.
For a man who had always been surrounded by beauty, who had spent his life sated and indulged, it was utterly unfair that something so simple could leave him spellbound.
Perhaps the gods were toying with him.
"You’ve been staring for quite some time," you remarked, snapping him out of his reverie.
Satoru exhaled a laugh, recovering with impressive speed. "Can you blame me? I’m simply trying to unravel the mystery of how you managed to make that poor soul flee in tears. I’d rather not suffer the same fate."
"Then I suggest you leave now, Your Majesty."
"Not a chance."
You sighed, though there was the ghost of amusement at the corner of your lips. "Persistent, aren’t you?"
Satoru grinned. "And yet, here you are, still talking to me."
He watched as you reached for another piece of fruit, this time slower, as if testing him, watching to see if he would stare again. He nearly laughed—because, of course, he did.
"You truly are hopeless," you muttered, shaking your head.
"Ah, but at least I am entertaining," he countered. "And I do believe I’ve managed what those other poor fools could not—I’ve kept your attention."
You opened your mouth to retort, but he was faster. "Go on, you can admit it," he teased. "I make for much better company than them, don’t I?"
For a moment, you merely regarded him, expression unreadable. Then, to his absolute delight, a soft laugh escaped your lips.
It was small, barely more than an exhale, but it was real.
And gods, it was beautiful.
Satoru leaned in slightly, drinking in the sight of you as if committing it to memory.
"See?" he murmured, triumphant. "I told you I’m quite good at this."
Your amusement lingered, but you shook your head as if in exasperation. "If you say so."
He did not say so. He knew so.
Because despite all the reasons he had come to Sparta, despite all the men who had gathered to win Helen’s hand, Satoru had found himself drawn to you instead.
And he had no intention of stopping now.
But before he could get another word in, a horn sounds, and you nod to him, somewhat apologetically. “That is my call.”
Before he can ask, you head, skirts fluttering behind you as you move to join a growing group of young ladies in the middle. It’s clear the gathering has captured the interest of most of the men that were previously dining.
You make your way down to the middle, where you arrive at your position—it’s the one you’ve occupied every year. This dance is a show of grace and lineage, a chance for the noblemen to watch and admire, to see which girl carries herself with the most poise, the most elegance, the most effortless charm.
In Gojo’s eyes, it’s easy to determine who that is.
You take your place among your cousins, hands joining as the musicians begin their melody. It is a lighthearted dance, nothing too intricate, nothing that demands much more than the ability to move in time with the others. Your skirts flutter with each step, the long strands of your braid swaying as you turn.
It’s a girlish, lighthearted dance you’ve done since you were little. You and your younger cousins giggle as you go through the motions, reveling in the attentions of the spectators that witness the lovely display with amusement and pure, wholesome adoration.
That is, until you register a special set of eyes on you.
In a specific turn along to the strum of the lyre, you turn gracefully—a move that orients you towards Gojo’s direction. When you finally see his face and notice his presence, it’s like you’re kicked in the chest in a spar with Helen, with the way your breath leaves you.
His eyes are dark, enraptured on you, and only you. Heat creeps up your neck as you move your hands as you’re oddly flustered. His gaze is admiring and is respectful, but the intensity of it—like longing that is toeing the line between lust and pure yearning—makes your heart quicken in a way that you rue your accursed organ, for it to beat so traitorously. When he notices that you’re staring back at him, his jaw—which was clenched—loosens in a smile, but the smile isn’t innocent. It spells out a promise—one unspoken, one that curls at the edges of his lips like a secret meant for you alone. It is the kind of smile that men wear when they know something you don’t, when they have already decided on something long before you’ve even had the chance to argue.
It is sharp. Focused.
It traces the curve of your waist, the sway of your hips, the way your arms extend with each graceful movement.
It darkens.
Heat spreads up your neck before you can help it. The flickering torches of the hall must be to blame, or perhaps the wine in your belly, but you feel warm, too warm, and it is absurd.
Why should you care where Gojo of Ithaca’s eyes linger?
His smirk grows, and it is cocky. Infuriating, even. You snap your head away before he can see how your face burns, resuming your dance with the others, willing yourself to shake off the foolishness that has settled in your bones.
But even as you turn, even as the skirts of your dress flare and the room around you continues its celebration, you feel it—
His eyes.
Still watching.
“Athena, I swear to you that I need her. She is my future wife!” Gojo insists, stomping his feet as he trails the goddess as if he were a child. It reminded the goddess of wisdom of when she first met him—when he had taken down the magic boar she had let loose, showing him of having intellect worthy of being mentored by her.
But Athena had meant to be a mentor to a warrior of the mind—not this lovesick, pathetic fool in front of her, like a dog whining for food. Athena sighed exasperatedly as another animal she was hunting runs away from Gojo’s sheer loudness. “Enough!” she snaps, but not unkindly. “Who is this princess you speak of, and what kind of spell has she cast on you to become this much of a fool?”
Gojo ignores any insults directed towards him, and instead adorns a bright smile at the mention of you. “She is the cousin of Helen of Sparta, and the daughter of Icarius—”
Gojo is interrupted by a snort. “The same one that swore to never marry his daughter off?”
This gives Gojo a reason to pause. He had not known this fact. “So, how do you propose I—”
Much to his chagrin, the w goddess is already a few steps ahead. “To waste my time on strategy to secure a woman, Gojo, is quite preposterous.
But if you must insist on my counsel, then you shall earn it," Athena declares, turning on her heel to face him fully. Her gaze, sharp as a well-honed blade, sweeps over him, as if assessing whether he is truly worth the effort. "Icarius is a man of reason before all else. He values intellect, discipline, and above all, loyalty. If you wish to stand a chance, you must prove to me two things: one, that she is a wise woman worth of being sought after, and, two, you must prove that you are not merely another suitor blinded by beauty."
Gojo grins, clearly pushing his luck. "So you will help me?"
Athena exhales, the very picture of divine suffering. "I will not gift you the answer, but I will grant you the means to find it yourself."
"Which is just a long-winded way of saying you will help me." He nods sagely, as if he has unraveled the mysteries of Olympus itself.
Athena rubs her temple. "I should have let the boar trample you."
Gojo only laughs, stepping in line beside her as they weave through the woods. His mind is already turning, piecing together what little he knows of Icarius, of you, and of what he must do to win. Because one thing is certain—he will win.
Icarius may have sworn never to wed you off, but Gojo Satoru has never been one to abide by the rules.
You do not want to be here.
All you simply wanted was time in your sanctuary, your olive tree. It remained hidden in the royal gardens, so it’s a wonder that Gojo of Ithaca had found you. Of course, you would have to be a fool to not admit that these suitors’ wit paled in comparison to that white-haired young king. Such as this one, for example.
“My lady, I could not help but notice your fair disposition when I looked upon you,” the suitor grins, his teeth bared like a dog catching scent of a meal. It is not a pleasant expression. You do not react, save for clutching your weaving tighter to your chest. He steps closer, and you take measured care not to recoil, though the instinct is strong. “May you grant me your name—”
“I would have to apologize,” you cut him, already turning away. “My father does not—”
You’re stopped by a harsh grip on your wrist, and you wrench your gaze back to the suitor in shock.
"You wound me, my lady," the man says, still smiling as if this was amusing. As if he had power over you. Physical power, you suppose, but clearly this man was lacking in intellect, to not have noticed his presence. "You have been so cold to me, and I—"
He does not notice the shadow behind him.
“Ah,” a voice interjects, smooth, easy. “That’s no way to hold a lady’s hand, is it?”
The grip on your wrist slackens, but another takes its place—light, barely a touch.
Gojo.
The suitor’s face twists in confusion, but it quickly shifts to pain as Gojo applies the smallest pressure to his wrist.
“You—”
“She said no,” Gojo interrupts breezily. “And I’d hate to make a scene, so do us all a favor and leave before I decide to break something, yeah?”
With an effortless flick of his hand, the suitor stumbles back, shaking out his wrist as if burned.
Gojo does not spare him another glance. His attention is on you.
“Are you alright?” His voice is softer now, no teasing lilt, no easy arrogance.
You hesitate, unsettled.
“I was handling it,” you say, though it does not come out as firm as you would like.
Gojo only hums, something that sounds like, I know you could, but you’re distracted by his eyes drifting down to your wrist, where a faint mark has already begun to bloom.
His gaze darkens, but you hurry to assure him. “I’ll bandage this, it’s not a big wound—”
He interrupts you. “No need,” gently holds your shoulder, as if imploring you to follow him into the direction he’s started to walk, “I’ll do it myself.”
“That’s not—”
“Look.” He shoots you a look, but it is not unkind nor patronizing. You realize belatedly that it has set your heart aflutter. “I trust that you know how to bandage your wound. But I have had countless like it, so you are with a skilled master in healing. And who knows which suitors may find you on your journey to the physician?
You purse your lips, biting back a retort but failing. “And aren’t you one of the said suitors?”
His lips pull back in an amused smile, and you notice his hand is still resting lightly on your shoulder. “I think we both know I’m different.” You bite back a smile.
“Oh, really?” you remark dryly, but the look in your eyes is anything but. “And how did Your Majesty acquire the title of being different?”
His thumb brushes, just barely, against the fabric of your sleeve before he withdraws his hand entirely, as if sensing that he’s lingered too long. But his smirk remains, insufferable as ever.
“For one, I don’t make a habit of forcing myself upon unwilling women,” Gojo remarks, a pointed edge to his otherwise careless tone. “And for another…” He tilts his head, considering you. “I daresay I might be infatuated in a way they—or you—couldn’t comprehend.”
Your breath catches, but you recover quickly, huffing as you turn away. “All these sweet nothings. Helen will love you.”
Gojo chuckles, stepping ahead of you as he leads the way. “Yet she is not the one I am after.”
You pause. Soak in his words. Outwardly, you roll your eyes and follow him for you were at a lack of words, but inside Poseidon’s storm rages inside you at his words, creating a ferocious whirlpool of conflicting feelings.
His strides are long and easy, as if he belongs wherever he walks, and yet, he slows his pace just enough for you to keep up. The gesture is not lost on you.
The physician’s chamber is quiet when you arrive, save for the distant chatter of servants outside. Gojo does not call for assistance. He merely gestures for you to sit, pulling out a small cloth and a bowl of water, his movements easy and practiced.
“You’ve done this before,” you murmur as he kneels before you, pressing the damp cloth against your wrist.
His smile is unreadable. “I am a warrior, am I not?”
The cold seeps into your skin, making you shiver. Gojo notices. His touch, for all his bravado, is unbearably gentle. You do not know what to make of it.
“You’ll bruise,” he says softly, fingers skimming over the faint marks. “Does it hurt?”
You swallow. “No.”
A lie.
Gojo’s gaze flickers up to yours, and for the first time, there is no teasing in his expression—only something quiet and knowing, something that makes your heart betray you in its weakness.
For a moment, you both fall into a silence, and, to avoid his gaze, you go back to clutching at your hand and staring at it, as if there’s something really intriguing about it. Then, he speaks up. “Want to play?”
You bring your gaze back to him, caught off guard. “What?”
He cocks his head in a direction to which you face, and there you see it: a game board. One to play petteia.
You turn back at him, blinking. “You play petteia?”
Gojo grins, stretching out with a lazy ease that only makes you more suspicious. As if he has ulterior motives to this. “What, surprised? Strategy games are a warrior’s pastime.”
You squint him. That line of reasoning was rather true, you suppose. Something told you—something being the way he convinced Helen’s father so easily, how he always seemed three, no, six steps ahead—that he was no normal warrior, no normal brute. Huffing, you remark offhandedly, “I suppose a true warrior does sharpen his mind as well as his sword. It’s a pity that you’ll be losing today. To me.”
His smile deepens, and it makes you notice small indents in his cheeks as a result, and the way there’s a rosy pink hue on his cheeks, as if he’s excited to see what you can do. “Then by all means, put me to shame.”
You settle onto the floor, determined, as he arranges the pieces between you. The rules are simple enough—capture your opponent’s pieces by flanking them on either side—but the way Gojo moves is anything but. He plays with an insufferable sort of confidence, shifting his pieces with flicks of his fingers, as if the game is already his to win.
Until it isn’t, obviously.
He frowns when the click of stone dropped onto the board sounds. You’ve cut off his advancing soldier, trapping it neatly between two of your own.
“Huh,” he muses, tapping his chin. He stares at the board, mind no doubt going at a speed unfathomable to most. His eyes flick rapidly, as if assessing the position of all the stone and calculating all the possible moves and permutations that can salvage him out of the situation you’ve created for him. You maintain your poker face, but inside, you want to smile. You had calculated those said combinations a few steps ago, and it’d be really hard to get out of this. Then, comes out a “That was… unexpected.”
You smile sweetly. “What’s wrong? Did the great King of Ithaca not anticipate that?”
Gojo exhales, dragging a hand through his hair while huffing out a laught. “You’re quite ruthless, aren’t you?”
“I’m practical,” you correct, claiming another of his pieces. “And good at this game.”
Gojo squints at the board, as if trying to decipher where exactly he went wrong. “You do know you’re supposed to let me win, right? My pride is fragile.”
“I wasn’t aware kings had fragile pride.”
“You wound me, my lady.” He presses a hand to his chest, but his movements are distracted as he moves another piece—only for you to immediately trap it.
His head snaps up. “Wait—”
You make your final move, effortlessly cornering his last few soldiers.
Silence.
Gojo blinks at the board.
You clear your throat. “Do you need a moment to process this?”
Slowly, he leans back, shaking his head with something close to awe. “You know, I was planning to go easy on you, but I don’t think that would have helped.”
You grin, triumphant. “I’ll take that as an admission of defeat.”
Gojo exhales through his nose, then tilts his head at you, a glint of something unreadable in his eyes.
“You’re dangerous,” he says, and you’re not quite sure if it’s a compliment or a warning.
“Maybe to an overconfident king who underestimates his opponent.”
That urges out a laugh from him, and he shakes his head. “Trust me, I was not underestimating you. It seemed that I had overestimated myself.”
Before you can respond, Gojo leans forward, propping his chin on his hand as he watches you with something unsettlingly thoughtful.
You don’t trust that look.
“What?” you ask warily.
He hums. “Just thinking.”
“That’s a dangerous pastime for you.”
Gojo presses a hand over his chest, as if wounded. “Cruel. After I iced your wrist and let you absolutely demolish me at petteia, this is the thanks I get?”
“You act as if I owe you something.”
His smirk returns, slow and smug. “Well, since you mention it…”
You narrow your eyes. “No.”
“You didn’t even hear me out.”
“I know you well enough to predict whatever absurd request you’re about to make.”
Gojo lets out a dramatic sigh, tilting his head back. “And here I was, about to propose something completely reasonable. A fair exchange.”
You arch a brow. “Fair?”
He nods, all feigned seriousness. “See, I let you win.”
“You most certainly did not.”
“And I helped with your wrist.”
Your lips press into a line. “Which you did of your own volition.”
Gojo ignores this. “So, as a completely justified request, I think you should let me meet you in the royal gardens.”
You blink. His words hang in the air between you, a casual proposition that somehow carries more weight than it should.
“The gardens?”
He nods. “By the olive tree at sunset. The one where we met.”
“Why?”
Groaning, he lounges back, pushing his feet out while doing the motion. It makes his long legs come closer to where yours are opposite from him, so much that you can feel their heat. Not direct contact, but there. “Have I not made my advances clear by now?” He moves to a sitting position, a more serious look in his eyes as he earnestly looks at you, but you find it hard—despite your usual dry disposition towards suitors—to maintain eye contact, so you opt to look at your hands instead as his next words strike blows to your treacherous heart.
“Your Highness, I am here for you. You are far wittier than me—I have things to learn from you. You have bewitched me, for I did not know it was possible for a lady to consume my every waking thoughts in such a violent way as you have. You may think me a stranger, and you may think me one of the many foolish suitors here for Miss Helen’s hand, but I will make you fall in love with me. I will show you that despite my pride, I will be a kind and gentle husband.” He exhales, as if steadying himself, but his eyes remain fixed on you. There is no jest in them, no trace of the arrogance he so often wears like armor. Only something raw.
“And I will absolutely not leave this city until you come back to me in my kingdom as the Queen of Ithaca. It may require god-like skill to convince your father to marry me—but I am nothing if not persistent.”
Before you can even begin to form a response—before you can push past the breath lodged in your throat, the furious pounding in your chest—there’s a voice.
"There you are!"
Helen.
You turn just as she strides toward you, golden as ever, a vision of effortless beauty. She doesn’t seem to have heard a word of what was just spoken, too preoccupied with her own delight at having found you.
"I’ve been looking everywhere," she sighs, linking her arm through yours before glancing at Gojo, who, for once, remains uncharacteristically silent. Her eyes flick between the two of you, and then she hums. "I hope I wasn’t interrupting anything?"
Gojo recovers faster than you do. "Not at all, Your Highness," he says smoothly, a practiced smile slipping into place. "I was simply getting to know your cousin better."
Helen gives him a flirtatious smile, but nevertheless turns to you, frowning. “And why are you at the physician’s?”
You feel Gojo’s eyes follow your movements as you shake your head and rise, walking towards Helen. “An unruly suitor. It was a light bruise, it is not a great matter–”
“A bruise?!”
“Come with me,” you hissed, waving her along so she did not question further. It seemed that the room was very warm, for you felt a heat creep up your neck the longer Gojo’s eyes unequivocally stayed on you.
Helen blinked, at a loss for words, no doubt pondering why you both were leaving Gojo’s presence so readily. “But His Majesty—”
“Cousin,” you snapped, “did you not have a reason to be looking for me?”
Helen blinks, momentarily distracted. Then, as if something suddenly occurs to her, she brightens.
“Oh! Yes, Father wanted to see you.”
You exhale, relieved—only for it to be short-lived, because she doesn’t move.
She remains rooted in place, glancing back at Gojo with a look that is far too amused for your liking. The flirtatious smile returns, softer now, more intrigued.
“But surely,” she muses, tilting her head, “you wouldn’t mind if I stayed a moment longer? It’s not often one meets a man as charming as His Majesty of Ithaca.”
You narrow your eyes. “Helen.”
“What?” she says, all innocence. “We’re simply talking.”
You glance at Gojo, expecting him to look insufferably pleased, but instead, he’s watching you. Not Helen. You tear your gaze away.
It’s only once the two of you are walking through the halls, out of earshot, that Helen sighs, linking your arms again.
“He’s quite something, isn’t he?” she murmurs.
You keep your eyes ahead. “Perhaps. A bit arrogant, though.”
“He’s clever,” she corrects, then gives you a knowing look. “And you like him.”
You scoff, though the heat on your skin betrays you. “I do not.”
Helen only laughs, shaking her head. “Dearest cousin,” she sighs, “I have seen you endure the most persistent suitors with all the warmth of an ice-cold river. And yet, here you are, playing petteia with him, letting him tend to your wounds.”
You do not have an answer to that.
And Helen does not press further. She only smiles wistfully to herself, as if she already knows how this story will end.
…
The halls are silent at this hour, save for the whisper of your steps against the cool stone. You keep to the shadows, careful, quiet. If anyone were to see you like this—wrapped in a cloak, a weaver in hand, slipping through the corridors like a thief in the night—there would be whispers by morning.
But then again, what whispers have ever concerned you?
The thought does not comfort you as much as it should.
Your grip tightens around the weaver, its familiar weight grounding. You brought it with you on the off chance that Gojo, like most men, proves unreliable. You have no reason to believe he will come; his feelings for you could be temporary lust, a second option in case his primary one—Helen—fails. No reason to have entertained his invitation at all. And yet, you go.
You cannot say why.
A foolish impulse, perhaps. Or simple curiosity. Or maybe—
You push the thought away, focusing instead on the memory that surfaces unbidden.
A conversation with your father, just today while you dined.
You had spoken of Helen’s upcoming wedding of the foreign princes and warriors who sought her hand, of the future that awaited her.
Your father had frowned, the lines of his face deepening. “It is dangerous,” he had said, quiet but firm. “To entrust my daughter to a man who cannot ensure her well-being.”
You had smiled then, easy and unbothered, as if his words did not touch something in you. “It is not you he must convince.”
He had looked at you for a long moment, something unreadable in his gaze, but ended up remarking offhandedly, as if reminding you. “I do not want you to go far from me.”
And you, still smiling, had said nothing at all.
Now, in the solitude of the night, you are no longer smiling.
You know your father’s concern is not unfounded. It is not simply Helen’s future that weighs on him—it is yours.
But it is a strange thing, the way his words linger, how they press against you, heavy and quiet. Not as a warning. Not as a burden. But as something else. Something you cannot yet name.
You reach the courtyard, the olive tree standing tall against the night sky behind a series of trees. You exhale, slow and steady, before walking to reach it, weaver in hand.
If he comes, he comes.
And if not—
Well. You were never the kind to wait idly for a man.
But before you could go on your endless mental tirade of how despicable the male species were, you heard a voice. Gojo’s voice in particular.
Walking closer and closer—to where your olive tree was but not where you were visible, trees providing coverage—you noticed him talking to someone in a hushed, yet excited tone. You use the window of sight allowed by the gap between the trees’ leaves to see him, standing with an owl on his forearm. It’s turned to him, as if paying attention, although exasperatedly, to him while he stands tall as ever, his foot tapping impatiently against the grass.
You hesitate, watching as the owl blinks at him, as if listening, considering his words.
And then it notices you. Its, well, owlish eyes are wide as they lock in on your figure.
With a quiet rustle of feathers, it takes flight, disappearing into the night.
Gojo turns, following its path before his gaze lands on you.
“You scared my friend away,” he says, as if this is the most natural thing in the world.
You blink at him. “You were talking to an owl.”
He shrugs, as if this too is perfectly reasonable. “She’s a good listener. A little judgmental, though.”
You give him a look, unimpressed. “I see you’ve finally found an audience that suits you.”
His lips curve into a slow smile. “And yet, here you are.”
You huff, settling onto one of the smooth stones beneath the tree. “I didn’t come for your company.” You hold up the weaver in your hands, as if that alone is proof of your intentions. “I came to pass the time.”
“Ah,” he drawls, stepping closer, hands slipping into the folds of his cloak. “And yet, you’re talking to me instead.”
You narrow your eyes at him, but he only grins, triumphant.
“Tell me,” he muses, dropping down beside you. “Were you hoping—or predicting, with that fast mind of yours—I wouldn’t come?”
You don’t answer right away, fingers idly threading the weaver. The night air is cool, the scent of olives and earth thick around you.
“Would it have mattered?” you ask at last, voice light, careless.
Gojo watches you, and for a moment, he does not answer either.
Then, quietly, as if confessing something neither of you are ready to name, he says, “Yes.”
You inhale slowly, fingers stilling on the weaver as his answer settles between you.
Yes.
It wasn’t spoken in jest, nor with the easy arrogance he so often wielded. Instead, it was quieter, more certain—like an unshakable truth, unburdened by expectation.
You don’t know what to make of it.
You cast him a glance from the corner of your eye. He’s sitting close but not too close, his long legs stretched out before him, arms resting lazily over his knees. His usual grin is absent, replaced by something unreadable, something you cannot name.
The weight of his gaze is different now. Not teasing, not searching for amusement—but waiting.
You look away first.
Your fingers resume their slow, practiced work, weaving delicate patterns into the fabric, though your thoughts are anything but orderly.
“Why are you here?” you ask, voice softer than you intend.
A beat passes before he answers.
“Because you are.”
You swallow.
He leans back onto his hands, tilting his head toward the night sky, moonlight catching in the pale strands of his hair. It makes him look otherworldly, like a figure carved from myth—too beautiful, too untouchable.
“I’m not Helen,” you say after a moment, unsure why the words leave your lips. “You have nothing to gain from this.”
Gojo exhales, a quiet sound, but when he looks at you again, there is something almost amused in his expression—touched with something softer, something more patient.
“Do you think I speak to owls for political gain?”
You huff, trying to ignore the warmth threatening to creep up your neck. “I think you do most things for your own amusement.”
He hums, as if considering that. “You wound me.”
“I doubt that,” you mutter, eyes fixed on your work.
And yet—his fingers twitch where they rest against the stone. It’s small, barely noticeable, but your eyes catch it, and you wonder.
Does he want to reach for you?
The thought unsettles you more than it should.
He exhales again, then shifts, leaning forward to rest his arms on his knees, expression thoughtful. “You know,” he muses, “I had a whole speech planned.”
You raise a brow. “Oh?”
“Something about how I was drawn to you the way sailors are drawn to sirens. That you, unlike any other, have made me question things I thought I knew.” He looks down at his knees, lips pulling in a mischievous smile. “But with you, I doubt a night of spilling sweet nothings or perhaps…other things would have swayed you.”
Your fingers still.
“But I think I’ve changed my mind,” he continues, tilting his head. “I think I’d rather just talk to you.”
You stare at him, caught somewhere between wariness and something dangerously close to wonder.
And then, before you can stop yourself, you ask, “What would you have said next?”
His lips twitch, and for the first time tonight, there is mischief in his gaze again. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”
You roll your eyes, but the moment has shifted, lighter now, though something unnamed still lingers beneath it.
“Keep your secrets, then,” you mutter, returning to your weaving.
“You wound me,” Gojo says again, pressing a hand to his chest as if truly affronted. “Here I am, spilling my heart, and you deny me even a scrap of sentiment.”
You let out a quiet scoff, keeping your focus on your weaving. “Perhaps if your words weren’t so dramatic, I’d be inclined to believe them.”
Gojo gasps. “Dramatic?” He leans closer, an almost boyish grin tugging at his lips. “My lady, I am nothing if not a man of sincerity.”
“Oh? So that speech about sirens wasn’t an embellishment?”
“Not at all.” He sighs, as if suffering under some great burden. “I wake in the morning thinking of you, I lay my head at night wondering if you’ve thought of me at all. It’s agony, truly.”
You roll your eyes, but your lips betray you, twitching into something dangerously close to a smile. “That sounds more like a malady than love.”
“Ah, but love is a sickness, is it not?” He exhales dramatically. “And you, my lady, have made a very ill man of me.”
Despite yourself, a laugh escapes—light, unguarded, like something slipping past your defenses before you can catch it.
And then—silence.
You glance at him, and find him already watching you.
His usual mischief is gone, replaced by something softer, something wholly unprepared. His breath is caught somewhere between his ribs, his lips slightly parted as if the sight of your laughter has stolen the air from him.
And then—
A blush, unmistakable even in the moonlight.
Your heart stutters.
Oh.
For the first time, you allow yourself to study him properly. The sharp angles of his jaw, the elegant bridge of his nose, the vivid eyes that hold yours so intently.
He is very handsome.
The thought settles somewhere unexpected, like an admission you’ve been avoiding.
Before you can dwell on it, something light catches against your shoulder—a drifting leaf, caught in the folds of your garment.
Gojo moves before you can react.
His fingers brush against the fabric near your collarbone, and then linger, featherlight and warm, as he pulls the leaf free. The moment stretches—longer than it should, charged with something unspeakable.
You feel his breath before you see him move, close enough now that the space between you is barely a whisper.
His hand, now free of its task, hesitates—before it trails downward, catching yours in his grasp.
He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t try to fill the moment with jest. His thumb traces the back of your hand, slow and absentminded, as if memorizing the shape of you.
Your own breath falters.
His breath is warm in the cool night air, his proximity setting something taut beneath your ribs. You are no stranger to flirtation, nor to men who think they can win you with pretty words, but Gojo—Gojo is different.
Perhaps it’s the way he looks at you now, his usual mischief tempered by something quieter. Or perhaps it’s the fact that, despite his arrogance, despite his clever tongue and tireless persistence, he does not presume to take.
He waits.
A dangerous thing, because it gives you time to notice the way his fingers twitch slightly against the fabric of your sleeve, the way his lips part as if tasting the words before speaking them.
“You’re staring,” he murmurs, tilting his head.
You arch a brow, feigning indifference despite the heat pooling low in your stomach. “Am I?”
His lips curve. “Should I be flattered?”
You hum, as if considering it. “I’m only making observations.”
“Oh?” He steps just a fraction closer, his voice dipping. “And what have you observed, my lady?”
“That you blush quite easily,” you say smoothly, pleased when the faint flush creeps further up his neck. “That despite your grand declarations, you are, in fact, a little shy.”
Gojo lets out a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “Shy? My lady, you wound me.”
“Do I?” You tilt your chin up slightly, your voice softer now, your hand still in his.
His gaze flickers to your lips.
Your breath catches, just for a moment.
And then—
His hand moves, fingers brushing along the curve of your jaw before settling at the nape of your neck, his touch deliberate, careful. A question, waiting for an answer.
You don’t grant him words—only the tilt of your head, the briefest lean forward.
It is all the invitation he needs.
He kisses you like a secret, like something to be savored—slow at first, testing, before he grows bolder. His other hand finds your waist, pulling you just a little closer, and warmth floods through you, seeping into your bones.
The world is silent save for the soft hitch of breath, the faint rustle of fabric as he deepens the kiss, as you allow yourself to press into him, fingers curling into the front of his tunic.
For a man who never stops talking, he is utterly wordless now.
When you wake up next in the morning, it is grumpy and tired. Not only were you up late into the night, talking to and…kissing Gojo of Ithaca, or rather, Satoru (while you were drunk on each other, he had convinced you to call him Satoru), but the sound of Helen’s squealing made your head ring, putting an unbearable pressure onto them.
“Helen!” you scold her, throwing a spare pillow at her. She easily dodges while you sit up in the bed, half-heartedly rubbing your eyes to wipe the sleep from them. As she throws herself onto the foot of the bed, you notice and hear the pitter patter of rain, casting a somber gray light in your bedroom that is occasionally interrupted by Zeus’s thunder, as if the god was angered or sharing a premonition.
Shaking off the thought, you scowl at your cousin, who’s excitedly prattling about things you still have yet to comprehend. “Slow down! Tell me, without spewing all your words at once.”
“Father gave me permission to marry!” she squealed, jumping on you and hugging you closely. She seemed happy, and you loved your cousin very much, even if you did not show it much. Pure affection permeates your countenance, as she continues. “You know I’ve always wanted to marry him, with his big arms and all. He could totally manhandle me, but you knoooww I love the ones that can whimper—”
“Oh my god,” you groan, covering your ears as if scandalized (you’ve said much worse to her), but you grin regardless. “Who is the man that you have chosen?”
“Well,” she laughs, flipping her hair off her shoulder, “Gojo of Ithaca is to be my husband, of course.”
Your heart drops to your stomach.
What she says next seems to blur together, not registering because you are shocked, your world almost tilted.
Gojo of Ithaca is to be my husband, of course.
It is then you realize belatedly that Helen seems to be calling out to you, and what you notice the most out of anything on her face is the soft smile she has on her face. One that shows that she is fond of Satoru Gojo, that she has affection for him. And who are you—the girl whose father doesn’t wish for her to marry, one that isn’t to be promised—take that away from Helen, from him?
Gojo has made it clear that he is not here for Helen—but wouldn’t it be better for him and his kingdom (which you discovered last night that he cares so dearly for) for him to marry Helen? A beautiful queen and a wise king.
What a match.
You swallow, throat suddenly dry, but you manage a smile—strained, weak, but a smile nonetheless.
“Helen,” you begin, voice steady despite the storm brewing inside you, “are you certain?”
“Of course!” she beams, oblivious to the way your fingers tighten in the fabric of your bedding. “Father said Gojo has yet to ask officially, but he will, I know it. And why wouldn’t he? A match like this—it’s fate.”
Fate.
What cruel irony.
You remember last night—Gojo’s hands warm against your skin, his laughter pressed against your lips, the way he had murmured your name like a vow.
And yet—
You look at Helen, golden and radiant even in the gray morning light, her eyes alight with genuine happiness. You love her, truly, and have since childhood. She has always had her pick of men, but there was something softer in the way she spoke of Satoru just now.
The soft smile, the dreamy lilt to her voice.
She wants this.
And what of you?
Your chest aches, but you laugh, the sound lighter than it should be. “You sound quite taken with him.”
“I am,” she beams, watching you. “He’s gorgeous! Charming, too. He told me last night that he thinks my eyes are like the sea at sunrise.”
Your stomach twists and it seems that the panic overwhelms you because all you can manage to do is swallow and nod. “Well,” you look at her with a tight smile, “I congratulate you. Let us discuss this matter further over breakfast.” She smiles and squeezes your upper arm in a goodbye, and the touch of it burns.
You don’t ever make it to breakfast that day.
It continues raining that day, and it’s quite appropriate for how you’re feeling. The feeling of melancholy permeates the air around you as you lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. Usually, you occupy your time by reading or, more likely, weaving, but you couldn’t muster the energy to find interest in that either.
Over a man. What a shame.
You were not one to lie idle—you were constantly praised as a princess wise beyond her years, and it would be wise, in this situation, to move on. Because the man you had grown feelings for is now engaged to your cousin, or, at least, your cousin intends to be engaged with him. And it would be wiser to let it happen, for Helen’s happiness was your happiness.
Sighing, you stuff your face into your pillow and groan, muffled by the linen fabric of your seats. You then decide grudgingly that if you’re not going to leave your room at all, it may be best to shed yourself of your clothing and lay comfortably in your loincloth and mamillare.
But right as you put your hand on your clothing to strip yourself, you hear a noise.
The sound comes again—a sharp, rhythmic tap-tap-tap, just barely audible over the rain. You freeze, fingers still curled around the fabric of your chiton, half-peeled from your shoulder. At first, you think it might be a stray branch scraping against the stone, wind-tossed by the storm. But then it happens again—more deliberate this time, insistent.
Then, looking at the new objects strewn across your balcony, you realize it’s not branches—it’s pebbles.
You scowl, tying your garments hastily before moving toward the balcony. The rain is gentler now, more mist than storm, clinging to the stone and silvering the world beyond. You grip the railing and peer down—
And there he is.
Satoru.
Drenched from head to toe, hair plastered to his forehead, a frown curving his lips as he concentrates on where he’s going to throw his pebble next. His stance seems urgent, but you’re so caught up on the fact that he’s here, as if he isn’t supposed to be engaged to Helen or be subjected to whatever congratulatory round of alcohol men bestowed upon each other after securing the most beautiful woman alive.
Your heart stutters.
You pull back immediately, breath catching in your throat. You shouldn’t have come to the balcony. You shouldn’t be looking at him, shouldn’t be thinking about this morning when Helen’s voice still lingers in your ears—Gojo of Ithaca is to be my husband, of course.
The pebble strikes the stone beside you.
“I know you’re up there,” Gojo calls, tone indecipherable. “Are you really going to ignore me? After all we’ve been through?”
You swallow and your voice trembles when you say, “Go away.”
His resulting laughter sounds betrayed, hurt. “You don’t mean that.”
“Satoru,” and you don’t know if it’s a plea or a warning. His head tilts, an anguished look on his face as he closes his eyes and sighs.
“You wound me,” he huffs out a pained laugh, “After all, I run the risk of sickness just to see you and tell you that you believe wrong.”
Something is created in you, then. Something dangerous like hope. “What?”
But instead of answering, Gojo crouches, then, in one smooth motion, leaps up, catching the edge of the balcony with ease. You barely have time to react before he’s pulling himself over the railing, stepping onto solid ground with practiced grace.
You stumble back, eyes wide. “I told you not to come up.”
“And when have I ever listened?”
There’s something in the way he looks at you then—an intensity you aren’t prepared for. The air between you is charged, thick with something unspoken, something far too dangerous to name.
He takes a step forward. “I thought you were smarter than this.”
You blink, startled. “Excuse me?”
Gojo exhales, running a hand through his damp hair. “Why would you ever think it would be Helen?”
Your stomach lurches. “She said—”
“She assumed,” he corrects, cutting you off. “But I did not accept her. And you let her do that.” His voice drops lower, softer, a stark contrast to the teasing lilt he so often wields. “Do you truly think so little of me?”
You don’t answer. You can’t. Because if you do, it will come spilling out—the hope you tried to bury, the ache that settled in your chest the moment Helen uttered those words.
He moves closer, and you don’t stop him.
“Princess,” you can see his ivory lashes with how close he is, his face covered in raindrops, “for how wise you are, you seem to not have caught on. What animal is the emblem of Athena?”
Blinking, you’re taken aback by the sudden quizzing. “Owl, what about it—”
Oh.
He sees the realization dawn over your face, and now his tense expression melts into a bittersweet smile. “The goddess of wisdom has been my companion ever since I was a child, helping me attain whatever I needed the most. Whether it be to gain the knowledge one must have to be worthy of being king, or,” he inhales sharply, vibrant eyes scanning over your face vulnerably, “to gain the power to be able to make the wisest, wittiest, funniest, and most beautiful girl I’ve ever known my queen.
“After all, I have my wit—add a little of godlike power, and even I could defeat your father. Respectfully,” he adds quickly. He looks anxious you realize, as if he is about to make a risky move, a big ask. Something he’s been anxious to ask, but scared to. His eyes are still scanning you and his hands twitch at his side as he says, “I hesitate to make this decision, to ask you still after knowing the true nature of my desire for you—”
“Ask me what?”
His eyes are fixed on you, and you think that both of your hearts are beating very, very fast at the moment. “What do you think, princess?”
The silence that falls is loaded, heavy, and laden with hesitation. It’s as if a vice has caged its way through your heart, squeezing and squeezing until all the things you’ve left unsaid threaten to spill out. Things like I don’t want you to marry my cousin. Or yet, even worse, I want you to marry me. “I would not want to throw out my guesses, Satoru,” you instead opt to say, voice soft. “Things like this must be said directly, to not leave any confusion or misunderstandings.”
His jaw tightens, his breath coming harder as he stares at you, something raw and dangerous flickering in his eyes. “I agree. These things should never be left unsaid.” His voice is low, almost seething, but not with anger—no, this is something else entirely, something desperate. “I love you.” The words are unshakable, like a vow. “And I refuse to sit here and pretend my thoughts of you are anything less than ruinous. I dream of you in ways no other man is allowed to, ways that would send me to Hades with a smile on my lips. You have bewitched my soul, stolen the breath from my body, and most dangerously—you have claimed my mind.” His voice drops, softer now, but no less intense. “I do not know how to make you believe me, only that I would sooner challenge the gods themselves than let you slip through my fingers. The world could promise me tens of Helen, but there is only one woman I would ever choose.” His hand finds yours, fingers tightening, as his next words fall like an oath.
“You.”
Your breath stutters, throat tightening as his fingers tighten over yours. His touch is searing, as if the gods themselves have set him aflame, and yet you cannot pull away—you do not want to pull away.
“Satoru—” His name slips from your lips like a prayer, and he swears under his breath, his free hand coming up to cradle your jaw, thumb pressing just below your lips, as if he is fighting the urge to kiss you.
“I would tear down Olympus itself if it meant keeping you,” he murmurs, his breath warm against your cheek. “I would make war with the gods, call upon Athena to guide my spear, and spill the blood of any man foolish enough to think they could take you from me.” His voice is rough, almost a growl, and you swear your knees would give way if not for the way he holds you now, as though letting go would be his ruin.
It is reckless, to let yourself lean into him, to let your fingers curl into the fabric of his damp chiton as though you could anchor yourself to him. But he is an anchor—pulling you into something deep, something dangerous, something you know you will not escape from unscathed.
His nose brushes yours, his lips so close that you feel his every breath, his every hesitation. But you see the war in his eyes, the battle between restraint and desire, and for once, you decide to let yourself be selfish.
So you whisper, “Then prove it.”
And that is all it takes for him to break.
His lips crash against yours, urgent and claiming, as if to kiss you any softer would be to deny himself the air he breathes. He groans as your hands tangle in his hair, your body pressing flush against his, his own hands no longer gentle but gripping, desperate, possessive. His teeth graze your bottom lip before he deepens the kiss, one hand trailing lower, pressing against the curve of your waist, then lower still—
Thunder crackles, as you gasp out his name. He pulls you both apart, looking anguished as if he’s fighting the urge to keep touching you, to make you moan out his name. Realizing this, you grab his hands and put them on yourself. “My love,” you say, tenderly, and you see how his pupils dilate in response, “you may touch me—”
“Are you sure? For if you say that, I may not be able to stop myself from indulging. Because I will take and take, until you can give me no more.” The way he says it, uncharacteristically serious and brows furrowed, makes you heat up even more, dizzy with lust and your pent up longing for the man.
But your response stays the same, paired with a firm nod. “I am sur—mmmph.”
He smothers you with his lips before you can finish, cupping your jaw until his hands start to move downwards. They move, tracing the planes of your body, and they are relentless in their exploration—they grab you possessively, pushing you closer and closer to him until his hands are below your thighs. Satoru maneuvers you until your legs are straddling his waist so that he can pick you up and carry you to your bed.
After he throws you down like carrying you poses to him as much of a challenge as carrying a light potato sack, he admires you—-thighs clenched, hair splayed around your head like a halo. The skirt of your clothes has inched its way up, exposing your thighs. “Gods, you don’t know what you do to me.”
But instead of playing the innocent maiden, you look at him through your lashes, laughing. “Satoru, time is of the essence. Flattery will get you nowhere—you must show it through your actions.”
You didn’t know what saying his name—and prompting him like that—does to him. He meets your lips in a furious kiss once again, this time hand sneaking up your skirt. He meets the fabric of your loincloth, hooking at its sides and pulling them downwards and downwards, until it is hooked off your ankle (not before Satoru leaves it a trailing kiss there, of course. It is only until Satoru’s eyes hone in what’s in the middle of legs that you realize that you are bare to him. “Satoru, I—”
“I must do something,” he instead responds, and you look at him in confusion. He’s moving down your body as you ask him what he means and if something’s wrong.
You’re interrupted by your gasp as his mouth descends on you, leaving hot, openmouthed kisses directly on your core. His tongue delves inside your lower lips, pleasing the nerves and leaving them singing. He undoes you, leaving your legs feeling like jelly, and the fervor he does it with is nauseating—as if your nectar is ambrosia itself.
Soon enough, with his reverent worship—and a finger or two added to stretch you out and make you emit embarrassing noises that only encourage him further—you come with a cry of his name. As you roll your hips, riding out your climax, his mouth and head follow and trail your hips, unrelenting in pleasuring you even though you’re overstimulated and left quivering.
“I—” you blurted, trying to fill the silence after he had just made you taste colors. “I hate you.”
Satoru faux pouts, biting back a grin. “Rude thing to say when I just made you—”
“Don’t finish that!” you shriek, swatting his head lightly as he laughs, kissing his way back up your body. In a tone more shy than you’d like, you say in a small voice, “But I hope we’re not done yet?”
Satoru’s made his way up to your clothed breasts, kissing them tenderly. However, when he hears the question, he stills, looks at you with wide eyes, and he groans, as if surprised by your forwardness. “Princess, the things you do to me.”
He kneads your ass while he stands up, orienting himself into a position to do—that. A voice in the back of your head reminds you that you’re not supposed to be doing this before you get married, but your lust is too strong. And, after all, you trust that there’s no way Satoru wouldn’t marry you.
You feel a slight pressure in your nether regions, and you realize that it is Satoru’s cock. His eyes are on you, blown out with lust, as he continues to stroke the length of it while observing your every reaction. “Are you sure you want to do this?”
“Yes.”
With your confirmation, his eyes next left your face as he pushed in, moving slowly and gently. He gauged your features for any signs of discomfort or pain as he moved in shallow thrusts, gradually increasing their length. You gasped, his murmurs and sweet nothings coaxing out your whimpers and whines as he bumped a spot inside of you. As he did, fireworks erupted in the back of your mind, leaving you boneless as he got you closer and closer to your climax once again.
For someone who didn’t experience carnal desires often, you wonder how you’ve gone without this kind of pleasure for so long. Satoru made you feel worshipped, tracing kisses with a love that was almost pious. It doesn’t take you long after that to come once more, thrashing in his grip.
Your climax sheathed on his cock unlocks something in him, for he begins to thrust harder and faster, becoming sloppier and sloppier. His voice is by your ear, whining your name continuously. When he finally feels himself climb over and finally orgasm, he breathes out an “Ah,” and thrusts himself to completely bottom out while his come fills you up, pooling inside of you.
You both stay interlocked for gods know how long. Until Satoru pipes up, voice still unstable and panting, “By the way, it went unsaid, but I’m going to marry you. And you can’t say no.”
Your resulting giggle makes him break out in a big smile before he hugs you, wrestling you both to lie side by side in bed.
It goes without saying, but it all goes smoothly according to plan.
When Satoru had played with petteia with you, he had aimed to show Athena your wit. It is no small claim to defeat him, a king associated with Athena, in the game. The following events further made Athena approve of you and give her blessing.
So Gojo was already ten steps ahead when he asked your father for your blessing. Your father was furious, of course—he did not want to let you go. After much cajoling and agreement to beat your father, a champion runner, in a race to attain your hand, Satoru wiped his brow. The way your father loved you would be scary to him if he didn’t love you as intensely as he did now.
And of course Satoru won. Athena got her fellow Olympian, Hermes, to rent out his infamous speed. When he wins, Sparta is in an uproar, including your cousin.
“So, how is he?” Helen asks mischievously. You later found out that day that Helen’s words of marrying Gojo had a purpose—to push you both towards each other, once and for all.
“I don’t know what you mean,” you turn away, with a hmph. Crossing your arms, you pretend to roll your eyes at the knowing look she had.
“I don’t know, cousin,” she giggles, “I heard a couple of voices in your room when I tried to visit you a few nights back. Tell me, does he whimper—-”
“Helen!”
The day you marry, donning beautiful and regal clothes, Gojo sneaks you away multiple times to kiss you under your veil when no one is looking.
His wedding gift is built by him—on the voyage back to Ithaca, he not only takes you away from Sparta, but the olive tree that you both had met at. He builds the shared marital bed out of the olive tree for his queen with his blood and sweat. It is a symbol of your love, everlasting, and you would daresay that it is the most precious gift anyone has ever given you.
What you give him in return is one fat and giggly baby. Your father grumbles that the child looks too much like his father, but the way he holds the babe—so carefully, so gently—betrays his affection. Helen coos at her little nephew, amused at how utterly soft Satoru has become, how the once-cocky king now spends his days doting on both you and your child, as if he has won the world itself.
And perhaps he has.
After all, Satoru has always been a man of ambition. A man who would scheme, fight, and even defy the gods for what he desires. And yet, as he holds your child in one arm and you in the other, murmuring teasing words against your ear before stealing another kiss, you realize something—
He had never needed Athena’s wisdom, Hermes’ speed, or any other divine favor to win you.
Because you had already been his, just as he had always been yours.
general masterlist
a/n thank u to my very supportive bestie @purplegemadventures i love all ur ideas ml <3 anyways like always all my beta readers are the goats thank you for reading my incomprehensible ideas. it's 5am and there's a mosquito that's hovering near me and im not totally happy w how this turned out but it was fun writing it kjenkjne. i may write more greek mythology aus but i need to lock in on my series....
ppl who asked to be tagged: @heh123321 @melotter
thank you for reading! reblog and comment to let me know ur thots <3
✧ SUMMARY : your life is quiet and uneventful until you hear noises in the alleyway by your apartment, and you can't help but poke your nose where it doesn't belong. but haven't you ever heard that curiosity killed the cat? except nobody mentions that the cat gets killed by the big bad wolf.
✧ INCLUDES : wolfhybrid!toji, hybrid au, violence, injuries, detailed descriptions of blood/injuries, societal inequalities, animalistic tendencies, past trauma in toji's case, eventual smut mdni, hybrid/abo mating tendencies, heat/rut cycles, grumpy x sunshine trope, bickering, angst, fluff, slow burn, pining, jealousy, possessive behavior, overall toji being his brooding self !!
i. ONE :: WHAT DID THEY SAY ABOUT CURIOSITY AND THAT DAMN CAT?
when you stumble upon an angry wolf hybrid in your alleyway who has no intentions of getting close to you do you, a.) offer it food?, b.) try to talk to it?, or c.) all of the above?
ii. TWO :: SUFFOCATING WARMTH.
stranger danger has conveniently flown out the window now that you've decided to invite him inside. he seems angrier about it than you are.
iii. THREE :: THE SUBTLE ART OF PERSUASION.
toji has a lot to learn about you. he keeps making the mistake of underestimating your relentlessness.
iv. FOUR :: MELTING ICE.
it's scary, just how much difference a soft bed can make after a stone floor.
v. FIVE :: PUZZLE PIECES.
he worries about it. worries about how easily he's able to fall into place with you. worries about how ravenous he's becoming.
vi. SIX :: A COVETOUS SHADOW.
there is always something getting in the way. always something casting its darkness over the light. whether it’s his own selfish desires or something else—he doesn’t know.
vii. SEVEN :: EMBERS BENEATH THE FLOORBOARDS.
it is unavoidable. it simmers under his skin, deep in his flesh, through sinew and muscle. begging to be set free. begging to destroy everything in his path.
𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐒. fem!Reader, bastard!Sukuna, historial AU - regency era, somewhat enemies to lovers, banter, ballroom dancing, eventual smut [MDNI], dubcon, table séx, exhibitiönism, semi-public séx, nīpple play, fīngering, loss of vīrginity, jealousy, carriage séx, riding, pörn w/ plot
𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓. nearly 16k (yikes)
𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑'𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄. sighhhhhh, this took way too long, but im a nerd for jane austen novels and the regency period, so im going to make you a nerd for it, too. available on ao3
“It is a truth universally acknowledged that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife.” — Pride & Prejudice
Whether you liked it or not—or, well, that didn’t matter, really; you had no choice—you had connections. Plenty of them.
You were the firstborn and only child to a renowned lawyer and his wife—whom you called your parents. Your birth was one of necessity, not out of love and want. Most of your mother and father’s siblings constantly pressured them into conceiving—in order to extend the bloodline, they explained—and so they were coerced into a sense of rushing and urgency. This, however, didn’t diminish any of their affection towards you; you were, after all, their only child, their eldest child, and their most beloved child.
“Wealthy” was quite the understatement when it came to describing your family tree. You were rich in prosperity and success, physically and mentally. Your parents cherished you as their only offspring, gave you only the finest governess, and treated you as more of an equal than a baby. That proved not a problem—seeing as how vast your then and current knowledge was compared to those of average salary.
Being an only child may have been quite out of the ordinary in the present times, but the number of relatives you had was abundant enough that you often felt it was really the opposite.
Your grandparents seemed to have a lot of fun back then, because, each of your parents had at least five siblings, which resulted in a little more than ten aunts and uncles when grouped together. This was, however, not as jolly as it may seem. Your aunts and uncles were all old, had even more children than your grandparents, and loved, loved, loved, critiquing others. They tipped their hats at you when greeting, kissed your cheeks and the backs of your hands, but, regardless, they never failed to mention at least one of your faults and flaws.
In addition to this, you had cousins galore. On your mother’s side was a bit fewer than thirty, while your father’s side consisted of two and twenty. It may be a given, it may be not, but you weren’t as close with your cousins as most would normally be. Sending and receiving letters was seldom exchanged, and meeting at balls and dinners was probably the only times you ever conversed with a cousin or two. Well, except for Charlotte and Helena.
Where could you even begin when describing those two? you often laughed.
They were twins, and would look exactly the same if it wasn’t for the fact that Charlotte had blonde curls that she frequently let down, while Helena often wore a brunette updo atop her head. Since birth, they had been inseparable, and most people usually referred to them as a pair, saying things such as Where are the girls? or Are the girls attending? It was great, really. In truth—concise, and full truth—you loved the girls just as if they were your own sisters; and, sometimes it seemed that way.
You three always read together when the men went shooting birds, gossiped about the townspeople, and often matched your dresses, ribbons, and gloves to each other at balls and other gatherings of the like. Maybe it was due to your compatibility, but if you had to call anyone your best friend, it would have to be the girls.
They were both two years your juniors, but it was a commonly known fact that Charlotte was as intelligent as someone ten years your senior. She pored over literature all day, bent over desks examining records, and was always the one to come to when in need of rational advice. Helena, on the other hand, was a bright girl, but she certainly wasn’t a scholar; her strong suit was her humor and charm. She made acquaintances like no other, and had an almost endless amount of suitors and beaus asking for her hand.
But, if that wasn’t the case, she would definitely still have an equal amount of friends. Maybe even the whole population of Wadsworth, if Helena wanted. But, really, that would not be much wanted.
The men and women of Wadsworth were numerous, but they were all prickly in their own ways. You often liked to joke that the countryside of Wadsworth was really just one big rose bush; most people were thorns in the sides, while, if you looked deep, there were plenty of roses, as well. Now, you didn’t hate attending balls, per se, but, the main reason keeping you away was that the men knew not how to dance at all, tripped over others’ feet and shoes, and their vocabulary—oh, lord, their vocabulary. It would be much pleasanter if you didn’t even begin on that topic.
Wadsworth was not small—big enough to fit everyone without being too congested—and it laid up north, where the weather was nice all of twelve-month. The grass was always green, and healthy, and the hefty trees provided shade that was more than needed. It was beautiful, absolutely beautiful, and if it wasn’t the people that lured in tourists, it would have to be the scenery and landscaping.
Aside from the actual land, the properties, the estates, and the manors were all also a sight to behold. Wealthy were your neighbors, and your aunts, and your uncles, and the other ladies and the other sirs. Abodes were more grand than not—all at least two stories—had beautiful shrubbery and quite talented gardeners, large windows, and ornate carriages.
The people who filled these properties all had a profuse liking to dancing, and balls were held most frequently. Sometimes at Stratford House—where the girls resided, sometimes at Grantley Hall—the home of another aunt you had, and sometimes somewhere else. You, however, resided in Blackwood Park with your mother and father. It was a luxurious abode; your governess was as knowledgeable as can be, and the staff were all as kind-hearted as to be expected. You had bookshelves all to yourself, and read to your heart’s content whenever you felt the need to decline an invitation to a social gathering.
Prosperous—was your life.
In the middle of drinking tea—another activity you took up with your cousins—a commotion started up in the streets outside.
All ladies of the town were absolutely, or, at least, nearly under a spell, as they all scrambled to their windows at the sound of hooves and neighing; they went to great lengths such as even peeking behind shutters and curtains, just to attempt even merely a glimpse at the two wealthy—and, if you did say yourself, dashingly dressed—gentlemen that had arrived on their grand steeds; of all their grandeur were individual breeds of andalusian and shire.
It was, without a doubt, quite the sight to behold on a previously seemingly ordinary Tuesday morning. And, you weren’t at all surprised at the idea of any of your family screaming at the chance of possible suitors for either you or their children.
“Oh my!” gasped Helena, as she set down her tea cup, and hurried to look through the windows of Blackwood. “Pray, do you think the gentlemen are married?”
“I would think so,” sighed Charlotte; “any person who looks like that ought to have ladies lining up at his door, wouldn’t you agree it is so?”
The blonde turned to you with an expectant look on her face, and you hesitated for an answer. “If they are as handsome as they are dressed, then, maybe. I have not a good look at their faces from this angle.”
“Oh, dear cousin!” cried the girls simultaneously. They were—if you could even call it that way—heavily dejected at the sound of your declaration. It was rational, though, and that’s why they were so clearly affected; if the men were both handsome and wealthy, it was highly plausible that they were with wives, and any possibility of either of the girls being able to flirt with the gentlemen was thus thrown out of the window.
Laughing, you tried your best to console the girls, and patted each of them on the head, before making your way towards the nearest window. This change gave you a way better opportunity to see the men than you had previously thought. Yes, there were two of them, and yes, they were both as handsome as they were dressed—though you would never admit such a thing aloud.
Because they were both on their horses, you could not see who was taller, but you knew that the distinction between them both was crystal clear; their heads were both full of unnaturally colored hair.
There was one gentleman with hair white as snow, and eyes blue as the vast sea; he wore expensive, lavish clothing, and held himself up with confident poise—much like a prince would. The other gentleman had pink, rosy hair, that was of a ruly style—maybe it was unbrushed, you thought. But the first thing you noticed about him was the evident scowl on his face; he looked like the embodiment of a thunderstorm. Beautiful, but formidable.
Subconsciously, throughout your admiring of the wealthy men, you had been pushing the curtains back inch by inch, until, the white-haired man had seemingly taken notice of your observing, and looked up at your figure with an amused expression, before turning to his friend and pointing at you. With a surprised squeak, you pulled back the curtains and hid yourself before the gentlemen could get another look at you (or so you hoped).
“Why on earth did you close the curtains?” the girls cried, again, after noticing—through their misery—that the sight of the men was gone. “Just because they may be possibly married does not mean we cannot admire them all the same.”
“You think so?” you laughed.
“Well, certainly!” nodded Helena, profusely. “We could always just stand in corners of rooms, silently admiring their countenances. Aren’t I correct, sister?”
Charlotte turned to you with an optimistic smile. “Why, yes, you are! You must know, cousin, we are perfectly capable of keeping our mouths shut of flirtatious compliments when we are near married men. You must know.”
“What a nice thing to know, Lottie. But, we have yet to confirm whether the gentlemen are married or not—”
“Oh! bless me! I truly must’ve forgotten that part,” Helena said, as she squealed and kicked her legs back and forth. She was over the moon at hearing the—still unconfirmed—possibility that the men might be single. “Charlotte, sister, can you believe it? Either one or the both of us may be married by next spring!”
“Oh, cousin,” cried Charlotte, as she took your hands into her own, “this is such a wonderful Tuesday morning—”
In the middle of her exclamations of joy, Charlotte was interrupted by the calling of your maid-servant, who announced there was company at the door. Now, you were just seconds away from being informed of who it was, but the girls just couldn’t contain their anticipation, and before your maid-servant could get but another word out, the twins were flying down the stairs with high and hopeful spirits—the tea party completely forgotten.
“Who, in heaven’s name, could it be?” wondered Helena, as she took you by the arm and dragged the both of you downstairs.
“It must, indubitably, be the fine gentlemen,” declared Charlotte. “How could it not?”
But, upon opening the doors, it was indubitably not the fine gentlemen.
Your aunt—Lady Annesley; not to be mistaken as the mother of the girls—was standing outside Blackwood Park. She was widowed six or seven years ago, you couldn’t exactly recall the date; and she resided in a quite grand abode, called the Grantley Hall. She appeared with an anxious look on her face; but after seeing you open the doors, she hurried herself inside with a jolly, merry laugh.
“Oh, girls! All three of you! I have such wonderful news, such wonderful news, indeed.” She kissed each and every one of you on the cheek, and gathered you all into a tight hug; because she was a touchy person like that, but also because she had not seen one of your faces since her temporary departure to Brighton.
“Oh, Lady Annesley!” exclaimed Helena. “Do tell us about your vacation and trip. Did you see any officers and soldiers there?”
“How about the views? Were the waters and beaches pristine?” Charlotte chipped in.
“Oh, yes!” Lady Annesley simultaneously laughed and nodded like a mad woman. “Yes, yes, yes! My word, it was absolutely lovely, and the weather was just extraordinary; I shall certainly take you all there one day, but . . . that is not important in the present time. You know, Helena, I did make some rather pleasant acquaintances with some Admirals and Lieutenants while at the seashore, and I’ve come with some extra company.”
You raised a brow, intrigued. “Are you to remarry?”
Gasps erupted from the lady and the blonde.
“Nonsense. Why, in heaven’s name, would I do that? No, no, the company is not that. You see, girls, the soldiers and officers that I had such a miraculous opportunity to befriend in Brighton have come back with me. Their military regiment is temporarily stationed here in Wadsworth! Can you believe that? When I was informed by Admiral Dawson, I was rendered speechless for a few minutes, you must know. But, ah, that is long forgotten now.
“There must be a ball hosted soon. It shall be at Grantley, I suppose, but a few arrangements will have to be taken care of before then.” Lady Annesley began to quietly murmur to herself afterwards, droning on about plans required to host a proper ball for so many residents of Wadsworth in addition to the many officers and soldiers.
The girls turned to face you with ecstatic expressions as your aunt fell into a subconscious silence.
“Isn’t this just a wonderful Tuesday morning?” asked Helena. “So many possibly unmarried men to gawk at and admire. How do you reckon, cousin, do you think men hardened by weather and work will be more handsome than gentlemen? I am quite curious, I must say.”
Charlotte answered for you. “I’m not even sure we would know. Here in Wadsworth, we’ve never seen any men of rank and occupation as of theirs, have we?”
The three of you shook your heads, shrugged, and wondered—any thought of the wealthy gentlemen was gone, and forgotten about, as Helena walked off to prepare a dress and fan for the ball, Charlotte stayed behind with Lady Annesley to speak about the scenery during her vacation, and you strode off to drink from your previously abandoned tea cup and continue eating the little French biscuits that the girls had brought along.
It was a pleasantly spent Tuesday morning, indeed. However, not much of the same could be said about the next.
You had not been an hour awake until your cousins had barged into your bedroom, and squealed and giggled as they jumped and danced around your room, exclaiming words and nonsense that your morning fog prevented understanding of.
“Oh, cousin! Do you not know? Today will perhaps be the most amazing night of our lives! Just picture it,” Helena began, pulling you out of bed and forcing you to dance with her, “a whole regiment of soldiers and officers will soon be filling Grantley Hall. The chances of any one of us being able to dance with them is highly likely, is it not? Oh! this is wonderful, wonderful, wonderful!”
“Helena, just—just wait a minute,” you said, pausing before Helena could waltz with you any more, “I have not even gotten dressed for breakfast. And the ball isn’t until evening. What are you and Charlotte so excited for? Many hours to come before the ‘most amazing night’ of our lives, you know.”
“Sister,” sighed Helena, as she turned to Charlotte, “you must certainly explain to our dearest cousin.”
Charlotte nodded. “Many hours to come are many hours to prepare. We must prepare our gowns, fans, bonnets, gloves. And, Helena, before I forget, what are we here for in the first place? to practice dancing, of course. Cousin, I’ll have you know, there is absolutely no chance I am letting you stay huddled at the pianoforte the whole night.
“Although your playing is much beloved, and appreciated, I am almost certain there will be others providing their services at the instrument. Whether you like it or not, I am forcing you to dance. If you do not waltz with any men, you will waltz with me or Helena or Lady Annesley.
“At your age of six and twenty, people worry you will end up celibate, you know.”
You hid a faint smile behind your hand. “Is this your way of looking out for me, then?”
The girls laughed, full of cheer.
Fortunately for the twins—who did not leave your side once throughout—both the morning and the afternoon had passed by with a considerable amount of speed. You three had acquired sufficient gowns for the coming evening, and had spent some time finishing up hair and obtaining jewelry and other essential cosmetics.
It had taken the strength and power of both the girls—with the additional help of Lady Annesley—to be able to force you out the doors of Blackwood Park, and consequently, shove you into the carriage parked outside.
In all honesty, you weren’t in the particular mood to go to a ball, but when your aunt has her mind set on making acquaintances, she will not let go. She often said, Oh, dear niece, think of the men you can meet! or, So many handsome men of great fortunes, or, Rough, calloused, tall; is there anything better? and other similar sayings. It certainly did not help, at all, that Charlotte and Helena only encouraged your aunt.
A husband was never one of your top priorities; dying a single woman was not as unfortunate for you as it would be for other women. You had money, you had wealth, you had prosperity. Some people wed simply for gaining rank and title, carriages and clothes, and estates and property. But you had absolutely no need for any of that. And that’s why, as you walked into Grantley Hall—after what was perhaps the longest, most boring carriage ride of your life—you did not look to see who was handsome, or agreeable, or most rich.
Instead, you looked for a chance to sit down, or, even, scurry away—from your companions, before they could force you to converse with some puny men, or rekindle your relationships with your many, many aunts and uncles.
Despite yourself, you couldn’t help your eye wandering about the property; and only then, did you notice just how many new people were in Wadsworth at this time of year. Just as your aunt had said; there were officers, soldiers, other members of militia, captains, and men of ranks you could not and did not care to recognize.
Although you weren’t as crazy as Helena and Charlotte—whom you assumed were probably in some corner, certainly already flirting with the single men they managed to find, and blushing and obsessing as wildly as lunatics—you also weren’t as prejudiced to say everyone was of absolutely terrible breeding. You saw some handsome faces, you saw some . . . not handsome faces, but, even with all this, you weren’t intrigued. No, not even in the slightest bit.
In an act of rebellion against your “kidnappers,” you were en route to the pianoforte, when you heard a voice call for you, and saw a figure stop in the middle of your way.
“Good evening, miss,” came the call—from an officer, you assumed. “Pardon my intrusion, for I am simply tempted to make an acquaintance with someone of such great countenance as yours. I almost mistook you for a princess, you know.”
He was tall, had long legs, and a fit figure. His hair was dark, and so were his eyes, which were sharp, and stared back at you with emotion you could not read. Of all men you had noticed, he was, as of late, the most handsome, and by far.
A hand was given; a kiss was placed on the back of the palm; and names were exchanged. You referred to him as Mr. Wright, and, after a few minutes spent in conversation, you deemed him a quite agreeable man, whose good breeding had gone not only into physical appearance, but also into his heart. Mr. Adam Wright had opinions similar to your own, was interested in writings you read, and preferred the entertainment of pianoforte, which you played quite often.
“How have you been liking Wadsworth, sir?” you asked, as the two of you began to make your ways to the instrument in the corner of the hall; Wright had requested to hear you play.
“Very much. Very much so, indeed. It is even more lovely than your aunt (remind me her name again, was it Lady Anne?) had previously said. I’m quite fond of the scenery, actually.”
“Oh, are you? You know, there are many paths to walk where you’ll be able to see breathtaking views, I must say. But, if you dislike walking, it’s safe to say that passing by the gardens and shrubbery of most homes is quite adequate enough.”
“No, no, there will be no need,” Wright said, shaking his head. “I find walking very enjoyable.”
You laughed. “What a coincidence; so do I!”
It was, about a second’s distance away, just before you were beginning to seat yourself at the pianoforte, that you felt another presence behind you. Thinking it was just a friend of Mr. Wright that was only planning on making conversation, you turned around with a smile already on your face, but you were met with the sight of none other than your aunt, Lady Annesley, who appeared buzzy, and a bit gone. Had people already begun to drink? you wondered.
“Dearest niece,” she started, placing a hand on your shoulder, “there are two very fine gentlemen I would like for you to meet. Come along now, child,” your aunt beckoned, but as she noticed the man standing to your right, she paused for a minute, laughed, and then continued, “you do not mind, sir? if I steal my niece away for just a moment? I assure you, there are many nice ladies in here that you can help yourself to.”
Lady Annesley waited not even a second to hear Mr. Wright’s response before she dragged you away to another part of Grantley Hall. You occasionally stumbled over your shoes due to your aunt’s unbalanced speed, and watched as the faces around you came and went in a blur whilst you traveled. Obviously, you knew prior, but you only fully realized how many people were in attendance when you caught the eyes of an old teacher—who, to be completely honest, you had not seen since last Michaelmas.
“Right this way, my dear,” your aunt said, in a sing-song tone. “I am very eager, you know, for my darling niece to make such very acceptable acquaintances tonight. Not a chance nor a second shall be missed, and, if the gentlemen have not left and juked me, they should still be right . . . here.”
Lady Annesley had stopped so abruptly in her tracks at a corner of the room that you nearly collided with her back, but, fortunately, you did not. Your eyes lifted, and met the view of two very dashingly dressed gentlemen. Brothers, you assumed, who both had equally pink hair, and wore a pair of nearly complete opposite expressions on their faces.
The taller one—who you thought was the brother—had a fine countenance, a very fine countenance, indeed. His lips were pressed in a thin line, and truly brought out the essence of his character. He had sharp features, similarly to Mr. Adam Wright; his eyes were red as the rubies on his brooch, and he looked like the epitome of wealthy and expensive and elegant. His posture was composed, confident, and totally sure of himself; his hands were folded behind his back, and his eyebrows had a slight quirk in them as he, too, looked you over as you approached.
Your eyes then wandered over to the shorter brother, who stood to the right of the taller one. His face was a near replica of the prior, but his features were softened down, a little more dull, if you could even put it that way, and his smile was perhaps the most prominent feature on his face. The youthful countenance of his was on display, and you had no doubt that either Charlotte or Helena had already set their eyes on him. On the other hand, he looked young, very young—younger than you, perchance; an air of innocence was about his figure, and his eyes shone bright as day.
Sunshine, and thunder.
Oh! that is right; you knew these men, or, at least, you knew the taller one.
A corner of your lips tugged upwards as you made the remembrance. This—this man, this great, wealthy man; you had seen him last week! Certainly! He was one of the two gentlemen who rode on their steeds into town, and as of late, you had received no additional information about them except for the fact that they were of extraordinarily good breeding and admirable poise.
Your hand was offered, received and accepted, and was kissed in greeting. Introductions were quickly exchanged, and you happened to learn that the taller gentleman was called Sukuna Ryomen, whilst his (confirmed to be) brother was named Yuuji. To your great surprise, and due to your aunt’s nosiness, you found that the both of them were unmarried, single, and unengaged.
Originally, you had hoped that that would be the end of it, and your aunt would let you be. But, of course, the universe was not on your side this evening, and you were without the ability to leave and peacefully sit at your beloved pianoforte. Instead, you stood, in a corner of Grantley Hall—under numerous chandeliers—as you were forced to exert yourself for the sake of ‘acquainting’ your being with the two brothers, who, too, looked a bit unsettled by your aunt’s coercing to continue conversation.
“Pray,” you began, “is your current companion the same gentleman from when you first arrived?”
“My brother has hair similar to what is on my own head; my previous companion—a friend—has hair white as snow,” stated Mr. Ryomen, his tone declarative. “Have you no eyes, miss? I am quite sure you are capable of answering your own question.”
You could, obviously, make out that Yuuji was, in fact, not the same man from when Mr. Ryomen first arrived at the countryside; but, you were just simply making small talk. Was the country where the brothers came from so unaccustomed to that? you wondered.
“Have you no sociability, sir? I was not informed prior that simply making small conversation was so . . . unwanted by men like you.”
“What, in heaven’s name, is the meaning for this lack of cordiality, I dare ask? Bless me!” exclaimed your aunt, a look of astonishment on her face as she scolded the three of you. “We are all here to make acquaintances, are we not? Let’s shift to another topic. Pray tell, you are here for . . . ?”
“Vacation, miss,” the younger brother smiled. “We have some friends and family living in Wadsworth, but aside from that, Sukuna is also a landowner here—in addition to his other estates (he likes a change of scenery, every once in a while, I must add). I’ve heard how nice the weather is, and decided to visit, as well.”
“Oh, yes! Most certainly!” nodded Lady Annesley. “Wadsworth is a very common tourist countryside, you must know.”
“Is it?” asked the elder brother.
“Have you no ears, sir? That is what was just said; I am quite sure you are capable of answering your own question.”
“My, is that how the ladies around here speak?” quipped Sukuna, his voice velvety, and dripping with honey as he spoke. “—To gentlemen, as well? I may have overestimated your hospitality to newcomers, or, well, vacationers.”
“Excuse her,” your aunt interjected, nervously laughing, “she’s. . . She caught a cold from the recent rain, I’m afraid. Yes, of course, the rain. Isn’t that right?” Lady Annesley nudged you by the elbow. “It’s the rain, isn’t it?”
“. . .Indeed.”
Though your aunt occasionally gave you rebuking looks for your behavior, you had paid no effort in pretending to be engaged in conversation with the brothers. She had, with all her might, tried to erect as many topics and subjects worth speaking of as possible, but to no avail. Her spirits were deflated, and Lady Annesley had concluded that if you were going to marry one day, the chances of it being with Mr. Sukuna Ryomen were close to zero.
You two sent jeering comments and jokes towards each other as if your lives depended on it, and, in truth, you couldn’t count on either of your hands how many times you rolled your eyes. You found Mr. Ryomen to be a highly disagreeable man, and, if it weren’t for his indubitably large fortune and handsome countenance, you would probably call your aunt deranged for even suggesting you mingle with him. Yuuji, his brother, on the other hand, was much agreeable, and his views and prejudices were very reasonable. Of course, the same could not be said about Sukuna.
His interests were in going a-shooting, riding on his stallions, or taking vacations to his various abodes. Yes, he had multiple, and he had no humility to hide that fact; Sukuna’s pride would take up the whole of Wadsworth and more, if it had a physical form. Of course, he had reason to be full of pride: born rich, and would, eventually, die rich. Still, does it hurt so bad to be humble? You didn’t waste your breath asking that question; you knew, after all, that Sukuna had no experience in that department.
“Are you staying long—in Wadsworth?” you asked, looking only at the younger brother. Ignorance was a petty way of spiting someone, you had to admit, but it was childish, and Sukuna was as childish as a child could possibly be.
“Ah, that is the hope,” smiled Yuuji. “I may think of purchasing land here, you know.”
“Isn’t that just wonderful to hear? I would be delighted to have someone as agreeable as you for a neighbor,” you said. “Pray, does your brother live anywhere near Blackwood Park? I heard you mention him having property here, in Wadsworth.”
“I live five miles away from Blackwood,” Sukuna answered, instead, for Yuuji.
Your eyes shifted to meet red ones, and you moved your weight onto a different leg, whilst fanning yourself with your fan. “I do not recall asking you, sir.”
Sukuna scoffed. “Is it not sensible to answer on my own behalf?”
“Perhaps so. But, I find that nothing you do is sensible,” you laughed. “So, either way, there is really no difference.”
It would be a highly plausible assumption to make by saying that Mr. Ryomen Sukuna was pampered to no end as a child, and never denied any fundamentals or trivials. If that was truly the case, then, you could have sworn you saw an unrecognizable glint flash in his ruby eyes at the sound of your constant discourtesy. Unbeknownst to you, Sukuna had, in fact, been coddled as much as you had assumed. And, just hearing his name being so mercilessly abused was already enough to intrigue him. There was, in a sense, something so alluring and bewitching about your recklessness in conversation, that Sukuna couldn’t help but long for more of the hearing your insults.
Lady Annesley, on the other hand, was extremely disappointed at your behavior, and couldn’t find any reason—no matter searching—for your incredible disdain towards the eldest of the two gentlemen. Your ridiculous bickering and bantering would only serve in embarrassing your aunt’s reputation in Wadsworth, and that was far from what Lady Annesley dreamed of. The only thing she could thank God for was that you weren’t nearly as prejudiced towards Yuuji as you were to his brother.
“Pray, how about we all dance, yes?” your aunt proposed, in faux cheerful spirits. “Shall my niece partner with the younger gentleman?”
“Oh, I’m quite afraid that could not be made possible, miss,” said Yuuji, as he offered an apologetic expression. “My leg is in incredible pain, and I must—with much embarrassment—admit to my having fallen once while riding here. I may have chosen to travel on quite a rowdy stallion, but it is only myself that I have to blame.”
With a politeness you could never aim towards Sukuna, you offered up your condolences, and, with a smile, proposed that the two of you sat down whilst the other attendees danced to their heart’s content. (If it wasn’t obvious before, you were very desperate for any excuse to avoid dancing.) But, to your dismay, Yuuji had declined sitting down, and explained that he had a few other people he was interested in speaking with before the end of the night, and, with a well mannered farewell, bid the three of you adieu.
“Well, upon my word, your parents have done a good job raising that fellow,” added Lady Annesley, a sorry expression on her face as she watched the only other pacifist in your party walk away with an uneven gait, which further proved his excuse.
“Whether that was by the work of my parents, or a governess, or something unspoken, is debatable,” the pink-haired man remarked.
“Or, perhaps, he was merely born with the admirably civil heart he has now. That is quite rare, I must say, in this time, and among these people.” You directed that last bit towards Sukuna, and it was probably pretty clear—seeing as red eyes met yours with just as much animosity soon after your little witty comment.
At first, you were merely treating Sukuna with the same omitted amount of respect he was giving you, but now, you found yourself starting to rather enjoy bullying him. It was pointless banter, after all, and you were almost certain Sukuna felt the same way. Although you felt a sense of dislike towards the man, you couldn’t help but be fond of the way he was, probably, the only other man you could banter with so lightly.
Your unconventional views and dislikes and interests often provoked strong emotion and irritation in most gentlemen, and you weren’t thought to be very agreeable. But, as for the pink-haired gentleman, he took your abusing words with little to no offense. There was the occasional annoyance displayed on his features: like a little furrow of the brow, or crinkle of the nose; but it was almost humorous—seeing as a small smile usually appeared soon after—as if he found your insults to be jokes.
After a pregnant pause, Sukuna broke the silence by saying, “Do you dance, madam?”
“Will you force me?”
“If it cannot be helped.”
You hadn’t actually thought to dance with a man like Sukuna, but upon hearing this concise exchange between her niece and hopefully future nephew-in-law, your aunt thought there was nothing better in the world than to usher the both of you to the center of Grantley Hall herself, and force you two to dance among the rest of the attendees. The orchestrated music was loud—loud enough so that little to no one could hear your protesting complaints, and Lady Annesley, smiling to herself at finally having succeeded in getting you to properly socialize, walked away in the direction of the drinks.
Looking at your aunt’s back as she walked away, you sighed; all your attempts at escaping had been fruitless, futile, and done in vain. For, whilst a pianoforte played in a ¾ time signature, you turned to face Sukuna with a sorrowful expression, but you were instead met with a contrasting smile.
“I have never danced with a lady like you before, miss,” he said, in a condescending tone, as he took your hesitant hands into his, and readied himself for a slow, smooth, elegant waltz.
Sukuna’s hands were calloused, rough, and large compared to your own; he was, certainly, a man.
A warmth spread throughout your body as you made contact with his skin, and it was almost electrifying, like nothing you had ever felt before. It’s safe to say you were expecting something else, but you couldn’t quite put your finger on it.
“You must not dance very often, then. I can assure you, with no doubt, that there is not much to put me aside from others.”
The two of you began to move at a languid speed, and soon caught up to the velocity of most other dancers, though, even in such a large and crowded space, you couldn’t help but feel as if it was just the two of you. The two of you dancing, the two of you talking; the two of you.
“I can name plenty of distinguishing aspects you have.”
“Is that so?” you asked.
“Indeed.”
“My, my, my, do enlighten me, Mr. Ryomen.”
“Do you mean it is not obvious?” he asked, looking into your eyes with intent.
You responded with the shaking of your head.
“Your eyes—somehow brighter than most. Your smile—infectious, even to someone such as I.” Sukuna’s words were spoken with the utmost sincerity, and you could tell, from his tone, that he meant every word he said; although it surprised you to be complimented by him, you couldn’t help the warmth that rose to your cheeks. “Your laughter—melodious to even the deaf. And you, yourself—I find you alluring.”
“. . .”
“Is your silence a sign of disbelief?”
In truth, you weren’t exactly familiar with hearing such a plethora of compliments, and, since it came from someone you could never expect it from, it made you all the more embarrassed.
“I beg your pardon, sir. You find me . . . alluring?”
“It shall be known, soon enough, that I am a man who thinks what he says. I do not say what I do not mean, miss.”
Through keeping your head down, you avoided meeting Sukuna’s eyes with all your might, but still, you could feel his penetrating gaze piercing holes through your face. Listening to the music in the background was a method you used in an attempt to calm your nerves, but all was fruitless in the end. If Sukuna had not the way of words he did now, his voice would certainly make up for it. Thick, sultry, velvety; it was absolutely ludicrous how bothered it made you, and you had to occasionally let out a cough to cover up the way you swallowed the frequent lumps in your throat.
After having settled in silence for a few counts of three, Sukuna smiled, laughing at your sudden shyness. “I have heard lots of great things about you, you must know.”
“Is—Is that so?”
“So it is,” he nodded, before continuing; “your aunt—Lady Annesley, was it?—had briefly spoken about you, in addition to her other nieces and nephews, when she first approached me and my brother.”
At this, you laughed, finally having built up the courage to meet Sukuna in the eyes. “I am concerned about what she might have had to say.”
“All good things, I assure you.”
You breathed out a sigh of relief you didn’t know you were holding, before continuing on in casual conversation. Your banter from earlier had grown severely scarce, and was evidently replaced with subtly flirtatious comments. All the while, you found yourself growing embarrassed more than ever, but over time, you had gradually worked up a familiarity towards the compliments, and felt rather at ease whilst simultaneously talking and dancing with Mr. Ryomen Sukuna—who appeared as cool and composed as per usual.
It was after the pianoforte’s playing had ended, that the crowd had disconnected from the partners, curtseyed and bowed to one another, and burst into applauds of plaudits. The room was lively, with its guests chatting and talking with delight at such a wonderful dance they had danced just moments prior. People took seconds to recollect themselves, by either grabbing glasses of water, or fanning themselves before the next waltz. You, on the other hand, had begun to make your way to the pianoforte, before you were stopped again (yes, again; why on earth was everyone so opposed to letting you play music nowadays?).
There was a nudge against the back of your elbow, and you turned around with much grace, just to be met with the same face from before.
“Could I trouble you for another round, miss?” came that velvety voice you loved so much.
It was Mr. Ryomen Sukuna, and he was with the objective of claiming yet another spot on your dance card this evening. How wonderful, just so, so very wonderful. . .
“. . .And just what type of round are we speaking of, sir?”
Sukuna’s countenance held the expression of mischief, and playful doing, as he leaned his face down closer to yours, till you couldn’t distinguish the line between your and his breath. “Whatever you’d prefer, my fair lady.”
As a smile made its way onto your face, Sukuna did just as he had done before: gathering your warm hands into his cold ones, and bringing the both of you into another waltz just as the euphonious music began again for a second time that evening. While you could never admit it aloud, as the hours passed by, you soon found yourself forgetting all about your beloved pianoforte—that could, as of late, be put off for maybe just a little longer.
***
“All we did was waltz—just like everybody else! What, in heaven’s name, is so unusual about that?”
Your cousins had called on you the next morning after the ball at Grantley, and waited not a second before asking—no, demanding—you to tell them about all that had happened whilst they were away and mingling. (Yes, you were, in fact, correct in assuming that the girls had been acquainting themselves with officers galore and other various gentlemen that same evening.) But, despite them having a most eventful evening themselves, they were, by far, more curious as to hearing about your experience.
“Yes, you waltzed,” Charlotte replied, exasperated, “we know that; we saw it! after all. But, but, but, not only did you waltz together, you waltzed together twice! Can you believe that, Helena? A wealthy—and, if I must say, handsome—gentleman claimed not one, but two spots on our very dear cousin’s dance card last evening!”
“It is oh-so wonderful!” cried Helena, absolutely overjoyed at the fact you were finally socializing for once. “But, do not forget, sister, that Mr. Ryomen Sukuna, the very man our dearest cousin danced with, also held her hands without gloves! Without gloves! Bless me! I find I shall faint if not cautious, you know.”
The girls gossiped and confabulated over yesterday’s events with much interest and engagement. They teased you, giggled at the way you waltzed with a man right after verbally abusing him, and accepted his hand twice. It seemed that they could not and would not let it go that you had danced with such a man last evening, and it seemed the only way you could get them to leave their current attentions was to mention their events and who they danced with—to which, they were most delighted to answer you.
“Shall we tell her, Lottie?” exclaimed Helena, eager to reminisce about the ball she had. “Shall we tell her?”
“Of course, of course!”
And so, with that, the minds of the girls had been successfully veered over to the subject of other men. Helena recalled chatting with several young officers, all who were, as she said, “charming, and effectively handsome, but they were, unfortunately, as taciturn as to make people assume them mute.” Helena complained about how she could only get acquainted with most officers if she was the one who spoke up first; which, in her eyes, was terribly unacceptable.
Charlotte, on the other hand, was not as extroverted as her twin sister, though, she was pretty enough so that people approached her before she had to open her mouth to anyone. She had made acquaintances with “very fine gentlemen, very fine and intellectual gentlemen, indeed,” and laughed and chatted about poetry and philosophy almost all night long. She geeked out on her favorite authors and thinkers, and her interlocutors reciprocated with their own. It was a most enjoyable night for her—seeing as most people of Wadsworth did not find such topics in conversations as pleasant as Charlotte did.
“Did you know, cousin,” began the blonde, “that such an abundance of officers read poetry?”
“Nay, I did not, but go on.”
And go on, she did. Whenever Charlotte spoke of writing and literature, she rarely even took a breath to breathe. She was like that: always very passionate about her favorite subjects, and she was rarely able to notice if the people around her had started to bore or not—but, it mattered not; Charlotte wouldn’t have stopped talking anyway, unless, by a chance, she found herself getting thirsty. Yes, she got thirsty quite often, and you often joked (all in good nature, of course) that it was due to how much she talked.
The three of you had spent the entire morning gossiping over tea and biscuits, until a maid-servant had called you all for lunch, and you all burst into quite a harmoniously-sounding fit of laughter at the realization that, throughout your chitter chatter, you had finished neither one cup of tea, nor one plate of pastries. It was a pleasantly spent morning, indeed.
That week passed by with much ease, and the next one passed by similarly. There was even one day, where, you had been met with the fortunate coincidence of crossing paths with none other than Mr. Adam Wright whilst on your daily walk outside of Blackwood Park.
“Good day, miss,” he began, in a smooth voice, “how do you do?”
“Oh! bless me; you had me startled there—for a minute, Mr. Wright. But, I am very well; I thank you.”
“I beg your finest pardon, madam,” replied he, before bowing his head ever so slightly. “I did not mean to alarm you.”
You waved your hand around in a dismissing manner. “And, to what do I owe the honor of running into you today, sir?”
“Ah, I was just admiring the views you were telling me about. You know, when we were chatting about nature and shrubbery? Yes, well, I find your suggestions to be very credible, for this is quite the place you have here, miss.”
“Thank you, Mr. Wright, very generous of you to say so.” You smiled.
“No need to thank me, I am sure you receive compliments on your home thousands upon thousands of times each day. Pray, how many acres is Blackwood Park?”
“I would assume a little above three thousand.”
“Is that so?”
“So it is,” you said, smiling. “Why the face? Do not you believe me?” you joked, seemingly in a playful mood this morning.
“I ought to walk with you around the park in order to further prove your answer.”
As you two linked arms, and began to walk around the park, surrounded by bushes and trimmed shrubbery under the shade-providing trees, you wondered if this was Mr. Wright’s attempt at flirting, or getting to know you. But, either way, you kept a smile on your face and walked, explaining the paths and routes and terrain as you did so.
“Do you walk often, miss?”
“I believe I told you that I did—at Grantley. Or have you already forgotten? I didn’t know you paid so little to a supposed princess’s words, sir.”
Mr. Wright laughed. “It was an assumption, I explained. If you shall continue to tease me on that subject, I may become humiliated, you know.”
“What if that’s my goal?”
“Then, I suppose, the ladies here in Wadsworth must be very cruel.”
The both of you turned a corner, walking a new veered path as the sun bathed you in light. You were just about to reposition your parasol to shield yourself from the blinding radiance, when, out of the blue, a hand came up to cover your eyes from above; it was discovered to be Mr. Adam Wright’s.
“Oh!” you exclaimed, heat rising to your cheeks. “I thank you, sir.”
“It is not a problem,” began the officer; “you repay me by showing me the very nice landscaping here, after all.”
“. . .Ah, I see.”
In truth, you had not been in hopes of being joined in your walk this autumn morning, and you usually preferred solitude in times like these, but, alas, you had been joined by an officer, and were now to show him the ways around Blackwood Park and the rest of Wadsworth. You would be lying if you said it didn’t bother you in the slightest. . .
The both of you walked and talked: admiring the beautiful river of Northwick, crossing the bridge above said river, speaking of the chestnuts that had fallen from deciduous trees, and laughing about the squirrels above; all of this up until lunchtime, when you two departed—you, who had arrived at Stratford House to exchange your calling card with Charlotte and Helena, and Mr. Adam Wright, who had the objective of going forth to the shops.
Upon entering Stratford, you were greeted by the sight of two very excited twins.
“Oh, cousin! You’re here!” cried Helena. “We were waiting for your call, you know.”
“Hm, well, isn’t that lovely? What were you waiting for, exactly?”
“I’m not surprised you weren’t informed as of late; it was very last minute,” began Charlotte, “but, we were invited to Kendall Manor, actually. All three of us!” The blonde gestured to you, herself, and her sister.
“Kendall?” you repeated, raising your eyebrows. “Well, color me intrigued, then.”
Kendall Manor was a very envied spot in Wadsworth. With many beautiful arts there, it was a very famous spot for tourists to visit; you had even been there once or twice, whilst paying respects to its multitude of pianofortes and large collection of literature. Outside, it had high walls, lakes, an abundance of land, and various fountains throughout. The estate was known, but, in contrast, its owner was not.
For as long as you had lived, the possessor of Kendall Manor had never been present in Wadsworth. Not much information was of him, whoever he was, but the one piece of knowledge regarding him, was that he was alive and well. Maybe in a neighboring country, maybe somewhere else, no one knew where, but everyone knew he was there. It worked out, though; if so many people were visiting and entering Kendall Manor each day, surely the owner would be bothered, but in this case, that didn’t matter; the owner wasn’t even there!
“Come, lovie,” began Charlotte, as she ushered you upstairs to a changing room; “we must make haste! The chaise and four have already been called for, and not a second can be of waste.”
You had been dressed, your hair done, and your face painted, before you were, again, shoved into a carriage and driven off to Kendall Manor. It happened incredibly quickly, and gave you whiplash all the while.
“Do you two happen to know who specifically invited us lot?” you asked. “I wasn’t familiar with the fact that the owner of Kendall Manor was in the country; was it the doing of a servant? Or was the manor let?”
“Dear cousin, you worry too much,” laughed Helena. “We should instead rejoice at the opportunity of another party; we are bound to have a ball, after all. Why does the host matter?”
You grumbled, and sat silent for the rest of the ride. It was strange; why now? Why did the owner of Kendall decide to come home now? And, why on earth did he invite you and the girls? As far as you were concerned, you had no acquaintance with him, whoever he was, and neither did your family or any other relations you had.
Whilst basking in your confusion and wonder, the horses had come to a stop outside of a quite magnificent abode, and you instantly knew that this was Kendall Manor. Four or five thousand acres of land, under the blazing sun. Beautiful, vast, and plagued with mystery.
The three of you were taken up the stairs, and led inside by a valet, where you were greeted with the even more surprising sight of the rest of your family: some aunts and uncles, Lady Annesley, and others you did not care to name. If that wasn’t enough to make your jaw drop, you noticed half (if not all) of Wadsworth residents and even a few familiar faces of officers from the regiment temporarily stationed in the countryside; but, try as you might, your eyes could not set upon the countenance of Mr. Adam Wright—who was, probably, out at the shops, and alone.
What was this? Why was everyone here?
“Forgive my lack of planning prior,” began a velvety voice you knew well; and when you turned to the sound of that voice, you were met with the face of Mr. Ryomen Sukuna, standing next to his brother. “Welcome, all, to Kendall Manor.”
It was quickly explained that this was a party, in celebration of Mr. Ryomen, who had finally returned to his home country of Wadsworth, and was planning on staying for longer than he had been gone. He wanted to make acquaintances with all the people he would’ve known had he been here instead of at all his other estates and properties.
The guests were introduced to a large variety of pastries and biscuits and drinks and other desserts from the other counties Sukuna had been staying at previously. People asked him about what his other homes were like: if they were much different from Kendall of Wadsworth, and he—with his usual disagreeableness—did not even try to act humble as he described his very prosperous and fortunate self.
There were many ladies of Wadsworth that were single, and none of them wasted any chance in practically throwing themselves at the owner of the manor. In addition, Charlotte and Helena, once standing beside you, were now off and talking with a number of officers, having a very pleasant afternoon themselves.
You, on the other hand, were not much interested in speaking about subjects such as these, and, accompanied by very few people, walked into a nearby drawing room. Though you were not much of a card-player yourself, it was, perhaps, the only source of entertainment you could find within the walls of Kendall (except for playing pianoforte, which the girls forbade you). A table for Whist was set up, and a party of four, including yourself, began to play.
For a few rounds, you thought you had found peace, but no, a thunderstorm had soon followed you all the way into the drawing room. Mr. Ryomen had come, and was accompanied by the other guests, who were all flocking to him like birds.
“Shall we all play a game for more of us?” began the pink-haired gentleman. He was clearly doing this on purpose; his face told you all you needed to know: he was disturbing your peace and quiet for the simple motive of being a bother.
Of course, no one could refuse the host of such a grand party, and a much larger game table was soon set up, so that many could sit down and gamble. You had the unfortunate fate of being seated between the host, and Lady Annesley; and, although you were near at least one good relative, your aunt paid minimal attention to you, for she was seated beside Admiral Dawson, whom she was grossly engaged in conversation with.
Throughout the betting game, either your or Sukuna’s seat had been gradually inching closer to the other’s, to the point your shoulders were practically touching, and so were your elbows, which occasionally bumped together, causing the both of you to mutter curses or complaints.
“Why don’t you move nearer to your brother, sir? I am sure it would be much appreciated,” you jeered, obviously fed up with the amount of hits you were receiving.
“Careful there, miss. Lying too much can be detrimental.”
“‘Lying’? Oh, please. There is no truth in my saying ‘I enjoy sitting beside you’.”
“Of course,” laughed Sukuna, in a mocking tone. “Of course, Miss Untouchable. How could I forget? you just have a problem with everyone these days.”
“. . .”
“I wasn’t at all aware, you know, that such a disagreeable woman like you existed. Though, I can’t say it was unexpected; your countenance gives quite a fair hint to everyone when looking at you.”
You rolled your eyes. “I am sure the absolute same could be said about you, sir.”
“What a coincidence!” teased Sukuna. “I was beginning to think we had nothing in common.”
Narrowing your eyes, you stabbed the heel of your shoe onto Sukuna’s, but he let out neither a curse nor a groan of pain.
Instead, Sukuna rested his arm on the back of your chair with an overwhelming grip as he leaned his face closer to yours; and you could’ve sworn you could see the red of his eyes swirling together in a mix, as if a tornado. The tips of your noses were only centimeters apart, and you couldn’t draw a line between where your breath ended and where his started even if you had to.
Your eyes met with equal resentment and agitation, as if there was a mutual message being sent from merely your locked gazes alone, but then, to your surprise, his stare drifted up to your hat.
“Various shades of blue and green, with gold as an accent,” he noted, in a slurred tone, almost as if he was drunk.
“Well, yes. Have you never seen a peacock feather?”
“Two of which are both colors on the cooler side of the color spectrum,” he continued, paying no mind to your words; “but, I must say, red would suit you much better, my darling.”
Your eyes widened at the sound of this, and your gaze fell to your fidgety hands in your laps. Still, you wasted no time in quipping, “I have no doubt I would wear the color much better than you, Mr. Ryomen Sukuna.”
“I can imagine that, but I would rather see it with my own eyes,” he said, eyes trailing back down to your lips.
“. . .”
The hand that was previously draped over the back of your chair slowly but surely made its way down, until it was draped over your hip, gripping and kneading the flesh there. Your breath caught in your throat, and you turned to face Sukuna with an incredulous expression. You mouthed the words What on earth are you doing? To which, the pink-haired man only responded with Nothing you wouldn’t want, my lady.
In order for the hand on your hip to not be visible, you had to scoot your chair as far away from Lady Annesley as you could, and press your body as close to Sukuna’s as you could possibly venture. The rest of the drawing room remained boisterous, and completely oblivious to the scandalous act you had going on with the party’s host.
As his hand lowered down to the ends of your dress, and his fingers crept up your skirt, your cheeks warmed to an extreme extent, and you tugged on Sukuna’s sleeve, desperate for something you couldn’t quite put your finger on. This was utterly humiliating! you thought. What was the meaning for this? And in the middle of a party?
His hands felt cold, and you frequently shivered as they moved at a dreadfully slow speed up your legs, before settling in between your thighs. If your face wasn’t as red as a tomato before, it surely was now. For, you had originally thought that clamping your thighs together would be the perfect plan to get Sukuna to stop his movements, but no, it made everything altogether worse. By a thousand degrees.
His hand was stuck between your thighs, and, like the bastard he was, Mr. Ryomen Sukuna thought it would be such a fun thing to move your panties aside, and put pressure on your clit, which, consequently, resulted in you having to cover your mouth with your fan, to hide and shield the whimpers that came soon after.
“Nnghh.”
His fingers then removed themselves, to which you gasped in relief, but before you could utter another word, you were interrupted by his fingers entering you once more, in a quite diligent fashion. They curled and twisted, and reached deep inside of you, but alas, you could do nothing but writhe; you couldn’t bear this predicament you had gotten yourself into being exposed to the rest of the party guests, and you couldn’t—without feeling shame—let it be known that the feeling of Sukuna’s fingers was rather pleasurable.
Your whole body’s temperature rose, and you couldn’t help the moans that left your lips. This feeling was so . . . strange; you had never felt anything like this before. So overwhelming with both pain and pleasure, and incredibly scandalous. If anyone were to find out what you were doing—never mind, you need not know.
Sukuna’s lips ghosted the shell of your ear, before whispering, “Don’t fight it.”
One finger, then two, and now three.
“F-Fight what?” you managed, between whimpers. “What are you doing?”
With your thighs still clamped together and squeezing around his hand, the pleasure of Sukuna’s fingers moving within you was highly intensified, and your expression twisted into one of embarrassing lewdness. The suddenly appeared knot in your stomach had tightened, and you had soon reached your peak only moments later, your release clinging to Sukuna’s fingers, which were still deep inside of you.
“Hahh, Sukunngh,” you moaned, eyes squeezing shut as you hid your face from other guests behind your fan.
Just as you were recovering from your body’s physical reaction and occasional jolts, Sukuna’s voice suddenly sounded in the room, and everyone and their mother turned to face him, completely unbeknownst to the fact that his hand was still in between your legs.
You didn’t hear much of what he said—your head still swimming, and your self dazed—but you managed to make out a few words, where Sukuna had explained that there were numerous hallways in Kendall that were filled from top to bottom with many famous and beautiful paintings and other art works. The guests were unsurprised by this knowledge, but nonetheless, they were greatly intrigued, and as a valet of Sukuna’s led the party out of the drawing room, Sukuna sat back down (after making sure everyone had exited) and turned to you with a smug expression—never once removing his fingers from deep within you.
“Sukuna,” you mewled, nearly going crazy at the realization that the man would probably never run out of stamina to finger you, “what are you doing?”
Whilst grinning like a mad man, Sukuna pulled you onto his lap within the blink of an eye, which resulted in your back being flush with his hard chest. Beyond shocked, you gasped, but before you could get out another word, you felt the tickling sensation of lips dragging down your clavicle and shoulders, peppering kisses on several moles and freckles you had there.
There was a growing warmth in your core, and though you writhed and wriggled in his grasps, you couldn’t help but (after a few moments) finally succumb to his touches and caresses. A sigh left your lips, and you leaned back against the body behind you.
“Sukuna, I—ahh, w-why?”
Just as you were beginning to relax, Sukuna removed his hand from between your legs and, with the assistance of his other hand, pulled the top of your dress down, leaving the bare skin of your chest revealed to the empty drawing room and cool air.
“You’re so beautiful, my lady,” he slurred, eyes glued to your exposed tits.
Without wasting a moment, Sukuna began to pull and twist and press at your nipples, which were beginning to harden at his assaults. Your back arched, and you let out an embarrassingly loud moan at the unfamiliar feeling of pleasure. This was totally erotic! you thought, though you did nothing to stop it. As your nipples were carelessly toyed with to Sukuna’s content, your body twisted and squirmed all the while, but to no avail.
As if a child playing with a new toy for the first time, Sukuna squeezed and squeezed at the wholes of your tits, admiring the way your buds pebbled at the attention they were receiving. Your legs kicked at nothing, and you thrashed around wildly; and, if things couldn’t get more lewd, you felt the sensation of a warm, wet tongue lick a stripe up your neck.
Pornographic moans, whimpers, and cries filled the empty drawing room, and you couldn’t even imagine the looks on people’s faces if they returned from the gallery early.
“Nnghh! Ah—ah—ahh! Sukuna!” You panted, delirious.
“Mmm, that’s it, sweetheart,” said Sukuna, as he kissed and nipped at your throat. “Don’t hold back; just let out all your cute little noises for me.”
The hands which groped at your breast soon paused in their assaults, and as you began to catch your breath, you felt them gradually slide down the curves of your body, all the way to your thighs, where they hiked up the material of your skirt, pulling it up to your stomach, which left your panties and dignity exposed.
“. . .Sukuna?” You blinked.
“Ha! You’ve become so wet just from my hands alone, that I think it would be no trouble at all for you to take my cock right about . . . now.”
“What—oh! Mmph!”
Apparently, Mr. Ryomen Sukuna had a major problem with cutting people off, because, just as you were about to ask what he very well meant by that, your hips were tightly gripped onto, your body was raised, and you cried out as you were soon slammed back down onto Sukuna’s cock. All the words in your throat had been swallowed, and your brain turned to mush as you felt so utterly full from his girth and length alone; it was so . . . big. You had never done anything as insane as this, and as moans and cries left your lips left and right, you couldn’t distinguish whether you felt more pain or pleasure.
Your eyes fluttered shut, and your face twisted into that of incredible lewdness; your hands gripped onto Sukuna’s biceps, and your nails dug into his muscles, surely leaving crescent-shaped marks in the way.
“Shit, gorgeous,” he groaned. “You’re so tight. Ever been fucked before?”
“Nnghh, n-no. . . No!”
“That’s. . . Fuck. You mean I’m the first one to touch you like this?”
Sukuna gripped and groped onto your tits as he spoke, before raising up your hips and slamming them back down just like before. One second, you were empty, the next, you were so impossibly full, and then so on and so forth. As Sukuna repeated this for God knows how long, you nearly passed out from the overwhelming pleasure you felt everywhere. From the calloused hands on your hips, to the length of his cock sliding in and out and up and down your walls, to the warm breath fanning your ear. It was all so much.
You had never known pleasure like this before, and you wondered if this was but a dream.
As you rolled your hips, trying desperately for more friction, you were stopped by the feeling of two hands gripping onto the meat of your hips with a strength that was sure to result in bruising the next morrow.
“Why do you move, darling?” Sukuna leaned down to whisper in your ear, and a shiver ran down your spine. “I’ve got you right where I want you.”
Whilst you bounced sensuously on his lap, Sukuna didn’t show an ounce of shame as he stared with incredible lust at the sight of your tits bouncing up and down. The tip of his cock penetrated you in places you didn’t even know existed until now, and you couldn’t help the plethora of moans that left your lips.
Just as before, the knot in your stomach tightened to an unbearable height, and with one last rough thrust, you came right on Sukuna’s cock; your bodily fluids dripping down his shaft and leaving a sticky feeling between your thighs as they dried.
“So?” began Sukuna, bringing you out of your dazed state.
In confusion, your brows knitted together. “I—I beg your pardon?”
“How was it?”
“How was . . . what?”
You could hear Sukuna scoff from behind you. “Are you that dense, my dear lady? Or have you already forgotten what we have—mind you—just done?”
“. . .I’m afraid my memory is not as sufficient as one’s might be,” you teased, despite yourself.
The corner of Sukuna’s lip quirked upwards, into a grin, as a mischievous expression made its way onto his face. “Shall we refresh your memory, then?”
“How so?”
With his cock still buried deep inside of you to the hilt, Sukuna stood up and moved your bodies in tandem until he was able to lay the top half of your body on the drawing room’s table. Your bare tits pressed up against the rough wood, and you groaned in relief as you laid the side of your face down.
Unfortunately (or fortunately) for you, Sukuna had no even the slightest idea of relaxing on his mind, and as the lids of your eyes began to droop, Sukuna woke you straight up with a hard thrust inside your cunt, which slightly shook the table and resulted in a rather unpleasant sound reverberating throughout the living space.
This, completely, caught you off guard, and the scream that left your throat was to be expected. “Ahh! I—hahh.”
Your back arched, your hair was pulled towards Sukuna, your neck soon began to ache; you saw stars as Sukuna continued his thrusts from before with more (if not the same amount of) force, and you wondered if the walls were thin enough for servants or party guests to hear you from all the way down the hall.
Maybe it was ridiculous, maybe it was not, but as Sukuna’s cock continued to fill you to the hilt, you could’ve sworn you felt him in your guts. Callings of his name, moans of gibberish, and et cetera, left your lips as if in a prayer to God. You panted, you gasped, and your breath got caught in your throat as the table rocked beneath your and Sukuna’s weight.
If not for his stable grip on your hips, you would’ve fallen and crashed to the floor from how your knees buckled and turned to seemingly nothingness.
“Has your memory been refreshed, my lady?” began Sukuna, in a jeering tone.
“I—nnghh, not . . . not quite.” Though you were barley conscious at this point, and pleasure nearly consumed your whole being, you couldn’t help but joke. However, as the speed and force of Sukuna’s thrusts began to increase, you soon found yourself thinking how foolish it was to joke in such a predicament.
“Yeah? How about now?”
Both hands on your hips had left, and instead found their way to your tits, where they groped and squeezed to Sukuna’s liking.
This may have been your breaking point; and as your back arched and the volume of your lewd cries increased, you found yourself grinding your ass back against Sukuna’s crotch. The extra friction brought you over the edge, and you moaned and moaned like a bitch in heat as you came once more.
You didn’t remember much of what came after that (A/N: pun intended), but you knew you had somehow managed to dress yourself and fix your disheveled appearance right as soon as half of the party returned to the drawing room. Whilst the guests drank in the sight of you, Sukuna, on the other hand, had fixed his pants, and casually seated himself on his chair.
“Oh, my niece,” exclaimed a bewildered Lady Annesley, “you are already here.”
You stopped like a deer in front of a carriage driver’s torch, and stuttered as you struggled for an answer. “Yes, I—I quickly lost interest while looking at the artwork, and decided to return here to play another game of cards.”
“So you say? Well, upon my word, what card game did you play that resulted in your countenance to glow so pleasantly as it does now?”
For a second, you had thought your aunt had somehow discovered what you and Mr. Ryomen Sukuna were getting up to whilst alone in the drawing room, but after a moment’s silence, you quickly realized she was being genuine, and, like her usual chaotic-self, was simply wondering about a possible new skincare routine. At this newfound conclusion, you let out a sigh of relief, and continued in conversation for the remaining duration of the party at Kendall.
However, at the back of your mind remained the still recent memory of what it was like to have your brains fucked out by none other than Mr. Ryomen Sukuna, who, whilst he pretended to linger around your being while you chatted with relatives, occasionally trailed a playful finger up your spine, which always resulted in your breath being caught in your throat, as you feared he would do something similar to what he did before the guests had left.
***
It was late—well into the evening, really—when a messenger on his horse had come by with mail in his inventory.
A fortnight had passed since that . . . incident in Kendall Manor’s drawing room, and you had been avoiding Sukuna ever since. You feared that if you did otherwise, you would begin to develop an unhealthy relationship with his cock, which, even after fourteen days, you had not forgotten the feeling of. It was strange, to say the least. At first, you had thought Sukuna to be a very disagreeable man, a very disagreeable man, indeed; but now, he was . . . well, no, he was the same, but his dick, on the other hand, was much more agreeable.
You had never thought yourself to be one to have sexual intercourse before marriage, but maybe there could be an exception for someone like Mr. Ryomen Sukuna.
Sometimes, you laid awake at night, at times past the Devil’s hour, you assumed, and tossed and turned and tried to replicate how Sukuna’s fingers felt, how his mouth made you feel, how full his cock made you, but to no avail. You would, eventually, scream into your pillow out of frustration, and pass out from exhaustion.
Damn him. Damn him and his whole entire lineage.
Who was he to make you feel this way, huh? Who was he to come waltzing into Wadsworth with his expensive little steed and expensive fucking clothes, and leave you high and dry? Who was he to spoil you for your future spouse? He had no right, absolutely none.
And so, when a messenger and his horse came to the doors of Blackwood Park, you could probably imagine the distress and anxiety you had suffered. All the color had been drained from your face, for you wondered if a letter had come from Mr. Ryomen Sukuna himself; your mother and your father had even noticed how pale you had gotten, and, in their worry, asked you how you felt, to which you replied with a short answer, but it contained everything but the truth.
Upon reading the label, you found the manilla paper to be addressed to none other than you. Even more horrified, you searched frantically for a name, and after reading the words Mr. Adam Wright, you seemed to calm down by a few degrees.
“Open it, cousin! Open it!” cried Helena; for the girls had been at Blackwood since sundown, and were planning on sleeping over, which was, actually, pretty common between the three of you.
“Shall I have no privacy even in my own home?” you joked.
The girls laughed, before exiting your room and running downstairs.
With a sigh, and a tired groan, you began to unravel the letter.
To your astonishment, it was almost four pages! Four pages, filled from top to bottom with a confession of . . . love‽ Love—from Mr. Adam Wright? What, in heaven’s name, could’ve produced such a feeling as this? you wondered. Sure, maybe you had flirted with the officer a few times, but it was only minor incidents, and you had done them with the imagination that nothing could come of it. But no, you couldn’t have been more wrong.
Mr. Adam Wright was in love with you.
In his letter, he frequently quoted phrases from your favorite books and epics, but none of them seemed to affect you more than with distraught and horror. He confessed he was too much of a coward to profess his love in person, and, in addition, claimed he could not say all that he felt for you, for he felt too much to say, and writing it down was as close as he could get to letting everything out.
He was in love with your laugh, your smile, your mind, and your soul.
“I have never conversed with a lady quite as charming as you, miss. Your character is incredibly suitable to my likes and my dislikes, and I find, if I had never met you, I would have never met the love of my life. You bewitch me, physically and mentally.”
You had to admit, he was quite poetic when it came to writing a confession of love and admiration, but it pained you more than it flattered you, for, you did not feel even an ounce of the same feeling. Guilt and regret plagued your mind as you read through the seemingly never-ending paragraphs, and yet, you could not and would not accept that someone such as Mr. Adam Wright was in love with you.
It seemed . . . preposterous.
You had never thought of him in that way whatsoever. Well, he was handsome, and he was smart and quite the agreeable man, but he wasn’t what you wanted. There had to be someone out there that would reciprocate his feelings, but it wouldn’t be you. Not today, not tomorrow, not ever.
After reading the letter maybe three times (just to make sure your eyes weren’t deceiving you), you sat down for a moment of silence, before opening your door and calling for the girls. Upon their entering, you immediately explained the contents of the letter, and, with a very desperate tone of voice, pleaded for any advice they could give.
“Well, this is. . . I’m quite appalled, dear cousin,” began Charlotte; “but, just to be clear, you do not feel the same way?”
“I’m not sure I would be asking for advice if I did.” You laughed, trying to cope with humor.
“I, for one, think you should send a letter back,” suggested Helena.
“. . .You know, I would do that, actually, but, the thing is, Wright wants to see me.”
Both of the sisters asked what you meant by that.
“In his letter, towards the end of it, I am sure, he asks to see me, near Northwick. I assume he means he wants to propose on the bridge; we walked there once, you see.”
“And you did not think to tell us until now?” cried Helena.
You raised your hands in defense. “Hey, I didn’t think much of it.”
“This is quite the predicament you’ve gotten yourself into,” declared Charlotte.
And this was quite the predicament, indeed. The next morning, a little after breakfast, you had begun to walk to Northwick. And, upon reaching sight of the bridge, you had found that Mr. Adam Wright was already there. He looked confident, he looked sure, he looked sharp; which just made you twice as guilty.
Before arriving, you had assured yourself everything was going to be just dandy; you would get it over with as quick as possible, and then attend the play you had been invited to by a couple of friends. The proposal of Mr. Adam Wright would be soon forgotten about, and you would sing and dance and be merry for the rest of the day.
“My lady, how do you do?” Wright was always quick when it came to greeting you. “I assume you’ve received my letter?”
“I am quite fine this morning, sir; and yes.”
“Have you any response?”
You nodded, before saying, “I am . . . rather flattered to receive a proposal from such a man as you, Mr. Adam Wright, but I am afraid I cannot give you my hand in marriage.”
You had consequently explained your reasoning, and how you did not reciprocate any romantic feelings such as love towards Mr. Wright, who accepted your words with a very solemn expression. That was a nice quality of his: to be able to accept rejection, and you even noted how you thought he was a very agreeable man, who was sure to find a wife sooner or later.
“There are many balls that occur in Wadsworth, with many women who attend, but, if that fails, an itinerant profession such as yours indubitably has the aspects to acquire a spouse within a lifetime—yes, I am sure.”
“I see you do not accept my proposal, then; very well. Good morning, miss.”
With the tipping of his hat, and a very quick farewell, the two of you parted ways.
A few hours had come by after your declination, and you soon found yourself standing outside of Grantley Hall with Charlotte and Helena, Lady Annesley, a few other relatives and friends, and Mr. Ryomen Sukuna and his brother. You hadn’t expected to see either of them any time soon, but maybe your aunt was just very sociable, and considered them to be friends.
Upon noticing Sukuna’s face amongst the crowd, you immediately ducked away, and subtly hid yourself behind your aunt, who was taller and broader than you, and could serve as a pseudo-shield, but of course, your efforts were noticed and fruitless, in the end.
Sukuna had caught sight of your figure, and made eye contact with you for a relatively long time, before turning back to a conversation with his brother.
“Everyone seems to be here,” began your aunt, double-checking the party; “how about we begin our journey? The theater is quite far, I heard.”
And so, everyone had started to pile into a multitude of carriages and vehicles. Unfortunately, with such a large party as you were in, you obviously had the luck of being stuck with none other than the Devil himself—Mr. Ryomen Sukuna. There was no other room for you with anyone else you knew; you had received offers to switch seats, but due to your having taken a liking to rejecting people (A/N: this is a joke; please laugh), you had declined them all.
In consequence, you and Sukuna were forced to ride in a carriage—alone.
The cushions were small, and you were forced to acquire a seat right beside Sukuna. Your shoulders bumped occasionally, due to the jolts of the carriage and the bumpy road, but that was about it. You were neither squished nor totally uncomfortable. And, at first, it was quite pleasant, actually. Neither you nor Sukuna spoke much, due to your embarrassment, and his . . . indifference? so you had no reason to stutter or stumble over words. Well, that was, until Sukuna decided to bring up a certain someone into the conversation.
“It seems you have taken quite the partiality towards Wright,” he began; and you could practically feel his piercing stare burning holes through your head, but alas, you kept your eyes on the road, and avoided eye contact—which was beginning to prove to be quite the challenge.
“We are acquaintances.”
“Just acquaintances?”
You sighed. “It depends on how you define the word ‘acquaintance,’ I suppose.”
“You know, my lady, I have heard quite a rumor this morning—regarding you and that officer.”
You froze, an infinite amount of ideas popping into your head, before snapping your neck to meet Sukuna’s much amused ones. “Pray, have you any idea how rude it is to bring up a subject without elaborating,? You, sir, ought to explain further.”
Sukuna, ignoring your words, cast his eyes downward, saying, “Show me your hand,” with as less emotion and as much authority as humanly possible.
Perhaps in an act of childish rebellion, you covered your gloved hands, and put them aside. “I do not see how that is of any relevance.”
“What a coincidence; I do.” Scoffing, Sukuna took your left hand into his, and held it up to his face, completely disregarding your protests and fruitless attempts at flailing around.
When he found what he wanted, he placed your hand down, and looked at your pout with a smug expression. “I take it you are not engaged, then?”
“I’ve no ring,” came your curt reply, before crossing your arms over your chest. You had initially hoped to fool him for even a bit longer, but Sukuna was more resourceful (forceful) than you could admit.
Sukuna laughed. “Miss Untouchable refused Mr. Adam Wright? What a spectacle that surely was. Say, the next time you reject a proposal, let me know prior so I can sit and watch.”
“When Hell freezes over, I will.”
Leaning over to peer into your eyes, Sukuna offered a shit-eating grin. “You can be so rude, my fair lady.”
Finally meeting his eyes at last, you couldn’t help the abusing words that soon left your lips. “You call me ‘rude,’ I hear? That is how you think of me? What about yourself, then, sir? Is the way you treat a lady such as I any different than ‘rude,’ I wonder?”
Sukuna grabbed your hips and dragged you onto his lap as you continued to berate and rip at him whilst he remained totally unfazed. He had become used to your character at this point, and your insults and scolding merely droned on in the background as his mind was set on other things.
“How else am I rude, madam?”
“When you—When you. . .” You paused, averting eye contact. “When you make me feel . . . this way.”
“And, pray tell,” began Sukuna, as he grabbed your chin and forced you to look in his eye, “what way do I make you feel?”
You chewed at your bottom lip, and out of frustration, could not form much to say.
When Sukuna noticed your hesitance, and your embarrassment, he decided to take matters into his own hands, and as a smile began to etch on his face, he lifted the ends of your dress, piling it at your waist, before beginning to trail his hands up your bare thighs at a teasingly unbearable speed.
At the familiar act, your breath caught in your throat, and you clawed at the lapels of Sukuna’s coat jacket.
Without stopping for even a beat, Sukuna’s cold, slender fingers made their way up your thighs, and began to ghost over the wetness that had formed at your entrance.
“My, my, my, don’t tell me, was it your anger at me that got you so wet, or was it my mere showing up today?”
“Neither, you bastard.”
As if possessed by an entity, (or maybe it was because you just couldn’t take it anymore), you grabbed Sukuna by the collar, and roughly—and clumsily—smashed his lips against yours. Almost immediately, his hands squeezed and groped at your ass, as he met your lips with an almost equally fervent kiss.
You had never done something so deliberately and scandalous before (except for that evening at Kendall, but that doesn’t count), and you almost wondered if you were doing everything wrong. But, seeing as you could feel a growing hardness beneath your bottom, you were soon assured of your quite capable abilities.
“Fuck, darling. Have you been waiting to do this?” he murmured, between kisses.
“Mm, yeah—in your dreams.”
Your bodies moved in sync, as if two puzzle pieces designed just for each other, and sounds of sensuous and sensual activity soon began to fill the carriage. Sukuna’s hands trailed down your ass as you kissed, and he didn’t waste any time before shoving your panties aside, and pushing one, then two, fingers in.
The unexpected action elicited a moan from your lips, and you tugged and pulled at Sukuna’s hair as if searching for leverage against the assault between your legs.
His fingers curled within you and moved at a speed that accelerated every second; the painful realization had soon hit you, that, God, you had truly missed this feeling. Slick dripped down your legs, and was, probably, staining the material of Sukuna’s pants, but it wasn’t like either one of you cared.
One of Sukuna’s hands gripped onto the flesh of your ass, while the other toyed with and fingered your dripping cunt; his lips moved against yours like an animal in heat, whilst your arms had been thrown and looped around his neck. The carriage shook and wobbled as it traversed the uneven roads, and that pushed you even closer to Sukuna, leaving you in quite the scandalous position—with your tits pressed up against his chest, your hands tangled in his unruly hair, and his mouth on yours.
It was a missed feeling—the salty taste of his lips—and when the both of you parted, for the inconvenient sake of catching your breaths, Sukuna moved the hand on your ass to shove the top of your dress down to your waist, leaving you nearly bare: in all your glory—just for him.
His eyes roamed your body like a predator admiring prey, and while you leaned your front against him, Sukuna leaned his head down, to your shoulders, to kiss at and suck at all the exposed skin he could reach.
It was incredibly lewd—the sounds you released, and you couldn’t even fathom how the others would react if they saw you: you and Sukuna, doing whatever the hell it was that you two were doing at the moment.
As your volume increased, so did the speed and velocity of his fingers. There was a warm feeling at your core, and you soon found yourself releasing all over his hand—still deep within your cunt—as pornographic moans and cries and mewls escaped your throat.
“Nnghh! Hah, mphh, Sukuna . . . Sukuna—Sukuna!” His name left your lips like a prayer, and you could only hope that the pearly gates would still open for you after this hell of a carriage ride.
“You are . . . inimitable, my love,” he purred, “and extremely, inhumanly bewitching. Fuck, do you think you’re wet enough to take it? I am afraid I cannot loiter any longer.”
It didn’t matter what you thought; you knew you were, and as Sukuna lifted your hips, before bringing them down right onto his cock—which filled you to the brim, and impossibly more than last time—you knew this carriage ride would probably be your last. At least, it would be your last carriage ride with him.
Your hips were raised, before they were repeatedly slammed back down with enough force to bring the both of you crashing down onto the seats; your tits bounced, whimpers left your parched throat, and you could barely hold onto Sukuna’s shoulders for balance and support as the carriage began to jolt and jerk uncontrollably, causing unbearably pleasurable friction.
Heaven’s sake, how bumpy was this road?—goddamnit.
In addition to the bouncing of the carriage, the hands and claws digging into your ass, the marks and bites being left on your chest, there was also the rough thrusts from Sukuna, which brought you nearly over the edge. Your eyes rolled back into your head as the tip of Sukuna’s cock could be felt penetrating all the way in your guts, and to add on to the smell of sex wafting through the humid air, the discordant melody of your moans certainly added a little bit pizzazz.
You wanted more, you needed more, you craved more.
Sukuna’s length and girth slid up the walls of your cunt, and you swore you could feel every pulsing vein of his cock as it moved and twitched. You were so unbearably full; you struggled to form full words, and most of them only contributed to unintelligible sentences meaning nothing.
“Ahh, nnghh, hahh, mmph.”
“What, don’t tell me little Miss Untouchable over here is suddenly feeling pleasure from some low-life bastard such as I,” laughed Sukuna, who, for some reason unbeknownst to you, still had some humor left in him even whilst he had fucked you into putty in his hands.
“I . . . nnghh, do you ever stop talking?”
Sukuna laughed, a husky, dark laugh, before bringing you in for the most zealous kiss you had ever kissed. Your lips collided, smacking against each other’s, and your hands clumsily roamed each other’s bodies, before one last jolt of the carriage had you feeling every inch of Sukuna’s length in the absolute right-est spot you could ever imagine, and as you moaned into the kiss, the knot in your stomach tightened just as before, and you almost felt like you were under drugs as you came.
Sticky, hot, and warm.
Unbearable, highly bothersome, and completely insane.
You were filled to the brim with Sukuna’s seed just a moment later, and a string of saliva from your lips connected you and Sukuna for a few seconds more as the both of you pulled away to catch your breaths.
“Now, before I go and do something foolish,” began Sukuna, still partially panting, “tell me, dear, do you feel like rejecting another man’s proposal today?”
synopsis; you’re his knight, and he’s your prince. (if only it were that simple.)
word count; 6.6k
contents; satoru gojo/reader, gn!reader, royalty au (..but no effort put into making it historically accurate in any way oops), knight!reader x prince!toru!!, childhood friends, mutual pining, fluffy overall, some hurt/comfort too, vague allusions to abuse (reader is punished by one of the castle maids as a child but it’s only really hinted at), knight!reader is horrendously devoted but prince!gojo is arguably worse, he would burn the world down if u asked nicely <3
a/n; big big BIG thank you to @/teddybeartoji for having the biggest brain in the galaxy and infecting me with this concept <33 if u pay attention while reading you can tell the exact moment i started slowly spiraling into insanity
you are five years old when you meet the prince.
five years old, a mere child, and too young to be blinded by such brilliance. too young to be where you are; curled up in a dark alley, back against a grimy brick wall, covered in bruises. like a beaten dog — scrawny and afraid. waiting for a strike that never comes.
the boy in front of you is also five years old, but you don’t know that. something in him looks older, somehow, something in the way he carries himself. like he doesn’t have anything to be afraid of. like he’s never even felt fear. he parts his lips and speaks like he has the right to, like he’s comfortable in his own skin, a radiance so blinding you could mistake him for the sun. too much for you to bear.
”does it hurt?”
the words fall on deaf ears. but you flinch, your body reacts, a tremble down your tiny spine. you hear the sound but not the words. too mesmerized, too paralyzed, unable to look away from the blue of his eyes, painted with rich watercolour hues. seeping into the world around you like ink on paper, cobalt and aquamarine and something else, something you’ve never seen before —
a blue so jarring it makes you shiver.
the boy has an innocent face. almost girlish, plump cheeks and long lashes, clean clothes and smooth skin. a little too pretty to be out here, you think, in this part of town — too pure to be anywhere near someone like you. he’s above you, that much you can tell. a pretty, innocent face, untouched by dirt or ache; the face of royalty. an entirely different species.
there’s something keen in his eyes, a contrast to his childlike features. a sharp gaze, something that sees through you, something that won’t look away. something mildly frightening. enough to have you cowering in fear, hugging your knees closer to your chest.
but then he smiles. and it’s sincere. sweet, vibrant, all honey and milk and a world you cannot reach.
a smile so captivating you take his outstretched hand, and let him drag you away to god-knows-where.
(that's how it begins. the dynamic that’ll follow you into your adult lives; satoru takes the lead, and you follow. no matter where he’s going.)
satoru gojo, as you soon come to learn, is the prince of the nation you reside in. the only child of the royal family, born with talent and prestige, fame and fortune, set to become king. a different species, indeed.
but he brings you home with him, to a castle so grand you feel as if your very presence is an insult to the architects who designed it, and convinces his parents to let you stay. it’s surprising, but you don’t protest; following him like a puppy at his trail. and he’s stubborn, insistent, demanding that he get to keep said puppy.
the king and queen don’t care one way or another. they glance at you with apathy, and tell satoru to do what he wants — but convincing the scary and displeased castle maids takes some work.
satoru doesn’t waver, though. he holds your hand in his, and demands that you be treated with respect.
and he wins. he always wins.
that’s how you become the prince’s playmate. raised alongside him, allowed to stay close, eat from the same food. he won’t settle for anything less. defending your honour, always, before you even know what honour means. before you care.
time passes slowly. joyously. every day is a new adventure, as you attempt to get used to the miracle that is your new life — sweet and silky, apricot blossoms and fresh peaches, duvet pillows and a bubbly laughter you didn’t know you still had. he coaxes it out of you, with every secret midnight outing, every bout of mischief he drags you both into.
satoru has nice hands, uncalloused palms, fingers that grasp yours and don’t let go. he takes you outside, to see the stars, to catch fireflies in the dark of night on top of the hill that oversees the castle. to take a dip in the river just below it, gleaming a silver hue under the blue shade of the moon. you worry about getting in trouble, but he reassures you — the prince can do what he wants.
that might be true, but you are no prince. not even close. satoru may safeguard you, but all you’ll ever be in the eyes of the world is a stray he got to keep.
and one time, only one time, you do face the repercussions of your midnight outings. you, and you alone. a bad influence — seething words, buzzing in your ears. an angry castle maid, and a stinging pain in your cheek. blurry tears.
but that’s an incident no one in the castle dares to speak of.
(you’ll never forget that look in his eyes.)
satoru is an odd boy. he keeps you close, always, clinging to you like he needs you to breathe. you don’t understand why, but you’ve learned not to question him. the castle guards all know you as the prince’s best friend, and some part of you knows that’s all you’ll ever amount to. but you don’t mind.
because you love him. at five years old, six years old, seven and beyond, you love him. satoru gojo, the kindest boy in the stratosphere.
a boy who keeps finding you, no matter where you are, who tugs you along as naturally as the rise of the sun. who raids kitchen cabinets with you and always makes you laugh, little giggles and chuckles that have him beaming proudly. a boy who cleans your wounds with a serious expression, and tells you that he’ll protect you forever.
(you tell yourself the same. that you’ll protect him forever and ever, until you run out of air to breathe. a boy so sweet you’d die for him.)
a pledge is made. you make it before you know what a pledge is. pledging to protect him, to become his sword, because even as a child you understand that his life will be difficult. you see it in the dullness that sometimes comes over his eyes, the apathy of his so-called parents, the hours he spends locked up with nothing but a pile of dusty books to keep him company.
so you decide to become his knight. his, and his alone.
it’s challenging. but you push through; training with another aspiring knight, miles better than you, black hair tousled by the breeze as he knocks you off your feet for the thirtieth consecutive time. wincing as the girl who sometimes watches your sparring patches you up, soft hands cleaning your wounds so tenderly that you almost choke up.
and eventually, as the apricot blossoms of the castle orchard wilt and bloom over and over in a flurry of pure white, your dream comes true.
there’s something playful in satoru’s eyes, when he places his blade on the curve of your shoulder. something sweet and fond, and just a little bit ironic — as if you’re still seven years old, and playing house.
you want to tell him that it isn’t a joke. that you’re serious, about this, that you’d tear your stomach open to keep him safe. but you know he’d just laugh. so you let the words clog up your throat, honey-sweet devotion sticking to the walls of your esophagus. breathing in through your nose, as he speaks. as the words you’ve waited to hear flow from his glossy lips.
when all is said and done, satoru smiles. he calls you his little knight, and you can tell that he’s teasing you. indulging you, as if he’s in on some joke that you aren’t. but you’ll take what you can get.
you call him my prince, expecting him to laugh it off, but his smile begins to fall. and a pang of ache rushes through your soul, instantaneous, guilty, although you don’t understand why.
so you keep calling him satoru. even though it’s more than a little unprofessional, and you become painfully accustomed to receiving a few judgemental looks here and there. a knight and a prince shouldn’t be so very close, they think, and you don’t disagree. but there’s nothing they can do about it, anyhow.
the prince and his knight can do what they want.
not much changes. you’re his knight, but he treats you the same as before. he’s playful, a little goofy, and you indulge him. as always. attached at the hip, bickering and bantering, bouncing off each other effortlessly. and satoru never bothers to hide your history, the soft spot he has for you; it’s in every fleeting glance, soft tilt of his head, teasing call of ah, there’s my favorite knight.
(you’re no stranger to jealous looks. sometimes a pout on the lips of a pretty girl, a crease between the brows of one of your fellow knights. and sometimes a glare, from his fiancée — a woman he was engaged to before he was old enough to speak.
but you don’t mind. you’ve never cared what anyone but satoru thinks of you.)
satoru never loses his smile, that effortless air of confidence. the charm that makes people want to follow him, a charisma you know well. one you fell victim to at five years of age. he’s still just a prince, far from being a king, but he receives the same respect.
and that keen, sharp glimmer in his eyes never quite goes away; the hardened shell around his heart unbroken. you see it in fleeting glances, during meetings, ones he allows you to attend despite your status. when he speaks to a room of people with more power than you can imagine, his voice unwavering. back straight. elegant, serious, the presence of royalty — enough to receive respect without even trying.
but he still shoots you a smile, easygoing, when your eyes meet. one only you can see.
as for you, the step into knighthood is a clumsy one. but you take your duties seriously, and adjust properly. a deep devotion runs through your veins, from your beating heart down to the tips of your fingers, where a sword lies clutched. you keep it close, always, ready to serve. to obey. to protect.
all of it for one person.
all you do is for him. duels in his honour, beasts slain for his peace of mind, and he’s always there to welcome you back. wiping the blood from your cheek, tenderly, smearing his untainted skin with red; all while he looks at you softly, a coo or word of praise waltzing on the tip of his tongue.
that’s only for when you remain unscathed, though, when the blood on your cheek isn’t your own. when you get hurt, it’s different — something begins to brew inside his eyes, and you can’t tell what it is. but he insists on bandaging you himself, paying no mind to your meek protests.
sometimes, you’re more reckless than usual. your injuries worse. sometimes he looks upset, angry with you, and doesn’t speak. you don’t, either.
a strange look comes over his eyes, every now and then. when you get down on one knee, to kiss his hand, the metal of the ring on his finger — and if you look up, you’ll see it. simmering inside those blue depths, something just as fond as it is sad. troubled, you think.
(something tells you he’d kneel, too, if only you’d let him.)
the bond between you remains intact. even as you begin to shoulder more responsibilities, more duties, even though you don’t have as much freedom as you used to. even though you seem to get less time to spend with each other every single day. but you stay together, even so; just like when you were children, running around and causing trouble, more than you could get away with now.
despite everything, satoru has grown up into a fine man. and you couldn't be prouder.
“do you think i look good in black? be honest.”
you throw him a glance. curious, somewhat perplexed, eyeing him up and down.
satoru is wearing a white blouse, puffy sleeves and a low neckline, showing off the skin of his bare chest. no black colours to be seen. you think back to that banquet he attended last month, forced into an expensively tailored black coat. a corset around his waist. and then you hum.
“sure you do.”
”suguru said it makes me look like a try-hard,” he scoffs, crossing his arms. tilting his head in your direction. ”do you think he’s jealous?”
”definitely.”
a moment passes.
satoru narrow his eyes, and gives you a dubious look. clicking his tongue. ”… something tells me you aren’t taking this seriously.”
”i am,” you assure him, a lazy smile at your lips. meeting his gaze, that displeased little pout. still smoothing a brush down the mane of your horse, the smell of hay soothing your muddled senses. ”just tired. you look good in anything. you know that.”
he hums. silent, the sound of a spring breeze filling in the gaps.
it’s late. outside the stables, the world is engulfed by a dark sky, almost too murky to see anything. hazy stars glimmer in the distance, and a sense of fatigue gnaws at your bones. it’s been a long day, and yet you’re here — doing even more work. just a little more.
and satoru’s right there with you. even though he’s just sitting there, on the floor, not lifting a finger to help. not that he has to. insistent on spending some quality time with you, keeping you company. just talking and munching on the food he snuck in, bread and cheese and an expensive bottle of wine, that he leaves completely untouched. he tries to leave some of everything else for you, though. keyword being tries.
a sense of peace simmers in the air. palpable, almost enough to taste, as midnight air streams in from the opened doors, chilly and pleasant on your skin. ruffling the thin fabric of your clothing.
and it’s nice, you think, just to have satoru there — talking about this and that, complaining about all the annoying people he had to meet yesterday, yawning every now and then. nostalgic. like this, it almost feels like you're still kids. back when you spent every single hour of the day by each other’s side.
it’s been a long time since you got the chance to speak like this. satoru’s been busy, and so have you. more so than usual.
”are they running you ragged?” he suddenly asks, and you don’t realize you’ve spent the last minute staring into space. resuming your brushing, with steady hands, but turning your head to meet his gaze.
”need me to…” he makes a slicing motion with his hand, right over his throat. a glint of mischief in his eyes. ”handle it?”
and you scoff. amused, but answering him seriously; unsure if his question is all-together humorous, if it doesn’t carry a hint of something genuine too. ”of course not.”
there’s a weariness in the way you blink. the way you pet the animal in front of you, having finished getting the dirt and blood clots out of her mane. she lays down in her stall, and you smile. turning around to rest your back against the wooden border between you, a respite for your aching bones.
it gets just a little bit tiring, sometimes. fighting, patrolling, helping townsfolk. protecting the castle, making sure everything is in order. killing whatever needs to be killed. cleaning the stained silver of your sword.
but…
”it’s my duty,” you answer, seriously, and it comes out sounding like a vow. because it is.
you avoid his gaze, but you can feel it, as you pick up the wine bottle by your feet and pop the cork. soft moonlight flits in from the windows, illuminating the green glass. a chartreuse glow that reminds you of fireflies, shimmering in your grasp, and for some reason it soothes your heart.
satoru only hums, far from approving. popping a piece of cheese into his mouth.
after a brief pause, he continues. ”you don’t have to be so serious all the time, you know.” his voice comes out a little raspy. it’s got a certain tilt to it, one that means he wants you to take him seriously. ”not around me.”
you take a sip of the wine. expensive, blood red. it’s too sweet for your taste, heavy on your tongue.
”… i’m less serious with you than i am with others.”
satoru sits up a little straighter.
”yeah?” he grins, a kind of satisfaction blooming in his eyes. cerulean and sweet. almost smug, you think, like the cat that got the cream. ”that’s good. you really should loosen up, though.”
a glance. fleeting, just to see him — but he isn’t looking at you. he’s looking outside, through the opened window, at the sway of the apricot trees. white petals flitting in, landing by his feet. in his hair.
when his eyes meet yours, they’re smoothed over by that something you can never put your finger on. a blend between longing and fondness. crinkled at the edges.
”you’ve got a pretty smile,” he exhales. ”be a shame not to show it off.”
when you look at him, really look at him, you see it. that fatigue. it slips out when he talks to you, a sincere way of speaking that never quite allows him to hide his emotions. you hear the hint of a yawn, can practically feel the weight on his shoulders. the weight of an entire nation. a weight he was always bound to carry.
(you could never bring yourself to be even remotely alright with it.)
“have you been doing okay?” you ask, and satoru blinks. there’s a soft look in your eyes, as they trail over the contours of his face, his lashes catching the light of the stars. an innocent, pretty face. but he looks tired. frail. like he hasn’t been sleeping properly.
something rotten bubbles up inside your throat.
”they’re running you ragged, too,” you say, hand settling on your hip. where your sword usually is. unconsciously, on instinct — or maybe just to make him laugh. ”need me to step in?”
satoru chuckles. husky, mellow. dripping with soft amusement.
”settle down, little knight.”
a moment passes. silent. his eyes flutter shut, for a second, and a breath slips from his lips. almost a sigh. in the distance, you hear the quiet coo of an owl.
”of course,” he eventually answers, opening his eyes. and you think he looks a little resigned. but smiling. self-deprecating, you think, although he’d like you to assume otherwise. ”all of it is just preparation, anyhow.”
a flimsy smile, as he looks into your knowing eyes. ”it’s what i was born for, wasn’t it?”
you purse your lips.
“… i don’t think so.”
another chuckle. a little delighted, this time.
“yeah,” he cranes his neck, emitting a low groan. “me neither.” something sweet blossoms in his eyes, sweet like the crunch of the apple he bites into, juice dribbling down his chin. ”but it is what it is.”
a beat. you part your lips, trying to find the right words. ”tell me if there's anything i can do,” you settle on. the same words you always choose. ”anything at all.”
satoru smiles. “right.” his voice carries a teasing tilt; almost a purr. ”there’s nothing you wouldn't do for me, hm?”
“— there isn’t.” you smile. “nothing at all.”
he blinks. a little dazed, for a second, and you watch as his ears redden. slight, enough for you to notice, but gone before you can bring it up. a contemplation smooths over his features. and a pleasant breeze flits in, ruffling his hair, apricot petals kissing up his skin. he looks at the apple in his hands.
then he sighs. placing his palms on his knees, and rising to his feet. his arms twitch, muscular beneath the flimsy blouse, and you gulp. although you aren’t sure why.
“alright, then.” his eyes flicker in the dim light, sharp and decisive. he crosses over to you with long strides. “there is something you can do.”
when he’s close enough, satoru reaches out his hand; opening his palm. a silent beckoning. you look at him, not saying a word. his expression is unreadable.
then you intertwine your fingers with his. unquestioningly, even in the midst of your confusion.
(it reminds you of that day. when he pulled you up to your feet, held your hand in his and refused to let go. leading you to the promise of something better.)
no matter where he goes, you follow.
and satoru grins. it’s sweet, just like back then, a smile so vibrant you wish you could tuck it into your sleeve and keep it there forever. he curls his fingers around yours, gentle, fondness bubbling up inside his eyes. for a second, you think you see the sun.
“come with me.”
at first, you truly aren’t sure where he’s going to take you. hand in hand, you begin to walk, feeling the midnight breeze nip at your skin. beyond the castle walls, away from the hustle and bustle of the nearby town. satoru holds your hand and smiles, tousled tufts of white hair swaying with the wind, leading you to a place you know well. a place where the air tastes like freedom.
it’s the river you used to play by as children.
gleaming a solemn silver under the evanescent moon, framed by bushes of lilacs, blooming indigo and violet and pure white. butterflies flutter about, almost glittering, blue wings settling down on the leaves. the scent of nectar hangs heavy in the air. on top of the hill just above you, you think you can spot tiny little glowing dots; green and yellow, buzzing around. dancing merrily, now that there aren’t any troublemaker children left to trap them.
satoru lets go of your hand, to roll up his sleeves. the hems of his pants. then he’s taking a step forward, dangerously close to the edge of the river, and you can tell what he’s thinking.
“ah — wait —“ you stumble forward, to grab hold of his arm. a worried crease forms between your brows. “that's dangerous, satoru. you could slip and fall.”
he turns to face you, a teasing mirth in his eyes. smirking lightly. “oh? is that so?” he hums, a slight tilt of his head. then he’s stepping closer, so close you feel his warm breath on your skin, but you will yourself not to step back. “wanna know what i think?”
he leans forward, just a little further, warm air brushing against the shell of your ear. flushing beneath it. his voice comes out low, a sleepy lilt, dangerously raspy. hand ghosting over your waist.
”i think you’re too scared to get in.”
you blink.
”… really?” you deadpan, stepping back a tad. satoru looks pleased with himself.
“really,” he purrs. “you were always like that. could barely dip your toes in without shivering.” he reaches out to pinch your cheek, a coo on the tip of his tongue. ”scaredy-cat.”
you raise an unimpressed brow. satoru steps back, inching closer to the river, until a quiet splash tells you that he’s standing in the water. lapping up his bare legs, not enough to even reach his knees — it felt a lot scarier when you were smaller. he’s still holding your hand, very loosely, fingertips ghosting your own.
“c’mon,” he coaxes. soft, encouraging, a playful glimmer in his eyes. teeth catching the light of the moon. “or is it too much for my brave knight to handle?”
satoru laughs, when that makes you furrow your brows, attempting to hide the flush of your cheeks. a warmth spreads through your chest at the term of endearment, and you bite your lip. melting a little.
his knight. his favourite knight.
“... fine,” you tangle your fingers in his own. sighing deeply, taking a tentative step forward. “just be careful, okay? i don't want to deal with your whining if you hit your head.”
“ah, but you’d kiss it better, no? if i asked?” he flashes you a honeyed grin, eyes rich with amusement. you hope the darkness of the night is enough to hide the red of your ears.
a grumble buzzes in your throat, locked behind your pursed lips. something in your jaw goes tight.
the man in front of you softens. parting his glossy lips. he says your name; slowly, thoughtfully, as if savouring every syllable. dragging them out, speaking with a lilt that tells you he’s being sincere.
“— loosen up. it’s just you and me.”
so you do.
and it’s odd. how easy it is to get lost in him, the watercolour of his eyes, the brightness of his grin. how pliantly you let him whisk you away. before you know it, you’re playing in the water — because satoru splashed you, laughing at the shock on your face and the shiver of your spine, and you had no choice but to retaliate.
the sound of his laughter fills the air, sweet and bubbly. deep and giddy. strands of hair stick to his wet skin, droplets running down his neck, but his grin never falters. bright and toothy, boyish. he looks younger than you ever remember him being. like there’s no weight on his shoulders, none at all, only soaked fabric weighing him down. a flimsy, see-through blouse.
you think it’s ridiculous. two grown adults, splashing each other like children. but his melodic giggles are contagious, and before you know it, you’re laughing too — and satoru looks at you like you hung all the stars in the sky. through dewy eyelashes, with cerulean eyes that melt into the pale blue of the moon and the silver of the river. filled with wonder.
a particularly ruthless splash knocks him off balance, and he has the instinct to reach for your arm; stumbling, slipping, dragging you down with him. you land on his chest, cheek against his neck, his pulse against your skin. erratic, joyous. fluttering happily. his chest is heaving, lifting you up and down, a little, rhythmic and comforting.
a sudden yelp slips past your lips, as you get snapped back into reality, into the realization that you basically just pushed your own prince into a river and used his unfairly soft chest as a cushion. a mumbled string of apologies escapes you, as you attempt to get up, scrambling to find footing.
but satoru wraps his arms around you. tucking you under his chin, keeping you flush against his chest. nice and still.
and then he sighs. a blissful little breath, fatigue seeping out of him. into the air.
“stay like this, for a bit,” he rasps. ”it’s okay.”
his heartbeat resounds in your ear. warm and rapid, like claps of thunder, coaxing you into closing your eyes. satoru has always felt so very safe. the water of the river is cold, seeping through the fabric of your clothing and sticking to your skin, but…
(he’s warm.)
silence. and then, a whisper; frail, slipping past his lips, gently slicing the silence in half. softer than you've ever heard him speak.
“i missed this.”
…
nuzzling into his neck, you breathe him in. he smells like sandalwood and dried roses, buzzing with warmth, heavy arms around your waist. solid. when did he get so big? you used to be taller.
then again — that was a long time ago, wasn’t it?
“… me too.”
“missed you,” he continues, his jaw on top of your head. it’s a sincere confession; childlike in its innocence. “missed hearing you laugh like that. feels like it’s been so long.”
you stay silent. unsure of what to say. satoru continues, and you let his husky voice carry you away, the tremor of his chest running through your entire body. soothing like a lullaby.
”we haven't had much time together, lately. i’ve been worried,” he admits, and something about it strikes you as rather sheepish. a little ashamed. ”it bothers me that i can't be there to watch over you. make sure you're treated with respect, you know.”
a sleepy chuckle. muffled into his shoulder, almost a scoff — slightly exasperated. little droplets cling to his skin, sticking to your lips.
”relax, your majesty,” you tease. ”i promise the other knights aren’t bullying me.”
satoru pouts. you can hear it, when he speaks. ”i’m serious,” he huffs, squeezing you lightly. ”and it’s not them i’m worried about. suguru’s there.”
another scoff threatens to escape your throat. you want to tell him the only knight that should be suspected of bullying you is suguru himself, but before you can even think to part your lips satoru’s beaten you to it.
”they all treat you so carelessly.” there’s something cold to his voice, an irritation tugging at his teeth. oddly seething. ”like you exist to serve them. like you’re disposable.”
a moment passes, heavy with a silence so thick you don’t dare break it. when he speaks again, it’s an order. a demand.
”i want you to tell me if they go too far.”
silence. again. you can do nothing but gnaw at the flesh of your bottom lip.
(he isn’t wrong. but that’s simply what it means to be a knight — half-human, half-weapon. an unattainable ideal, stuffed inside a suit of armor.
when a weapon breaks under the force of a slash, the only choice is to throw it away. that much you know.)
”it’s fine. i’m not that fragile,” you weakly protest, but it’s not enough. satoru huffs.
”you’re a human being,” he reminds you. strangely stern, for once. chastising. ”you deserve to be treated with respect. knight or not. fragile or not.”
a deep inhale. he breathes in, and the rise of his chest carries you with it. his voice buzzes with something, a slumbering kind of fury. one you haven’t heard in years.
“if anyone gives you trouble — if anyone hurts you… if anyone makes you feel unsafe,” he almost spits the words, like they’re venomous, sacrilegious. ”tell me. i’ll destroy them.”
silence. and then, a chuckle.
that’s all you can manage; that one meek little breath. resisting the urge to cower, at the love that clings to every word he speaks. angered affection. a promise, dangerously genuine, like a growing wildfire. ”i can take care of myself, satoru,” you remind him. hoping it’ll soothe him. ”you know that.”
but his grip around you only tightens. gentle, even still. as if you’re made of glass, a firefly cupped in his palms. he lets the silence linger, for a moment.
and then;
“i’d do it, you know.”
“… do what?” you ask, though some part of you already knows.
satoru’s reply is instantaneous. an arrow hitting its target, cold and concise, decisive. frighteningly honest. almost a growl, flattened, a hint of teeth behind his soft lips. ”destroy them. anyone.”
”i’d tear this nation apart if you asked me to.”
…
(ah. that look in his eyes — one you remember well. strung together with blurred memories, the sting of a palm on your cheek, a castle maid you never saw again.)
you search for the words. biting back a gulp, hesitant. “… i wouldn’t.”
“i know.” satoru yawns, breathing you in, voice shifting back into the softness you’re so used to. your shoulders relax. “but i would. if that’s what you wanted.”
and it’s a little scary, the depths of his devotion. but you’re almost certain you’d do the same for him. maybe you're both a little sick in the head, a little too eager to serve your hearts on a silver platter.
“it bothers me, you know.” satoru breaks you out of your thoughts. gentle, a soft lull of his tongue. ”when you get hurt. when you fight for me.”
“i know,” you murmur. you’ve seen it in his eyes, a worry he’s not as good at hiding as he thinks. ”i want to, though.”
“and i want you to be safe.” a chuckle bubbles up in his throat, just a little bit rueful. “you never listen, do you? so stubborn, i swear. always worrying me.”
you bite down on your lip. he sounds… a little sad.
“… sorry.”
a moment’s pause. then he shakes his head; cradling you close. “it’s fine. i’m here. always,” his palm runs down the small of your back. ”in case anything happens.”
he inhales. ”and when i become king —” a beat. he swallows thickly. ”you’ll never have to worry again. no one will be able to touch you.”
”satoru,” you crack a small smile. amused. raising a single eyebrow. ”i’m not worried. i can protect myself.”
”i know. but i’m saying you don’t have to.”
and then he’s pulling back. just a little bit, just enough to see you. cheek smushed against his chest, comfortable and soft, more unguarded than he’s seen you these past few months. it’s enough to get his heart racing. enough to have him reaching out, fingertips ghosting over your hand, tangling your fingers together. bringing it to his glossy lips. a chaste kiss, brimming with unspoken murmurs of love.
”— i’ll protect you forever,” he vows. ”remember?”
there’s devotion in his eyes. heavy, a vow he’ll never quite be able to voice in full. something that makes the blue of his eyes glow even brighter, cerulean, aquamarine, a blue so jarring it makes your heart beat faster than it should.
you blink. starstruck, caught in a daze, lost within that sea of blue. distracted by his warm breath on your cold skin, the soft whisper voiced against your knuckle. something shy blossoms in your chest, enough to have you averting your gaze.
“... you really don’t care about the dynamic here, do you?” is all you can reply. a meek scoff, a weak attempt at hiding how flustered you are. “i’m the knight. i’m your protector.”
“oh, i know.” a smile sticks to his lips, playful, the back of his hand caressing your cheek. a coo on his tongue. “my little hero. what would i ever do without you?”
a roll of your eyes. satoru chuckles. in the distance, you hear crickets chirping, a breeze rustling the lilac bushes all around you. he’s still cradling your cheek, smoothing over your wet skin, brushing a drop of water away with his thumb. clinging to your bottom eyelash.
“i don't get it, though.”
you blink. when you meet his eyes, satoru looks a little perplexed. muttering under his breath, absently rubbing circles over your cheekbone. you resist the urge to close your eyes again, biting back a blissful sigh.
”a prince shouldn’t care for his knight…” he repeats, like he’s heard the string of words a million times before. ”the idea of that. i don’t understand it. never have.”
the smile that blossoms on his lips is soft, indescribably so, as if he’s looking at the most precious thing in his life. rich and warm, like wine in your veins, nectar on your tongue, a chest pressed against your own. dripping with fondness.
satoru tilts his head, as if in confusion — but he’s smiling. “what’s so strange about wanting to protect the one dearest to my heart?”
…
his hand slips from your skin, a warmth leaving your cheek. only to search for your hand, again, cradling it in his larger palm. placing it right over his chest, against the soaked material of his blouse. ”feel that?”
you do. a rhythmic rise and fall, a soft flutter from the depths of his ribcage. as if it’s itching to break out, out of the cage that binds it, the hardened shell around it. a heart too big for his body.
”it’s you,” satoru whispers. ”all for you.”
a moment passes.
silently, you lean forward; tucking yourself into his neck. into that comforting warmth, wet skin beginning to dry, the steady thrum of his heart right by your ear. you listen. not saying a word, afraid of what might leave the confines of your strangled throat. it feels as if your heart has begun to crawl upwards, sweet honey blocking your airways, and all you can do it feel it pulse.
all while satoru gazes at you, fondly. placing a big palm on the back of your head.
fireflies dance in the distance. butterflies flutter about. strings of lilacs bloom under the glow of the moon. and satoru’s heartbeat never changes, never falls out of tune, a sound you would recognize even if the sky were to shatter, if the world were to end. the sound that saved you, the boy who dragged you out of hell. into his light.
satoru gojo is everything. he’s the beat of your heart, the silver of your sword, the reason you believe in goodness. he’s your prince, your favorite person, and you’ll protect him until your very last breath. until the world runs out of oxygen.
a boy so sweet you’d die for him.
(a boy so sweet he wouldn’t want you to.)
a shiver runs down his spine — sudden, a shudder of his bones, and a quiet little sniffle. you feel it, hear it, and don’t attempt to bite back the fond smile that slips into the curve of your lips.
”c’mon,” you beckon, almost a coo, placing your palms on his chest to hoist yourself up. ”let’s go home.”
but satoru shakes his head. and then he traps you again, strong arms around your waist, pressing you against him. you could escape — you’re almost certain you’re stronger — but you don’t quite have the heart to. ”it’s fine,” he huffs. almost a whine. ”stay.”
”you’ll get sick.”
”i never get sick.”
a deep exhale. tumbling from your lips, just a little bit humorous. mostly exasperated. ”that can change,” you mumble, fingertips dancing along his exposed skin. absentmindedly.
a smile. one you can’t see, but you hear it clear as day. he sounds content, like he’s got everything he needs right in front of him. ”some things never change,” he informs you. pleased. ”just look at us.”
and he’s right. so you don’t say anything else.
but your heartbeat quickens, only for a beat or two, and you’re almost certain he feels it. if he does, he opts not to tease you for once, and you’re grateful. and so the silence lingers. as if time has begun to freeze, into an eternal dusk, a string of silent seconds. broken only by low melodic chirping from faraway fields, his soft breaths in your ear.
until satoru suddenly chuckles.
“hey,” he hums, shifting a little, the river swaying around you. pulling back to meet your gaze, eyes crinkled and voice raspy. “wanna know a secret?”
you raise your head. a dubious look on your face, one that has him breathing out an amused puff of air, like you’re getting ready to hear a bad joke. “... what is it?”
before the words have fully left your throat, he’s resting his forehead against yours — breath fanning over your lips. a pleasant shiver trails down your spine, at the close proximity, goosebumps spreading across your chilled skin. only exacerbated by the whisper that follows, so quiet you almost don’t know if you heard him correctly. childlike in its sincerity. a sunlaced smile woven in between the vowels.
“i think i was born to meet you.”
(a sentiment so sweet you barely even feel the warmth of his lips meeting yours.)
➷summary: a princess betrothed to a roman emperor whom she despises for his cruelty, sets her sights upon an ethereal looking arrival into the arena and is struck with an overpowering curiosity. the gladiator’s skilfulness earns him the emperor’s favour, keeping him alive for now, while the princess sneaks through the silence of the night to meet with him in secret — blooming with something the emperor could never bring to life
➷genre/tags: gladiator au, forbidden romance, sneaking in the night, historical au, the roman empire, strangers to lovers, female princess reader, gladiator gojo, smut (in the second part), angst with a happy ending, bit of fluff, smitten gojo, lots of yearning
➷warnings: implied misogyny and sexual harassment, description of violence and injuries/death, mentions of blood and vital organs, weapons, reader called princess a lot (cause she’s one, like literally)
➷word count: 11.3k
a/n: hello lovelies, it’s been so long since i last posted! i am genuinely finding myself in the biggest writer slump i’ve ever experienced, hopefully that’s past me now. here’s the promised gladiator au. in the end I decided to separate it into two parts, otherwise it’d be way too long and i doubt that anyone would actually read it. be sure to let me know if you’d also like the second part as well. no more yapping, enjoy!
The Colosseum is filled to the brim with people, standing and cheering loudly as the fight unfolds in front of them right down in the arena. The sun rays down at the circle shaped creation with no mercy, its strength wearing you down. Eager and bloodthirsty roars echo through your ears as swords clash, the sound of metal blended with the overwhelming buzzing of people. You fight the disgust lacing into your features as you sit in the area reserved for royalty, seated inches behind the emperor himself as his bride to be. Your fingers grip onto the handles of your seat, causing the gold jewellery you’re draped in to shackle. You blink, and blood seems to gush out, spilling on the ground due to the merciless slash of a sword blownwed by the winner — piercing through the flesh of the loser. Screams pinch through the air, earning frantic chants from the audience.
The sight hurls your insides, causing a nauseous feeling to take over you as the intestines of the fighter flee out of his dismembered body, falling to the ground without any trace of life. Even more aversion swallows you as you catch the grin tugging at the ruler’s lips from your angle. He’s quick to stand up and clap, the whole arena dying down into pure silence in response.
“You have fought well my champion, though today’s fight is not yet to be finished,” his deep voice spills through the Colosseum, the audience remains quiet as you continue to be on the edge in your seat.
“Rise,” the Emperor tilts his head in your direction, commanding you. You don’t dare to defy him in any slightest as you know any of your slip up could resolve in one of his episodes. You delicately lift your body from the wooden throne, quick to close the distance between you, and to step under the weight of the burning sun which paints the sand floor in golden fury. You create a shield with your palm, blinking away the sunlight before locking your gaze with the man you’re promised to.
The man’s hand sneaks around your waist, bringing your side to his. Your hands fly out to rest at the railing made out of stone, feeling a piece of security. The emperor looks down at you with a twisted smile, deliberately crafted golden crown consisting of laurels resting at the top of his head.
“Bring out the prisoners,” his other hand gripping a golden cup is lifted into the air, a gesture of bidding. As soon as he speaks those words out, large gate opens up. The guards push dozen of men inside the arena — their hands buckled together in one iron chain, bringing their rate of survival against the champion to absolute zero. With spears pointed at their figures, they have no other option than to step on the battlefield under the eyes of hundreds.
Most importantly, the emperor himself.
“My lord, you are going to have them fight in chains?” your soft voice breaks out into the open, questioning the outlook of the situation. The men are offered a weapon against all odds, but being connected to one another is seemingly putting all of them into a disadvantage. From their filthy and bruised appearance it’s clear these men are mere prisoners or slaves. Trapped souls dragged into the arena, not as warriors but as bait for the amusement of the citizens.
“Yes, is it not exciting? It is all for you, my future bride,” from the tone of his voice it’s absolutely clear this man who is yet to be your husband is serious, assuming he’s pleasing you with this dehumanising act. It awakes a terrifying and electrifying wave of anxiety within you. The emperor is known for his cruel ruling and rational punishments, regardless of it, it never ceases to shock you just how merciless he can be.
You don’t protest, only smiling at him and moving your hand to rest at his chest in gratitude. All of it a scene, an act you feel you’re bound to preform in exchange for your safety. You have no power to do anything but watch, your eyes squinting upward at the sea of spectators before falling on the muscular figure standing across the arena in chains. The champion covered in bronzed armor that glimmers with polish, he stands with the casual grace of a justified killer. He’s armed with a simple curved blade which is still dipped in blood from its previous encounter, and a round shield, bearing the imperial crest. The champion is a living legend among the audience — undefeated and unscathed.
They chant the name of the gladiator as if it’s a sacred prayer to the gods.
It sickens you.
The dozen men murmur among themselves, panic rising in their expressions as they throw their sword from hand to hand. A nervous gesture signalling their rising worries as the undefeated gladiator makes his way towards them.
“We cannot fight him head-on. But if we use the chain together as our weapon, then we might have a chance,” a man placed at the end of the chain mumbles to the other men, but panic has already taken its hold. A few men scream and rush forward, dragging the rest behind them. The chain becomes chaos, jerking bodies in every direction and dragging some of them to the ground while The champion moves.
He’s swift, a blur of lightning speed as there’s no baggage holding him back.
The first man falls, his chest opened with a single slash of metal. Another tries to keep away, unfortunately he’s yanked back by the chain, straight into the champion’s killing stroke — keeping his streak of robbed lives. A third decapitates himself by bringing the weapon to his throat, ending his misery before he’s killed by the hands of others. Blood paints the sand, pooling on the floor. The survivors stumble back, heaving with eyes wide open as sweat drenches their bodies and are left bereft of oxygen. Four lie dead now, perhaps five. It’s hard to keep a track.
The crowd is screaming, drunk on the violence and the man who spoke before forces himself between the others, grabbing the chain and snarling something which goes unheard by the audience. Leaving you to guess whenever they listen or lead themselves towards death.
And indeed, they hear him. Out of fear, if nothing else.
A man with unusual ball of white hair directs them to move in a circle, to feint and pull in coordinated tugs. They spread out, using their own bindings as both weapon and trap. When the champion charges, confident. They act. One man dives in sacrifice, drawing the champion’s first swing. Another yanks the chain, unbalancing the warrior.
Like a tide, they shift, loop, and bind.
In moments, the champion is tangled into the chains with no room to move his body, imprisoned just like them.
Without a scratch, not hurt, but humiliated and bested.
The crowd holds its breath. The emperor whose face is painted with neutral expression as he stands beside you, raises a hand to give his final judgment.
His thumb points downward.
Death.
The champion’s eyes shift into utter panic, unable to move.
“Kill the man, drive a blade through his throat and you may live another day,” The emperor calls out to the six men who survived the bloodbath. Your head jerks towards him, brows lifted in surprise at the punishment to his favoured champion. The man captured by the chained prisoners breathes hard, unable to mask his fear.
“Your majesty, with all due respect, spare the man’s life,” you wrap your arms around his bare biceps, closing the distance between you before anyone else can interfere to kill.
“What was that, princess?” his cold gaze falls down at you and you tense up with a swirling cannibalistic terror that you might have overstepped your set limits.
“He is your champion, let him have at least a gracious death,” you modify your words, offering a kind hint of a smile in contrast to his calculation gaze.
The crowd awaits his answer in silence, your words not audible to any one else.
“You are quite right, dear,” his palm pats your shoulders, his proximity distancing and you loosen up in quiet relief. From both his words and his action of leaving your personal space.
“You,” the emperor’s finger points down at the man who strategically brought his champion to defeat “you will face the champion one on one. Battle for either life or death,”
Not exactly what you had in mind when you pleaded for the man’s life to be spared.
Your gaze follows the direction of his finger, landing on the clever prisoner who saved five other lives along with his own. The man’s hair is coloured pure white, the exact shade of your delicate tunic — unlike anything you’ve ever seen before. His features are quite a mess from the distance you’re facing him, the details tucked away. The blinding white of his locks and a reflection of his iridescent eyes are the only two things to be mapped out.
“I do not kill for amusement, your highness,” the prisoner is fast to decline, bowing down to his knee. The other men mimicking his motion, which only appears to anger the ruler further. You stand unmoving, frozen in fear of what’s coming.
“You are brave to defy my orders,”
“Do it, or else you and your men are doomed for the same fate,” the madman demands with a crazed smirk, turning his gaze to glance at you briefly. From below, the victorious prisoner looks up towards the royal box as the emperor announces his decision, breathing heavily with sweat and blood running down his face. His eyes dart to you standing next to him, noticing you for the first time. Seeing you look down at him, the man's exhausted gaze meets yours fleetingly, but his attention is quickly called back to your soon to be husband.
“As you wish, your highness,”
He has no other choice but to fight.
The sun blazes higher than moments ago as it reaches its highest peak, casting long shadows of the Colosseum. The crowd roars once more like a tidal wave of bloodlust and anticipation. At one side stands Valerian, the undefeated champion who’s been gifted a second chance, armour glinting like a god’s wrath in the sweltering weather, though there’s a certain hesitation in his movements now.
At the other side stands the white haired prisoner— no title, no name, no armor, just chains recently broken and scars scattered across his body. The crowd jeers, expecting slaughter. But there's something in his eyes — calm like the sea before a storm, it creates a pit in your stomach.
The horn rings and Valerian moves forward like a warhorse, his massive blade cutting through the air. The unknown white haired man dodges with impossible grace, grabbing a fallen shield from the sand, and ducking under the swing. The wind coming from the blow nearly taking his head.
He answers with a broken spear, driving it into Valerian’s knee.
Gasps echo through the arena, painting an amusing grin on the emperor’s lips as the giant falters.
From now on it’s a dance — brutal and desperate. Valerian attacks with the fury of a man defending his honour, but the unfamiliar prisoner slips through his reach again and again, turning every mistake into an advantage. He moves like a ghost with precise strike.
Another drops of blood stain the sand, leaving marks of the battle.
The prisoner’s shoulder is cut.
Valerian’s leg wobbles.
They circle around each other, crowd no longer cheering as the fight leaves them breathless.
Then, in a haze of a motion, the prisoner feints left, ducking from a wide swing. Only to drive a dagger which was stolen mid-fight into Valerian’s side. The champion instantly drops to his knees, meeting the gaze of his opponent one last time before collapsing to the ground like a house of cards, unmoving. The arena erupts while the bloodied prisoner stands and towers over the champion’s dead body, collecting himself from the overwhelming adrenaline of the fight.
“What do you think of him, my dearest?” it pulls you of the awing trance, sending you back to present. Not knowing whenever you should be disgusted or pleased with how the fight had turned out. Your hands soothe down your tunic, eyes fleeting between the victor and the man you’re betrothed to.
“He has proven himself worthy,” you shakily breathe out near the shell of his ear, orbs still unknowingly flickering down to sneak glances at the extraordinarily looking man with fur of white hair. Meanwhile you’re held by the one who’s been letting the empire to starve and suffer under his reign.
One thumb pointed up, mercy.
The marble halls of the palace glisten under torchlight. Silent and still as though the night itself holds its breath at your bravery. Somewhere beyond the columns and guarded doors, Rome sleeps — drunk on the violence performed in the arena earlier that day.
You move like a shadow. A princess, betrothed to an emperor you neither love nor trust, slipping through a hidden passage behind your chamber’s tapestry. Feet tapping against cold stone. A hood drawn over your head to conceal your face as a secret from passersby, draped in your silken robes.
Every creak of wood, every echo of footsteps sets your heart pounding incredibly fast in your ribcage. The guard’s numbers are smaller at this hour, their concentration dulled by routine and drinking too much wine throughout the day. You time your movements with the changing of the watch, slipping behind statues, darting through moonlit courtyards, where a loyal servant from your home waits at a forgotten gate meant for deliveries, holding a satchel and a stolen dagger.
Your eyes meet briefly, both of you know what’s at stake if your soon to be husband was to find out about your whereabouts.
He’d have your head.
You carefully step out into the open, beneath the night sky that belongs to no ruler. The city looms ahead. The streets dangerous, filthy and still alive. You inhale its scent which consists of smoke and liquor. Behind you, the palace glows like a gilded cage. A cage where you’ll harbour by the end of the night anyway.
You don’t look back again, despite the guilt and fright nibbling at you.
As you stroll through the alleys of the city that’s drifting off to sleep, you no longer feel like a locked up princess who’s been sent off into enemy territory to play out a pack of marriage to attempt for peace.
The Colosseum spreads out before you, vast and silent beneath the cloak of the night sky decorated with small lights of the stars — towering arches of the architectonic building looming like a massive beast, the roar of the crowd now just a ghost echo in the stone. You approach it with no hesitation, heading for a narrow side gate. One not meant for nobles like yourself, but for the lowest layers of the society.
A man scouts the entrance. Old, bend, one eye milky with age. He doesn’t speak and neither do you. He simply nods and lifts the iron latch with a screeching sound. A debt repaid, nothing more. One’s coins you never deemed to recollect til now.
Inside, the air shifts as you descend underneath the huge arena. It’s surprisingly cold and damp, your silky robe not providing enough of warmth. The flicker of torches guides you down the narrow stone stairs, the further you go, the more of death hangs in the air. You move quietly like a mouse through the corridors, hood drown low to keep your identity a secret, robes brushing the filthy floor. The cells appear, row opposite to another row, dark iron bars separating men from the world above and from each other. Some sleep. Others sit in silence, eyes distant. Barely acknowledging your wandering gaze. Your attention peaks all over the place, glancing in all directions to not miss the glimpse of white hair.
You have no idea what force urged you to hurry down here, risking your life for a stranger — as if the gods poisoned you, rushing you in here.
You freeze in motion.
He sits before you like a god carved from war itself. The torchlight dances across his skin which is faintly burned by the overwhelming force of the sun, tracing outlines of his defined muscles. His chest rises and falls with a slow, steady rhythm, broad and unyielding. You could see the trail of old battles on him, pale scars that curl across his shoulders, a jagged line down his side.
They should repell you.
They don’t.
There he sits in the shadows, head of white hair bowed, arms resting on his knees. No chains this time, but he’s caged nonetheless. You clear your throat, gentle enough to not scare him, and it works like a charm. He instantly snaps his gaze in your direction, straightening his posture — arms hang heavy at his sides now, thick with strength, veins popping like vines winding over stone. Even at rest, there was a quiet violence to him, mixed with ethereal features of those worthy of being a prince. You had seen marble statues with less perfection, but none with heat of a real man.
“Who is there?” he asks, his voice a low growl as he tries to make out your figure in the darkness which perfectly helps you mask your identity as well.
“It matters not,” you respond firmly in the dark, keeping a reasonable distance between you and the bars. Partially out of fear, who knows what else he’s capable of after what you saw in the arena. The newly crowned gladiator looks at you, his expression guarded with suspicion but also curiosity. A scoff escapes past his lips.
“You are hurt, are you not?” worry embodies your tone, not sure why as this is the first time you’re ever directly speaking to the gladiator.
“What is it to you?”he mumbles, sounding tough and unaffected by your mysterious presence. The man's hand moves to his upper body, carefully touching the slashed area of his shoulder, and wincing slightly at the lightest of touch.
“Nothing. Still, takes this,” you mumble with all the politeness you were raised to offer, regardless of the strange circumstances you’re finding yourself in and bend down to slide a numbing cream in between the bars. In a quick motion, not wanting to risk anything.
“It is a numbing cream, for your slash,” the gladiator gazes up at you with narrowed eyes after he scans the cream, a mix of confusion painting his face. He reaches out for the box you slid in, only then noticing the intensity of his penetrating orbs. The colour of them is darkened by the dim lighting, nevertheless, they still shine like they’re crashing waves of sea water splashing against the rocks at shore.
“How did you get your hands on this?” he questions gruffly, though there's a note of gratitude in his voice, while he looks between the cream in his hand and your cloaked presence.
“That is unimportant,” you breathe out softly, swinging your hand in the air to brush it off. You tug your hood lower as you feel it sliding upwards, revealing parts of you.
“If you are not here to mock me, what for then?”he utters neutrally, his voice less rough than the first time. His hand hesitates for a moment, dipping his fingers to gather the cream so he can apply it on his injured shoulder. He’s wincing lowly as soon as the cool substance touches his raw wound. A soft sigh follows, his nostrils flaring.
“To help you, I know it is something you are not used to. I simply thought you fought well,” you mumble back with a hint of nervousness, hands soothing down your silky robes — the hems layered with dirt from your outing. The white haired gladiator listens to your words, his expression hardening at the mention of his performance in the arena. His digits finish massaging the cream into his injury, treating it.
“I fought well, so what? Not that it matters. I will just have to fight again tomorrow, and the day after, and then the day after,” he rises to his feet, startling you a little with the swiftness of his movement. You retrieve a step, tilting your head up to somehow catch a glimpse of him — the hood blocking your view.
“You fought unlike anyone I have ever seen before. I am sure you will earn your place here. Temporarily, of course, before you are freed,” you whisper into the dead of the night while his hands reach for the bars, knuckles turning white from his tight grip. It makes you swallow a lump forming in your throat, this is probably the longest you’ve ever talked to a man alone. It doesn’t help he’s practically stripped of his garments, muscular chest to your display.
And most of all, he’s a vicious killer.
“Freed? You either must be delusional or naive if you think that will happen,” the gladiator can't help but snort at your words as he retorts, skepticism returning to paint his sharply defined features. Desperately trying to see past the hood covering your face.
“You simply have to be good, keep winning and charm the audience,” you advise him with all you’ve come to know over the months you spent here, even though he seems to find your behaviour naive. He falls silent at your statement, contemplating your advice.
“And how do you know that, huh?” he hums, still wary — letting out a long sigh and leaning against the chilly wall of the cell, gaze fixated on your masked figure.
“I have lived in city for a long time to see,” what you say is not hundred percent right, however, your time spent in the city is great enough to know how things work around here.
“Why not stop walking around the bush and tell me who you are?” he leans forward into the bars again while still fixating his somewhat cold orbs at you, demanding to drop the mysterious act.
“Trust me, it is safer for you if you remain unaware of my identity,” you chuckle quietly to yourself at his pressing demand, finding his presence shockingly welcoming. The gladiator listens to your words, his expression hardening at your chuckle. He lets out a low huff of annoyance, but curiosity pierces his system.
Just who exactly are you?
“You someone of importance? Someone with power?” he goes on, pushing you to give him answers.
“No one has power in city expect for the emperor,” you frown automatically at the harsh reality of being in the hands of someone so cruel. His expression mirrors yours, your truthful declaration resigning with him.
“You got a point there, mysterious stranger,” he mutters, his hand mindlessly touching his shoulder where the injury is. As if out of habit. There's a moment of silence between the two of you in which you step closer, hand reaching for the bar — your gold ring illuminated by the moonlight revealed to him, unbeknownst to you.
“I will bring you food the tomorrow, if you live, that is,” his eyes linger on the gleaming gold of your ring, processing your words, expression conflicted. Part of him wants to know more about you, to uncover the mystery that shrouds you, but he also understands your sense for secrecy.
“Alright," he finally responds, his voice gruff but with a hint of resignation.
“What is your name?” you keep standing by the cell, less afraid of what he’s to do. Curiosity gets the better out of you and since you’re half hidden in the safe embrace of your robes and hood, you ask. Otherwise you wouldn’t be as brave.
“Two can play the game,” he curves his lips into a lazy grin, huffing out and refusing to provide you with it.
“See you tomorrow, oh saviour,”
Days stretch out into weeks and each night, you slip past the velvet-draped guards and silent marble corridors due to the help of your loyal servant. Your heart pounds louder than anyone’s footsteps as you sneak through the palace each night, crippled with fear that you may be caught. One would expect a practiced ease due to how often you preform, however, it seems to make an opposite effect. You’re worried your luck of being unnoticed will run out. Though you can’t bring yourself to sleep peacefully without paying the white haired man a visit.
The gladiator. Your gladiator.
At first you told yourself you were doing him a favour, treating his slash. That you have no reason of coming back here.
And yet, here you are.
Time and time again.
He waits for you in the shadows of the cell below the training pits, always stiff at first, as if unsure if you’ll come. As if each time might be the last and you wonder if someday, it might truly be.
His body is bruised and bandaged from battles played out earlier in the daylight in front of hundreds, but you never him voice his complains out loud, regardless of how roughed up he ends up.
You silently admire that.
Meanwhile you’re betrothed to the emperor, unbeknownst to your gladiator, weak and forced to follow his orders. You’re the empire’s prize, it’s what they call you. A future empress, beautiful and admirable. Expected to bring prosperity and sense into the crazed mind of the ruler. Bring children to continue the lineage. But they don’t see how your hands tremble when you hear the crowd roar, how you flinch at each touch of your soon to be husband, how you perk your ears each night — hoping you’ll hear silence and not his footsteps.
What frightens you perhaps the most out of all is each time the gladiator steps into the arena. It feels like a piece of you goes out with him. You’re on the edge of your seat, nervously gripping at layers of your tunic as metal clashes in the arena. Each time he fights to live another day.
He might have earned the favours of people effortlessly and the emperor himself, nonetheless, how long can you steal moments in the dark with him before the light of the world finds out? Before the emperor learns that his bride’s heart doesn’t belong to him, that it never did nor never will. That instead, it belongs to a man with blood coating his sword at the end of each day?
Who knows what would happen then, in the best scenario — he’d have you both killed.
Despite all the risks, you don’t regret coming to him every night like a prayer and leaving each morning, feeling like a sinner. Though every day, you fear the gods are listening, judging and plotting against your odds.
“You are Greek, I can tell from your accent,” you finally let out what you’ve been meaning to for the past few days, from the moment you picked up on his light accent. It wasn’t noticeable at first and those not born on greek lands would overlook it entirely.
“I was born there, yes,“
“I was leading an army into a battle. Lost, got captured, travelled miles without knowing where we are headed. I stopped hoping after endless days of walking, and by a miracle landed here —into an arena in the capital of the empire,” he shares his story with you, glazing you with a form of vulnerability and the simple reality behind his path leading him to you. It leaves you feeling sorry for him, but you don’t wish to shower the gladiator in pity. You’re sure he’s had enough of time to do that himself.
“No wonder you are as skilled,” you point out instead, tone tender as ever. He snickers in response, watching your cloaked figure from the corner of his eye.
“Where from Greece are you?” you investigate, since there’s not much you know about the man and he’s the closest thing to home in months. He’s cautious, only offering what you’re offering. So you’re afraid he’ll brush you off like you usually do with him.
“I was born on Mykonos, however, my time there was short lived as I was quickly transported to Athens for training,” the mention of his home sparks a memory of your own island within you — shimmering in the late afternoon sun, its walls and painted columns casting long shadows. The sea breathing quietly in the distance, and the scent of salt and thyme carried on in the breeze. Bells echoing from the high towers, marking time. You’d walk alone, past frescoes of dancing bulls and gods with lion eyes, your sandals gliding over mosaic floors. A child of Crete, promised to an emperor across the great body of water. One you barely knew, but whose ships brought you to the heart of the empire. Your home might not be your home anymore, though your heart will remain anchored on the island forever.
How you dread being separated from it.
Knowing the foreign gladiator was brought from the southeast, thrown to the beasts just like you were, brings you a sense of comfort.
You’re about to answer, opening your mouth to spill something of your own, but the interruption of footsteps prevents you from it. You’re quick to stand to your feet, brushing dust off your silky robes. Panic seizes you, heart thundering in your chest as the sound circles closer and closer, until you’re met with the face of the gatekeeper.
Relief fast to embrace you.
“I am incredibly sorry to interrupt, but here is what you asked of me, princess,” the gatekeeper bows a little as he hands you the list of all the gladiators in the Colosseum, eager to depart from the both of you. Your efforts to keep your identity hidden are crushed in a fraction of seconds, by one word. You grip the papers tightly, pushing it into your pocket without giving it a look. Papers which were meant to reveal his name to you.
The blue eyed warrior stops dead at the sound of the man's words, his thoughts racing as he processes your title spoken into the hollow walls of the Colosseum.
"Princess?" he whispers, stunned at the unexpected revelation from the gatekeeper. The white haired gladiator stares at you in disbelief, his gaze no longer curious, but now utterly shocked from your secret flattening. He takes a step closer to the bars, his expression bathing in disbelief while trying to make sense of the situation. You offer him nothing but overpowering silence, head tilted to stare down at the floor.
“You are royalty?” he ponders — hushed, needing to hear the words coming from you so he can be sure his mind isn’t playing any tricks on him. He takes yet another step towards the bars, reaching his hand out to wrap it around the metal bar.
“No, you must have misinterpreted the situation,” you attempt to play the doomed situation down, voice shaken up due to the unexpected reveal. The man on the other side of the cell certainly doesn’t buy it as he continues to tower over you.
“Do not take me for a fool, I heard him call you a princess,”
You remain unmoving, debating innerly on what should your next step be. He knows, there’s no turning back. You could run, never show up here ever again. Only watch him from the box, married to the brute.
No.
Without a word, you lift your head from the ground, letting out a deep and long breath. Your hood slides backwards, revealing the lower part of your face. The gladiator is left breathless as he watches the scene he fantasised about for so long playing out before him. He’ll finally be able to capture the face of the one who’s become his reason to keep fighting. In the faint light, he can make out the delicate curve of your cheek, the gentle slope of your nose, and the fulness of your lips.
He leans in closer, nearly coming into contact with the iron material. The beat of his heart quickens, crazily drumming against his ribs, mind struggling to reconcile the fact that royalty’s standing right in front of him.
The intensity of his icy blue globes suffocates you with anxiety, hand reaching into the air to brush away the hood entirely. Revealing your face, the one he’ll surely be certain to put a label to. And indeed, the gladiator’s breath hitches in his throat as you push away your hood fully, showing him your face in its full glory and offering vulnerability. In the soft light, your features are even more graceful and delicate than he could have imagined.
As he studies your face with great detail, the realisation dawns on him. He recognises you. You’re the woman who sits by the emperor's side everyday, watching each fight play out with a horrifying expression painting her beautifully sculptured features.
You’re basically forced to dart away your gaze, his eyes urging you to feel like you’re standing completely bare in front of him. You survey the long corridor, brushing a strands of your coloured hair behind the shell of your ear. Though his attention never entirely leaves your frame, eyes tracing every feature, studying the way you brush away your hair. He can't help but be captivated by your beauty — similar to the one gods posses — a wave of conflicting emotions swirls through him yet again. He should be respectful to you as a princess, bow down to you. Though there’s a part of him that simply sees you as this mysterious woman who visits him night after night. Nothing more, nothing less.
A mysterious woman whom he thought to be a commoner, turning out to be a princess betrothed to the emperor himself.
“I suppose it must be tad of a shock for you,” you huff out, continuing to look somewhere to the side. Successfully avoiding the gladiator’s eyes, not fully ready to capture them once more.
“You could say that,” he replies, still studying your averted gaze, the sight bringing him to chuckle softly in amusement. He’s baffled by the overflowing emotions you’re portraying, the way you’re unable to fully lock your eyes with him — he’s taken aback by it, even more so since you’re the closest he’s been to a member of a royal family.
He should be the one to be nervous, not you.
You lightly shake your head, in disbelief of the situation, which causes your hair to come undone from the clip that had been holding it together at the back of your head. A few front strands fall into your vision, urging you to blow them away with your mouth. The gladiator watches with a devoted look, the hair framing the shape of your face like you’re in an ethereal painting. He then fully presses his body into the metal forming the bars, face sticking out in between the space with the intention of wanting to reach out and touch you.
He’s so close, regardless of the barrier separating you. One brief movement and he’d be able to touch you, but he’s careful to respect your boundaries. A certain warmth radiates off him, luring you to give in as his breathing fanes across your face. Still, his orbs remain utterly glued to the sight of you — admiring the shape of you and your soft looking hair enveloping the sides of your hair.
His mind is clouded with confusing desires.
The gladiator can't help but be taken aback by your alluring presence, his heart skipping a beat as you leap closer. He watches you intently, his gaze locked on your face while his mind races with thousands of thoughts per second. He reaches out, fingers gently grasping one of the bars — touch tender despite the rough calluses on his hands, but rather swift in response to his own pleas.
Your body flinches away out of fear at his fast movements, a habit you harvested throughout your months at the palace. The emperor is unpredictable, you never know if he’s about to soothe your hair, pinch your skin or something far worse. You curse yourself innerly for your doubts, because you trust this caged man more than you ever would your soon to be husband.
“I didn’t mean to startle you, princess,” his voice is smooth as he makes out your fear, even if it appears for a mere second. He is quick to retrieve his hand from the bar, remorse filling him up to the brim. He shouldn’t have let himself go, shouldn’t have forgotten that you’re royalty and you’re not used to being sought after so casually.
The gladiator whose name you’re still unaware of steps back, creating distance between you in an apologetic manner.
“No,” you let out quietly, closing the distance again to seek out his proximity by sticking your hand in between the metal barrier, waiting for him to take it and scoot over to you once more. Your gesture shows him that you’re not afraid of him, though you perhaps should be as you see what he does to other men inside the arena. However, you can see it pains him. That he’d rather be anywhere else, he kills simply out of the need for survival. If he didn’t strike first, then he’d be dismembered. That made you grow fond of him in the first place.
He’s taken aback by your unexpected gesture of trust, mixture of awe and hesitation overtaking his being. With a slow movement, he reaches out and gently wraps his much larger hand around yours, holding it soothingly. His hands are rough and scarred while yours look like they’re made of porcelain, polished and well taken care of. Your own heart stops for a moment at the difference in the sizes and at how surprisingly gentle he is with you.
“How did you end up at the mercy of the madman?” he holds your hand delicately as he asks you, as if afraid he might hurt you, knowing the strength he possesses.
“I was born on Crete. My father is the king of the island, one well connected. The second the emperor’s mother announced that her son is to be wedded, I was brought to a ship as a candidate,” his touch electrifies you, not in the same way when you were near other men in your life. Not that you have ever been left alone with one like this before — in the night with only dim light illuminating your vision, tucked away from the sights of everyone.
When you compare it to polite gestures with your suitors, it failed to do such as his touch. It failed to do half of what this man stirs in your insides.
Your father would be furious, yet the simple thought of it excites you. The forbidding atmosphere excites and scares you at the same time.
“Sadly he took a liking to me. And although I loathe to breathe the same air as he does, I have no other choice,” you finish speaking, hesitant to lock your gaze with his again. Your tone picks up on a hint of sadness, lacing your expression as you retell him the simple story of how you became the target of the emperor.
“I’m sorry, it is horrible, and you do not deserve it,” he gently squeezes your hand, and it feels refreshing to hear someone voicing out their sympathies. All you’d get from the noble society is how ungrateful you’re for not being over the moon, that countless of women would throw themselves off a cliff for a chance to meet the ruler. How gladly you’d let them have him instead.
“Do not apologise, you do not deserve to be treated like this either,” your free hand flies to the air, gesturing at the darkened place where a metallic smell of blood hangs heavily in the air.
“No need to worry about me,” he mumbles to interrupt you, shaking his head to strip you of your worries.
“But I do, each time you step into the arena,” the words are simple, yet holding an immense power.
He bends down to your level.
It happens in a quick moment, away from the eyes of courtiers and the weight of your duties. In a place where the air smells of iron and stone. A princess of Crete, a bride promised to the emperor, raised in silks and showered in gold jewels. You’re meant to be wise, untouched and perfect — served on a silver platter for the empire. But when you look at him, the gladiator chained in these dungeons, all of your problems seem to unravel and dissolve like sea foam. He isn’t beautiful in the way noblemen are. There is nothing polished or rehearsed about him. He stands in front of you, inches separating you, bruised from the acts of the fight. His eyes holding no brutality when they met yours. And at this moment, you’d trade all of your life and all those noble men for a simple taste of a gladiator.
You truly didn’t know why you kept coming back. But you did at the same time. You told yourself it was curiosity, pity, maybe even rebellion —though standing in front of him now with little space between you and the atmosphere heavy with something unsaid, you know it’s far more than that. You reach out absentmindedly, fingers slipping between the bars, brushing the line of his jaw. He doesn’t flinch nor forces you away, he welcomes it. His skin is warm beneath the pillows of your fingers, rough with scars, real in a way nothing in your world had ever been.
And then you slowly lean in, eyes fluttering shut in the process. Resulting in the fact you can’t make out anything besides the ramping organ in your ribcage.
Your lips meet, just barely at first. More a breath shared than a kiss. Something in you shifts into place as it happens though. It’s soft, then urgent, and another second you’re trembling with all the things you were never allowed to want, but dreamt of in secret. The white haired warrior kisses you back like he knows this might be the only time he’s offered the opportunity, like the moment is slipping through his fingers even as he holds you close.
It’s your first kiss, and it strangely feels just as natural as breathing.
You liked to imagine you’d share your first kiss somewhere in a garden, smelling petals of roses or at the foot of a golden throne with a prince. Instead you’re here, in the shadows, with a man whose name is a mystery waiting to be discovered. And still, none of your scenarios could compare to the real thing, to the heat shared between you as your lips move in sync with his.
“Satoru,” he whispers into your mouth in between your shared kisses, his hands slipping further past the bars to pull you closer by your perfect silky robes. Pressing you into the metal cell, in hopes of feeling your body against his.
“Satoru?” you repeat in confusion.
“Oh, Satoru,” you coo in realisation of his name, and whisper your own in addition.
“Say it again,” he demands, fingers brushing past your robes.
And you do.
Again and again and again and again.
It tastes sweetly on your tongue, just right.
And when you finally pull away due to the lack of oxygen, your lips are still tingling with the taste of him and suddenly, all is different. Your cheeks are flushed with a tint of pink, silently praying he won’t speak of it out loud. And he doesn’t, he actually seems to ride the same wave of adrenaline as you.
He clumsily sneaks and twists his hand in order to be able to caress the swell of your cheek. Pushing strands of your hair to rest behind your ear, causing you to chuckle fondly as the featherlight touch tickles you.
“Is there anything you would like for me to bring tomorrow, before your fight?” you suggest, hoping to make his time in the cell more accommodating.
“Just your company,” he smiles down at you, turning it into a smirk only a moment later. The one which grabs you by your throat, robbing you of any common sense.
Isn’t it crazy how one person can make you feel what other never could nor would in such a short period of time?
“I appreciate your flattery, but in all seriousness, do you not need anything?”
“No, your presence will be enough of a fuel,” he goes on, refusing anything before you even offer it.
“Do you think differently of me, knowing I am a princess?” you mumble worriedly, looking to the side for a while. Not wanting to appear pretentious, hoping his outlook on you won’t change despite him knowing who you really are.
“A stupid title will not alter the way I think of you,” his voice drops an octave, meant only for your ears. The gesture seemingly intimate, causing an entire havoc in your stomach.
You hold his face in your palms, memorizing the lines carved by his skills and the spots where the sun attacked brutally — surveying the kindness etched onto his features that hides beneath his nonchalant armour throughout the day. And you kiss him full of gratitude like you can press your soul into his, because by dawn, you both return to your cages.
It doesn’t matter whether it’s the arena or the palace.
The sun rises like gold urns pouring water over the city of Rome, spilling light through the stained arches of windows straight into your chamber. Soft beams brush against your bedsheets and the heading of your bed. You awake slowly as it reflects into your face as well, breath catching in your throat — not from your disturbed sleep, but from a creeping dread you could no longer push away.
Your wedding is in a week from today.
The scent of jasmine and rose water fills the room, meanwhile maidens move quietly as they notice your awake state to draw open the heavy curtains and to sett out gowns the colours of twilight and fire. All for you to try later in the evening. They smile as they walk past you, greeting you and whispering of the day’s important schedule. Their cheeriness brings you sorrows as they surely must picture you as their future empress already — you’re their fraction of hope for a better life. You force yourself to smile back, no sign of real joy as the rmperor’s image doesn’t stir your heart with same admiration as they imagine it does.
You sit on the edge of the bed, the silk sheets falling around you like waves. Outside, the palace garden blooms unnaturally early, flowers coaxed into blossom by alchemists to match the emperor’s vision of a perfect wedding day, not that he cares as much. Trumpets call faintly in the distance, and you recognise the sound instantly. The city below is already alive with celebration for your upcoming wedding. But all you feel is the weight of your duty, heavy as the golden jewellery you’re putting on.
A soft knock at the door echos through the walls of your room, handmaiden entering with a polite bow.
“The emperor sends word, princess. He awaits you in the throne room and then you will be allowed to have a breakfast,” is all she says before she places an ivory stola on the edge of your bed, disappearing with yet another bow. The long gown she brought fails to bubble up any form of excitement. You don’t move, gaze fixed on the horizon beyond the window, where smoke swirls through the air. Too mesmerised by yesterday’s occurrence, the ghost of Satoru’s touch shimmering you, regardless of his absence. The mere fantasy of his proximity sets you on fire.
Your nightly encounters are the only thing pushing you to get up, letting the maidens do their magic on you and slipping into the long gown your soon to be husband picked out specifically for you. You're standing tall, wrapped in the clothing which drapes over your shoulders like liquid moonlight. It’s beautiful, not what you’d choose but it works. The fabric is soft and cool against your skin, flowing down in elegant folds. Every movement feels you’re drowning in fluid, effortless. A delicate golden belt rests at your waist, shaping your figure not too tightly.
The palace buzzes with preparations for your upcoming wedding day as you stroll through the corridors of the palace to reach the throne room — golden silks hung, rose petals thrown across marble floors, laurels placed on the columns, songs rehearsed to honour an empire’s union by perfecting hymns dedicated to Venus and Juno. The goddesses of love and marriage. The sound nearly sickens you, the mere thought of standing in front of the altar with your palms rested in his and giving him your youth for free wrenches your gut. And for a moment, it truly feels like you might throw up. Especially when you reach the throne room, your heart thundering against your ribs like it might give out any second.
The emperor sits on his tremendous throne decorated with reflecting gems at the far end of the room, draped in crimson and gold robes. His presence nothing compared to the vastness of the room — he looks like a boy, a fool pretending to be a ruler and yet, you’re at his mercy. The throne is a masterpiece on its own, carved out of the finest marble. Unlike the ruler, it seems to pulse with the weight of power.
“Ah, there’s my bride,” he coos, eyes sharp and calculating as usual. Fixated on your every move, inviting you closer.
“Come,” his monotone voice lures you in.
Your heart pounds unevenly, caught between the sight unraveled before you and the impossible secret you carry in form of love that belongs to another, to one not too far from this gilded cage. The silence feels heavy, broken only by the distant hushes of courtiers and the soft shuffle of your footsteps on polished stone. As you approach, the emperor’s gaze never ceases.
“Your highness,” you let out softly, bending your body to show him respect in hopes of pleasing to achieve a piece of security for yourself.
“Come here, sit,” he pats his thigh, fingers gesturing for you to take a seat.
His words hang in the air as murmurs of servants ripple softly, awkwardness flushing you. Still, you have no choice, so you walk forward to climb the stairs — each one drawing you closer to the throne and to the man who plays to be the ruler. He extends a hand, guiding you gently onto his lap and cradling you not just with power, but possession. As if he owns you. And in a way he does. You feel overly stiff, unable to loosen and the fact it’s being witnessed by every bowed head in the room adds a sting.
At first, he speaks of your wedding day which is hurrying your way. The tone of his voice low, only meant for your ear. It causes goosebumps to grace your skin, not in a pleasant intimate way your lover would make you feel, but rather in fear and disgust. From time to time, mere sight of him boils your blood and spins your head, therefore sitting in such a close proximity makes you want to tear your hair out.
You loathe him dedicatedly, overflowing with hatred for the one you’re supposed to be wedded to, but you can’t be bothered to feel guilty while you’re seated in his lap. His heinous acts can’t make you.
“I must say I am growing rather bored of the new champion,” a mush of his words reaches your ear, they come unexpectedly and it feels like a punch to the stomach. You instantly recognise who he’s directing his words to and what it could mean, knowing his corrupted ways of thinking.
“How so, my lord?” you speak up for the first time since you sat down onto his lap, voice careful and precise.
“Winning over and over gets repetitive, does it not?” he cocks his head to the side lightly, peaking at you from the corner of his eye, a smirk tugging his lips up. A glint of mischief in his gaze, nearly making you choke on paranoia. There’s no possibility he could somehow find out about my nightly outings, you keep repeating in your head.
“I suppose, your highness,” you agree, not wanting to rile him up beyond recognition, even though it takes everything within you to not push him away.
“I will fight the gladiator,” he announces as if it’s some grant gesture, expecting to earn an encouragement, yet all it does is wake up a raging storm of emotions in your chest. Thousands of thoughts running through your mind, all sort of scenarios overtaking your sense. Each one ending in the favour of your soon to be husband and not the man you’ve grown so fond of, because wealth and power win in the end. Not strength and bravery.
“You have seen how skillful the man is,” your spoken statement is an opposite of what he thought you’d say, earning yourself a tight squeeze on your hip. His fingers digging into the fabric of the gown he picked out for you, into your tender flesh.
“Do you trust the slave more than your own emperor?” you can see it then, the change in his mechanisms. It’s like someone flipped a switch and there’s a whole another person, the action urging you to bolt. Nonetheless, you stay, loyal to the one you’re promised to — discarding your own needs.
“I would not dare, I simply worry too much,” you breathe out shakily, trying to appear genuine. It brings you to hesitantly reach out your hand, the motion slow enough that he could slap it away if he wished to. He doesn’t, he welcomes your touch instead, taking you by a surprise the second your palm comes into contact with the swell of his cheekbone.
“I appreciate it, though suggest you keep your mouth shut, sweets. Worry doesn’t look too good on you,” his lips curve into a malicious smile, hand flying out to grip your wrist tightly. You almost whine aloud, not from the pain, but from how unexpected the action was. You swallow the dry lump building up in your throat, barely visibly nodding your hand. And with that, he jerks your arm away from his face.
“In five days, I will face the champion,”
Your world crashes down, ambers of horror turning into flames. You don’t try to convince him to do otherwise due to his stubbornness, regardless of how unlikely he’s to win honourably in the fight. Your mind only wanders to the white haired gladiator, the worry you feel now incomparable to the one you feel each time he goes out to fight in the arena. It’s far more devouring that he’s ought to be robbed of his life in such a disgusting manner.
His arms untangle from your body, hand patting the side of your thigh to show you you’re no longer welcomed in his lap. He dismisses you, finally. The gruesome time spent in his presence seeming overly time consuming. And as soon as that, you’re on the path to your room, you feel both at ease and horrified. The thought of having breakfast making you sick as reality of what is to come for your heartfelt warrior crashes down on you just, coming your way in full speed. Your footsteps pick speed, flying through the corridors of your new home.
When you reach the inside of your chamber, your words are quick to send the maids away, not caring whether they’re finished with their task or not. The one sensation you can focus on is the burning in the walls of your throat and on the entirety of your chest. You manage to breathe slowly in and our in order to keep your emotions at bay until every single one of your ladies exits the room.
Then it hits you, like an arrow to your heart.
He’s going to die by the hands of your monstrous future spouse.
Tears spill from the corners of your eyes, running down the swell of your cheeks and continuing their way down your neck. Meanwhile, your back remains pressed against the entrance door to the room. You close your orbs shut, thinking that maybe — just maybe — it’d go away if you tried hard enough. However, you can’t stop the reality from dragging you down. And you feel pathetic for allowing your emotions to get the better out of you, because of a man who’s always been bound to be taken away from you. Although, it never occurred to you it could be done by the man you’re betrothed to. It makes you hyperventilate, each cell in your body bursting while trying not to let out a single sound. It’s agonising, all you wish to do is let it out, but with the ladies still lingering behind the closed door to your room, it’s unimaginable.
“In five days, therefore before our wedding,” you mumble out inaudible and in disbelief, piece of hope swallowing you whole as an idea bubbles up to surface.
Seven days to your wedding ceremony, five till the fight.
You’ve still got time to try, try to either talk the emperor into stepping away from the fight or help the gladiator escape before it comes down to it. Either way, you’d then proceed to marry the emperor, be miserable and preform your duty as a princess — bringing the empire a slice of hope for the future. And as great as it sounds, you know you’d regret it till the end of your days. And then there’s the last option, which includes packing up your necessities and losing yourself in the city, sailing away on a boat with Satoru’s hand in your. The fantasy robbing you of any logical way of thinking.
It’s all you wish for, from the marrow in your bones to your fingertips — your whole being years for a chance at a new life, away from the madness of the empire.
Small pieces of ideas begin to form a unit in your mind, and the last thing you need is the agreement of the one you’re so eager to run away with.
It causes you to pick yourself up, each shattered piece, and smile. You smile your way through the day, trying out dresses and answering all the prying questions coming from your court ladies to appear as much in love with the idea of marrying the emperor as they do. You lunch with him in the gardens, you endure each time he picks on you with grace and dodge everything which leads to suggesting being in any shape or form intimate with him. He hasn’t tried anything, but with the wedding date nearing its expiration, he’s certainly growing rather bold with his words and it’s simply a matter of time before he does try. You play out your role of the low maintenance loyal princess who appears to be amazed by what’s happening in her life. All of it just to wake up in the dead of the night, filled with anticipation and anxiety, ready to take on yet another nightly outing. This time being different, tainted by a horrible sense that you’ll soon run out of time for good.
In the stillness of the night, the city transforms and gleams in a strange way under the light of the moon. Each step a defiance to your obligations, betraying your lineage and the ruler himself by plotting against his judgment. The air feels exceptionally thick as you reach the entrance leading to the gladiator’s cells. Your heart heaves with news that threaten to shatter your clandestine fantasy. The emperor, perhaps having caught whispers of your affections, had announced his participation in the upcoming games — not for sport, but for execution. And you’re soon going to be the one to deliver these news.
“I need the keys this time,” you demand, the old man guarding the entrance nearly choking on his own saliva.
“But princess—“
“I said I need the keys,” your voice cuts him off before he can finish, repeating your wish once more and empathising it while reaching into the pocket of your silky robe to pull out a leather sachet, packed with gold and denariuses.
The nameless man scans your hooded figure, arm hesitantly handing you the keys in exchange for your treasure, and then he lets you in without any other words — aware this might not end up well for him. But it doesn’t stop you either like it normally would, you can’t bring yourself to care as you descend down the stairs.
“You are late tonight,” his voice calls out from the darkness of his cell, collected and oh so soothing. Your shoulders loosen up and the speed of your racing heart comes to a halt. You pull your hood down, revealing yourself to him as you inch closer towards the metal bars.
“I am sorry, I had to wait a little longer tonight,” you whisper into the silence, keeping the keys hidden in your pocket as there’s a small uncertainty blooming in you about using them, about stepping inside and that he might run.
“You came, that is what matters,” he exhales with a low hum, stepping out of the darkness to close the overbearing distance between you. Your heart ceases to function at the sight of his beautiful face, each time you see him it grabs you by your throat like it’s the first time and it doesn’t cease to amuse you. The sharp cut of his jawline and cheeks-bones, the delicate curve of his nose and the light sunburn grazing his skin from working in the open sun, but most importantly, the gleam in his eyes — the softness that defies the rest of his muscular frame.
“I am afraid I am not a barer of good news,” you break the silence with a heavy heart, the reality coming together once again as the amusement goes on to pass. Satoru furrows his brows at that, arms sneaking through the metal to touch you.
“The emperor, he is out of his mind, and he wants to fight you before he is to be wedded to me, Satoru,” pure shock paints his face the moment your words make the situation real, his hand gently squeezes your side before his fingers play with the slippery fabric of your gown.
“Let him, then. I will crush him with ease,” he states with confidence and if it were anyone else facing him, you wouldn’t dare to question his skills.
“You are not reading me correctly,” you shake your head slightly, tone cracking, and part of you knew it wouldn’t be easy to convince him of what is building up outside of the walls of the Colosseum.
“He is not to let you win,” you speak slowly and deliberately, allowing him to digest the meaning behind it in hopes that he’ll listen to you.
“He does not need to, I will defeat him,” he copies your way of speaking, trying to convince you to put your faith in him. His palm slides up your body to rest upon your cheek, leaving a trail of fire in its wake.
“Do you truly think he is a man of honour? He will cheat his way out,” the words escape your lips in a quiet and desperate way, while you pool your eyes into his. Their shade almost dark blue in the darkness. Like the ocean that threatens to drown sailors on a stormy night.
It makes you realise that there are no torches lit this night which is suspicious.
“I will send him to his own grave, I promise you princess. That you will be free,” your face falls into frustration even though his thumb works in small sensual circles on your skin, it’s still not enough to soothe down the raging ache.
“You cannot possibly think they will let you kill the emperor in an arena full of guards. In front of hundreds, it will be a charade,” you continue, growing more desperate. So much that you might start pleading, it’s what your eyes are doing anyway and it seems to shake him up a little, because you take notice of the way his features soften up.
“They will take your life too, even if you by some miracle will succeed in killing him,” you add, leaning into the security of his touch.
“At least you will be free, I am to take the risk,”
And that is what utterly undoes you, so much you have to pull and step away.
“Please, I beg you to stop,” you plea, clasping your hands together.
“There is no other way,” his voice is calm in comparison to yours, as if he’s already reconciled with his fate and it only deepens the hurt burning through you.
“Satoru, listen,” you start off shakily, but you manage to form it into coherent sentences, “we could board a ship in four days, sail to Greece together at dawn and leave this behind.”
Your hands tremble as you reach for the gladiator before you, but he’s the one to step away now. Your eyes are wide with desperation, searching his face for traces of hope. He remains still, his muscular frame silhouetting against the stone walls of his cell — your lips quiver, breath hitching as you silently plead for escape.
“I cannot strip you off your titles, your birthright,” he speaks up, crushing your build up hope in a fraction of second, making you reel.
“None of it compares to you,”
“I have nothing to offer you,” the gladiator's expression is a tapestry of conflict. His brows knit together, eyes reflecting a storm of love, sorrows and resignation. He gently takes your hands in his, the touch both tender and firm as he slowly shakes his head.
“It matters not, you are worth more than all the jewels they bathe me in and it would be silly to marry someone I would never be able to love, would it not?” you chuckle lightly, expressing the doubts you haven’t spoken out loud before. You squeeze his hands, urging him to give into this.
“I would simply not be able to forgive myself for robbing you of your comfort,” his iridescent globes pierce yours and it’s admirable, the way he so easily gives up what he wants in order for you to be secured. Even as you’re begging him to do the complete opposite, even knowing the marriage would never fulfil you, but he would rather die than to rob you of everything, give you nothing and make you more miserable. It’s better to be miserable in a palace than somewhere God knows where, it’s what he tells himself as he fights to not do what you’re asking him.
“You are not listening to me,” your tone becomes more firm, demanding. And it irks you how much this affects you, nonetheless, you can’t phantom a reality where you stay with the emperor and leave him to die.
“You are not either,” he doesn’t pretend to be calm anymore, the expression on his face a mixture of remorse and frustration.
“I cannot watch you leave your life behind, and for what? A gladiator?” the echo of his sarcastic chuckle rings through the long dungeon, striking your heart right where it hurts the moment. And you realise just how crazy this is, what you’re asking him to do — to steal a princess under the nose of the emperor — but it doesn’t stop you.
For once in your life, you want to be selfish.
“And I cannot lose you, do you not understand? I have fallen in love with you,” you say exactly what you’re thinking, cheeks flushing in the process due to the simple fact you have never felt the need to say those word nor had anyone ever to say them to.
The gladiator looks just as surprised by your confession as you do which unsettles you.
“What?” he mumbles, barely audible as he implores you to repeat what has left your lips.
credits for dividers: [ @zaldritzosrose @cafekitsune @enchanthings ]
YEARNER gojo, heavy making out. thats it. my pants dissipated writing ts
the air reeks of blood.
a secret war tent, just outside the battlefield. the sounds of clashing swords and dying men fill the air, but inside, there is only the suffocating tension between the goddess of love and the god of war who should know better than to meet like this.
satoru storms into the tent, covered in blood and victory, a grin splitting his face. his white hair, streaked with crimson, clings to his forehead, damp with sweat. his armor is dented, the bronze darkened with soot and gore, but his movements are easy, languid—like none of it matters. the god of war lives for carnage, breathes in battle like it’s the very air keeping him alive. and tonight, he’s gorged himself on it.
“missed me?” he teases, voice rough from shouting commands, from laughing as he tore through men like parchment. his gaze finds you immediately, drinking in the way your posture stiffens, the way your fingers tighten around the stem of your untouched goblet.
you shouldn’t be here. not so close to the battlefield, not so close to him.
you exhale sharply through your nose, eyes flaring with barely contained fury. “you’re a fool,” you spit, tossing the goblet aside, letting the wine stain the furs beneath your feet. the taste of it had turned bitter on your tongue the moment he entered. “my warriors fall like flies because of you.”
he hums, stepping closer, unfazed by the scent of rose oil and wrath curling in the air between you. you’re angry. it sends a thrill down his spine.
“your warriors?” he muses, tilting his head, one blood-streaked hand coming to rest against his hip. “love, they’re not yours once they pick up a sword. the moment they choose war, they belong to me.”
your eyes flash dangerously. “you arrogant—”
“besides, you don’t care about them,” satoru murmurs, voice suddenly lower, quieter. the air crackles. “you care about me.”
“you only ever look at me like this.” he adds before you can even deny with another step. he was so close now, close enough that you could see the cut on his cheek, the golden ichor beading there, shimmering in the dim light.
“like what?” you asked, voice quieter now, betraying nothing.
“like you’re furious. like you want to kill me.” his fingers brushed against hers, featherlight, teasing. “like you ache for me.”
your breath catches.
his smirk deepens, something slow and knowing curling at the edges of his lips. his fingers flex against his hip, his other hand dangling loosely at his side, but you can see the tension in his stance, the way his muscles coil beneath the straps of his armor.
you move to slap him, but he catches your wrist, swift and effortless. it’s not a tight grip—he knows you could break free if you truly wanted. instead, he pulls you closer, forcing you into his space, making sure you can feel the heat radiating from his skin, the faint tremor of barely restrained energy thrumming beneath it.
“let go.” your voice is steady, but he doesn’t miss the way your pulse flutters beneath his fingers.
“make me.” he dares, his thumb brushing lazily along the inside of your wrist, over skin that has been kissed by kings, worshipped by emperors.
for a long moment, neither of you move.
you should hate him. you do hate him. he ruins everything, turns every battlefield into his personal playground, drenches the earth in blood as if it were nothing more than spilled wine.
and yet.
your free hand lifts, nails grazing along the rough line of his jaw. he lets you.
“you’re reckless,” you whisper, gaze tracing the cut along his cheekbone, the smear of blood—his or someone else’s—you don’t know, don’t care.
his fingers slide up your arm, curling against your bare shoulder, tracing the delicate gold chains draped there, the silken folds of your dress shifting beneath his touch.
“and you’re a coward,” he murmurs back, breath warm against your lips. “you play your little games, make men burn for you, but the moment someone plays back?” his grip tightens, dragging you against his chest, metal clashing against silk. “you run.”
you exhale sharply, something wild and sharp flashing in your gaze.
he expects you to push him away, to twist from his grasp with one of your usual coy little smiles and words that cut sharper than any blade. but you don’t.
instead, you shift closer, lifting your chin, lips nearly brushing his. “you think i run?” your voice is soft, syrupy, dripping with something deadly. “when i’ve had you chasing me for centuries?”
his eyes darken, that ever-present smirk twitching at the edges.
“don’t flatter yourself, love.”
“oh?” your fingers tangle into the hair at the nape of his neck, nails scraping just enough to make him tense, to make him feel. weak. “so if i were to walk away now,” you muse, voice a purr, “you wouldn’t stop me?”
his grip around your wrist flexes.
you laugh. sharp. knowing.
“that’s what i thought.”
his patience snaps.
he surges forward, crashing his lips against yours, swallowing your triumphant smile with a kiss that tastes of war and lust and something dangerously close to devotion. the world collapses into heat, hunger, and the intoxicating scent of iron and rose oil. the stench of blood still clings to his skin, mixing with the subtle sweetness of the roses in the air, as if the battlefield had bled its violence into the very fabric of the room.
you expect violence—after all, this is the god of war, the very embodiment of destruction. but what you get instead is devastating precision, an artistry in chaos. his mouth moves with practiced arrogance, every kiss a calculated claim, a conquest, forcing you into submission with the same ruthless determination he wields on the battlefield. your lower lip is caught between his teeth, a sharp, agonizing sting that sends a thrill of heat through your body before melting into a slow, sinful drag of his tongue. you curse yourself for the way your knees tremble, betraying the effect he has on you, but you refuse to pull away.
you have kissed kings, emperors, gods. you have been worshipped in a thousand ways, a thousand times over.
but no one kissed like satoru.
no one kissed like a man who had spent his entire life craving battle but found himself craving her more.
his hands, still streaked with blood, still warm from the slaughter, slide down your waist with a predatory grace, the tips of his fingers leaving burning trails over your skin. you gasp as he grips the filmy fabric of your chiton, tearing it aside with a single, effortless pull. the sound of the silk ripping is obscene in the quiet of the tent, echoing between the tension that coils tighter in the air. but you don’t care. not when his palms sear against your bare skin, rough and possessive, tracing every curve he’s only ever dreamed of touching, claiming you like the spoils of war he’s always deserved.
“look at you,” he murmurs against your lips, his voice thick with victory, dripping with satisfaction. “all this time, i thought you’d taste like honey. but you’re just as bitter as i am.” the words are a challenge, but there’s no real bitterness behind them. it’s just the way he sees the world—always finding something to conquer, something to take.
you retaliate by sinking your nails into the nape of his neck, scoring red lines down the sweat-damp column of his throat. the sound he makes—low, filthy, a guttural groan meant for your ears alone—sends a wave of desire crashing through you. before you can process, he lifts you effortlessly, the edge of the war table digging into your thighs as he slots himself between them, his body pressing against yours with an urgency that speaks of battles fought and victories won.
the cold armor at his chest presses against your fevered skin, an icy contrast to the heat pulsing through you. his mouth is scorching, trailing from your lips to your jaw, and then lower, nipping at the frantic pulse in your throat. every movement is deliberate, a dance of dominance and passion, as if he’s marking every inch of you as his own.
“you—” your breath hitches, his teeth grazing your collarbone, sending a bolt of heat straight to your core. “you’re insufferable.”
“and yet,” he breathes, his words dark with satisfaction, pulling back just enough to meet your gaze, his pupils wide with want. the hunger in his eyes is raw, unfiltered, and it makes your heart race in your chest. “here you are. letting me ruin you.”
his hands slide higher, one tangling in your hair, tilting your head back to expose the vulnerable line of your throat. the other traces the dip of your waist, skimming the edge of your hip with a touch so light, so teasing, that it feels like torture. you arch into him, a silent plea, a challenge that lingers between you. and his grin—it’s all teeth, a hungry thing, twisted with desire and amusement.
“say it,” he dares, his thumb brushing the peak of your breast with a featherlight tease that makes your stomach coil tight, an ache that builds with every passing second. “tell me to stop.”
you should. you should push him away, demand he stop. but you won’t. you can’t.
instead, you drag him back by the hair, your lips crashing against his in a kiss that’s more war than surrender, more battle than love. he laughs into your mouth, the vibrations curling straight down your spine, a sound that promises chaos and recklessness, the very essence of him. then—
a trumpet blares outside, cutting through the tension like a knife.
the war calls.
for the first time in centuries, satoru, the almighty god of war hesitates.
his forehead presses against yours, breaths ragged, his fingers trembling where they grip your hips. the air between you is thick with everything unsaid, everything undone, as if the world has paused, holding its breath, waiting for what will come next. you can feel his heart beating against yours, fast and uneven, as if he too has been swept away by this relentless tide of desire.
then, with a smirk that promises retribution, he pulls away, his hands lingering for a moment longer than necessary, like he’s reluctant to let go.
“next time,” he murmurs, his voice low and rough, as if he’s daring you to defy him. he tucks a stray lock of hair behind your ear with a tenderness that contrasts with the hunger still burning in his eyes. “i won’t stop.”
and just like that, he’s gone, leaving you breathless, flushed, furious, and aching in the ruins of a war tent that smells like him—like blood, rose oil, and something far more dangerous.
outside, the battle rages on, but inside, you’ve already lost.
synopsis : you weren’t looking for connection when you replied to a quiet post on a jujutsu forum. but what starts as late-night messages with a stranger turns into something warmer, steadier, and unexpectedly real.
sometimes, the person who sees you best is the one you’ve never even seen. until now.
tags –> one shot, 6.4k wc, non-canon compliant au, internet strangers to lovers, emotional intimacy, mutual comfort, secret voice calls, found each other online, reader is from kyoto, soft gojo satoru, extremely mild angst with a happy ending, first kisses, lighthearted moments, a little rain, stupid jokes and late-night feelings, love is about compromise, rip to gakuganji’s office chair. inspired by the song ‘no one noticed’ by the marias.
a/n : writing this made me bawl, to be loved is to be known. there’s just something about being understood by a stranger and finding solace in each other that gets to me. being known & being loved without being seen in a literal sense? sign me up :P i wanna sob because my pookie bear deserved better aaaaa
red string of fate collection m.list
you didn’t mean to answer the thread.
you never do, usually. the forum’s a chaotic sprawl, a digital graveyard of encrypted usernames—like “void_eater69” or “cursed_snacc”—and timestamps mangled by timezones no one bothers to sync. posts pile up like offerings to some forgotten curse: cryptic rants about residual energy, half-baked spell theories, or someone whining about a shikigami that won’t behave. it’s not a place for real talk. more like a dive bar at the edge of a cursed womb, where everyone’s nursing their own ghosts and shouting into the void.
but that night, your room was too quiet. the kind of quiet that creeps under your skin, heavy as a grade-two’s miasma. kyoto’s winter had settled in, and your tiny apartment felt like a box of stale air, the radiator hissing like it was mocking you. your phone glowed on the tatami, a stubborn rectangle of light that wouldn’t let you sleep. your brain was a traitor, replaying the day’s monotony: a sparring session where you’d nearly twisted your ankle, a debrief that dragged until your eyes glazed, the faint smear of cursed blood you’d scrubbed from your sleeve hours ago.
you scrolled the forum to shut it up. past a thread arguing if reversed cursed technique could fix a hangover. past some guy asking if spirits could get drunk—seriously, dude?—and then you saw it. buried under the noise, posted hours ago, short and raw, no punctuation, no pretense:
“does it ever get easier”
you stared at it, your thumb hovering over the screen. the words sat there, small and unadorned, like a stone someone had left on a path. most posts like that were traps—bait for trolls or vents that fizzled into nothing. but this one felt… different. quiet, like a whisper you weren’t meant to hear. genuine, like it had slipped out before the poster could rethink it.
you broke your own rule. typed back without letting yourself second-guess: “define easier. like, emotionally? logistically? existentially?”
he replied in under a minute.
“yes”
and just like that, you were in it.
at first, it was anonymous, the way the forum always is. two sorcerers dodging missions and boredom, tossing words into the dark like talismans. you didn’t know his name, and he didn’t ask yours. just screen names—yours a string of numbers and a bad pun, his something absurd involving mochi and a curse word. you talked about things you’d never say out loud, not to the kyoto higher-ups or the first-years who looked at you like you had all the answers. like how a room full of people could still make you feel like a ghost, drifting just outside their orbit. or how debriefs left a sour taste in your mouth, like you’d bitten into something rotten—guilt, maybe, or just the weight of it all.
he was… unexpected. not funny in a cheap, knock-knock way, but ridiculous, like he’d turned life into a stage and forgotten the script. his jokes were elaborate, stupid, sprawling things, like he was performing for a crowd that didn’t exist. one night, he typed: “i think the veil’s thinning. saw a tanuki trying to do taxes with a stolen abacus.”
you snorted into your pillow, the sound loud in your empty room. “should’ve let it,” you wrote back, fingers flying across the screen. “might’ve gotten a better refund than me. my last one barely covered a coffee.”
he sent a laughing emoji—unironically, the dork—and you could almost hear him cackling somewhere far away. it made you grin, your face half-buried in a blanket that smelled faintly of incense and yesterday’s takeout.
the chats kept going, stretching across weeks. you’d be slumped on your couch, boots still muddy from a mission, when your phone buzzed with his latest nonsense. “ever wonder if curses dream?” he’d ask, and you’d fire back, “only if they’re dreaming of paperwork. that’s the real nightmare.” he’d reply with a string of sobbing emojis, and you’d roll your eyes, but you’d keep typing, because somehow, it felt like he got it.
then came the voice calls.
always at night, when kyoto’s streets went still and the stars pressed against your window like they had something to prove. he’d call from somewhere else—somewhere alive with sound. sometimes it was traffic, a distant honk cutting through his laugh. sometimes it was the ocean, waves hissing like they were gossiping with him. once, a vending machine jingled, coins clinking as he muttered, “what do you want? melon soda? or that sweet corn one that tastes like regret?”
you laughed, your voice muffled by the scarf you hadn’t bothered to unwind from your neck. “melon,” you said, curling your knees to your chest on the couch. “corn’s for masochists.”
“noted,” he said, and you heard the machine whir, then a can crack open. “one melon soda for the meanest sorcerer i know.”
“flatterer,” you deadpanned, but your lips twitched, and you tucked the phone closer to your ear, like his voice could fill the cold corners of your apartment.
you never asked where he was. he never asked your name. it was a rule you didn’t need to speak—just a line neither of you crossed, because crossing it might break whatever this was. but he was your favorite stranger, the one who made the nights less heavy, the one whose voice felt like a tether when everything else was slipping.
the thing was, you weren’t miserable.
not exactly.
just tired, the kind of tired that sleep doesn’t touch, like a curse that’s sunk its claws too deep. your life at the kyoto branch was a loop: wake to the chime of your battered alarm clock, spar until your muscles burned, assist on missions that left your hands smelling of ash and ozone, report to gakuganji in a room that always felt too small. sometimes you mopped blood from training mats, the sponge heavy in your grip. sometimes you taught theory to first-years, their eyes glazed as you droned about residuals, your voice echoing off chalk-dusted walls.
sometimes you lay on your futon, staring at the ceiling’s chipped paint, wondering if you used to feel bigger than this—brighter, like the sky before a storm.
he changed that.
not in a loud way, not at first. it was softer, quieter, like the sound of his breath hitching when you said something sharp. like finding a rhythm with someone, even if your steps didn’t quite match. he’d ask you things no one else did, questions that felt like they were peeling back your edges.
“what color’s the sky in kyoto tonight?” he’d say, and you’d lean against your window, phone cradled against your shoulder, and answer, “pink, like someone spilled their drink on it.” he’d laugh, and you’d feel it in your ribs, a small, stubborn warmth.
“do curses feel pain?” he asked once, his voice muffled, like he was chewing something—probably mochi, knowing him.
you hummed, picking at a loose thread on your sleeve. “maybe. depends if they’re sentient enough to know they’re hurting. what do you think?”
“dunno,” he said, and you heard a rustle, like he was flopping onto a bed somewhere. “but i hope they don’t. makes it easier to sleep after.”
you didn’t reply right away, just listened to him breathe, steady and slow. “you’re softer than you act,” you said finally, and he made a noise—half scoff, half laugh—that made you smile into the dark.
he loved dumb questions, too. “is it immoral to laugh when a cursed spirit looks like a balloon animal?” he asked one night, and you could hear the grin in his voice, like he was picturing it.
you were sprawled on your floor, a half-eaten onigiri beside you, and you snorted so hard you nearly choked. “only if it’s a good balloon animal,” you said. “like, if it’s trying to be a dog, you gotta respect the effort.”
“fair,” he said, and you heard a clink—probably another soda can. “you’re funnier than you think, y’know.”
“and you’re weirder than you sound,” you shot back, but your cheeks were warm, and you pulled your knees up, hugging them like you could trap the feeling.
the best moments, though, were when he dropped the act. when the theatrics fell away, and his voice went low, soft, like he was afraid the words might break if he pushed too hard. one night, after a call that had stretched past midnight, he said, “sometimes… i think i only exist when i’m useful to someone. is that stupid?”
you were half-asleep, your phone slipping against your cheek, but his voice pulled you back. you blinked at the ceiling, the shadows pooling like spilled ink. “no,” you said, quiet but firm. “it’s just sad.”
he laughed—not the emoji kind, not the loud kind, but something small, like he was letting out a breath he’d been holding. “you don’t pull punches, huh?”
“you’d hate it if i did,” you said, and you heard him shift, like he was nodding to himself.
“yeah,” he murmured. “i would.”
it went on like that for months, long enough that you started noticing things. the way he yawned before he said goodnight, a sleepy hum that made your chest ache. the pauses in his sentences when he was choosing his words, like he wanted to get it right for you. the way his voice warmed when you rambled about something small—like the stray cat outside your building that kept stealing your bento scraps, or the time you’d botched a talisman and spent an hour scrubbing ink from your hands.
he’d listen, really listen, he always does and then say something like, “bet that cat’s got better taste than gakuganji,” and you’d laugh until your sides hurt.
you didn’t ask who he was. he didn’t push for your name. it was perfect, fragile, like a bubble you were both afraid to pop.
until one night, your phone buzzed, and it wasn’t the usual late-hour joke or random question. it was a call, his name—or rather, the string of nonsense characters he used—lighting up your screen. you hesitated, thumb grazing the accept button, then pressed it, curling into your futon as the kyoto cold gnawed at the window.
“hey,” he said, his voice softer than usual, like he was speaking through a held breath. there was no hum of traffic tonight, no vending machine jingle—just a faint rustle, maybe his sleeve brushing the phone, and a stillness that made your pulse loud in your ears.
you didn’t answer right away, just listened to him breathe, steady but careful, like he was standing on the edge of something. your apartment felt smaller, the night pressing against the glass, cold and heavy, like it was waiting for you to move first.
“can I…” he started, then paused, a hitch in his voice you hadn’t heard before. “can I visit you?”
you froze, fingers tightening around the phone until it dug into your palm. the words landed like a stone dropped into still water, rippling through the quiet. your eyes flicked to the window, where the dark seemed to lean closer, listening. your heart did something stupid, tripping over itself, and you bit your lip, hard enough to sting.
“like… here?” you said finally, voice low, almost lost in the radiator’s hiss. “in kyoto?”
“yeah,” he said, and it was quiet but firm, like he’d been turning the idea over for hours before daring to say it. “i’m nearby. for a mission. thought… maybe. if it’s okay with you.”
you swallowed, your free hand fidgeting with the blanket’s edge, twisting it until the fabric bunched. you didn’t know what he looked like. he didn’t know your face. but the thought of him—your stranger, your tether—standing in your city, his voice no longer trapped in static… it made your chest ache, like a curse unraveling too fast to catch.
“we don’t even know what we look like,” you said, softer now, half a shield, half a truth, your breath catching as you spoke.
he was quiet for a moment, and you heard a faint shift, like he was leaning closer to the phone, shutting out the world. “i know,” he said, voice low, steady, like a vow he hadn’t meant to make. “but I think I’d recognize you anyway.”
your lips parted, but no sound came out. your heart stumbled again, and you pressed your knees to your chest, the blanket slipping to the floor. you wanted to deflect, to toss back something sharp, but his words sat there, heavy and warm, like they’d carved out a space you didn’t know you’d left empty.
“you’re weird,” you managed, but it came out too soft, too honest, and you winced, tucking your chin to hide the smile you couldn’t stop.
he exhaled, a sound that was half-laugh, half-relief, like he’d been holding it in all night. “you’re mean,” he said, and you could hear the curve of his mouth, faint but real, unguarded in a way that made your ribs tighten.
“you like it,” you said, voice barely above a whisper, and your fingers hovered over the phone’s edge, like you could reach through it if you tried.
he didn’t answer right away. just breathed, slow and close, and when he spoke, it was so quiet it felt like a secret. “yeah,” he said. “i do.”
the call didn’t end, not yet. you stayed there, listening to the silence stretch, his breath a steady rhythm against the night’s weight. and that ache in your chest grew, sharp and warm, like it was making room for something you weren’t ready to name.
that morning, when he texted for the address, you gave him the name of a small café tucked just off the main street near kyoto campus—nothing fancy, barely even marked, just a warm pocket of space where time slowed down and no one asked too many questions. not because you were scared. not exactly. but the idea of him—this faceless voice, this stranger you somehow knew better than people you’d seen every day—being in your space, standing in your doorway, seeing your real life... it made something flutter behind your ribs. something you couldn’t name without sounding stupid.
it rained that day. not hard. just the kind of persistent drizzle that painted everything in shades of grey, slicked the pavement until it gleamed like wet ink, and made your sleeves cling to your wrists. your shoes scuffed softly against the tile as you pushed open the café door. inside, the air was warm, thick with the smell of coffee beans and something sweet rising from the back oven.
a couple of students in uniforms sat by the counter, arguing in low tones about spell theory. the barista barely looked up as you ordered your usual, fingers drumming a quiet rhythm against the side of your phone. you picked the window seat. always the window seat. you liked watching people go by, liked the illusion of being somewhere else.
time passed.
you checked your phone once. then again. your fingers curled around your cup, heat seeping into your palms. condensation fogged the glass. you were early. or maybe he was late. or maybe the whole thing was a joke you’d fallen for, like a damn idiot. your heart did this stupid stuttering thing every time the bell over the door moved.
then it rang.
and he walked in.
white hair, slightly mussed from the rain. the tiniest drop caught in his bangs, trailing down toward the curve of his cheek. his sunglasses sat low on the bridge of his nose, and he was tall—taller than you'd expected, even though you should’ve known—and dressed like he didn’t care how loud he looked. hands in his pockets. shoulders loose. like he’d just wandered in off some catwalk that ended in your direction.
he scanned the room once, those ridiculous glasses perched low on his nose, catching the café’s dim light like twin moons. his eyes—sharp, too sharp for any one place to hold—skipped over the students bickering about cursed residuals, the barista wiping down a steaming espresso machine, and landed square on you.
his smile cracked open, instant, effortless, like the sun spilling through a storm cloud.
“hey.”
you froze mid-sip, your mug hovering an inch from your lips. your eyes locked on his, and the world did that thing where it shrinks to a pinprick, all cinnamon air and rain-slicked windows fading out. the ridiculous truth hit you like a badly timed talisman:
holy shit. that’s gojo satoru.
your mouth opened. closed with a soft click. opened again, because apparently your brain decided to blue-screen.
“you’re fucking kidding me.”
his grin stretched wider, all teeth and mischief, as he sauntered across the floor toward you. long limbs moved like they were choreographed, raindrops clinging to his white hair like tiny glass beads, scattering light. he shoved his hands deeper into his coat pockets, shoulders hiked just enough to betray how stupidly pleased he was with himself.
“surprise?” he said, voice lilting like he’d just pulled off the world’s dumbest magic trick.
you blinked, unblinking, your fingers tightening around the mug until the heat stung. your face was doing something—probably a mix of shock and are you serious right now—because his laugh bubbled up, low and warm, like he’d caught you red-handed.
“you—i—you’re you,” you stammered, eloquent as a first-year tripping over their own incantation.
“i am,” he said, tilting his head. a single droplet slid from his bangs, tracing the sharp line of his jaw before dripping onto the floor. “last i checked, anyway. unless you’ve got a better theory.”
“why didn’t you tell me?”
he paused a step from the table, one hand escaping his pocket to scratch at the back of his neck. his glasses slipped lower, and you caught a flash of those eyes—crystal blue, too bright, like staring into a clear sky after a curse’s miasma. he nudged the frames up with a knuckle, but then, in a move that made your breath hitch, he tugged them off completely. folded them with a click. set them on the table like a dare.
“didn’t wanna scare you off,” he said, quieter now, his gaze unguarded and pinning you in place.
yo squinted, lips pressing into a thin line to choke back a snort. your eyebrow arched, sharp as a well-placed shikigami. “you thought being yourself would scare me off?”
he shrugged, weight shifting from one foot to the other, his coat swaying like it was in on the joke. “it usually does.”
you blinked again, slower, and something in your chest unknotted. for a split second, he looked… smaller. not the gojo satoru who could level a city block with a wink, but a guy who wasn’t sure if he was too much or not enough. his hair was a mess, sticking up where he’d ruffled it outside, and his eyelashes were wet, catching the light like they were trying to apologize.
you set your mug down with a soft clink, the ceramic warm against your palm, and gestured to the chair across from you. “sit down, satoru.”
his grin snapped back, bright as a spark talisman igniting. “yes, ma’am.”
he dropped into the chair with all the grace of a cat knocking over a vase—legs sprawling, then tucking back, elbows hitting the table before he leaned forward like he was about to spill a secret. his coat bunched at his shoulders, and he smelled faintly of rain and something sweeter, like the mochi he’d probably swiped from a vendor on the way here.
“this place smells like cinnamon and potential,” he said, voice dipping low, conspiratorial. he waggled his brows, and you swore his eyes flickered with a tease no technique could replicate. “you sure you don’t wanna marry me right now? i’d get you a ring pop. blue raspberry, your favorite.”
you snorted, the sound punching out before you could stop it. your hand flew to your mouth, but it was too late—he’d heard it, and his whole face lit up like he’d won a bet with the universe.
“you remembered that?” you said, leaning back in your chair, arms crossing like you could shield yourself from his smugness. your lips twitched, betraying you.
“‘course i did,” he said, tapping his temple with a long finger. “you said it during that 2 a.m. ramble about cursed vending machines. blue raspberry ring pop, ‘cause it stains your tongue and freaks out the first-years.” he leaned closer, voice dropping to a mock-whisper. “i pay attention, y’know.”
your cheeks warmed, and you hated how your mouth kept trying to smile. you kicked his shin lightly under the table, just enough to make him yelp—a dramatic ow that had the students at the counter glancing over. “you’re impossible,” you muttered, but your eyes flicked to his glasses, still folded neatly beside his elbow. “and put those back on, idiot. you’re gonna give yourself a migraine squinting like that.”
he blinked, then laughed—a real one, not the showy kind he threw at missions or bad jokes. “what, you worried about my eyes now?” he said, but he didn’t reach for the glasses. instead, he propped his chin on one hand, staring at you like you were the only thing worth seeing. “i took ‘em off for you, y’know. six eyes makes everything loud—too many colors, too many things. but you…” he trailed off, and his voice softened, like he was peeling back a layer he usually kept buried. “you’re clearer without ‘em.”
your breath caught, and for a second, you forgot how to be a smart-ass. your fingers fidgeted with the edge of your sleeve, and you ducked your head, letting your hair fall forward to hide the heat creeping up your neck. “that’s sweet,” you said, voice dry but wobbling just a fraction. “also stupid. you’ll strain yourself, and i’m not dragging your whining ass to a healer when you’re seeing double.”
he grinned, undeterred, and flicked a sugar packet across the table at you. it bounced off your knuckles, and you swatted it back without thinking, starting a lazy game of tabletop tag. “would you rather i didn’t see you?” he asked, catching the packet mid-air with infuriating ease. his fingers were quick, precise, like he could’ve dismantled a curse in the same motion. “c’mon, admit it. you like being seen.”
you rolled your eyes, but your lips curved, and you couldn’t quite stop it. “i like when you’re not a headache,” you shot back, snatching the sugar packet from his hand. you tore it open, dumping half into your coffee just to mess with him—he’d gagged once during a call when you’d done it, claiming it was “coffee abuse.” now, he just watched you with a smirk, like he was cataloging every move you made.
“liar,” he said, stretching his arms above his head until his shirt rode up, flashing a sliver of pale skin above his waistband. you looked away, quick, and he noticed—his smirk grew positively diabolical. “you told me last week you like my voice best at midnight. all raspy and annoying, you said. direct quote.”
you groaned, sinking lower in your chair, but your foot nudged his ankle under the table, a traitor to your own defenses. “i was delirious from a mission,” you said, pointing a stirrer at him like a tiny sword. your brows furrowed, but your eyes were bright, dancing with the kind of energy you hadn’t felt in weeks. “and you were the one who kept talking about cursed tanukis stealing your socks, so who’s the real mess here?”
he laughed again, loud enough to make the barista glance over with a raised brow. his hand dropped to the table, fingers drumming a restless rhythm, and you noticed how his pinky brushed the edge of your mug—like he was testing how close he could get without you pulling away. “guilty,” he said, tilting his head until his bangs fell into his eyes. he shook them away, and the motion was so boyish, so normal, it made your heart do a stupid little flip. “but you laughed. i heard it. best sound in the world, by the way.”
you froze, stirrer halfway to your mouth, and your eyes flicked up to meet his. he wasn’t grinning now—just watching you, steady and soft, like the rain outside had melted all his edges. your lips parted, but no snark came out. instead, you reached across the table, picked up his glasses, and slid them toward him with a pointed look. “put these on before you ruin yourself,” you said, but your voice was quieter, like you were afraid of breaking whatever this was. “i’m not worth a headache, satoru.”
he didn’t touch the glasses. instead, he caught your hand before you could pull it back, his fingers warm and a little calloused, curling around yours like they’d been waiting to. “disagree,” he said, simple as that, and his thumb brushed your knuckle, light as a feather. “you’re worth a lot of things.”
you swallowed, and the café seemed to hum quieter—the clink of cups, the murmur of students, all fading into a soft blur. your pulse was loud, though, thudding in your ears as you looked at him. his hair was drying now, curling at the ends, and his eyes were still bare, unguarded, like he’d stripped away every barrier just to sit here with you. your lips twitched into a smile, small but real, and you squeezed his hand once before letting go.
“you’re gonna regret saying that when i steal your last mochi later,” you said, leaning back to break the spell, but your foot stayed pressed against his under the table, warm and steady.
he gasped, clutching his chest like you’d cursed him. “not the mochi,” he wailed, but his eyes crinkled, and he leaned forward, stealing your stirrer to twirl it between his fingers like a baton. “fine, but only if you say ‘satoru, you’re my hero’ first. gotta earn it.”
“in your dreams, pretty boy,” you shot back, but you were laughing now, soft and easy, and the sound made his whole face soften, like he’d been chasing it all along.
you stayed in that café for hours, trading sugar packets and stupid stories, your shoes bumping under the table, his glasses still untouched. the rain slowed to a drizzle, painting the windows in lazy streaks, but neither of you noticed. the world was just this—cinnamon air, warm mugs, and the way he looked at you like you were the only thing he’d ever wanted to see clearly.
and somewhere in between the rain tapering off and your drinks going lukewarm, something shifted. not abruptly. not dramatically. but gently, like gravity starting to lean in a different direction. he was exactly the same—annoying, charming, impossible—but there was a quiet steadiness beneath it all. like he looked at you and saw not just a person, but a place. somewhere he could stay.
all while you were still trying to wrap your head around the fact that gojo satoru had been the idiot on the forum sending you tanuki memes at 3am.
he called you a cryptid. you called him emotionally constipated. he told you your voice was the only one he actually waited to hear. you told him he needed better taste. he laughed so hard he knocked his knee on the underside of the table.
when the café finally closed, the barista shooing you out with a tired smile, satoru held the door open, his clear umbrella already unfurled against the drizzle. it was comically small for his ridiculous height, barely shielding his broad shoulders, but he angled it carefully, keeping the rain from kissing your hair. his sleeve darkened, soaked through where the mist clung, but he didn’t seem to care. the night was quiet, steeped in that velvet hush that trails a long rain, streetlights casting blurry halos through the mist, like half-forgotten curses glowing in the dark.
his footsteps matched yours, slow and deliberate, scuffing softly against the wet pavement. he didn’t need to adjust his stride—you noticed how he shortened it, just enough, like he was savoring every second of this walk. his fingers brushed yours once, a fleeting warmth against your knuckles. he didn’t grab your hand. brushed again, lingering, like a question he wasn’t sure he could ask. you didn’t pull away, your pinky curling slightly, grazing his, and the corner of his mouth twitched upward, like he’d caught a secret.
“can I see you again?” he asked, glancing down at you, his voice stripped of its usual swagger. it was quiet, raw, like a wish he’d whispered to the night before daring to say it aloud. his glasses slipped low, catching the streetlight’s gleam, and his eyes—too blue, too open—held yours like you were the only thing tethering him to the ground.
you tilted your head, pretending to mull it over, your lips pursing to hide the smile tugging at them. your scarf fluttered in the breeze, and you tugged it tighter, catching the way his gaze flicked to the motion, like he was memorizing it. “I’d kinda like it if you called me first,” you said, voice dry but warm, your eyes darting to his before skittering away.
his smile softened, reverent, like you’d handed him a talisman he hadn’t earned. he ducked his head, damp hair falling into his eyes, and pushed it back with a quick flick, scattering droplets. “yeah?” he said, and it was so soft, so hopeful, it made your chest ache like a bruise you didn’t mind.
“yeah,” you said, and your fingers brushed his again, deliberate this time, a spark in the quiet.
he didn’t kiss you. not yet. but the way he looked at you—head tilted, eyes tracing your face like he was mapping a new constellation—felt louder than any words. like maybe, finally, he’d found the place he was meant to land, and you were standing right there beside him.
you kept walking, the umbrella tilting as he leaned closer, his shoulder brushing yours. the mist curled around you like a veil, and he started humming—some off-key pop song he’d probably heard on a mission, the kind you’d mocked him for liking during one of your calls. you shot him a look, eyebrow arched, and he only grinned, utterly unrepentant.
“you’re gonna ruin my reputation,” you muttered, but your lips twitched, and you nudged his arm with your elbow, just enough to make him sway.
“too late,” he said, voice lilting like he was sharing a conspiracy. “you laughed at my tanuki tax joke. you’re already doomed.”
you snorted, the sound sharp in the quiet, and he laughed—low, warm, like it was his favorite sound in the world. “you remember that?” you asked, glancing up at him, your scarf slipping to reveal the curve of your neck. his eyes followed it, then snapped back to your face, like he’d been caught.
“‘course I do,” he said, tapping his temple with a long finger. “filed it under ‘proof you’re secretly fun.’ right next to you admitting you like my midnight voice.”
your cheeks warmed, and you shoved your hands into your pockets, muttering, “delirious ramblings don’t count.” but you didn’t step away, and he didn’t either, the umbrella wobbling as he tilted it to keep you dry.
then he stopped walking, abrupt enough that you turned to face him, a brow raised. “what?”
his expression was unreadable, caught somewhere between mischief and something heavier, like he was about to say something that could tilt the world off its axis. his hair was wet now, silver strands curling at the ends, clinging to his forehead, and his glasses fogged slightly at the edges, making his eyes look softer, closer.
“come work in tokyo,” he said, the words spilling out like they’d been waiting all night.
you blinked, your breath catching. “satoru.”
“no, I’m serious,” he said, stepping closer, the umbrella dipping until a stray droplet grazed his cheek. he didn’t wipe it away, just kept looking at you, earnest in a way that made your throat tight. “same uniform, better pay, vending machines that don’t eat your coins. plus—” he leaned in, voice dropping to a mock-whisper—“you get me. scientifically proven to make life less boring.”
you laughed, sharp and startled, and it broke the tension like a snapped thread. “you’re the cause of my stress,” you said, poking his chest with a finger, your nail catching on his damp coat.
“and I’ll keep causing it,” he said, catching your hand before you could pull back. his fingers were warm, curling around yours, and he tilted his head, grin softening. “but I’ll be closer. way better than those kyoto stiffs who don’t know how you take your coffee.”
you froze, lips parting, because he did know—black, no sugar, the way you’d grumbled about during a 3 a.m. call when a mission had you wired. “you’re ridiculous,” you muttered, but your voice wobbled, and you didn’t yank your hand away.
“you don’t belong there,” he said, quieter now, his thumb brushing your knuckle, light as a wish. “they don’t see you. not like I do.”
you opened your mouth to deflect, to toss back something sharp, but nothing came. because he was right, and the way he looked at you—steady, unguarded, like you were more than a shadow in a debrief room—made it impossible to argue. you closed your mouth, exhaling through your nose, and he smiled, small and real, like he’d won something bigger than he’d planned.
two weeks later, after one strongly worded proposal, two forged signatures, and a very public argument with gakuganji that ended with a chair launched across a meeting room, satoru showed up at your apartment, leaning against the doorframe with a grin that screamed trouble. his coat was slung over one shoulder, and he held a crumpled paper bag that smelled suspiciously like mochi.
“congrats,” he said, voice bright as a spark. “you’re moving to tokyo. pack a toothbrush.”
you stared, one socked foot still on the tatami, a half-packed box of books at your side. “what the hell did you do?”
“justice,” he said, tossing the bag onto your counter, where it landed with a soft thud. he stepped inside, kicking the door shut with his heel, and winked like he’d just saved the world. “also, maybe a little bribery. you’re welcome.”
and just like that, you were tokyo’s problem now.
on your first day, he was waiting at the jujutsu tech gates, a paper flower crown perched crookedly on his head, petals fluttering in the breeze. he held a sign—scrawled in marker, “WELCOME HOME, CRYPTID”—and two matcha lattes, one wobbling dangerously in his hand as he waved like a kid spotting their best friend. the other sorcerers passing by shot him looks, but he didn’t care, his grin wide enough to rival the sun spilling over the campus.
you tried to scowl, to keep your cool, but your lips betrayed you, curling into a smile that felt like surrender. “you’re ridiculous,” you muttered, stepping into his orbit, close enough to smell the sugar on his breath and the faint cedar of his cologne.
he looped an arm around your shoulder, easy as breathing, like the space beside him had been yours all along. his lips brushed your temple, a fleeting warmth, then lingered, soft and deliberate, like he was testing if you’d pull away. you didn’t.
“and yet,” he said, voice low, teasing, “you never left.”
you rolled your eyes, but your head tilted into his touch, just a fraction, and you felt him exhale, like he’d been holding it in. “I’m not wearing the flower crown,” you said, flicking the sign with a finger, making it wobble in his grip.
“not yet,” he said, adjusting the crown on his head, petals catching the sunlight like tiny flames. he handed you a latte, the cup warm against your palm, and you noticed he’d drawn a tiny cat face on the lid—lopsided, with one ear missing, like your stray back in kyoto.
“not ever,” you shot back, but you took a sip, and the matcha was perfect—sweet, not too bitter, exactly how you’d mentioned liking it months ago during a call about bad coffee stands.
he laughed, a sound like summer breaking through clouds, and you looked up, catching the way his eyes crinkled, the way his hair glowed gold in the morning light. his thumb brushed your cheek, featherlight, like he was confirming you were real.
and then he kissed you—no fanfare, no dramatic build, just the quiet press of his mouth against yours, soft and certain. it was the kind of kiss that didn’t ask for permission because it already belonged. like the final word in a sentence you’d both been writing in secret.
his lips were warm, moving against yours with a reverence that made your breath catch. his hand cupped the side of your face, fingers splayed gently against your jaw as though afraid to press too hard, like you were something delicate, worth holding and not breaking.
your eyes fluttered closed. the air between you and the world seemed to hush, like even the breeze knew not to interrupt. your fingers curled into the fabric of his coat—soft, heavy, smelling faintly of rain and something that had to be him.
your knees went a little soft. your heart, stupid and loud, climbed up into your throat.
he pulled back just barely, but didn’t let go. his forehead rested against yours, breath fanning across your lips, sweet with matcha and something sweeter beneath it—something like hope.
his grin was criminal. boyish. blinding. like he’d stolen something precious and gotten away clean.
“told you you’d like tokyo,” he said, voice low, still laced with laughter.
and before you could even think of dodging, he plucked the flower crown from his head—now slightly lopsided from the kiss—and dropped it gently onto yours.
you blinked. scowled. felt your cheeks catch fire.
you shoved it back onto him, petals scattering onto his nose, and he sneezed, dramatic and loud, making a passing student jump. “shut up,” you said, but you were laughing now, full and bright, and his fingers laced with yours, warm and steady, like they’d never let go.
and in that moment—the sun dusting your cheeks, his hand anchoring you, you knew one thing for sure:
no one else needed to notice.
because he did.
and that was enough.
(and yeah, he’d submitted three fake transfer forms in your name, because apparently love means committing light fraud. you’d yell at him later. probably.)
tag list : @akeisryna @esotericsorrow @prettilyrisse @cherrymoon55 @linaaeatsfamilies @k0z3me
the first time you heard the bipa, it wasn’t in the palace courtyards or the grand houses where silk rustled like wind. it was down by the riverbed, where the reeds grew tall and the water ran soft and slow.
you were thirteen, maybe fourteen, and supposed to be collecting herbs. but the music—low, melancholic, and imperfect—pulled you like a thread tugged through your chest. it sounded like sorrow sung through string. like longing with a voice.
there, beneath the willow branches and the fading pink of the afternoon sky, sat a boy in tattered robes. he wore no shoes, and his dark hair was messily knotted into a topknot, strands falling over his sharp cheekbones. a wide-brimmed straw hat hung on his back by a string. his bipa was scratched and worn, its lacquer chipped, but his hands moved like he was coaxing secrets out of it.
he didn’t notice you at first—until your shadow fell across the stone he was sitting on.
he looked up, startled, eyes wide and wary. but you only smiled.
“you missed a note,” you said.
and for a second, he blinked, dumbfounded. then he smiled back, sheepish.
“i always do.”
that became your first meeting.
after that, it was as if the river was the only place where you could breathe.
you met again and again in secret. you brought him warm rice wrapped in leaves; he taught you to pluck the bipa when no one was listening. he spoke of his sisters and sick mother, of hunger and scraping by. you spoke of being the invisible middle child of a strict family, your fate sealed before you were born.
you both spoke of dreams—silly, impossible dreams.
“do you think if we played for the gods, they’d let us live twice?”
he laughed, head tilted back. the sound of it made you close your eyes.
“only if we play well.”
and when he asked your name, he said it like he was memorizing a song.
there were days when you’d fall asleep on the riverbank, the grass in your hair and the music still echoing in your chest. his voice would be the last thing you heard before dreams took you.
but dreams didn’t last.
you got sick. a fever that wouldn’t leave. the doctor said it was the lungs.
jinu came to see you, trembling with panic, dirt still under his nails, clothes smelling like sweat and smoke. he held your hand like he could keep you there by touch alone.
“i’ll fix it,” he whispered.
“i’ll do anything.”
you tried to smile, but it hurt.
“don’t do anything foolish, jinu.”
but he already had.
he went to gwi-ma under the cover of night. he asked for salvation—for his family, for you.
but death came before the demon could fulfill even half the bargain.
by the time the price was paid, it was already too late.
you were gone.
and jinu—was no longer human.
/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡
the plaza was packed.
a wave of fans spilled across the stone walkways and up onto benches and railings, shoulder to shoulder with office workers on break, tourists holding melting ice cream cones, and old ladies clutching woven bags like shields. the sun was bright overhead—too bright. nothing about this screamed concert.
and yet… everyone was waiting.
you stood near a noodle cart, hood up, mirrored sunglasses on. huntrix was scattered around you, each of you dressed like normal citizens, pretending not to exist.
“this feels like bait,” rumi muttered, biting into a skewer of fishcake with narrowed eyes.
“who debuts in the middle of a shopping plaza with no warning?”
“i think that’s the point,” zoey sighed, popping her gum, “shock and awe. demon style.”
“it’s working,” mira added, calm but clipped. she stood beside a potted plant like she was part of the landscaping.
then, without warning—they appeared.
not from a stage. not from the crowd. not from anywhere logical.
one moment there was space. the next, there were five of them.
pink.
so many shades of pink. bubblegum, rose, hot magenta, soft blush. each one paired with a violently bright accent—lime green, cyan, electric orange. it hurt to look at them, but somehow… they looked good.
and then the music started.
no instruments. no speakers. it just was—bouncing out of nowhere, sugary and clean like it was injected straight into the air.
the song was bouncy. addictive. every note laced with some kind of demonic compulsion—you could feel it in your teeth, like a sugar rush threatening a crash. the boys danced like they’d been doing it since birth, teleporting mid-step, glitching forward in bursts of pink smoke and sparkling flame.
“that’s not normal,” rumi hissed.
“no shit,” you muttered, but your head was nodding slightly. you clenched your jaw.
“wait… oh my god,” zoey leaned forward, eyes wide, “do you think they’re actually, like… magicians? like street illusionists or something? maybe the smoke is part of their bit!”
rumi gave her a slow side-eye.
“zoey. they’re demons.”
“oh… yeah. right. duh.”
your eyes landed on the one in the middle.
he wasn’t dressed like the others. while most of them were practically glowing with glitter, he was simpler.
black hair, parted to the side, soft and swooping gently over his forehead. a crisp white button-up shirt, sleeves tucked just above his elbows. underneath, a peek of a pink undershirt. blue jeans. sneakers. clean, casual, unbothered.
but there was something about the way he stood. relaxed. self-assured. like he could end this entire city with just a look—and didn’t feel the need to prove it.
his voice melted into the chorus—low, smooth, unreasonably pleasant.
your body stiffened.
his eyes flicked casually over the crowd—
—and then stopped.
on you.
for a second, everything else blurred. the plaza, the crowd, the music—it all slipped away.
he tilted his head and smiled.
not the kind of smile meant for fans.
it was the kind that made your blood remember things your mind hadn’t yet recalled.
you exhaled, slow.
“…that one,” you said quietly.
mira’s gaze snapped to where you were looking.
“you know him?”
“no,” you said.
but your hand had already been positioned to summon your sickle, hidden beneath your coat.
and your heart was beating too fast.
/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡
you should’ve been writing the report.
you should’ve been going over the plaza footage, cross-referencing magical residue, checking movement patterns, tracing teleportation anomalies—something.
but instead, you were lying on your back in the dark.
the hum of neon leaked in through your window, flashing soft pink and electric blue against the ceiling like an uninvited memory. soda pop still echoed somewhere in the back of your skull, like a ghost you hadn’t given permission to haunt you.
you groaned, dragging a hand down your face.
“it was just a concert,” you muttered.
but it wasn’t.
you’d fought demons before. dozens of them. some smooth, some cocky, some beautiful enough to make gods weep. none of them had ever made your pulse skip.
none of them had smiled at you like that.
your legs swung off the edge of the bed, bare feet pressing into the wood floor as you sat up, elbows on your knees. your hoodie was still draped over your desk chair, your sickle tucked just behind the dresser. close. always close.
you reached for your tablet and flicked it on.
the footage wasn’t official—just someone’s livestream you’d saved before it got taken down. pixelated. shaky. too bright. but there they were again, clear as anything.
five boys in pink.
you paused it on him.
he wasn’t looking at the camera.
he was looking off to the side—toward where you’d been standing.
your thumb hovered over the screen.
“who the hell are you,” you whispered.
the outfit was plain. white button-up, sleeves tucked just above his elbows. soft pink undershirt. jeans and sneakers like he had no idea what era he was supposed to be in. like he belonged anywhere.
his hair fell in a perfect swoop over his forehead. effortless. casual. too neat to be accidental.
you hated how your eyes kept finding him even when you weren’t looking for him.
you pressed pause again.
his face froze mid-movement, lips parted just slightly—almost like he was about to say something.
you clicked the screen off.
shoved the tablet under your pillow.
you were not going to dream about him.
not again.
/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡
there was music.
soft. slow. not the kind played on speakers or stages, but something old. wooden. stringed. plucked like the sun was setting behind it.
you couldn’t see where you were—just colors.
the pale green of reeds, the brown gold of dirt under your bare feet. a red ribbon tied around your wrist, fraying at the edges.
“you’re late again,” a voice said—young, teasing, familiar. it pulled at something behind your ribs.
you turned, but the dream shifted.
the face changed. blurred. eyes dark, smile crooked. his name hovered at the tip of your tongue, but your dream-self couldn’t speak it.
he sat on a stone with a bipa in his lap. the strings looked worn. one of them had snapped. he was still playing it anyway.
“if we play for the gods,” he said, gaze steady, “do you think they’ll let us live twice?”
you felt your own voice answer. not your present voice. not your now. younger. breathier. tired.
“only if we play well.”
his smile faded. he reached toward you—but the image flickered like a dying candle flame.
he was further now. across the river. mist curling between you.
your lungs burned. you tried to cross the water, but your feet sank.
and he looked at you like he was losing something all over again.
“don’t die,” he said quietly.
you wanted to say you wouldn’t. you wanted to say you didn’t plan to, but the dream collapsed around you.
you sat up gasping.
sweat clung to your neck, your hair, your spine. your chest heaved like you’d just surfaced from deep underwater. your sheets were tangled and half-soaked.
for a long moment, you just stared at your hands.
they were trembling.
your eyes darted to the tablet still shoved under your pillow.
you didn’t touch it.
instead, you rose from the bed, dragging the heavy blanket off your legs, moving on instinct alone. the room felt too small. the air was too thick. you stepped barefoot onto the cold floor, padded toward the glass door, and pushed it open with one hand.
the balcony was quiet. the city shimmered far below in shades of gold and indigo. somewhere, a train rumbled. a dog barked. neon buzzed.
you leaned over the railing, let the wind hit your face.
your skin felt too thin.
that melody—the one in your dream—still echoed inside you like a ghost trying to get out.
“what the hell are you,” you whispered.
and in the back of your mind, something answered.
not with words, but with music.
you stayed on your balcony, elbows against the railing, eyes unfocused as you watched headlights smear across buildings like ghost trails. your skin had finally stopped tingling. your breath had evened. the dream still clung to the corners of your mind, but it was fading now. melting.
then something shifted behind you.
not a noise, not even a breeze, just a weight in the air.
you turned.
and there it was—lying near your plants, tucked just beneath the long leaves of the aloe pot.
a card.
you hadn’t heard it land. hadn’t seen it fall. hadn’t felt a single tremor of movement on the balcony. but it was there now, plain and heavy in its silence.
you stepped forward slowly.
the card was… cute.
the front was printed with a pastel pink background and a cartoon plushie animal—somewhere between a bear and a bunny. it had stubby paws and little button eyes. above it, in a bubbly font: “hello!”
you blinked.
your fingers hovered, then picked it up.
and felt it.
the aura was faint, but unmistakable—like something pressed just behind your eyes. a humming beneath your skin. not powerful, not threatening. just… wrong. demonic.
you opened the card.
five words, handwritten in neat, steady script:
let’s meet up.
goldleaf ferry station, platform thirteen.
fifteen minutes.
and beneath that—signed with a casual little flourish:
– jinu :)
your stomach dropped.
“what,” you breathed.
your heart kicked into your throat. the same name as the one who had looked at you like he knew you. like he remembered something you hadn’t even remembered yourself.
you turned the card over. nothing but soft pink. no sigils. no blood. just… a smiling bunny thing and the casual handwriting of someone too sure of himself.
your fingers clenched around it.
he knew where you lived.
he’d stepped onto your balcony. left this ridiculous, adorable, wrong little card like it was an invitation to a picnic.
your body moved fast—back into your room, pulling your hoodie over your head, lacing your boots.
you weren’t going to meet him, you were going to find out who the hell he really was, and make him tell you why your dreams were full of his voice.
goldleaf ferry station was technically still in use. technically.
but no one really came here anymore.
the newer subway lines had swallowed it whole—sleek, digital, bright. this place was analog. aging. the kind of space that wasn’t haunted, just forgotten. ticket kiosks still blinked lazily near the entrance, their screens coated in a thin layer of dust. the overhead lights flickered in long, tired intervals, but the floors were clean.
you stepped inside with your hood up, hands buried in your jacket pockets. the plushie card was still folded in your palm.
you didn’t know why you brought it, just holding it made you want to punch something.
there was no one at the front desk. no other passengers. a few vending machines hummed to themselves. in the distance, the mechanical groan of a delayed train echoed and faded. otherwise—nothing.
you checked the old map on the wall. there was no platform thirteen listed.
of course there wasn’t.
still, your feet moved like they knew the way.
down two flights of stairs. past a locked maintenance gate. a sharp turn through a rusted side corridor that smelled like cold iron and old paper. and there it was.
platform thirteen.
not glowing. not ominous. just… a platform.
a long bench. a cracked speaker above it. a trash can that had seen better decades.
you stood at the edge, toeing the yellow line.
“this is stupid,” you whispered to yourself, “this is so fucking stupid.”
you turned to leave, and then—
“i’m glad you came.”
the voice wasn’t loud. it wasn’t smug. it wasn’t even close.
it was just there, behind you. soft. careful. warm.
your hand went to your sickle instantly. you turned fast, ready to fight.
but your body didn’t move.
not really.
because he was standing there.
a hoodie.
just a plain, oversized hoodie—washed black, sleeves tugged over his hands like he’d been fidgeting with them. loose sweatpants. sneakers. hair still parted neatly, a soft swoop over his forehead.
him.
from the plaza. from the stage.
he looked so… normal. like someone you’d pass on a bus. like someone you could’ve trusted. like someone you could’ve loved, once.
your mouth dried. your grip on your weapon faltered.
and he—
he was smiling like it hurt to do it.
like he hadn’t done it in a long time.
his eyes found yours like they’d been waiting.
“do you remember me?”
his voice wasn’t deep. not overly charming. it was gentle—like a bruise you forgot you had until someone touched it.
your whole body tensed.
because something about him did feel familiar. not in the face, or the voice, or the shape. just… underneath.
like the smell of rain before it falls. like a song you used to hum in childhood.
you hated that.
you hated him.
“don’t play games,” you snapped, “i don’t know you.”
his smile twitched, faltered.
“you do. maybe not here,” he tapped the side of his head, “but somewhere in there—your soul does.”
“no.” your voice was sharp now. colder. you stepped back, “in no lifetime would i have ever been friends with someone like you.”
that hit him.
you saw it.
like you’d carved the words straight into his chest.
still, he stepped closer. slow. cautious.
“you used to call me liar,” he said quietly, “but you never really meant it. you knew i was just trying to keep you safe. back then. before the fever. before—”
“shut up.” your hands were shaking now—not with fear. not quite anger, but with the pressure of almost remembering.
like a name you couldn’t recall. like a melody stuck in your teeth.
“i don’t know you,” you said again, sharper, “and whatever this is—whatever trick you’re trying to pull—it’s not going to work. i don’t care if you wore a hoodie or if you smiled or if you knew some version of me that no longer exists.”
“she still exists,” he whispered.
“no, she doesn’t.”
you moved before you thought. swinging the sickle in one clean, perfect arc, aimed for his side—
and hit nothing. just air.
a faint curl of warmth, like breath against your skin.
he was gone.
you were left standing on the empty platform, blade humming faintly in your grip.
your pulse thundered in your ears.
“coward,” you spat into the silence.
and yet, your chest felt hollow.
you hated that it didn’t feel like a win.
/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡
the next morning, rumi asked why you looked like you hadn’t slept.
you shrugged.
mira watched you too closely.
zoey offered a glitter face mask and said, “maybe you’re haunted.”
you laughed it off.
you said nothing.
not about the card. not about the platform. not about him.
he wasn’t important. it wasn’t important.
he was just another demon with a gimmick and a hoodie and too many soft words.
so you buried it.
deep.
and he came back anyway.
the first time was the alley behind your training studio. you were drenched in sweat, shirt clinging to your back, water bottle halfway to your lips when you felt it—that warmth again, like candlelight brushing your skin.
you turned.
he was leaning against the wall.
hands in his pockets. hood up. silent. he didn’t speak. just looked at you.
you threw the bottle at him.
it hit the wall.
he vanished.
the second time was at the bookstore near the train line. you were crouched in the nonfiction aisle, flipping through a history text on reincarnation—not because you believed, but because you were curious. annoyed. trying to disprove the ache in your chest.
you felt him before you saw him.
he stood near the end of the aisle.
wearing a soft blue sweater this time.
holding a book he wasn’t reading.
you froze. didn’t move.
he smiled.
soft. patient.
like he knew you’d come around eventually.
you walked straight past him, shoulder knocking his with more force than necessary.
he didn’t follow.
third time: your balcony.
again.
he didn’t leave a card this time.
just himself.
sitting with his legs crossed near your plants like he belonged there.
you opened the door with a blade already drawn.
he didn’t flinch.
just tilted his head, eyes searching.
“do your teammates know you’re this dramatic?”
you slammed the door in his face.
but you didn’t sleep that night.
he came again.
a rooftop.
a crosswalk.
outside a laundromat, flipping through a manga like he had time to waste.
always alone. always watching. never speaking unless you did first.
no threats, no chaos, just presence and that’s what made it worse, because your brain hated him.
but your soul—
your soul paused.
just for a moment.
during one of the quieter visits—outside the café you always stopped at on fridays—he didn’t look at you.
just sat two tables down, hoodie pulled over his ears, sipping from a paper cup. and you looked at his hands.
his fingers. long and calloused.
as if they’d once played something—an instrument, maybe.
and suddenly, that dream came back.
strings. music.
you blinked hard.
“no,” you whispered. you left your drink behind and ran.
but the taste of something old and sweet clung to the back of your throat for hours.
you found him under the streetlight, right where you knew he’d be.
he didn’t flinch when you approached. didn’t move. just stood there in a dark green hoodie, sleeves stretched over his hands again like they always were. his hair was messier than usual, like he’d been tugging on it, like maybe you weren’t the only one losing sleep.
you didn’t hesitate.
you stormed toward him, boots echoing off the concrete, your sickle already strapped beneath your jacket. he didn’t need to see it. he knew it was there.
“i want answers,” you said, the words barely controlled through your teeth, “real ones. now.”
he looked at you like he’d been waiting for this. like maybe he’d rehearsed the moment in his head a thousand times.
he didn’t smile. not this time.
“ask.”
you hated how calm he was.
“who are you,” you hissed, stepping closer, “and don’t give me that reincarnation bullshit. i want the truth. what do you know about me? why do you keep following me? why me?”
his gaze didn’t falter.
“because i knew you before,” he said softly, “and i never stopped loving you.”
it hit you like a slap to the ribs. no ceremony. no buildup. just those words, dropped at your feet like a broken offering.
“no,” you said, but it didn’t sound convincing, “you’re a demon. you lie. that’s what you do.”
“i lied once,” he whispered, “a long time ago. and i lost you for it.”
you felt the anger bubbling under your skin—too raw, too wild.
“i don’t remember you,” you snapped.
“i know.”
“i don’t care who you think i was—”
“her name was y/n.”
you froze.
he stepped closer, slow, deliberate, like he knew every inch you’d allow before you’d strike.
“you had a laugh like windchimes,” he said. “and you braided my hair wrong every time. you used to steal rice from the temple kitchens and bring it to me like it was treasure. you told me the gods were cruel, but you still prayed every morning just in case.”
his voice cracked, just slightly, “you died in my arms.”
your heart lurched. your throat clenched.
“stop,” you whispered.
“you were sick. and we couldn’t afford a healer. i begged gwi-ma to save you. instead, he saved my family and cursed me.”
“shut up.”
“i waited every century hoping your soul would find its way back.”
you backed away.
not because you were scared of him, but because your knees were giving out beneath the weight of something too big to hold. your pulse roared in your ears. your vision blurred at the edges.
“i don’t know you,” you said again, but your voice trembled, “i never would’ve known you.”
his hand lifted—slow, careful. he reached like he meant to brush your hair back, just once, the way someone might with an old love they thought they’d never see again.
you flinched away like it burned.
“you’re not her,” he said gently, “but she’s still in you.”
you turned and ran.
your room was dark when you slammed the door behind you, but you didn’t turn the lights on.
you dropped your jacket on the floor and crawled into your bed without thinking, your skin buzzing like electricity, your heart thudding loud enough to shake the silence. you yanked the blanket over your head and curled in on yourself, hands gripping the sheets like armor.
you could still hear his voice. still feel that sick ache in your chest. still see his eyes when he said your name like it was something holy.
you told yourself it was a trick. a demon’s lie. a carefully constructed illusion to throw you off.
but a name you’d never told anyone now echoed inside you like it had always been yours.
you breathed hard under the blankets, jaw clenched, chest tight.
you didn’t cry. you just lay there. and eventually—
somehow—
sleep took you.
but it didn’t feel like rest, it felt like drowning.
/ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡
you woke to music.
it was soft at first. almost imagined. just a thread of sound tangled in your breath, weaving through the blanket still half-slipped over your legs.
you blinked, slow.
your room was dark. the city outside was quiet—no horns, no buzz, no voices. just that sound, impossibly clear, floating like dust in a beam of moonlight.
not a guitar.
not a violin.
something older. something deeper.
you sat up with a groggy breath, rubbing your hands over your face, your head fuzzy with sleep. your limbs were heavy, reluctant. like the dream still clung to you, refusing to let go.
but the sound tugged.
gently.
you stumbled to your feet, still wearing your hoodie from earlier, the hem brushing against your thighs. your eyes were half-lidded as you moved toward the window, confused but compelled, heart already beating slower—not from fear, but something quieter. something warm.
the closer you got, the more certain you became:
it wasn’t a guitar.
it was a bipa.
and not just any melody—it was one you knew. not from memory, not from a mission, but from you. from nights alone when you searched for songs that sounded like longing. ancient love ballads half-lost to time. this was one of them. slow, mournful, reverent. every note aching like it remembered what it once meant to someone.
you slid open the glass door.
the breeze met you first, brushing against your cheek like a familiar hand.
and there he was.
jinu.
sitting cross-legged on the balcony floor between your plants, lit only by the spill of moonlight and the soft blue halo of the streetlamp below. his hoodie was the color of the ocean before dawn. his bipa rested against his legs like it had never left them, like it was carved for him and him alone.
he didn’t look at you.
not right away.
he just played.
his fingers moved with certainty and softness, calloused and steady. every pluck of the string rang clean into the night air, winding around your lungs, your ribs, the edges of your eyes.
and then—
he started to sing.
not loud. not performed. just… sung.
his voice was deep and smooth, low like the hush before a storm, warm like a fire built just for two. the words were old. you didn’t understand all of them. but you felt them. love not as a firework, but as a promise. devotion not in grand gestures, but in staying. in waiting. in knowing.
the kind of song you only sang for someone you’d already lost.
your feet didn’t move, but your throat tightened. your breath caught.
you stared.
he finished the last note with a whisper.
and as the silence swelled as you moved closer toward him, your lips parted.
“you missed a note,” you said, barely more than a breath.
he looked up at you.
his eyes shimmered with something soft. not surprise. not apology. just honesty.
💬, dawg i swear to yall, i made myself cry with this one like lwk ts is BEAUTIFUL. I DONT MEAN TO BE A NARCISSIST BUT HOLY FUCK MAN 😭 my fucking heart swelled at this shit, this has GOT to be some of my best work fr 😛 ALSO i lwk thought about how some writers charge money for their fics or even for reqs and i tHOUGHT about it, THOUGHTTTT, but i was like nah because i lwk enjoy this, like it lwk gives me smth to do and its lwk fun, do we need money in this economy, hell yeah, but shiii bruh i aint needa be charging nothing for some tumblr writing 😭 also i will be creating an ao3 account at some point between the end of this upcoming week and the beginning of the next!!! ANYWAYS ENJOY THIS REQUEST FROM MY NUMBA ONE !!!! also its almost 5am and i have work at 7 am so i have to get up at 6am and i have not slept but the haunting thought of posting has kept me up GOODNIGHT LOOOL also yalls comments and reblogs comments keep me motivated lol 😛
update : part two requested !!!
᧔᧓ you just read a fic that ruined your life—donate a coffee ? ☕️
۶ৎ SYNOPSIS : you're the 4th member of Huntrix, tasked to eliminate the Saja Boys, five powerful demons disguised as idols. However, encountering them face to face brings an achingly familiar pain to your chest.
۶ৎ PAIRING : reincarnated 4th member huntrix!reader x saja boys ۶ৎ GENRE(S) : romance, reincarnation, angst, fluff, comfort ۶ৎ WARNING(S) : mentions of death/injuries, use of weapons, sexy hot fictional men
۶ৎ A/N : due to popular demand, here is part 2 of my reincarnated!reader x saja boys~ thank you to all the love and overwhelming support in part 1! 🥹 I didn't expect so many of you to enjoy it!
TELL ME, WILL WE SURVIVE ⋆˚࿔ (part 1)
The notification sound echoed through the dorm's living room for the fifteenth time in an hour. You glanced up from your phone, watching as Rumi frowned at something on her phone screen.
"Look at this," she said, turning the phone towards the group. The trending page was flooded with Saja Boys content, fan edits, concert clips, and millions of views on every single post. "They've gained two million followers in the past week."
Mira peered over Rumi's shoulder, her eyebrows raising. "That's... impossible. Even the biggest groups don't blow up that fast."
"And look at these comments," Zoey added, scrolling through her phone. Her usual confident demeanor had an edge of unease. "Listen to this, 'I can't stop thinking about Saja Boys. They're perfect.' And this one, 'I've watched their latest video fifty times today. Can't help myself.'"
You felt a chill run down your spine. Those words sounded wrong, like echoes of someone else's voice.
"They all sound the same," Mira observed, reading over Zoey's shoulder. "Like they're... compelled to write them."
However, it wasn’t just the Saja Boys’ sudden viral explosion that made your stomach twist. You could feel the Honmoon growing weaker. Not because fans were leaving, but because their attention, energy and devotion were being pulled elsewhere.
"When did this start?" Rumi asked, her sharp gaze sweeping over the three of you. "Zoey, check when their numbers started spiking."
The room fell silent except for the rapid clicking of keys. When the data appeared on screen, your heart dropped. The surge had begun exactly seven days ago. Seven days since...
"Right after our individual missions," you said quietly, the realization hitting you.
All eyes turned to you. Rumi's expression was unreadable, but you can feel your heartbeat climb into your throat at her eyes glancing at your direction with suspicion, concern, maybe both.
"The encounters," Zoey breathed. "It started the day after we met with the Saja Boys."
"Demonic influence," Rumi said grimly. "They're using their powers to hypnotize people and pull their energy towards them. The Honmoon isn't breaking because we're losing fans, it's weakening because our fans' devotion is being redirected."
You felt that hollow ache in your chest where the warm flow of the Honmoon used to be strong and steady. It was still there, but muted now.
"If they drain enough spiritual energy from enough people..." you said quietly, understanding flooding through you.
"They'll be powerful enough to do whatever Gwi-Ma has planned," Rumi finished, her jaw set with determination. "Which means we need to stop them before they can complete whatever ritual they're building towards. Each of us needs to track down the Saja Boy we encountered before. Find out how they're doing this and break their hypnotic hold."
"But what if—" you started, then stopped yourself. What if what? What if you didn't want to stop them? The thought had come unbidden, treacherous, and you pushed it down quickly.
"What if what?" Rumi's voice was gentle but probing.
You looked around at your groupmates, Rumi, who'd been your anchor since debut. Mira, whose strength held you all together. Zoey, whose fierce loyalty had gotten you through countless challenges. They were your family, your chosen sisters. But when you thought about the Saja Boys, about that strange encounter a week ago...
"Nothing," you said finally. "You're right. We need to stop this."
As the others began planning their individual missions, you couldn't shake the memory of how that encounter had felt. Despite everything you'd been taught about demons. They had felt like... coming home.
Rumi placed a hand on your shoulder, pulling you from your thoughts. "Are you sure you're ready for this? You seem distracted lately."
"I'm fine," you lied, forcing a smile. "Just worried about our fans."
She studied your face for a long moment, then nodded. "Alright. Same as before, we split up, track them down, and neutralize the threat. Stay in contact, and if anything goes wrong, call for backup immediately."
As your groupmates gathered their gear and prepared to leave, you stared at your reflection in the black screen of the television. Your own face looked back at you, but for just a moment, you could have sworn you saw someone else, someone from dreams you couldn't quite remember, someone who had loved and been loved in return.
You shook your head, dispelling the illusion.
You were a member of Huntrix.
You had a job to do.
JINU ໒꒱ ‧₊˚
A week had passed since your confrontation with Jinu in the abandoned office building. A week of sleepless nights of fragmented dreams and memories that felt achingly familiar haunted your every waking moment. The other members of Huntrix had noticed your distraction during practice, but you'd deflected their concerns with lies about exhaustion.
You couldn't tell them about the conversation that had shattered everything you thought you knew about your past.
The Saja Boys' influence was growing stronger, and reports of missing fans were growing from across the city. Rumi had assigned you to track Jinu again, convinced that he was the key to understanding their sudden surge in power.
Now you crouched on the fire escape of a warehouse, watching the empty street below while gripping your silver blade. The blessed metal gleamed in the moonlight, sharp and ready to kill. But your hands trembled as you held the weapon, the memory of dropping your blade nights ago still fresh in your mind.
A disturbance in the shadows caught your attention.
Two figures moved through the maze of abandoned factories with predatory grace. These weren't the elegant, human-like demons of the Saja Boys. These were lesser demons, twisted creatures with too many teeth and eyes that burned like coals, the kind that served Gwi-Ma's lower ranks and fed on terror.
You dropped silently to the alley below, following their movements through the industrial complex. All demons served Gwi-Ma in some capacity, but the lesser ones were often sent on reconnaissance missions, scouting for potential feeding grounds or threats to their master's operations.
The creatures had stopped near a cluster of shipping containers, their forms barely visible in the darkness. You crept closer, silver blade ready, but one of them sensed your approach before you could strike.
"Hunter," it hissed, its voice like grinding metal. "How delicious."
The second demon turned towards you, abandoning whatever had occupied its attention. Both creatures began to circle you with calculated precision, cutting off escape routes with practiced efficiency.
Your training kicked in. You lunged at the nearest demon, your blade slicing across its torso. Silver burned through demonic flesh, and the creature shrieked, stumbling backwards. But it didn't fall.
The second demon struck while you were focused on the first, its claws raking across your back. Hot pain bloomed between your shoulder blades, and you could feel blood soaking through your jacket. You spun around, bringing your blade up in a defensive arc, but the wounded demon had recovered and was stalking towards you from behind.
Two against one with an injury was manageable in theory, but these demons moved with coordinated intelligence born from centuries of serving under Gwi-Ma's command. Your blood loss was already affecting your reflexes.
The wounded demon feinted left while its companion attacked from the right. You blocked one set of claws but couldn't avoid the other entirely. New cuts opened across your ribs, deeper than the first wounds.
You stumbled, your vision blurring at the edges. The demons sensed weakness and pressed their advantage, forcing you back against a concrete wall. Your silver blade wavered in your grip as exhaustion and blood loss took their toll.
"Sweet little hunter," one of them crooned, its voice sickeningly melodic. "Lord Gwi-Ma will be pleased with this offering."
You raised your blade one final time, knowing it was futile. You were going to die in a dirty alley, far from your teammates, torn apart by Gwi-Ma's servants and your soul delivered to their master as tribute.
Suddenly, a figure emerged from the darkness behind the demons like smoke given form. Before either creature could react, Jinu was there, his hand wrapped around the nearest demon's throat. You didn't even have the time to react. Within seconds, the two demons were nothing more than a pile of ash on the concrete.
The alley fell silent except for your ragged breathing and the distant hum of the city.
Jinu turned to you, his dark eyes scanning your form for injuries. When he saw the blood seeping through your jacket, his expression twisted with concern, guilt, perhaps, or self-loathing.
"You're hurt."
"I'm fine," you lied, even as the pain in your back made you grit your teeth.
He stepped closer, and you instinctively raised your blade. He stopped immediately, his hands raised in a gesture of surrender.
"Let me help you."
"Why?" The word came out harsher than you intended. "Why did you save me from your own kind?"
His eyes met yours, and in them you saw the same pain that had been haunting your dreams for days. "Because losing you once was enough to last eternity."
You stared at him, your weapon still raised between you like a barrier. The logical part of your mind screamed that this was a trap, but another part, deeper and older, recognized the anguish in his voice.
"Those demons," you said carefully. "They mentioned Gwi-Ma. They serve him directly."
"All demons serve Gwi-Ma in some capacity," Jinu replied, his jaw tightening. "But that doesn't mean we're all allies. Hierarchy exists even in hell."
"And where do you fit in that hierarchy?"
"Higher than I deserve. Lower than I once hoped." He looked down at his hands, still stained with demon ash. "High enough that lesser demons fear me, but not high enough to free myself from his control."
You studied his face, seeing the weight of centuries in his expression. The adrenaline was wearing off, and the pain was getting worse. You could feel blood trickling down your spine, warm and sticky.
"The Saja Boys," you said slowly. "This whole idol group, it's not just about collecting souls, is it?"
"Forgetting." The word came out like a confession. "For four hundred years, I've carried the memories of what I did. What I lost. What I abandoned." His voice broke on the last word. "The music, the performances, the adoration of thousands of fans, it drowns out the voices in my head. It makes the guilt... quieter."
"What voices?"
"Yours. My mother's. My sister's." He looked at you with eyes full of centuries-old pain. "All the people I left behind when I made my deal with Gwi-Ma. All the people who died because I was too selfish to stay and fight poverty alongside them."
The pieces began falling into place. "The deal... it was only for you."
"I was so desperate to escape. So tired of watching you go hungry, of seeing my mother's hands crack from cold, of feeling helpless while my sister grew thinner each day." His voice was barely a whisper. "When Gwi-Ma offered me a way out, I thought... I thought I could come back for you. I thought once I had wealth and status, I could bring you all to live with me."
"But you couldn't."
"The palace guards turned you away. The deal lifted only me from poverty. Gwi-Ma wanted me to feel the weight of my choice every day." Jinu's hands clenched into fists. "I lived in silk and gold while you starved in the streets I'd fled."
Your blade lowered without conscious thought. "We died."
"You all died hating me." Tears tracked down his cheeks. "The bond we shared... I felt your life leave your body, and I knew you died cursing my name."
The memory hit you like a lightning strike, cold, hunger, the bitter taste of betrayal in your mouth as you realized Jinu wasn't coming back. The way his mother had wept when the palace guards turned them away. How his sister had called his name one final time before the sickness took her.
"I remember," you whispered. "The guards... they laughed at us. They said you'd instructed them to keep the beggars away."
"I never said that. I swear I never—"
"I know." The words surprised you with their certainty. "I can see it now. You tried to reach us."
"Every day for months I begged, pleaded, offered everything I had gained. But the deal was binding. Gwi-Ma had orchestrated it perfectly, I could have wealth and status, but I could never share it with those I loved most."
You understood now why the patterns had spread across his skin, why he'd been transformed into a demon. The guilt alone would have been enough to damn him, but Gwi-Ma had ensured the punishment fit the crime.
"The demon transformation," you said. "It happened because of the guilt."
"The more I regretted my choice, the more the patterns spread. Gwi-Ma's voice grew louder in my mind, feeding on my torment. Eventually, the curse completed its work and I became exactly what I'd made a deal with, a demon bound to serve the very creature who had destroyed everything I loved."
"And for four hundred years, you've been trying to forget."
"The Saja Boys weren't just about serving Gwi-Ma's interests. They were about drowning out the memories, creating something loud enough to silence the guilt. But then you appeared, and suddenly..." He looked at you with desperate eyes. "Suddenly all the music in the world couldn't make me forget your face."
Your back was throbbing, but you barely noticed. "Is that why you recognized me immediately? Because you never truly forgot?"
"I couldn't forget. No matter how hard I tried, no matter how many souls I helped harvest, no matter how much adoration I basked in, your voice calling my name as you died was always there, waiting in the quiet moments."
"Do you regret it?" you asked. "Making the deal?"
"Every breath I've taken for the past four centuries has been a regret." His voice was raw with pain. "But regret doesn't resurrect the dead. It doesn't undo abandonment. It doesn't—"
"It doesn't change the past," you finished. "But we're not in the past anymore."
Jinu stared at you in shock. "How can you even look at me? I left you to die. I chose my own comfort over your life, over my family's survival. I'm the reason you suffered, the reason you—"
"Stop." You stepped closer to him, close enough to see the demonic patterns that traced along his skin like a map of his guilt. "You made a choice born from desperation and love. You wanted to save us, and Gwi-Ma twisted that desire into a trap."
"That doesn't excuse—"
"No, it doesn't excuse anything. But it explains it." You reached up and touched his face, feeling him tremble under your palm. "You were barely more than a boy, watching the people you loved waste away. When someone offered you a way to save them, of course you took it. The fact that it was a trap doesn't make you evil, it makes you human."
"I'm not human anymore."
"No," you agreed. "But you're still the man who used to tend my wounds. Still the man who played music in the streets to earn enough coin for medicine when his sister fell ill. Still the man who loved his family enough to fuck himself over trying to save them."
Jinu broke completely at your words, falling to his knees as four centuries of suppressed grief poured out of him. You knelt beside him, ignoring the pain in your back, and pulled him against you.
"I'm so sorry," he sobbed into your shoulder. "I'm so sorry I failed you. I'm sorry I left you. I'm sorry I wasn't strong enough to find another path."
"I forgive you," you whispered, and felt the truth of it settle in your bones. "I forgive you, Jinu. I forgive all of it."
"But I'm a demon. You're a hunter. The things I've done in service to Gwi-Ma—"
"We'll figure it out." You helped him stand, your own wounds protesting the movement. "There has to be a way to break his hold over you. There has to be a path forward that doesn't end in more loss."
"And if there isn't?"
"Then we face whatever comes together. No more abandoning each other anymore."
Jinu searched your face as if memorising every detail. "You're certain? Once we cross this line, there's no going back. Your friends will see it as betrayal."
"They won’t, trust me." You winced as pain shot through your back. "Now help me with these wounds so we can figure out how to save each other."
As Jinu carefully tended to your injuries, his hands as gentle as they had been four centuries ago, you felt the last pieces of your memories clicking into place. You remembered the love you'd shared, the dreams you'd built together, and yes, the pain of his abandonment and the bitterness of your death.
But you also remembered the man beneath the demon, the choices that had led him here, and the guilt that had been eating him alive for longer than most civilizations had existed.
Honestly, you didn't know how you were going to reconcile your duty to Huntrix with your love for Jinu. You didn't know if there was a way to free him from Gwi-Ma's control without destroying him in the process.
But you knew you would face whatever came together. Even if it meant challenging a demon lord, betraying your calling, or rewriting the very rules that governed love and redemption.
ABBY ໒꒱ ‧₊˚
You found him in an abandoned subway tunnel, exactly where you'd agreed to meet. The space echoed with the distant rumble of trains above, fluorescent lights flickering against graffitied walls. Abby was sitting on an old bench, looking surprisingly relaxed for someone who was supposed to be hunted.
"You came," he said, looking up as your footsteps echoed through the tunnel.
"I said I would." You sat beside him, close enough to talk quietly but far enough to maintain the illusion of professionalism if anyone happened upon you. "Rumi's assigned me to track you again. Solo mission this time."
"Lucky me." His grin was sharp, but there was warmth in his eyes that hadn't been there during your first encounter. "So what's the play sweetheart? You gonna chase me around the city for a few hours before I conveniently slip away?"
"Something like that." You pulled out your phone, showing him the tracking device readings Huntrix had given you. "They're monitoring my progress. We need to make this look good."
Abby leaned closer to study the screen, and you caught the scent of his cologne. It triggered a flash of memory, sitting close like this before, but in sunlight, sharing bread on a hillside.
"You okay?" he asked, noticing how you'd gone still.
"Just... flashes. Memories that don't quite fit." You rubbed your temple. "It's like trying to remember a dream."
"That's normal. Reincarnation scrambles things." His voice was gentler now. "Want to talk about it while we walk? Might help piece things together."
You both stood, and he gestured towards the deeper tunnels. "There's an old platform about half a mile down. Good acoustics for a dramatic chase scene."
As you walked side by side through the dim tunnel, the silence felt comfortable rather than tense. It occurred to you that this should be awkward, demon and hunter pretending to hunt each other, instead it felt natural.
"Tell me about the memories," Abby said quietly. "What do you see?"
"Fragments, mostly. Sitting somewhere sunny, sharing food. Your hands..." You glanced at his hands, noting how they dwarfed yours now. "They were smaller then. Thinner."
"I was sick a lot," he admitted. "Weak. Could barely keep food down most days." His jaw tightened. "Not exactly hero material."
"But you were kind." The words came automatically. "You always shared whatever you had, even when you didn't have enough."
Abby stopped walking. "You remember that?"
"I remember..." You closed your eyes, letting the memory surface. "You made soup from scraps, and you gave me the pieces of meat even though you needed them more."
"You tried to give them back," he said softly. "You said you weren't hungry, but I could hear your stomach growling."
The memory crystallized suddenly. A tiny room with walls that barely kept out the cold, two bowls between you, and the way he'd smiled when you finally ate the meat he'd saved for you.
"What happened? In our past life, I mean. How did I die?"
Abby was quiet for so long you thought he wouldn't answer. When he finally spoke, his voice was carefully controlled.
"There were men. Rich merchants who thought they could take whatever they wanted from people like us." His hands clenched into fists. "They cornered you in an alley. I tried to stop them, but I was so weak I could barely stand after a coughing fit."
Rough hands grabbing you, a thin boy shouting your name, the feeling of helplessness as you were dragged away from him.
"You tried to fight them," you said, the words coming back to you. "Even though you could barely breathe."
"Lot of good it did." His laugh was bitter. "I watched them kill you, and I couldn't do anything but scream."
"That's not true." You stopped walking and turned to face him. "You held me after. When they were gone, you found me and you held me."
Abby's composure cracked. "You remember that?"
"Your hands were shaking. You kept saying you were sorry, that you should have been stronger." You reached out tentatively, touching his arm. "But I wasn't angry. I was just... sad that we didn't have more time."
"You told me you loved me right at the end. And I promised you that if I ever got another chance, I'd be strong enough to protect you."
"And you made a deal with Gwi-Ma."
"The day after your funeral. He appeared to me." Abby's voice hardened. "He offered me everything I'd ever wanted, strength, power, the ability to never be helpless again. All I had to do was serve him."
"What was the price?"
"My humanity, eventually. And a hundred and twenty three years of wondering if I'd ever see you again." He looked at you with an expression that was equal parts hope and fear. "Some nights I convinced myself it was worth it. Other nights..."
"Other nights you regretted it."
"I regretted every single one." He started walking again, and you fell into step beside him. "But then you showed up in that fight club, and suddenly every day of the past century made sense."
You walked in comfortable silence for a few minutes, processing the weight of shared memory and loss. The tunnel opened up ahead into what had once been a subway platform, complete with tiled walls and abandoned benches.
"This is perfect," you said, pulling out your phone to check the tracker. "Dramatic lighting, multiple exits. Very cinematic."
"You want cinematic? I can give you cinematic." Abby grinned, and for a moment he looked like the boy from your memories, mischievous and alive despite everything. "What's our story? How does this chase play out?"
"You're overconfident. I'm persistent. We fight, you get the upper hand, but then something distracts you and I almost get you before you escape at the last second."
"What kind of distraction?"
You considered this. "Personal. Something that throws you off balance emotionally."
"Like what?"
"Like me asking why you became a demon."
Abby raised an eyebrow. "That's not acting, sweetheart. That's just therapy with weapons."
"Maybe that's what we both need."
His expression grew serious. "You sure about this? Once we cross that line, there's no pretending it's just a performance."
"I'm sure."
He nodded and moved to the center of the platform. "Alright then. Let's give Huntrix a show."
You activated your tracking device and drew your weapon. Immediately, Abby's entire demeanour shifted. Gone was the gentle man who'd been sharing memories with you. In his place stood the cocky fighter from the underground ring, all dangerous grace and sharp grins.
"Well, well," he called out, his voice echoing off the tiled walls. "Look who found me. Miss me already?"
"You're under arrest," you said, loud enough for your comm device to pick up. "Come quietly and this doesn't have to get messy."
"Where's the fun in that?" He rolled his shoulders, muscles rippling under his shirt. "Besides, we both know how this ends."
You lunged at him with your blade, and he dodged with fluid grace. He was pulling his punches, making sure his strikes looked devastating without actually hurting you.
"Is that all you've got?" he taunted, but his eyes were careful, watching to make sure you were okay.
"I'm just getting started." You spun, bringing your blade around in an arc that he blocked with his forearm. The silver stung him, you could see him wince, but he didn't retreat.
"That's more like it." He grabbed your wrist and spun you around, pulling you back against his chest with your own blade at your throat. To anyone listening, it would sound like he had the upper hand. "You know, you're prettier when you're not trying to kill me."
"Let me go," you said, but there was no real fear in your voice.
"Not yet." His breath was warm against your ear. "We haven't finished our conversation."
"What conversation?"
"The one about why I became a monster for you."
You drove your elbow back into his ribs, and he released you with a grunt that was only half-acted. When you spun to face him, his mask had slipped slightly.
"You want to know why?" His voice was rougher and more honest. "Because watching you die broke me. A hundred and twenty three years of nightmares seemed like a fair trade for the chance to keep you safe."
"And what if I don't need protecting?"
"Then I'll love you anyway." The words escaped before he could stop them, raw in this echoing space.
The admission hung between you like a bridge. You could cross it or burn it down.
"Abby," you whispered.
"I know," he said quietly. "I know it's complicated. I know you have a life, a mission, people who depend on you. But when I look at you, I see the person I've been waiting over a century to find again."
Your comm device crackled with Rumi's voice. "Status report. Do you have visual on the target?"
Reality crashed back. You were supposed to be chasing him, not having a heart-to-heart in an abandoned subway tunnel.
"He's here," you said into the comm, then looked at Abby with apology in your eyes. "But he's about to slip away."
Understanding flashed across his face. "Right. Back to the show."
He moved towards one of the tunnel exits, but slowly, giving you time to "pursue" him. You followed, making your footsteps loud and obvious.
"Stop right there!" you called out.
"Can't do that, sweetheart!" He paused at the mouth of the tunnel, silhouetted against the dim light beyond. "But this isn't over!"
"I'll find you again!"
"I'm counting on it!"
He disappeared into the shadows, and you stood alone on the platform, breathing hard from more than just the chase.
"Target escaped," you reported into your comm. "Lost him in the tunnel system."
"Copy that," Rumi's voice crackled back. "Return to the dorms for debrief."
You were about to leave when you noticed something on the bench where Abby had been sitting earlier. A piece of paper, folded small and tucked under the armrest where only someone looking carefully would find it.
You unfolded it to find an address written in careful handwriting, along with a simple message: "When you're ready to stop performing."
As you made your way back through the tunnels, your mind raced with the implications of what had just happened. You'd helped a demon escape. You'd lied to your groupmates. You'd crossed a line that there was no coming back from.
However, you'd also remembered what it felt like to be loved completely, without reservation or condition. You'd remembered a boy who'd given up his humanity for the chance to protect you. You'd realized that some bonds really were stronger than duty.
For the first time since your memories had started returning, you finally knew which choice you were going to make.
ROMANCE ໒꒱ ‧₊˚
A week had passed since the rooftop encounter, and you hadn't slept properly since. Every time you closed your eyes, you saw that ring catching the neon light, heard his voice breaking as he spoke of seventy two hours by your deathbed..
You'd thrown yourself into training with renewed intensity, pushing your body until exhaustion forced the memories away. But nothing could silence the echo of his words.
Someone I loved more than my own existence.
Your mind replayed back to today's briefing :
"Are we deploying as a full team?"
"No. Individual assignments based on our intelligence about each demon's capabilities." Rumi's eyes met yours across the table. "I'm assigning you to track Romance specifically. Your previous encounter gives you insight into his methods."
The blood drained from your face. You gripped the edge of the table, hoping no one would notice the tremor in your hands.
"His emotional manipulation techniques are particularly dangerous," Rumi continued. "But you've proven resistant to his influence. You're our best chance at—"
"I can't." The words tumbled out before you could stop them.
The room fell silent. Mira raised an eyebrow while Zoey's concerned gaze shifted between you and Rumi.
"What do you mean, you can't?" Rumi's voice carried a note of authority, but still laced with concern.
"I mean..." You struggled to find words that wouldn't reveal too much. "Perhaps someone else would be better suited. My last encounter with him was... complicated."
"Complicated how?" Mira's tone was sharp with curiosity.
"He got into my head more than I'd like to admit." It wasn't entirely a lie. "His particular brand of manipulation might be more effective on me than we initially thought."
Zoey reached across the table, her expression softening. "If you're not comfortable with this assignment, we can adjust. Mira could take Romance while you handle one of the others!"
The offer hung in the air, a lifeline you desperately wanted to take. But the thought of one of your friends facing Romance, facing the grief and twisted love that had consumed him for centuries made your stomach turn. They wouldn't understand what drove him. They would see only a demon to be eliminated, not a man destroyed by loss.
"No," you said finally. "I can handle it. I just... needed a moment to prepare mentally."
Rumi's eyes narrowed slightly, but she nodded. "Alright then. We'll position ourselves around the area and move in when they separate."
As the briefing concluded and your teammates filed out, you remained seated.
"Are you sure about this?" Mira had lingered behind, her voice gentle with concern.
"I have to be."
"No, you don't. If this demon has some kind of psychological hold over you—"
"He doesn't." The lie came easier this time. "I won't let him manipulate me again."
Mira studied your face for a long moment before nodding. "Just... be careful. And remember, you're not alone out there. We're all connected by comms."
After she left, you sat in the empty briefing room. The weight of what you were about to do pressed down on your chest like a stone.
The botanical gardens at sunset were eerily beautiful. Golden light filtered through the glass walls of the greenhouses, casting prismatic rainbows across the pathways. You moved silently through the outer corridors, your silver blade secured at your side, backup positioned at strategic points around the perimeter.
Your comm crackled softly. "Mira in position," came the whispered report.
"Zoey here. I've got eyes on Mystery."
"Copy that," Rumi's voice was barely audible through the static. "Target separation confirmed. Move to intercept."
You switched off your comm and continued deeper into the garden. It felt like walking through a dream. Overgrown rose bushes created natural corridors between forgotten flower beds, their thorns catching on your clothes as you navigated the maze of vegetation.
You found Romance in the heart of the garden, surrounded by what had once been a carefully cultivated meditation area.
"I wondered if you'd come," he said without turning around. "The others are handling your friends well enough, I assume."
You stepped into the light, silver blade already in your hand. "This ends tonight."
"Does it?" He finally looked at you, and his expression was utterly calm. "I'm not going to fight you."
"Why not?"
"Because I'm tired." Romance's voice carried a weariness that seemed to span centuries. "Tired of pretending this existence has meaning, creating false love to fill the void you left behind, being something you would have hated."
The blade wavered in your grip. "You don't get to use guilt as a weapon."
"I'm not trying to manipulate you." He stood slowly. "I'm telling you the truth. For the first time in centuries, I'm being completely honest."
"The truth about what?"
"About why I really became a demon." Romance took a step closer, and you instinctively raised your weapon. He stopped immediately, hands visible and empty. "It wasn't just because I couldn't love anyone else. It was because I couldn't live with the guilt of failing you."
"You didn't fail me. I died of illness."
"I failed you by not being strong enough to save you. By not having the money for better medicine, better doctors. By not being able to give you the life you deserved." His voice cracked. "I held your hand while you died, and all I could think about was how I'd never get to marry you, never get to give you children, never get to grow old with you."
Your chest tightened with familiar pain, that same inexplicable ache that had plagued you since the rooftop encounter.
"So you made a deal with Gwi-Ma to become something that could manufacture love for others?"
"I thought... if I could give other people what I couldn't give you, it would balance the scales somehow. Make up for my failures." Romance's laugh was bitter. "Instead, I became a mockery of everything you taught me about love."
"What did I teach you about love?"
"That it should be freely given. That it should make people stronger, not weaker. That it should be based on truth, not lies." Tears tracked down his cheeks. "Every heart I've touched, every false emotion I've created, has been a betrayal of those principles."
You lowered your blade slightly, unable to reconcile the monster you'd been sent to kill with the broken man standing before you. "Then why continue? Why not find another way?"
"Because the alternative is facing the truth that I've spent centuries running from." Romance's voice dropped to a whisper. "That you're gone. That I failed you. That I'm alone."
"You're not alone."
The words escaped before you could stop them. Romance's eyes widened, hope flickering in their depths like a candle in the wind.
"What?"
"I mean..." You struggled to find the right words. "You don't have to be alone. There are other paths forward."
"Not for someone like me. Not for someone who's done what I've done." Romance shook his head. "I've manipulated thousands of people. I've fed on their loneliness, their desperation for connection. I've created addicts who would rather live in beautiful lies than face reality."
"But you're not doing it out of malice. You're doing it out of grief."
"Does that make it better?"
You thought about that for a long moment, studying his face in the dim light. "No. But it makes it understandable."
"Understanding doesn't equal forgiveness."
"No," you agreed. "But it's a start."
Romance stared at you in amazement. "How can you even consider forgiving me? I'm everything you're trained to destroy."
"Because..." You took a shaky breath, the words feeling like stepping off a cliff. “I remember..."
His breath caught. "Remember what?"
"Pieces of my past,” You pressed a hand to your chest, where the ache had become a constant companion. "Someone holding my hand while I was sick, humming to distract me from the pain, whispering promises to me."
"What kind of promises?"
"That they'd always love me. That they'd find me again, even if it took forever." The memories surfaced like bubbles breaking on water's surface. "Someone who worked extra jobs to save money for something special."
Romance's composure cracked completely. "You remember the ring."
"I remember how it felt to see it. Like my heart was breaking and healing at the same time." You looked at him through your tears. "I remember loving someone so much that death couldn't make me forget."
"But you did forget. You lived whole lifetimes without remembering me."
"Maybe forgetting was necessary. I needed to live other lives, learn other lessons, before I could come back to you." You stepped closer, close enough to see the patterns of guilt and grief etched into his features. "Maybe this is what was supposed to happen."
"What do you mean?"
"I was reborn as a hunter. You became a demon. We found each other across centuries and multiple lifetimes." You reached out tentatively, your fingers barely brushing his cheek. "Maybe we're supposed to save each other."
Romance leaned into your touch like a man dying of thirst. "How do we do that?”
"I don't know," you admitted. "But I can't kill you. And I know that you can't keep living like this."
"Gwi-Ma won't simply release me from my contract."
"We'll find another way." You cupped his face in both hands, marveling at how right it felt despite everything. "You said you'd find me again, even if it took forever. Well, you found me. Now let's figure out what comes next."
"But you're a hunter. I'm a demon. Your friends—"
"They will have to understand. Besides, I made you a promise too, didn't I? On my deathbed?"
"You asked me to love someone else after you were gone."
"And you have. You've loved me through every lifetime, every reincarnation, every moment of the past few centuries." You pulled him closer, close enough to rest your forehead against his. "Maybe it's time to love me in person again."
MYSTERY ໒꒱ ‧₊˚
The dreams have been relentless since that night.
Every time you close your eyes, fragments surface like pieces of sea glass washed ashore by an insistent tide. A voice humming low and sweet while gentle fingers card through your hair. The weight of a head on your shoulder as you both watch stars wheel overhead. Whispered conversations in a language that feels like home but sounds like nothing you've ever learned.
And always, that melody threading through it all like a silver wire connecting past to present.
You wake each morning with tears on your cheeks and a name balanced on the tip of your tongue that dissolves before you can speak it. Sometimes there are other fragments, the rustle of silk skirts, the weight of elaborate hairpins, the suffocating sensation of being trapped in a gilded cage. But these pieces feel different, tinged with a desperation that makes your chest tight with phantom panic.
A week of this. A week of Rumi watching you with increasingly concerned eyes during briefings. A week of Mira asking if you need medical leave. A week of Zoey trying to cheer you up with increasingly elaborate breakfast presentations.
"You look like you haven't slept in days," Rumi observes during the briefing, her sharp eyes analysing the dark circles under your eyes, the way your hands tremble slightly around your coffee cup.
"I'm fine," you lie, because how do you explain that you're being haunted by memories that don't belong to you? That every time you close your eyes, you see a life where choice was a luxury you couldn't afford?
Night falls over Seoul like a curtain dropping on an empty stage. The arts district sleeps beneath flickering streetlights, galleries and theaters locked tight against the darkness. You move through shadows with practiced silence, silver blade concealed but ready.
The first three locations yield nothing but dust and echoes. It's at the fourth, an abandoned concert hall with a collapsed roof open to the stars that you hear it.
The melody.
It drifts from the building's heart like smoke, each note perfectly pitched to resonate in the hollow spaces of your chest. Your feet carry you forward without conscious thought, through the lobby with its shattered chandelier, past broken seats that once held audiences full of hope and wonder.
The main stage is bathed in moonlight streaming through the ruined ceiling. And there he is, seated at a piano that somehow survived the building's decay. His fingers move across keys that shouldn't be able to produce sound, yet music flows like water.
He doesn't look up when you approach, but his smile is audible in the way the melody shifts. "You found me again."
"I was sent to find you." Your weapon remains sheathed, though you can't explain why. "You're Mystery."
"Ah, yes, that's what they're calling me.” His laugh harmonizes with the piano's voice. "I suppose it fits. I've always been a puzzle you couldn't quite solve."
"You're harvesting souls. You're draining people dry and leaving them empty, killing them."
His hands still on the keys. When he turns to face you, moonlight catches the shimmer of demonic markings along his temple, clearer now than before, like he's stopped trying to hide them.
"Is that what you think I'm doing?"
"I think you're a demon who's been targeting innocents." Even as you say it, doubt creeps into your voice. "I think you need to be stopped."
"Do you?" He stands slowly, hands visible and empty. "Then stop me."
Your blade clears its sheath in one smooth motion, silver gleaming in the starlight. He doesn't flinch, doesn't move to defend himself. He just watches you with eyes that hold too much sorrow for someone who should be your enemy.
"I'm waiting," he says softly.
"Why aren't you fighting back?"
"Because I told you before, I'll never fight you." He takes a step closer, and you should retreat but your feet won't obey. "Even if you don't remember why."
"I remember fragments." The admission tears from your throat. "But that doesn't mean I won't do my job."
"Your job." He says it like the words taste bitter, something about his tone makes your skin crawl with phantom memories of being told your purpose. "Is that what this is to you? Just another assignment?"
"Yes." The lie comes out weaker than you intended, because suddenly you're remembering other moments of being told what you were supposed to do and accept.
"Then why are your hands shaking?"
You look down and curse silently. He's right, your grip on the blade wavers like a leaf in wind. "Adrenaline."
"Liar." He says it fondly, like an endearment. "You always were a terrible liar. Your eyes give you away every time. Even when they were trying to convince you that marrying someone of a higher status was your duty to your family."
Images flash through your mind after his words, cold eyes in a weathered face, hands that felt like iron shackles, the smell of expensive incense that couldn't mask the scent of other women's fear that clung to his robes.
"You remember him," Mystery says, watching your face carefully. "The man they tried to chain you to."
"I—" Your voice catches. "I remember being trapped. I remember wanting to run."
"You did run. You ran to me, that last night."
He's close enough now that you could strike, could end this with a single thrust of silver through his heart. Instead, you find yourself asking, "I've heard the melody you were playing before…”
"I know."
"In memories that don't belong to me—”
"They do belong to you. Just from a different lifetime." He reaches out slowly, telegraphing the movement, giving you every chance to pull away. "From when you had a different name, wore different clothes, but had the same fierce heart that refused to be caged."
"That's impossible."
"Is it?" His fingertips barely graze your cheek. "Tell me what you see when you hear that song."
Against every instinct, every piece of training, you close your eyes. The melody rises again, not from the piano this time, but hummed low in his throat, a sound that bypasses your ears and resonates directly in your bones.
The vision that comes is clearer than any dream :
You're nineteen again, wearing silk hanbok that marks you as nobility but feels like a beautiful prison. You've escaped through servants' quarters and garden walls to reach a hidden grove where music waits. He's there, younger face, human eyes, fingers dancing across wooden flute holes as he plays just for you.
"You came," he says, and his smile could light the world.
"I'll always come when you call," you whisper back, settling beside him on the grass, careful not to wrinkle the expensive fabric your mother chose. "Even if they're watching the house more closely now."
His music weaves around you like silk. When he finishes, you trace patterns on his back while he hums that melody, the one that's been haunting you across centuries.
"Run away with me," you whisper against his shoulder. "Before the wedding ceremony tonight."
"Where would we go? They'll hunt us down."
"I don't care. I'd rather die free than live as his prisoner."
Your eyes snap open, tears streaming down your cheeks. "We loved each other."
"Yes."
"I died." The carriage wheels giving way, the sensation of falling, the way you hummed his song even as death claimed you.
"Yes." His voice breaks on the word. "You died trying to reach the temple, trying to escape a marriage that would have destroyed you."
"You became..." You gesture at the markings on his skin, the inhuman beauty that marks him as other.
"A demon. Yes." He lets his hand fall from your cheek. "But I never stopped loving you. Even when love became my curse."
Your blade lowers without conscious thought. "The soul harvesting—"
"I take souls, yes. But only from those who are already broken. The suicidal. The hopeless. Those standing on bridges at midnight, ready to jump." He moves back to the piano, fingers trailing across keys that sing under his touch.
"That doesn't make it right."
"No, it doesn't, but it makes me a vulture rather than a predator. I ease their passing and spare them the pain of a violent end." His music turns melancholy, each note a confession. "Gwi-Ma finds it... efficient. I've convinced him that desperate souls taste sweeter than terrified ones."
Understanding dawns like a cold sunrise. "You're protecting people by being selective about your targets."
"I'm doing what I can within the constraints of what I am." He looks at you over the piano. "Just like you're doing what you can within the constraints of what you've been told to be."
"I haven't been told to be anything. I chose this life."
"Did you? Or did you choose it because some part of you remembered what I became and wanted to fight against it?" His eyes hold yours steadily. "Or because some part of you remembered what it felt like to be powerless, to have no agency over your own fate?"
The question hits something deep in your chest. Your entire identity as a hunter, your dedication to protecting innocents, how much of it was genuine calling and how much was subconscious recognition of a loss you couldn't name? How much was the echo of a girl who died trying to claim her freedom?
"I don't know," you whisper.
"That's all right. Neither do I, most days." His fingers find a different, softer melody. "I've had centuries to think about it, and I still don't know if what I'm doing is mercy or just elaborate self-torture."
"Centuries of remembering what we had."
"Centuries of missing you." He meets your eyes across the moonlit space. "Every soul I take, every moment of service to Gwi-Ma, every night I spend existing instead of living, it's all been about the hope that someday, I'd find you again."
"Now that you have?"
"Now I'm terrified." His honesty cuts through you like silver through flesh. "Because you don't exactly remember me. And even if you did, why would you choose to love a monster?"
You cross the space between you in quick strides, your weapon clattering to the floor forgotten. Before he can react, your hands frame his face, thumbs tracing the demonic markings that shimmer beneath your touch.
"Because you're not a monster," you say fiercely. "You're the boy who played music under starlight for me. You're the man who loved me enough to spend eternity remembering. You're the one who chooses mercy even when it costs you."
"I kill people."
"You ease suffering. There's a difference."
"Is there?"
"Yes." You lean closer, close enough to see yourself reflected in his dark eyes. "And I'm not the same girl who died centuries ago. I'm someone who chose to fight demons, who dedicated her life to protecting innocents. But that doesn't mean I can't love one who's trying to minimize the damage he's forced to cause."
Hope flickers across his features like candlelight. "You're saying—"
"I'm saying I remember now. The way you'd hold me when thunder scared me. How you'd compose different melodies to match my moods. The promises we made." Your voice drops to a whisper. "I remember dying with your song on my lips, and I remember choosing to run towards love instead of accepting a life without it."
"You were so brave," he whispers. "Even then, knowing what it would cost you."
"I'm saying I love you. Past tense, present tense, future tense."
"I can't ask you to give up your life for me," he says as he leans his forehead against yours.
"You're not asking. I'm choosing." You pull back to meet his eyes. "We'll figure out how to make this work. Find a way to satisfy Gwi-Ma while minimizing harm. Maybe even find a way to break whatever hold he has over you."
"How are you so sure? Your friends will never understand."
"Then I'll make them understand." You press your palm against his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heart. "I’ve been dreaming of you without knowing why for months. I'm not going to sit here and wait anymore. We'll find a way, I promise.”
BABY ໒꒱ ‧₊˚
The briefing room felt suffocating even after everyone had left. You sat alone at the long table, staring at your phone screen, social media feeds filled with Saja Boys content, fan videos. Baby's face looked back at you from dozens of posts, styled and polished for the cameras, but you could see something haunted in his eyes even through the idol persona.
"The songs. Those stupid lullabies you used to sing when I had nightmares."
His words from a week ago wouldn't leave you alone. They circled in your mind like vultures, picking at something buried deep.
"You're thinking too hard."
Rumi's voice made you look up. She leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, studying you with those sharp eyes that missed nothing.
"Just researching," you said, turning your phone face down on the table.
"Bullshit." She moved into the room, closing the door behind her. "You've been distracted since your encounter with the demon. What happened out there?"
I waited for you, you know. Stupid thing to do when you're a kid.
"Nothing I can't handle."
Rumi sat across from you, her expression softening slightly. "Look, I know these cases can get personal. Sometimes demons know things about us, use our pasts against us. It's what they do."
"What if it's not manipulation?"
The question slipped out before you could stop it. Rumi's eyebrows shot up.
"What do you mean?"
You touched your phone, Baby's image still visible on the darkened screen. Those eyes that looked at you like you'd broken something precious, even through the glossy idol photos. "What if he really knew me before?"
"That's impossible. Your records show—"
"My records show I appeared five years ago with no past. No family. No history before I started training." You met her gaze. "What if there's a reason for that?"
Rumi was quiet for a long moment, before she sighed. "Even if that were true, it doesn't change what he is now and what he's done."
But as you slipped your phone into your pocket, you couldn't shake the feeling that everything you thought you knew was built on shifting ground.
You found him later in the ruins of an old factory on the outskirts of the city. The same place you'd been tracking demon activity for a week, though you realized now it wasn't random demons you'd been sensing.
It was him.
Baby sat on a rusted beam, twenty feet off the ground, watching you approach with that same careful intensity. He looked younger in the moonlight filtering through broken windows, more like the boy he claimed to remember.
"Took you long enough," he called down. "I was starting to think you'd forgotten again."
"Come down. We need to talk."
He dropped silently to the factory floor, landing in a crouch before straightening. "About what? How you're going to drag me back to your people? How they'll probably dissect me to figure out what makes demons tick?"
"About what you said. The nightmares and the songs."
Baby's expression flickered. "Having second thoughts about your convenient amnesia?"
The mockery in his voice sparked your temper. "Stop playing games. If you know something about my past, just tell me."
"Why should I make it easy for you?" He circled closer, predatory and graceful. "You certainly didn't make it easy for me."
"I don't know what that means!"
"Of course you don't." He was close enough now that you could see the hurt beneath his anger. "You died, and left me alone, and somehow you get to come back perfect and clean with no memory of what you did to me."
Flashes of images, a boy crying, small hands reaching for yours.
You stumbled backward, and Baby's eyes sharpened.
"Oh, that got through, didn't it?" He pressed forward. "Starting to remember?"
"Stop."
"Remember how you used to sneak out to meet me? How you'd bring me food because my parents were too drunk to remember I existed? How you promised you'd never leave?"
Each word was like a knife, cutting through the fog in your mind. You saw pieces flashing through your mind, sharing a sandwich on a playground bench, bandaging a scraped knee, singing softly while a smaller figure curled against your side.
"I said stop!" You drew your blade, the silver gleaming in the pale light.
Baby laughed, bitter and sharp. "There she is. Ready to cut down anything that makes you uncomfortable."
He moved faster than you could track, knocking the weapon from your hand and slamming you back against a concrete pillar. His forearm pressed against your throat, not quite cutting off air but making his point.
"You want to know what happened?" His voice was raw, all pretense dropped. "Fine. We were kids. You were the only person who gave a damn about me. And then one day you didn't come home."
Running through smoke, lungs burning, reaching for him.
"They found your body in the fire. What was left of it." His grip tightened slightly. "I waited at the playground for weeks, thinking maybe they'd made a mistake. Maybe you'd come back."
Making a choice, accepting the price, watching him run to safety.
"But you were dead. I was alone. And something found me in that grief."
You gasped, the memories hitting like a tidal wave. The factory fire. How he'd screamed your name. The whispered promises in the smoke.
Save him, let him live, pay the price yourself.
"I remember," you whispered.
Baby went very still. "What?"
"The fire. You were trapped, and I—" Your voice broke. "I died getting you out. I chose to die so you could live."
His arm dropped from your throat like you'd burned him. He staggered backward, eyes wide and desperate.
"No. No, that's not—you left me. You abandoned me."
"I saved you." You pushed off from the pillar, reaching for him. "Whatever happened after, whatever you became, I saved you first."
"Then why don't I remember it that way?" His voice cracked.
"Because trauma changes how we remember things. You were eight years old and terrified." You took another step closer. "Maybe forgetting was the only way you could survive."
He was crying now, tears streaming down his face as he shook his head. "I've done horrible things. I've hurt people. I'm not the kid you saved."
"You're still him." You reached up to touch his face, the way you used to when he had nightmares. "Under everything else, you're still the boy who used to fall asleep to my lullabies."
This time when he collapsed against you, it wasn't an attack. It was surrender. He wrapped his arms around you like you might disappear again, face buried in your shoulder.
"I missed you so much," he whispered. "I missed you every day."
"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry I couldn't stay."
You held him while he cried, singing softly under your breath, the same melody you'd hummed to chase away his nightmares all those years ago. You felt his breathing slow, his grip on you loosening from desperate to simply holding on.
"What happens now?" he asked finally, voice muffled against your shoulder.
"I don't know." You pulled back to look at him, wiping the tears from his cheeks. "But I'm not leaving you again."
Baby searched your face, looking for any lies beneath.
"Will your friends understand?" he asked. "You have a duty to fulfil."
"Don’t worry, we’ll figure it out." You picked up your fallen blade, but instead of pointing it at him, you let it clatter to the ground. "I'm not their weapon. I'm me. And my choice is you."
He caught your hands in his, fingers intertwining like they had when you were just children sharing secrets to one another.
"I choose you too," he whispered. "I’ll choose you again, and again, and again."
۶ৎ SYNOPSIS : you're the 4th member of Huntrix, tasked to eliminate the Saja Boys, five powerful demons disguised as idols. However, encountering them face to face brings an achingly familiar pain to your chest.
۶ৎ PAIRING : reincarnated 4th member huntrix!reader x saja boys ۶ৎ GENRE(S) : romance, reincarnation, angst ۶ৎ WARNING(S) : mentions of death, use of weapons, slight emotional manipulation, sexy hot fictional men
۶ৎ A/N : asked if I should write this fic with a poll and 434 votes is crazy... so here it is! This will probably be my only kpdh fic 🥹 I hope this satisfies you~ It was tough to come up what to write apart from Jinu's considering the fact we don't have more information about the others T^T
WE COULD BE FREE ⋆˚࿔ (part 2)
The tension in the Huntrix dorm was thick enough to cut with a knife.
"I still can't believe it," Zoey muttered, pacing back and forth across the living room while clutching her notebook. "A new boy group that just debuted... and they're actual demons."
Mira sat cross-legged on the floor. Her usually perfect hair was tied back in a messy bun. "The way everyone was completely fascinated by them..." She shuddered. "Like they couldn't look away or think of anything else."
"Five guys who came out of nowhere and had everyone mesmerized on their very first performance," Rumi said grimly, her voice still hoarse from the throat issues that had sent them to the doctor in the first place. "That's not normal idol talent, that's demonic influence."
You looked up from lacing your combat boots, feeling a strange mix of anticipation and dread. While your three groupmates had discovered the Saja Boys' true nature during their trip to the clinic, you'd been stuck in back-to-back variety show recordings. Part of you felt guilty for missing such a crucial moment, but another part was almost grateful. Something about facing demons, especially these particular demons, made your chest tight with an emotion you couldn't name.
"So what's the plan?" you asked, trying to push away the odd nervousness in your stomach.
Rumi stood up, her leader instincts taking over despite her vocal strain. "Intelligence suggests they're operating out of several locations around the city. We need to track them down and neutralize the threat before their next public appearance."
"Five of them, four of us," Mira noted. "Not impossible odds, but we'll need to be smart about this."
Zoey stopped pacing and looked at you with concerned eyes. "Are you sure you're ready for this? I mean, this is our first time facing demons this powerful. The Saja Boys aren't like the lower-level creatures we usually hunt."
You nodded, though your heart was racing for reasons you couldn't explain. "I've trained for this. We all have."
"We don't know much about their individual abilities yet," Rumi warned, her voice dropping to a serious tone. "But we know they're organized and powerful enough to steal our fans and mess with the Honmoon. They've been systematically targeting our fans, hypnotising them with some kind of influence we don't understand yet.”
"We split up," Rumi continued. "Cover more ground that way. But nobody engages alone unless absolutely necessary. These aren't ordinary demons, they're organized, intelligent, and extremely dangerous."
As your groupmates continued planning, you found yourself staring out the window at the Seoul skyline, a dozen city lights twinkling like stars. Somewhere out there, five demons who had quickly become the nation's beloved idol group in less than a day were hiding, planning, hunting.
So why did the thought of facing them feel less like preparing for battle and more like... coming home?
"Ready?" Rumi's voice snapped you back to reality.
You grabbed your weapon and stood up, pushing down the strange emotions swirling in your chest. You were a member of Huntrix. You had a job to do.
Even if something deep inside you whispered that this mission would change everything.
JINU ໒꒱ ‧₊˚
Three hours after the briefing, you crouched behind a concrete pillar in an abandoned office building, your heart hammering against your ribs for reasons that had nothing to do with the mission. You had tracked Jinu here alone, separated from his group members, conducting what appeared to be private business on the fifteenth floor.
The elevator had been deliberately disabled, forcing you to climb the emergency stairwell. Each step upwards felt heavier than the last, as if your body fought against an invisible current. When you finally reached the target floor, the silence was deafening.
You pressed your ear to the stairwell door, listening for voices, footsteps, any sign of demonic activity. Your weapon felt foreign in your grip, a silver-blessed blade that had never failed you in past hunts, yet now trembled with your uncertainty.
The hallway beyond stretched like a mouth waiting to swallow you whole. Fluorescent lights flickered sporadically, casting dancing shadows that made your vision blur. You moved silently, checking each empty office as you passed, until you reached the corner suite at the end of the corridor.
The door stood ajar.
Through the gap, you could see him.
Jinu sat behind a massive mahogany desk, his profile illuminated by the pale glow of Seoul's skyline through the windows. Even in the dim light, his features were sharp and aristocratic, high cheekbones, a strong jawline, dark hair that fell perfectly across his forehead.
"The contract is simple," his voice carried through the crack in the door, smooth as silk yet cold as steel. "Your daughter's medical bills disappear. Her surgery is guaranteed successful. All I ask in return is a small favour down the line."
"What kind of favour?" The other voice was desperate, broken, a father's voice.
"Nothing that will harm your family directly. You have my word."
You should have burst through that door immediately and struck while Jinu was distracted, before he could complete whatever twisted bargain he was weaving. But the moment your eyes found his face, your entire world tilted off its axis.
Inexplicable pain lanced through your chest. Your vision blurred from the tears suddenly sliding down your cheeks. Images surged and vanished too quickly to grasp : a child's laugh, the strum of a bipa, a soft voice humming, arms wrapping around you beneath a threadbare blanket.
"I'll take care of everything. You'll never have to worry again."
You gasped, stumbling backwards and nearly dropping your weapon. The sound echoed in the empty hallway like a gunshot.
The conversation inside the office stopped abruptly.
"I believe our business here is concluded," Jinu's voice had changed, taking on an edge that made your spine stiffen. "You know how to contact me when you've made your decision."
The desperate father's voice slowly faded as he was presumably escorted out through another exit.
You pressed yourself against the wall, mind racing. You had lost the element of surprise, but the mission remained the same. Jinu was alone now. This was your chance to strike before he could reunite with the other Saja Boys.
You kicked the door open and rushed inside, blade raised and ready.
Jinu stood by the window with his back to you, hands clasped behind him as if he had been expecting your arrival. The moonlight turned his silhouette into an ethereal and angelic vision, a cruel irony given what you knew him to be.
"You're faster than I anticipated," he said without turning around. "Though not as quiet as you think."
"Turn around." Your voice came out steadier than you felt.
He complied slowly. However, when his eyes met yours, your soul cracked down the middle.
You could see a brief flicker of recognition cross his face, perhaps even mourning, or maybe grief worn thin over centuries.
You raised your blade higher, just enough to hide how much your hands were shaking.
"You've grown beautiful," he said softly.
Your breath caught in your throat, forcing down a wave of emotions that threatened to break free. You gritted your teeth. "Don't."
He stepped forward.
"I said don't."
He moved closer.
You slashed by reflex. Jinu blocked it with his arm. He didn't exactly attack back. But he parried, blocked, dodged with the ease of someone who'd trained lifetimes for this.
It happened before you could think. Your body moved, like it already knew what to do. Your chest rose and fell too fast, ears buzzing with the rush of your heartbeat. Jinu barely fought back, annoyingly and effortlessly dodging your attacks. However, you refused to stop until the hurt had somewhere to land.
Until he disarmed you, your blade clattering across the floor.
Jinu didn't press the advantage or move to strike.
Instead, he stepped back.
You froze for half a second. Why isn't he fighting back? Was this pity? Mercy? Did he think you couldn’t handle it?
"You don't remember." It wasn't a question.
"What the hell are you talking about?"
"Four hundred years ago," he said quietly, "I had a mother and a sister. We were starving. I played the bipa on street corners, until I found you, you were the only light we had left. You kept us together, even when everything fell apart."
Images tore at your mind again : your hands mending a child's robe. Jinu's fingers brushing yours. The bipa's music cutting through the dark.
"You were there," you whispered, not understanding why you knew it was true.
"I was." His voice cracked. "And I failed all of you."
"But… you're a demon now. You manipulate people. Steal their souls."
"I offer what they ask for. I offered it then, too. I was desperate and hungry. My family and you were dying in front of my eyes. Gwi-Ma found me and promised me a life of comfort and power. I thought if I accepted it, I could bring you all with me."
Your heart pounded against your ribs.
"But the gates closed behind me," he said, barely audible. "I turned around and they wouldn't let you through. I left you in the cold while I slept on silk."
You shook your head, but the memories were surfacing now,
"I searched for you after. But you died, didn't you? Alone. Like the rest of them. While I lived in luxury with blood on my hands."
The truth settled like ice in your lungs. Your memories were fractured, broken by time and pain, but you remembered enough. Remembered waiting put in the cold and the hunger that ate you alive while he feasted in hell.
"I waited for you," you whispered.
Jinu closed his eyes as if the words were a blade through his chest. "I know."
The admission ignited a fury so pure it burned through your veins like poison. He knew. While you were wasted away in that freezing hovel, praying for his return until your throat was raw. While you'd begged strangers for scraps, sold every precious thing you owned just to buy another day of life, he was feasting in warmth and safety. He knew, and he'd done nothing.
"You knew," you snarled, and the rage in your voice made him flinch. "You knew we were dying and you left us there to rot."
Your hands clenched into fists. Every cell in your body screamed for violence, for justice, for him to feel even a fraction of the agony he'd caused.
You lunged for your weapon again. He didn't stop you.
"I'm going to kill you," you said, raising it with trembling hands.
"Then do it."
However, you hesitated, the blade wavering above his heart. Tears blurred your vision as you stared down at him, this man who had once been your entire world. Your arm shook with the effort of holding the weapon steady, but your body refused to obey. Every instinct screamed at you to drive the silver through his chest, to end his suffering and yours, but your heart betrayed you.
Even after everything, you couldn't bring yourself to destroy him. The realization broke you more than his abandonment ever had.
"Why aren't you fighting back?"
"Because I loved you more than my own soul. And letting you end it is the only way I can repent for what I've done."
Your eyes widened at his words, the blade slipping from your nerveless fingers. It hit the floor with a sharp clang that echoed through the empty office.
Jinu's breath caught in his throat. He stared at the fallen weapon, in disbelief at what had just happened. His composure finally cracked, and tears spilled down his cheeks, the first real emotion you'd seen from him since you'd entered this room.
Why?" he whispered. "After everything I've done to you... why can't you do it?”
"I-I don't know…’ you said, voice cracking. “But… this doesn't mean I forgive you…”
"I wouldn't dare ask."
"And I'm not letting you walk away."
He nodded, tears tracking down his cheeks.
You stepped closer, your heart shattering with every breath.
"This time, we need to talk, about the four hundred years you stole from us."
ABBY ໒꒱ ‧₊˚
The underground fight club pulsed with sweat, blood, and money changing hands. You pressed your earpiece, static crackling back at you as you tried to reach Rumi.
"Rumi, do you copy? I lost visual on the target."
Nothing but interference.
Intel had tracked two Saja Boys to this district, Abby and Mystery had split from the main group. Following a thorough discussion, you and the other girls decided to split into duos to ensure greater safety. You and Rumi were supposed to stay together, but the crowds and maze-like underground tunnels had separated you. Now you were alone in the bowels of Seoul's illegal fighting scene.
The roar of the crowd guided you deeper into the complex. Through a doorway marked with graffiti, you found the main arena, a concrete pit surrounded by screaming spectators waving fistfuls of cash.
In the center of the ring stood Abby.
He moved like violence incarnate, all muscle and controlled fury as he circled his opponent. Abby was shirtless, his body a map of scars and fresh bruises, sweat making his skin gleam under the harsh lights.
The expression that you caught on his face made your breath catch. Pure, undiluted joy. He was having the time of his life.
His opponent lunged. Abby sidestepped with fluid grace, then drove his fist into the man's ribs with a wet crack that echoed over the crowd's cheers as the man fell to the ground hard.
"Next!" Abby called out, not even breathing heavily. His grin was sharp enough to cut glass. "Who else wants to dance?"
Three men climbed into the ring together as the crowd grew wild.
You should have taken the shot then, but watching him move was hypnotic. Every punch and dodge was precise and calculated.
Two opponents were quickly taken down, and the third hesitated to swing.
"Come on," Abby taunted, bouncing on the balls of his feet. "Don't tell me you're scared now."
The man reluctantly charged. Abby caught him mid-lunge and slammed him into the concrete so hard the ground cracked.
The crowd erupted as money flew. Abby raised his arms in victory, basking in the adoration.
You waited until the chaos died down, until the crowd dispersed and the arena emptied. Abby was collecting his winnings from the promoter when you finally made your move.
"Good fights tonight," you said, stepping out of the shadows.
He went completely still for a second, so brief you almost missed it. Then he turned around with that cocky grin already sliding into place.
"Well, well. What do we have here?" He looked you up and down, but it wasn't the casual appreciation of a stranger. It was recognition wrapped in careful performance. "You don't look like the usual groupies. Too pretty. Too dangerous."
"I'm not a groupie."
"No kidding." He stuffed the money in his back pocket and grabbed his shirt from where he'd thrown it, but didn't put it on. Still showing off, but his movements were more deliberate now, as if he was buying time to think.
"So what are you? Reporter? Cop? Or just someone who likes watching sweaty men beat the hell out of each other?"
"I'm here for you."
His grin widened, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Well, that's direct. Though I gotta say, most people who want me specifically don't usually start with small talk."
The arena was empty now except for the two of you and the lingering smell of violence.
Perfect.
"You're coming with me," you said, hand moving to your weapon.
"Am I?" He stepped closer, and the playful mask slipped just slightly. "And here I was thinking you might be here for something else entirely."
"This isn't a game."
"Everything's a game, sweetheart. The trick is figuring out if we're playing by the same rules." He was circling you now, but it felt less predatory and more like he was trying to get a different angle, trying to see something in your face. "Though I gotta ask, do you even know who I am?"
You drew your blade. His expression shifted, resignation mixed with anticipation.
"There it is," he said quietly, flexing his fingers. "Was wondering when we'd get to this part."
He moved faster than you'd expected, still testing you. Every move of his was calculated, like he was trying to figure out how much you remembered about fighting.
About fighting him specifically.
"Come on," he said, dodging your blade with familiar ease. "I know you're better than this. You always were."
The words slipped out before he could catch them. You saw the moment he realized his mistake, saw him try to cover it with that cocky grin.
"Always were what?" you demanded, pressing your attack.
"Always were too careful," he said, but his voice was strained now. "Stop holding back."
"I'm trying not to kill you."
"How thoughtful." His voice was softer now, almost fond. "Always looking out for everyone else."
Before you could ask what he meant by that, he caught your wrist and pulled you against his chest. For a moment, you were close enough to see the conflict in his eyes.
"Got you," he said, but it sounded more like a prayer than a taunt.
You drove your elbow back into his ribs and spun free. He let you go reluctantly.
"There we go," he said, rubbing his side. "That's more like it."
You came at him again, blade swinging through the air. This time when he grabbed your wrist and twisted until you had to drop the weapon, his grip was careful, like he'd done this exact move with you before.
"How do you know how I fight?" you asked.
The question made him freeze. His grip loosened just enough for you to break free, but instead of reaching for another weapon, you just stared at him.
"Have we met before?" you asked.
All the pretense drained out of his expression at your question, replaced by rawness and desperation.
"Every day for a hundred and twenty three years," he whispered.
"What are you talking about?"
His hands came up to frame your face, thumbs tracing your cheekbones like he was memorizing them all over again.
"You really don't remember," he said, and his voice cracked on the words. "God, I hoped... I thought maybe..."
His touch was so gentle, and his voice was softer now.
"How do you know my name?" you whispered.
"Because I've been saying it every day for over a century." He laughed bitterly "Because it was the last thing you heard before you died."
Images flashed through your mind : rain-soaked streets, a thin boy with kind eyes, the sound of your own scream echoing off alley walls.
You stumbled backward, hand pressed to your temple. "What's happening to me?"
"Hey." He reached for you, movements careful now, gentle. "Hey, it's okay. You're okay."
"I'm not okay. I'm seeing things that aren't real."
"What kind of things?"
"A boy. Someone I loved." The words came out before you could stop them. "Someone who died because of me."
Abby went very still. "How did he die?"
"I don't know. I can't—the memories aren't mine." You looked up at him desperately. "This is crazy. I don't even know you."
"Yes you do." His voice was barely above a whisper. "You do know me. You just can't remember because dying screws with your head."
"I didn't die."
"Yeah, you did." He was close enough to touch now, hands hovering just shy of your skin. "Hundred and twenty three years ago. In an alley. They put a knife in your back while I watched, too weak to do anything about it."
The memories hit like a tsunami : cobblestones slick with rain, rough hands dragging you away from a thin boy who was calling your name, the burn of steel between your ribs.
"Oh god," you whispered.
"I made you a promise," Abby continued, his voice thick with a century's worth of grief. "On your grave. That if I ever got the chance to see you again, I'd be strong enough to protect you."
You looked at him, and saw past the muscle and scars to the boy underneath. The boy who'd loved you. The boy who'd become a monster for the chance to keep you safe.
"You became a demon for me?"
"I became whatever I had to become." His hands finally made contact, cupping your face gently, as if any more pressure might shatter you into a million pieces. "I don't care what that makes me. I care about keeping you alive."
Footsteps echoed from the tunnel behind you. Rumi's voice called out your name, worried.
"Shit," you whispered. "My partner's coming."
Abby's expression hardened instantly, all the vulnerability vanishing behind that familiar cocky mask. "Right. Back to reality."
"Abby, wait—"
"No, it's fine." He stepped back, putting distance between you, but his eyes never left your face. "You've got a job to do. I get it."
"I can't just—"
"What? Kill me? We both know you're not going to do that." He grinned. "So what's the play here, sweetheart? You gonna tell your partner you found me and just... let me walk away?”
The footsteps were getting closer. You had maybe thirty seconds before Rumi found you.
"I don't know," you admitted.
"Well, you better figure it out fast." Despite his words, he wasn't moving towards the exits. He was just standing there, waiting for you to decide his fate again.
"There's another exit through the back," you said quickly. "Behind the equipment room."
His eyebrows shot up. "You're letting me go?"
"I'm giving you a head start."
"Why?"
Because somewhere in your fractured memories, you remembered loving him. Because he'd spent over a century becoming strong enough to protect you, and maybe you could be strong enough to protect him too.
"Because I remember enough," you said simply.
His mask cracked just for a moment. "This isn't over."
"I know."
"I'll find you again."
"I know."
He started towards the back exit, then paused. "Hey, sweetheart?"
"Yeah?"
"Try not to die before I see you again. I'm getting really tired of that particular tragedy."
In a blink of an eye, he was gone, vanishing into the shadows just as Rumi's voice echoed closer.
ROMANCE ໒꒱ ‧₊˚
The rooftop overlooked the glittering chaos of Seoul's entertainment district, where neon signs blazed advertisements for idol groups and concert venues stretched towards the horizon. You crouched behind the air conditioning unit, silver blade steady in your grip as you surveyed the empty space.
Wind carried the distant sound of traffic and late-night revelers, but here, twenty stories above the city's pulse, silence reigned.
"Beautiful view, isn't it?"
You tensed, weapon raised when you heard his voice, achingly familiar despite being impossible to place. It wrapped around your ribs like phantom fingers, squeezing until your chest felt tight with inexplicable longing.
Romance emerged from behind the rooftop access door with fluid grace, hands tucked casually into his pockets. Under the city's electric glow, his features appeared sharp and ethereal, pink hair catching the wind as he regarded you with calm amusement.
"Though I suspect you're not here for sightseeing," he continued, taking measured steps forward. "Hello, hunter."
Your blade remained steady despite the tremor in your voice. "You know what I am."
"Of course I know exactly what you are." His smile held no malice, only a strange sadness that made your throat constrict. "The question is, do you know what I am?"
Without warning, you lunged.
Romance flowed backwards like water, your strike cutting through empty air as he spun away from your advance. He moved with practiced precision, dodging rather than retaliating, speaking in that same measured tone even as you pressed your attack.
"You fight beautifully," he observed, sidestepping another slash. "Trained well. Committed."
You snarled in frustration, spinning to catch him with a backhand strike that he avoided by millimeters. "Shut up and fight back."
"Why would I want to hurt you?"
The question threw off your rhythm, long enough for Romance to close the distance between you. His hand found your wrist with gentle firmness, and your weapon clattered across the concrete.
You struck out with your free hand, but he caught that too, holding both your wrists as you struggled against his grip. His touch burned with unnatural warmth, sending sparks up your arms that had nothing to do with his demonic nature.
"Let me go," you hissed.
"In a moment." Romance's eyes searched your face with desperate intensity. "I need you to see—"
He shifted, a small and bright object tumbled from his pocket, a ring that caught the neon light as it fell. Simple silver band, modest stone, nothing extraordinary except for the way it made your heart stop.
Pain lanced through your chest. Your knees buckled as emotion crashed over you in waves, grief so profound it stole your breath, love so pure it felt like drowning, loss that cut deeper than any blade. You didn't understand where these feelings originated, only that they threatened to tear you apart from the inside.
Romance released you immediately, crouching to retrieve the ring with reverent care. "You feel it too," he whispered.
"I don't—" You stumbled backward, pressing a hand to your chest where the ache pulsed with each heartbeat. "What did you do to me?"
"Nothing. This is yours." He held up the ring, and the sight of it made tears spring to your eyes without explanation. "It was meant for you."
"What—that's impossible."
"You taught me what love felt like, centuries ago." Romance said quietly, his mask of casual amusement finally cracking. "Before you, I was nothing. A shadow in my own house, invisible to parents who saw only disappointment when they looked at me. You were the first person to show me kindness, love me without expecting anything in return."
He cradled the ring like it held his entire world. "I saved for months to buy this. Worked every odd job I could find, skipped meals. I practiced the proposal speech until I could recite it in my sleep."
His confession struck a place you didn’t know could still hurt. Your eyes flickered back to the ring again, breath hitching.
"You fell ill a few weeks before I planned to propose." His voice cracked, centuries of grief pouring through the fractures. "I held your hand for seventy two hours straight. I didn't eat or sleep, just sat there begging you to stay with me."
"Y-You're lying." But your voice had no strength behind it.
"Your last coherent words were asking me to promise I'd love someone else after you were gone. You were so worried about me being alone." Tears tracked down his perfect cheeks, and seeing them made your own eyes burn. "I lied and said yes because I thought it would help you let go peacefully."
The pain in your chest intensified, spreading through your ribs like poison. "That's not—"
"I tried to keep that promise as a human. I spent years searching for someone who could make me feel what you had.” Romance's voice dropped to a whisper. “But no one came close to you.”
"You became a demon because you couldn't move on..."
"I made a pact with Gwi-Ma after years of failing to love anyone else. I became something that could create love, manufacture and distribute it to anyone desperate enough to want it." His smile was self-loathing incarnate. "If I couldn't feel real love, at least I could give others a taste of what you gave me."
"You're feeding on people and hurting them."
"I'm keeping my promise to you." His eyes blazed with centuries of accumulated pain and twisted devotion. "Every heart I touch and every moment of artificial bliss I create is all for you. You asked me to love someone else, and this is the only way I know how."
The logic was twisted, but the raw anguish in his voice made your chest tighten with sympathy you couldn't afford. "You're manipulating innocent people."
"I give them what they desperately need. The feeling of being cherished, desired, worthy of devotion. When the illusion breaks, yes, they're disappointed. But at least they got to experience something transcendent." Romance stood slowly, the ring disappearing back into his coat. "Tell me that's not better than the emptiness they had before."
"It's a love built on lies."
"All love is lies in the end." His smile returned, but it held no warmth. "The difference is I'm honest about the illusion I create."
You backed towards the rooftop edge, every instinct screaming at you to flee. The mission was clear, eliminate the demon. However, your hands shook as you reached for a backup blade, and the pain in your chest made it difficult to breathe. Each word he'd spoken felt like a knife twisting deeper.
"This isn't over," you managed, but the words came out weak.
"I know." Romance made no move to stop you as you retreated. "But I won't fight you anymore. I've caused enough damage to someone I—"
He cut himself off, the unfinished words hung in the air between you.
"Someone you what?" The question escaped before you could stop it.
"Someone I loved more than my own existence." His voice was barely audible above the wind. "Someone I'm still failing, even now."
The words crashed over you like a tidal wave. Ring. Proposal. Seventy two hours. Promise. Death. Demon. Love. The pieces swirled in your mind, too many fragments to assemble together, each one cutting deeper than the last. Your training screamed at you to stay, but your heart couldn't bear another second of his confessions.
You turned and ran.
The fire escape blurred past as you descended, taking stairs three at a time until your legs gave out two floors from the bottom. You collapsed on the landing, gasping for air that wouldn't come, pressing your palms against your eyes as if you could physically force back the tears threatening to spill.
His voice echoed in your mind : I practiced the proposal speech until I could recite it in my sleep.
Why did that hurt? You were a hunter trained to kill demons, not sympathize with their tragic backstories.
You forced yourself to continue down the fire escape, your movements mechanical and disconnected.
Seventy two hours straight. I didn't eat or sleep, just sat there begging you to stay.
Your back hit the alley wall and you slid down until you were sitting on the cold concrete, arms wrapped around your knees. Hot tears streamed down your face as you grieved for reasons you couldn't name.
This couldn't have happened before. You would remember dying. You would remember being loved with that kind of desperate devotion. You would remember someone saving money for months to buy you a ring.
...
Wouldn't you?
MYSTERY ໒꒱ ‧₊˚
You lean against the Huntrix dorm balcony railing, watching Seoul pulse beneath you like a neon heartbeat. The city sprawls endless and electric, towers of glass catching streetlight, traffic threading through concrete arteries. Behind you, voices clash over mission prep.
"We should split up and handle each demon individually," Rumi insisted. "Pick them off one by one."
"That's suicide," Mira counters. "We stick together, overwhelm them with combined firepower. Safety in numbers."
"Okay, okay!" Zoey jumps between them with enthusiastic gestures. "What if we compromise? Split into pairs? Best of both worlds, right? Right?"
There are weak spots in the Honmoon barrier scattered across Seoul like broken bones. You've memorized their coordinates, trained for this until your muscles know the patterns by heart. So why won't your pulse settle tonight?
The argument behind you fades to background noise as you stare at the skyline.
Suddenly, a soft and delicate melody drifts across the night air.
It felt like a tune you hum when your hands are full of flowers, when you're dizzy with new love. It shouldn't reach you from this height. Seoul's chaos should swallow such fragile notes whole, but the song finds you anyway.
Your breathing stops. You've heard this melody before in dreams that leave you gasping at dawn.
Across the urban maze, movement flickers near a crumbling rooftop. A shadow that doesn't belong.
You don't hesitate one second.
The balcony railing becomes your launching point. Rooftop to rooftop, your feet find purchase on surfaces that shouldn't hold human weight. The melody grows stronger with each leap, pulling you forward like a current.
Seoul blurs beneath you, kaleidoscope light and shadow, lives stacked in vertical towers. You follow the song through this maze, breath controlled, heart pounding against your ribs.
The tune leads you to an abandoned building that time forgot. Dark windows, cracked facade, studio spaces that once housed art but now hold only dust. You slip through a broken skylight, landing silent on debris-covered floors.
The music comes to a stop.
Mystery stands beside a shattered mirror, fingers turning over what looks like an old locket. He doesn't startle when you drop in. Instead, his mouth curves into a smile that holds too many secrets.
"You've always been good at finding me."
Your weapon clears its holster, barrel trained on his chest, and his smile deepens.
Ice floods your veins. Your grip tightens on the weapon. "Who are you?"
He laughs softly, like wind chimes in a gentle breeze. "I would tell you now, but where's the fun in that?"
"This isn't a game." Your voice comes out sharper than intended.
“Are you sure?” He tilts his head, studying you with eyes that hold starlight and shadows. "You followed my song across half the city. Left your friends mid-mission. That sounds like playing to me."
Heat rises in your cheeks. He's right, and you hate that he's right. "Answer me. Why do you know me?"
He steps closer curiously, like he's watching a flower bloom in real time. "You really don't remember, do you?"
"Remember what?"
"All those summer nights when you'd sneak out just to hear me play." His voice drops to a whisper. "The way you'd fall asleep in my arms while I hummed that exact melody."
Your heart stutters. The exact melody that's been haunting your dreams for months. "That's impossible. I would remember—"
"You would remember me, wouldn’t you?" He reaches out, fingers barely grazing your cheek.
You should pull away, you know you should put distance between you and this stranger who claims to know your past. But his touch feels familiar, like coming home after a long journey.
"You haven't changed. Well, except for the blade." His gaze drops to the weapon still trained on him. "You never needed those before."
"Before what? Before when?" Desperation creeps into your voice.
He smiles again, stepping back. "Don't remember me yet. It's more fun this way."
"Fun?" The word explodes from you. "You think this is fun? I'm losing my mind trying to figure out who you are, and you think it's entertaining?"
"I think," he says, moving towards the broken window, "that some things are worth waiting for. Some mysteries are sweeter when they unfold slowly."
Moonlight catches in his dark hair as he pauses at the window's edge. "Besides, you always did love puzzles. You used to spend hours on them when you couldn't sleep."
Another piece of impossible knowledge. Another fragment that feels true but shouldn't exist. "How do you know that?"
"I know lots of things about you." His grin turns wicked. "You bite your lip when you're thinking too hard. You always eat the corners of sandwiches first. You used to trace constellations on my back with your fingertips."
Your weapon wavers. "Stop."
"Why? Does it hurt to remember what you've forgotten?"
"I haven't forgotten anything. I don't even know who you are." But even as you say it, phantom sensations ghost across your fingertips.
"Liar." He says it fondly. "You remember pieces. Little fragments that visit you in dreams. That's why you followed the melody tonight."
He's right again. You hate that he's right again.
"I'll see you tomorrow," he says, preparing to slip through the window.
"Wait—" The word tears from your throat. "At least tell me your name."
He pauses, half-silhouetted against the night sky. "You'll remember it when you're ready."
"What if I'm never ready? What if I never remember?"
For a moment, his smile falters. Vulnerability flickers across his features. "You will. You have to."
He turns to leave, but moonlight catches his profile at just the right angle. Your breath hitches. Along his temple, barely visible unless you know what to look for, the faint outline of demonic markings. Intricate patterns that shimmer like oil on water, there one second and gone the next.
Your training kicks in before your heart can catch up. The weapon in your hands shifts, finger finding the trigger. He's a demon. You're a hunter. The math is simple.
His hair shifts slightly, and for just a moment, you catch a glimpse of his eyes through the strands.
"You see it now," he says quietly. "The monster I am.”
Your finger hovers over the trigger. This is what you've trained for. What you've dedicated your life to. But something deep inside you hesitates.
Your hand trembles. The weapon feels impossibly heavy.
"Tomorrow," he says again, stepping towards the window. "When you remember who we were, you'll understand why I can't fight you. Why I'll never fight you."
In the blink of an eye, he's gone, leaving you alone with the echo of his voice, that phantom melody, and the terrible knowledge that you just let a demon walk away.
You land back on the balcony, chest heaving. The sliding door opens before you can compose yourself. Rumi, Mira, and Zoey spill out, eyes wide with panic.
"Where were you?! We've been searching everywhere—"
"Can we go tomorrow instead?" Your voice sounds foreign. "I don't feel great."
They exchange loaded glances. Eventually Rumi nods. "Of course. Rest is part of prep too."
You turn away before they can see the cracks spreading across your composure and witness how your hands shake.
That night, your bed feels like a battleground. The melody plays on repeat behind your closed eyes. Each note carries weight you can't name and memories you can't quite grasp.
The mystery of it all pressed against your mind. What past did you share? Why couldn't you remember?
Mystery himself seemed to revel in the unknowing, content to watch you struggle with fragments of what you'd once been to each other.
BABY ໒꒱ ‧₊˚
Something was wrong with your hands.
They'd been trembling since you left the dorm, and no amount of clenching your fists or pressing them against your thighs could make it stop. Rumi's words echoed in your head like a mantra you couldn't shake, "Don't let his face fool you. They're still dangerous demons working for Gwi-Ma nevertheless."
Pictures of the Saja Boys were already circulating online in less than a day. Five demons who'd seemingly appeared overnight, stealing the hearts and souls of your fans.
"Ugh, I’m going to beat their stupid pretty little faces," Zoey had said, tapping the images with her pen. "Seriously, look at them! Acting all mysterious and brooding like they're in some kind of boy band. I mean—they are… but look! The internet's already making fan edits—fan edits! Of demons!" She'd gestured wildly at her tablet, where countless social media posts were flooding in by the minute. "Half the comments are people asking where they can meet them. It's insane!”
You'd barely heard her. Your eyes had been drawn to one face among the five, sharp features that still held traces of boyish softness.
His face had made your chest tighten with recognition, like looking at a stranger who wore the face of someone from a half-remembered dream.
Why did he feel familiar?
The neighbourhood around you was a study in urban decay, half the buildings scheduled for demolition, the other half already hollow shells. You decided to turn a corner and came across an abandoned playground.
You knew this place.
You stopped mid-step at the chain-link gate. The monkey bars where someone had scraped their knee. The slide with the chip in the yellow paint. The bike rack, now empty and listing to one side like a broken rib.
This was from your dreams. Or maybe...
"Didn't expect you to come."
The voice drifted from somewhere behind the playground equipment with an edge that made your hand move instinctively to your weapon. You'd heard that voice before, in fragments that scattered whenever you tried to grasp them.
"Show yourself," you called, stepping through the gate. The metal squealed in protest, the sound echoing off empty buildings like a warning.
He laughed mockingly. "Still giving orders, I see."
He emerged from behind the slide, hands shoved deep in his pockets, shoulders hunched against the chill of the night. He looked barely out of his teens, with features that still held traces of boyish softness despite the hard set of his jaw.
"You always had a thing for chasing monsters," he said, tilting his head as he studied you with uncomfortable intensity. Those dark eyes flickered, darting away from your face as if looking directly at you caused him physical pain.
"How do you know me?"
Baby shrugged with affected indifference. "Lucky guess."
The way he held himself like he was trying very hard not to care, made anger flare in your chest. "That's not an answer."
He kicked at a piece of broken glass, sending it skittering across the asphalt. "Maybe you're just forgettable."
The casual cruelty in his voice should have stung. You drew your blade, silver gleaming in the late afternoon light.
"Are you going to come quietly, or do we have to do this the hard way?"
Baby looked at the weapon, then back at your face. For a moment, vulnerability flickered across his features before he crushed it down.
"Do what the hard way?" He stepped closer, invading your personal space with reckless confidence. "Fight me? Kill me?" His voice dropped, a hint of intimacy laced inside, bitter amusement threading through each word. "You wouldn't be the first to try."
You raised the blade between you, but instead of stopping, he knocked it aside with casual violence, the metal ringing as it struck the nearby swing set. Before you could recover, he was on you, crowding you back against the chain-link fence with predatory grace.
"I waited for you, you know," he said, one hand braced against the fence beside your head, effectively trapping you. "Stupid thing to do when you're a kid."
The words hit you like a punch to the gut. "What?"
His free hand came up to grip your chin, forcing you to meet his eyes. The touch was rough, but not enough to hurt.
"You really don't remember," he said, his laugh sharp enough to cut. "How convenient."
"Remember what?" The desperation in your voice made you flinch, but you couldn't take it back.
"Us." The single word fell between you, sending ripples through memories you couldn't quite grasp. "This place. The promises you made."
You tried to push him away, but he caught your wrists, pinning them against the fence. His grip was careful despite his aggression, strong enough to hold you, gentle enough not to bruise.
"You died," he said, voice flat and matter-of-fact. "And I had to grow up. Happy now?"
The world tilted sideways. Images flashed through your mind like broken film, a boy with tears streaming down his face, small hands clutching yours, a voice promising forever, all turned into ashes now.
"I'll never leave you."
The words rose from deep in your throat. Baby's eyes snapped to yours, wide with… hope, if hope weren't such a dangerous thing for creatures like him to carry.
"You broke your promise first," he whispered, and the accusation send a chill down your spine.
You stumbled when he finally released you, pressing a hand to your chest where the ache was spreading like cracks in ice. Baby stepped back, flexing his fingers, trying to forget the feel of your skin.
"I don't—" You shook your head, struggling to make sense of the fragments flashing through your mind. "I don't understand."
"No," Baby said, his mask completely slipping. "You never did understand. You were always too good for this world."
He kicked your fallen blade across the asphalt, the metal scraping against concrete. "That's why you had to die, isn't it? Pure things don't last in places like this."
The words were bitter, but his voice cracked on the last syllable. He turned away quickly, hands clenched into fists at his sides.
"Next time we meet, I won't be nice," he said without looking back.
"Please, wait—"
He froze at the sound of your plea, shoulders going rigid. You thought he might turn around. Instead, he let out a short and humourless laugh.
"Begging now? Huh, pathetic."
H walked away, each step deliberate and final. Just as he reached the edge of the playground, he stopped.
"The songs," he said quietly, not turning around. "Those stupid lullabies you used to sing when I had nightmares. I still—"
He cut himself off with a sharp shake of his head.
"Forget it. Forget everything."
He simply walked away down the empty street like any other person with anywhere else to be. You watched until he turned the corner and vanished from sight, leaving you alone with your forgotten blade and the sound of wind through rusted swings.
You picked up your weapon with trembling hands, but the silver felt cold and foreign now, it now felt like it belonged to someone else entirely.
Summary/Request: “I don’t know if you write for Harry Potter, but can you do a fic about Draco Malfoy if you do? It doesn’t have to be anything specific, I just love your writing!” - Reader smells Draco in the Amortentia potion without realizing it’s him.
Warnings: Light cursing
You were exhausted from staying up all night writing an essay for charms class over simple things your father had taught you ages before you had started your sixth year at Hogwarts. You couldn’t say that you were extremely talented in every subject you took at the great school of witchcraft and wizardry, but charms came naturally to you. Your mother was an outstanding Auror, and your father also worked for the Ministry of Magic. You were never fully informed on what exactly he did. His job was clearly out of the ordinary, as he never spoke about it. He was always out at odd hours for work, but you never questioned it. You were just happy that they both came home safe every night.
You couldn’t say that your family was thrilled when they found out you were a Slytherin. The family came from a long line of Ravenclaws on your father’s side and Gryffindors on your mother’s side. They were baffled as to how you found yourself placed among Slytherins. Nevertheless, they were proud of you and how hard you were working toward being one of the top students of your class,
“Another reason I believe you should have been placed in Ravenclaw! Perhaps you could consult with the headmaster about the matter, Y/N?”
Your mother had said once. You rolled your eyes at her all those years ago and simply replied,
“The sorting hat never makes mistakes, mama. You know that. Being a Slytherin may not have been what you wanted or expected, but it is my destiny.”
warnings: enemies to lovers, still so damn much pining, set in poa, timeline is a bit wonky, limited use of y/n, archie being my fav oc, cheese fest
an: literally fell asleep on my laptop last night editing this, i was so exhausted from school so i’m sorry it’s late !!! but i had the most fun in the world writing this and i hope everyone enjoys :)) don't forget to comment and repost your favourite writers
summary: Oliver is still impossibly miserable, maybe more uncooperative than before, except now when you look at him: you can't think of much else beyond how sweet his lips tasted.
part one
You can’t sleep.
You're not sure you'll find sleep ever again.
“I knew it, I knew it—“ Cherry had bounced the whole way to your dormitory, howling into your ear. “I knew it!”
The image of Oliver’s fluttering eyes swum around your brain as you blinked into the darkness of the poster bed. The taste of his tongue and his words still right against your lips.
It was a riddle of a calibre that you can’t seem to detangle. More than anything, you try to remember how strong has he tasted of Firewhisky - was he so drunk to really dismiss it to nothing at all?
You lingered on it all weekend.
Cherry didn’t help at all — he’s been in love with you forever, that’s literally so obvious — and Enzo even less so once he’d been filled in: Oliver doesn’t seem a bloke who let’s alcohol make his decisions for him, something about Scottish genetics I think.
The interaction plagued you: digging a wide hole in the base of your stomach. You mourned the thought that you may never have the opportunity to kiss those soft lips again, more than anything: preparing yourself for the feud between yourselves to worsen.
There’s barely enough time to make sense of your situation before you’re racing down over the grassy hills of the grounds, bag swinging violently over your shoulder and extraordinarily late for your Herbology lesson in the greenhouse.
Your morning alarm had rung right into one ear and out the other, a product of the tossing and turning you’d been doing for the last two nights.
When you swing the greenhouse door open, panting and face flush from the beating sun, the whole room turns to you. Sprout pauses where her hands are flailing in explanation.
“Sorry I’m late professor,” you wheeze, readjusting your strap over your shoulder.
Cherry is smirking at you from her bench, sidled up with Jane Emmet.
It hadn’t escaped you that you’d be sharing the lesson with the Gryffindors, but you’d precious little time to worry about it in the five minutes you had to pull a robe over your head and stick a toothbrush into your mouth.
Your eyes are purposeful in not looking over the room. Scared to catch the wrong eyes.
“Not a problem peach, we’re just repotting some Fire-Seed Bushes.” She brings a stubby hand to her chin, “uhm … well, Mr Kumar there in the corner doesn’t have a partner. Go join him by his pots.”
Archie has a lopsided smile on his face when you approach, a thick black curl drooping over his left eye.
“Hey.” He nudges gently.
You set your bag down and grab a pair of gloves, chuckling. “Hey Archie.”
The soil is warm when you stick your fingers into the dirt, shifting it gently enough not to mess over the edge of the bucket. There’s a Fire-Seed Bush sitting tentatively at the end of the bench, spitting sparks and emitting smoke.
“So …” Archie speaks first, the back of his hand bumping yours between the black soil. “How was your weekend?”
It’s a veiled question, a poorly veiled one at that. The question draws a laugh from the base of your stomach.
You shrug, adamant on missing the point. “It was alright, I guess. How about yours?”
He shrugs right back. “Wasn’t the greatest. Penelope Clearwater rejected me for Percy Weasley.”
You don't mean to, you really don't, but it draws another bout of laughter out of you - you clap your hand over your mouth. “I’m sorry—“
“No, I get it. Percy bloody Weasley?” His brow is creased, dirt-stained hands rising messily from the soil to swipe at a fallen piece of hair in his face. “Dead sure that bloke's own mother can't say he’s handsome. I’m better looking than him, surely?”
There’s the hanging insinuation that it was rhetorical, but you reply anyways: “you’re definitely more handsome than Percy Weasley, Archie.”
His head cocks down at you, stained paws finding his waist and pressing black fingerprints into the red jumper. “You really think so?”
“Without a doubt.”
Archie smiles, bumping your side against his. You think he might be blushing. “You’re very charming. I understand what Oliver sees in you.”
You jolt involuntarily, spilling some black soil over the edge of the pot.
Swiping at the mess lazily, you play the comment off with another crumbly chuckle: hoping it convinces him more than it does yourself. “Oliver sees in me what a bull sees in a red cape.”
Archie’s reaching timidly for the Fire-Seed Bush, lifting it off the counter and holding the dangerous botanical at arm’s length. “Not true. The boy’s half in love with you.”
This conversation is getting awfully uncomfortable awfully quickly. It picks at your curiosity nonetheless.
“He said that?”
He’s quick to shake off the question, eyes still trained on setting the roots of the bush into the gap in the soil. “Oliver doesn’t have to say anything. He spends practically every fucking mealtime mooning over at your table, and he talks about you way more than necessary—“
“That’s just because I work on his nerves. Oliver doesn’t love me, he barely tolerates me.”
The boy turns on you, confusion set in his brow. “Why is this news? Last I saw you, your tongue was halfway into his stomach.”
Zachariah Smith and his Gryffindor partner look up at that. Your face goes hot all over - Archie doesn’t seem to notice.
“We were drunk.” You say softly, eyes stuck on a loose leaf crackling against the wooden counter.
There’s a special kind of fear that's crawling into your heart where you stand. The fear of putting too much faith into the words of Archie Kumar.
That it’s an elaborate ruse. A set-up, canons of confetti and a banner screaming “you’ve been fooled!” if you were to indulge his words. The danger of allowing your mind to drift too far off into the possibilities of a world wherein Oliver Wood doesn’t hate you - at least not as much as he lets on.
Archie looks at you out the side of his eye, you can feel it, but says nothing. He hands you a miniature yellow-handled spade.
Instead you fill the space. "I heard Isla Flynn has a crush on you."
He perks: "really?"
Across the room, Oliver is bumping elbows with Poppy Davis.
"Ow!"
A loose spark has evidently landed on her exposed arm. The sparks that Oliver was supposed to be watching for, the ones that he is intent on ignoring with the constant glancing back over his shoulder to where you and his best mate are in the corner of the room fucking giggling at each other like toddlers with a box of matches.
“Oliver — can you just focus for five seconds!” Poppy isn’t impressed.
Oliver isn’t either, with the situation as a whole. The pads of his fingers are blistered from the repotting of the bush and Poppy’s careless bumps and his general indifference to the task at hand.
It eats at his brain. What are you guys talking about? Is it about him?
You laugh again and it’s loud enough that it draws his shoulders all the way taut. There’s another snap of a spark and Oliver feels where it lands at his wrist, but he doesn’t react.
“Just pass me the bloody spade.” He grumbles.
-
The lesson passes more slowly than Oliver could swim shoulder-deep through molasses.
It feels like years later when he tosses his gloves into the box with the rest, when the class shuffles to return tools and begin slinging half-open bags over their shoulders.
Oliver doesn’t think he’s ever packed up faster - Poppy is still scowling at him, he doesn’t care - before he’s knocking through yellow and red tied students to find Archie’s head of curly black hair.
“Hey!” He catches him by the wrist, tugging on it like a dog with a bone. Archie jumps, eyes winding down to find his friend. “What did she say?”
You’re far ahead, Oliver can make out the back of your head: hips bumping with Cherry’s up the hill towards the castle.
Archie grins. “She said Isla Flynn has a crush on me.”
Oliver groans, “Not about that, you prat. About— wait, really?”
"Yeah!" He hikes his bag higher on his shoulder. "Can you believe it? She's got that hot Irish accent and everything."
Oliver nods, "Yeah ... yeah. Good on you, mate."
He's trying desperately not to steal this moment from his best friend, but he's fucking itching to know what else you and Archie had been giggling about.
"Did she ... say anything else?" He presses, more gently than his character usually allows. "Like about me?"
Archie shrugs without looking down. "I asked her, but she seemed tense about the whole thing."
"Tense?"
"Yeah, she said something about a bull and a cape, and went like all quiet when I told her you like her--"
At that, Oliver's stomach leaps up into his throat. He grabs his best friend by the arm, jolting him to a short stop. Some Hufflepuff bumps into their halted figures, grumbling before shuffling around them.
"You told her what?" His eyes flare erratically.
Archie shrugs, an innocuously confused look painting his features. "Well I said Oliver's half in love with you, or something like that and she looked all confused about it--"
Oliver's grip on his friend's wrist tightened to a degree that a ring was sure to form on his dark skin. "You fucking pinhead! You told her I liked her?"
Pulling his arm violently from his grip, Archie has the nerve to look affronted. "You don't?"
The morning sun shining over Oliver's head feels like it's growing hotter by the second, there's a dribble of sweat running down his spine.
"That's -- that's not the point. Even if I do, which I'm not saying is the case, she doesn't need to know that."
"Were you two obliviated in your sleep last night?" Archie's eyebrows are pressed down against his eyes, slouching down to meet his friend's face. "I caught you two making out like the world was ending less than three days ago! Surely she has to figure that you feeling something for her, she's not stupid."
Oliver struggles between his thoughts, worse around his words. "That was ... we'd been drinking. For all I know, she only kissed me back cause she was trollied off Dragon-Barrell--"
"She said that, too."
Eyeing him, Oliver's hands find his hips. "Said what, exactly?"
"That you were drunk, I mentioned the kiss and she said we were drunk."
A sensation he can only identify as closest to guilt seeps up into Oliver's chest from his stomach. "She thinks I kissed her just cause I was drunk?"
Archie's hand finds Oliver's shoulder. "You should probably talk to her, mate."
He sighs, eyes drifting over the silhouette of the castle in the distance. He shakes his head like it'll rattle the plaguing thoughts loose. "We're gonna be late for Transfig."
-
"I mean, Archie is his best friend." Cherry is trying to rationalise the whole story. "I don't see why he'd lie about it?"
You shake your head, knocking shoulders with a Ravenclaw girl trying to pass through the corridor. "I'm not entertaining it, Cherry."
"Come on," she sighs, practically skipping to keep up with the furious pace you've set. "Would it be so terrible if he likes you?"
"Yes." You don't look at her.
The redhead's eye-roll is practically audible, "Let me rephrase, would it be so terrible if he likes you back?"
You meet her eyes for the first time since you'd entered the corridor.
She sighs, "we're gonna see him in Muggle Studies in five minutes. I think you should say something."
"Forget I said anything, Cherry." Heat flares at your neck again, prompted by the embarrassment of even imagining how such a conversation might go.
The rest of the walk is quiet, but you feel Cherry's gaze warming the side of your face.
Burbage's classroom is over-populated with Gryffindors by the time you drop your bag against the marbled floor beside your desk. In the corner of your eye, your brain has already fixated on Oliver's silhouette leaned against the edge of his own desk. You flush hot all over again, as if your thoughts were transcribing into subtitles and floating above your head for the whole class to read.
The click of Burbage's heels prompt the lingering students to find their seats, "Please take out your copies of Muggle Wars: Cause and Effect. We left off on page eighty-seven--"
You suddenly regret snapping at Cherry. Wishing for the comfort of her presence, your eyes glazing over where she's perched in the first row of desks closest to the chalkboard.
Unusually, the class trickles on without disruption. There's a few glances over at your direction, like everyone is waiting for another outburst from the grade's most volatile duo. They're sure to be let down, you're adamant to not even breathe in the direction of Wood.
Burbage comments on it, too, nearly ten minutes from the bell.
"It's suspiciously quiet in your corner today, captains." she looks down through her fingerprint-smudged frames, brushing over you and then Wood three seats away. "Something the matter?"
You shrug, refusing to acknowledge the boy. He seems to be doing the same: completely unfairly, the thought that he wouldn't look at you made the hair on your arms stand straight. "We can start up if you'd like, professor?"
Her face contorts into that irritated look that you'd grown accustomed to when Professor Burbage addresses you. "You're flirting dangerously with another session of detention, miss."
"She's just answering your question, professor."
Nobody in the class seemed more surprised than Burbage, although that in itself was a feat. The two Gryffindor boys in the row ahead of you swivel all the way around in their seats to look at Oliver, who'd just spoken.
You fight the twitching urge to look at him.
"Detention for two, it seems. I'll be seeing you both Friday afternoon."
A calm air settles again over the class, as if order had been restored. You and Wood had lost the interest of the room and students shift back to the board where WHAT IS A PRIME MINISTER? is sprawled across it in chicken-scratch handwriting.
Sighing, your eyes find the clock against the wall. Eight minutes left.
You pick at the end of your quill irritably: electing to dip it into the ink at the edge of the desk and entertain yourself quietly by drawing a miniature snowman at the corner of your page, trying not to think about another Friday afternoon in too close of a proximity to Oliver Wood. There's a soft whir, barely audible if you weren't so focused on outlining pebble eyes, and a tiny paper-airplane whizzes quietly from under your desk: landing squarely on the nose-less head of your snowman.
Fear prickles at you. You don't look up for the source, lest a suspicious sideways glance earns you another weekend with the party-animal Charity Burbage.
Instead, you carefully undo the intricately folded wings of the plane. It's barely big enough to fit into your palm once open, the top of the little note marked in black ink.
It was the same handwriting that marked the sign-out sheet for equipment in the Quidditch storage rooms down at the pitch.
'Thanks for that one, smart-mouth.'
Your eyes flicker up to Burbage, who's back is turned, before you dip your quill into the ink and scribble out a response. In your peripheral, Oliver is leaned back in his stool: biceps folded over each other. There's an unexplainably airy-fairy, fuzzy feeling warming your rib cavity.
'Believe this one was your fault, dickhead.'
You quietly refold the creased edges, before tapping it lightly with the end of your wand: then watch how it takes off the airstrip of your page and zips quietly under the cover of desks to land back in front of the sender.
There's a long pause - enough for Burbage to draw out a whole flow diagram of something called "parliament" - before the edge of the paper wing grazes at your calf again. It lands quietly again.
'Maybe.
We good?'
There's a gentleness to the sentence. Like you can hear it from Oliver's mouth, like he's avoiding your gaze when he whispers it.
You hunch over the note again.
Oliver's knuckles are turning white, twisting his wand in his hands under the table. He shouldn't have said anything. He's regretting the whole fucking idea of the stupid paper-plane now.
He's trying not to watch you write, not to notice how long you stared at his writing before you picked up your own quill. He does anyways.
When the airplane flutters down into his palm, Burbage is already excusing the class. Stools are scraping against cold tile, the clutter of textbooks being crammed back into bags.
'Never :)'
His eyes run over the word once, twice, three times over. A smile is tugging at the edge of his lip, he forces it taut - but his eyes are still shining unusually brightly when Archie knocks his shoulder to his.
"What you looking so damn happy about?"
Oliver tucks the note into the pocket of his robes. "Don’t know what yer talking about."
-
"But professor, why can't Hufflepuff take Saturday?"
"Well, Hufflepuff already gave up our practice days for Gryff--!"
Hooch sighed so deeply she almost melted back into her armchair. "The decision is made, Oliver. The pitch is being cleaned out on Wednesday, your team can take Saturday for any extra training."
He could practically hear the smile creeping onto your face, the smug crossed-arm look he'll no doubt find when he turns to you.
Irritation bubbles up in his throat, a familiar companion in your presence, and just as he prophesied: you are grinning.
In the weeks that followed that day in Burbage's class, it seemed that both parties decided that the topic of their shared kiss outside the Ravenclaw common room was best left undiscussed.
The arrangement is working. At least Oliver thinks so.
You still bait him and he still snaps, rising to your taunts. He still finds himself in detention more Fridays than he spends free, and his body ripples with anger when you roll your eyes at him.
But it was in moments, like this now, where your little self-satisfied grin doesn't quite vex him to the degree it once did. It's now harder to find a retort, to snap at you with a sharp-edged comment. Not when amusement crinkles at the corners of your eyes where your black lashes kiss so prettily.
Hooch swivels in her chair to find a document between one of her cluttered drawers, you take the opportunity to stick the tip of your tongue out childishly at him.
Oliver draws a tight breath, he hopes his face is still taut in annoyance, because his heart has slipped like a stone down into his stomach. That's the other issue, the tiny little obstacle in these recent weeks: he can't stop looking at your mouth. It's distracting, disarming - paralysing at the best of times.
He strips his gaze away, before he can be outed by anyone in the room. "Whatever." He mumbles.
You seem disappointed in his lack of a real response, but it passes quickly - like a shadow - over your face.
"Thanks professor." You grab up your roster from her desk and turn to the door, practically skipping out into the corridor.
He huffs.
Somehow, you and Archie have become fast friends. Mornings around Fire-Seed Bushes and Venomous Tentaculas in the heat of Greenhouse Three seems to do wonders for a friendship.
It prickles at Oliver's nerves when you pass in the corridors, when you perk up with a high "hey Arch!" and he grins down from his towering height right back at you: "hey Y/n!"
You don't look at Oliver. He's notably sour the rest of the walk.
Alright, maybe the whole arrangement wasn't really working. You were a distraction to him before, no doubt, but somehow your powers of beguilement had tripled. Especially since you seem to be behaving perfectly normal: like you hadn't given Oliver the best snog of his life outside the Ravenclaw common room that night.
Maybe it was just alcohol, maybe he is the only one plagued by the knowledge of the other's taste.
The castle has turned impossibly colder, the bitter bite of winter stinging at the loose cuffs of his robes on walkthroughs of the corridors. He can't imagine how cold the air above the pitch is going to be on Sunday when Hufflepuff faces off Slytherin for a spot in the finals.
It's all Hooch has been going on about for the last two weeks.
Oliver's had to shift around at least four practices - Roger almost twice as much, he's a pushover - to allow for you and Marcus to have more time on the pitch. His complaints fell on deaf ears, Hooch dismissed him with a wave of her bony hand and a "your time is coming, Wood."
You prance into dinner late most evenings, hair in every direction and face flush with sweat: sticking it out like a bumblebee in those awful yellow quidditch robes.
Oliver only notices because, annoyingly, he's found that he is frequenting the bench at the Gryffindor table that faces over to the Hufflepuff's. His eyes drift over the yellow-tied heads to where you clump up with Enzo and Cherry, watches you talk around mouthfuls of toast lazily, giggle behind your napkin: head rolling back to showcase that smooth neck, how it runs down to the soft slopes of your shoulders: disappearing down into your button-up.
Archie has noticed, he's sure, but hasn't done more but allude to it with teasing glances or suggestive comments.
"The Hufflepuffs up to something particularly interesting over there, Ollie?"
The speed with which Oliver's eyes snap to his peas is almost comical. He shrugs and mumbles like a child. "Don't know."
-
On Sunday morning, you don't go to breakfast.
There's an uncomfortable gurgling in your midriff, like a snake is slithering between your organs and you're sure even just the smell of eggs on toast would bring up your dinner.
Instead you find yourself at the pitch a whole hour before the game is set to start. Marcus is running laps around the grass, something he's done since you've known him.
He offers a curt wave, face set like cold stone.
It reminds you of Oliver a little bit, the distraction in his eyes.
Oliver is never all the way there, wherever he is, you think. His eyes mist over like he's halfway between this world and another. You know it's Quidditch: he dreams it, eats it, sleeps it.
But lately he's foggier than usual.
You think it's your imagination, brush off the idea as you have all the millions of others you'd had in the preceding weeks about the surly brute that was Oliver Wood. He plagues you.
Just the vibrato of his unimpressed huff when you get your way, when you quip something purposely annoying at him. It's addictive, the feel of his sugar-brown eyes glaring a hole through you.
Lately, his reactions have been closer to underwhelming. Allowing for only a moment of eye contact: gone are the quick-witted retorts, the Scottish-laced "princess" usually attached. The thought makes you wince in embarrassment, knowing that you've been pressing him harder lately: like a seven-year old jabbing at a claw machine, outwardly desperate for that brown plushy on the top of the pile.
Maybe he's over it. So deathly mortified of your shared kiss that he doesn't want to know you anymore, much less take the effort to hate you. Your chest pinches tightly.
You dress into your match robes slowly, taking your time with the loops of your shoelaces and the buttons down the sweater you're wearing underneath everything. Oliver Wood should be at the bottom of your list of priorities, normally, but now more than ever.
The team filters into the change-room, exhibiting varying degrees of nervousness. Cedric is practically green, but Herbert looks like he's about to go down a water-slide he's waited over an hour in line for. Beyond the swinging doors, you can hear the crowd shuffling loudly into their seats.
Before your wits are completely about you, Hooch is rapping on those same doors. "Onto the pitch, Hufflepuffs!"
You muster up your best excuse for a captain's speech for what might be the last match you ever play as one. The team seem satisfied, you figure it's easy to find solace before a game when you know it's not your last. As the only seventh year, comfort doesn't come so easily to you.
The crowd is deafening when yellow robes take to the sky: Marcus looks over, offering another nod, not unlike the one he'd given you earlier. You can tell he's feeling the dread of finality too.
There's a whistle blow and the quaffle flies past your face with a speed that nearly evacuates your nose from your face. Lee is announcing in the distance and the rumble of adrenaline forces your fingers over the handle. It tilts and you dip, disappearing into the sky of players.
-
The winter air at Hogwarts was biting enough roaming the corridors, but thirty metres off the ground is something wholly unnatural. Your face was burning crisp from the icy wind, the feeling in your cheeks and nose lost to the Scottish cold.
Foggy white clouds puff out with each heavy breath. Cedric zooms past and Jane loops around his moving figure to knock a stray bludger in the opposite direction.
Your eyes flash between them and the fast approaching Malcolm, he tosses the quaffle at you with a grunt and you catch it at the tips of slippery, ice-frozen fingertips.
Shooting forward again, you duck under Marcus who is hurtling through the sky at you: gone is the look of friendly fondness from his eyes, replaced with a hunger for the leather-bound ball in your grasp.
Just missing the grasp of his meaty hand, the ball passes onto Heidi.
"Another ten points to Hufflepuff," Lee's voice echoes as if from heaven. "That brings the score to ninety for Hufflepuff and eighty for Slytherin!"
It's been nearly ninety-five minutes of sitting on your broom growing colder, and you're not alone.
Around you, the team is descending into frost-induced exhaustion: Jane's nose is as bright red as a Christmas ornament and Cedric has been peeping over the top of his thick woollen-scarf for at least the last half - barely enough to catch a glance of the whizzing canary and emerald robes, much less of a tiny golden snitch.
You sigh out another white breath, letting your eyes drift over the stands. It's saturated with moving heads of faces you can't make out and yellow and green swaying banners. Your gaze lingers on the top left, in the corner facing the castle. It's where Cherry and Enzo park themselves during every match, where you know they're screaming in support, clenching their teeth at every quaffle handover. You can feel them, even when their faces blur into the crowd.
Unintentionally, you think about how Oliver's mixed in there too. Somewhere between your peers. If you had been granted another moment, if the quaffle wasn't mid-air between two Slytherins just under your nose and you'd not taken the opportunity to snatch it from them, you would have meandered into the trap of hoping that deep down in his chest - even if it was core of the earth deep - he was rooting for you, too. That he seethed at a missed goal or clenched a tight fist at his side in celebration when a Hufflepuff makes a beautiful play.
Meanwhile in the stands, Oliver has decided that the desire to play his allegiances in secret has since disappeared from his heart.
He'd played it light in the first few minutes. Mumbling under his breath at a fumbled pass or a slimy move from the Slytherins, but by the forty-fifth minute he'd found himself on his feet.
"Diggory!" His hands waved in front of him, "it was right there you fucking git--"
A Hufflepuff third year a row ahead looked at him askew, but he paid her no mind.
Archie had taken the hint early. As soon as Oliver was out of his seat, so was he. Despite being Oliver Wood's best friend, Archie had somewhat limited knowledge of the game himself and eyed Oliver's reactions to find the appropriate moments to whoop and cheer. Oliver didn't say anything, but he appreciated it more than he could verbalise.
His eyes tracked you more than anything, when you were flying between players or just floating in place: eyes like a hawk, watching over the game. His heart swelled and his pride fell to the wayside.
Just short of the two hour mark, there was a rise in the crowd.
"The seekers have caught sight of the snitch!"
Oliver's stomach rose into his throat.
"They're diving for it, Malfoy and Diggory head to head-- and Slytherin grabs the snitch, winning by 140 points!"
It sank back into place, like a stone to the bottom of the river. He watched how you froze, how you twisted over your shoulder to find Diggory's figure lingering at the bottom of the field. You shoulders sagged, hanging in the air as the others dropped to the ground.
"Slytherin have made it into the finals against Gryffindor for the quidditch cup, back here at the pitch next month!"
After a long moment, the last in the sky, you followed them down.
The raucous cheers from the Slytherins were hard to drown out, he wasn't even sure Archie heard him toss a "i'll find you at the castle" before he found himself pushing through the masses of people.
He fought against the wave moving to find the stairs, eager to return to the warmth of their dormitories, but Oliver was markedly more motivated than the majority. He stomped on some toes and nearly tossed a first year off the stands to race down the stairs.
Only once his feet had found the mushy grass of the pitch, did he pause to consider that he wasn't entirely sure what he was going to say. What was the rush for? To comfort you, tease you for your loss?
The latter option was definitely what he could do, what he could say. What was expected of him, if he was being honest. Recently, however, he's found it harder and harder to come up with remarks to hurt your feelings. Found that he quite prefers that little smile that tucks into the corner of your mouth when he says something unexpectedly fond. How your eyes practically gleam.
There's shoving from all sides of him -- get out the way, bloody hell -- and the teams pass ahead of him. Leading the march, despite it being nothing more than a slow trudge, is your figure: squashed between those of who he recognises to be Cherry Stretton and Enzo Musa's.
Their arms wrapped over your shoulders, talking animatedly into your ear on each side. Enzo tips his head to meet yours, a small touch of comfort.
Oliver sighs. He has nothing to say and no comfort to offer, wondering for a moment what he could possibly bare to hear in his own final moments as captain. He thinks that anything from your mouth would work.
So he waits, parks himself beside the stairs and waits for Archie: watching the six-legged figure disappear up over the hill.
-
You're not at dinner.
He knows because he's been watching the door for the better half of an hour. Archie pushes his plate at him, "Eat something there, Ollie."
Begrudgingly, Oliver brings his drumstick up to his mouth. "She's not eaten a thing since breakfast, it's almost eight."
Archie passes a sympathetic look over him. "Her friends are here, I'm sure she'll be by soon. There's no use you joining her on a hunger-strike."
He's right. Cherry and Enzo and some others that frequent your circle are talking around the table, around the spot that you usually fill. But dinner goes on and students leak steadily out towards bed without your return.
Eventually Oliver huffs, like an irritated bulldog, and grabs for the nearest napkin: unfolding it out in front of him.
"What are you doing?" Archie asks thickly, spitting bits of rice at him.
Oliver reaches for two chicken skewers, placing them neatly on the white square: alongside a dinner roll and a pumpkin pasty.
He wraps them over, double wraps it with another napkin too.
"What does it look like, Arch."
Placing it carefully into the deep pocket of his robe, Oliver goes to stand - lacking the patience it takes for Archie to answer, or for his inevitable teasing. "I'll find you back in our room."
He's halfway out the hall when Archie's voice calls out to him, "You don't even know where she is!"
Oliver shakes his head, brandishing a dismissive hand over his shoulder. "I know where she is." He mumbles for only himself to hear.
-
You’d watched close to twenty-one quidditch matches from the stands at the pitch on Hogwarts grounds: played in almost half of them.
The seat is still slightly too small, just uncomfortable enough to make a person shuffle. Beyond the rim over the other end of the pitch you can see the orange sun dipping behind the horizon, drawing to darkness over your moment alone.
By now you're sure the party in the common room has long since found momentum. The one you'd been promised by the team, "it's your last game, cap, we need to celebrate!". You're sure someone somewhere is looking for you, bracing a plastic cup of Firewhisky with your name on it, but you can't find it within yourself to face it all just yet.
The silence of the evening is enough, you only wish you'd been fast enough to retrieve your broomstick that's somewhere off with Enzo. Just for one last lap.
The serenity of your loneliness doesn't persevere, however. You can hear shuffling up the steps, you're tempted to look but the sunset is slipping so quickly out of your hands that it's not worth the time wasted.
It's only when the footfalls draw closer, stopping when a body slumps into the seat beside you. The seats are so cramped that his knee brushes yours, the figure long since identified from the corner of your eye.
"Come to gloat?" You ask, eyes never leaving the sky.
He shrugs. "Not today."
You nod. His smell drifts on the breeze under your nose, like peppermint and soap and Oliver.
There's a long silence. Your robes crease against the fist sitting in your lap, you've yet to change out of your quidditch uniform, you know it will be the last time.
"You missed dinner."
"Does it matter?"
Despite your avoidant gaze, Oliver's is warming the side of your face. The evening air cools the same spot.
There's a shuffling that finally draws your eyes. Oliver is still in his robes too, and his hand emerges from a deep pocket with a folded napkin square. "Figured you'd be hungry."
He places it onto your lap with a gentleness you're coming to find more of in him. Something frighteningly warm erupts in your chest and your hands come up to it, pulling apart the napkin to find picky bits inside.
You're fighting between smiling and starting to cry. You do neither.
"You carried this in your pocket the whole way from the hall?"
His eyes flicker between the food and your face before he shrugs. "Yeah."
By now, you were fighting a losing battle and the smile pulled up at the ends of your mouth so tightly that your cheeks started to hurt. "Gross."
You pick up a chicken skewer regardless, biting into it and facing the sky again. You offer him the other one and he looks for a moment like he's going to argue but takes it quietly in the end.
The chicken is tender and only after you'd swallowed the first bit did you realise how hungry you'd actually been. You finish it without a word, going to tear the pasty in half and offering a piece to your companion.
You're picking at the roll now, tearing tiny bits off and feeding it piece by piece to yourself like a bird. "Last game."
He nods. "I know."
"What could someone say to you after your last game, Wood?" You pick at him, eyes flittering between him and the now nearly black sky. "You know, to make you feel better?"
Oliver shakes his head, leaning back and rolling his shoulders: as if the thought itself unsettled him.
"Nothing, probably. I'd probably just walk into the Black Lake and drown myself."
You think he's joking, but with Oliver Wood that was hardly a sure thing.
"You wouldn't."
"What's there left to live for?" He says it with an airy chuckle.
Shrugging, your head falls against your shoulder. "You'd have to figure it out, because I'd go marching in right after you. Carry you out if I had to."
Oliver stills, eyes wide and blinking at you. Your chest goes tight, the ghost of a smile pressing at your face.
"Bridal style and everything ..." You add quietly, stifling your chuckle.
He seems to come back to himself, nodding. "We should get back. Been a long day."
The napkin crumples in your hand, shoved down into the depths of your own pocket. You walk ahead, the pathway to the steps is only narrow enough for one person at a time, and he trails behind.
By the time you've hit the steps, Oliver moving down beside you, you're brewing around an apology. A way to thin the air, to ease where your chest is tight: swirling around well done, now you've made things awkward you git. It's halfway up to your tongue when skin brushes against the back of your hand.
Warm fingers explore your knuckles to find your cool ones, slipping to knot between them.
You work not to look down, because Oliver's skittish like that. From the corner of your eye, you can see he's concentrating his gaze ahead.
His hand tightens against yours, palm callous from years wrapped around the wooden handle of his broomstick. It's a little sweaty and sticky but you're smiling so hard you're about to be sick.
You dare to look at him, Oliver's smiling too.
-
Oliver hasn't been sleeping.
His last few days of seventh year are slipping like water through his calloused hands and he can feel it. Every hour that passes, shadowy and fleeting.
Classes feel shorter than before, the terrible jokes Archie bombards him with over dinner sound funnier than he ever remembers them being and the glimpses he catches of you in the corridor never feel long enough. The ceiling of his poster bed flashes with moments of the day that's passed, feeling like a dream you'll be jolted out of as soon as it gets good.
Even over all his hours of broody contemplation, none of it makes the final whistle any easier to swallow. It hits him like he's been smacked with a bludger in the chest.
"Gryffindor has won the quidditch cup, two-hundred and thirty points to twenty!"
He can hear the crowd's roar, the whoops of the twins floating somewhere below him. Harry's standing on the grass of the pitch holding up his tiny golden trophy. The pitch is red all over: Oliver won.
He won.
Every moment building up over the last seven years culminated into the final blow of the whistle. The wind is whipping at the hair over his forehead: Oliver thinks this might be the happiest moment of his life, but he's not entirely sure.
He never realised that it would all be so fucking soaked in sadness.
It's over. He's leaving the castle empty handed. His engraving will live on the Quidditch Cup in a dusty cupboard for years to come, yes, and he might have a frame up in his future apartment somewhere, reminiscing on the old days. That's all.
He's struck with the devastating fear that in a few short years, nobody will remember him. More than anything, he can't believe he hadn't come to this overwhelming conclusion before right now. Before Angelina is yelling to him, waving a frantic hand and sporting the biggest grin in all of Scotland, before he was seconds from taking the prize he's held in his mind for so many years into his very hands.
Will you forget him?
It nearly knocks him off his broom. He finds that it scares him the most, more than the thought of the dust-caked trophy or the lonely corner at the back of his cupboard where his Hogwarts robes will no doubt live until eternity.
He won't forget you, he thinks. He knows.
You're just so damn annoying. And beautiful, fucking whip-clever and hilarious sometimes--
The handle of his broom is tilting down to the earth now, the crowd zooming into a blur on either side of him. He hits a shaky landing, broomstick abandoned on the grass behind him as he's pulled into the arms of his team and well-wishers.
A golden trophy passes over the heads of the twins and it's shoved into his sweating hands. It's cool to the touch and so much heavier than he thought it ever could be, but he can't seem to keep his mind on the situation long enough to realise any of that. His mind is racing around the castle wondering where you might be and what's the fastest way to get there.
His eyes are racing over the heads of the roving crowd. "Wood, Wood! Speech!"
Shadowing over everyone is Archie's tall figure standing at the back, grinning down at him. The team watches expectantly.
This is it. The moment for the speech he's been practicing in his bathroom mirror since he was seven.
"I--" he looks down at the cup for the first time, his face reflecting up at him in glimmering gold. He finds he can't remember any of the words. "I need to go find someone."
There's a buzz of confusion, but Oliver doesn't linger: shoving the Quidditch Cup into Harry's arms.
"That's the shortest speech Wood has ever given." He hears Angelina quip, but he can't be arsed to turn. He's already flying, moving through the crowd at such a pace he might just have been on his broom.
The sea of students had long since started moving up to the castle, particularly the non-gryffindors: trying to beat the stampede of scarlet that is no doubt to come. Oliver's legs carry him over the smooth green hill up towards Hogwarts, head craning over students to find your side profile somewhere in the mass.
He catches few oy, watch it!'s and congrats, Wood!'s but he doesn't turn, doesn't stop running. Students bespeckle the grass like ants lining up for crumbs, and he's all the way up into the stone corridor leading to the Great Hall when he spots Cherry's velvet red curls over the crowd, and sure enough, he finds you're knocking her shoulder with your own.
It only takes one shout of your name and you turn to peek curiously back, by which time he's taken both your shoulders into his hands and steered you to the wall of the corridor.
"Wood! What are you do--"
His hands squeeze around the plush at your upper arms. "Oliver. My name is Oliver."
Your eyes are wide in surprise, the window behind you showcases the gardens and the pitch in the distance. Sunlight forms a halo over the crown of your head.
With a head tilted in confusion, you nod slowly. "Alright ... what are you doing, Oliver?"
He can feel the eyes of Cherry and Enzo burning a hole through the side of his head, but doesn't bother with it. You're blinking up at him, gentle and benign in your features. He wonders when it became like this, when you'd lost the tight brow and the frown every time you looked at him.
"I won the Quidditch Cup." He says blankly.
You nod, a small smile tucked into the corner of your lip. "I saw. Congratulations."
Oliver only nods back at you. "I wanted to tell you. I wanted to come shove it in your face."
He's shuffling closer to your figure, and he's more than pleased to discover that you aren't cowering from it.
"Of course you did, because you're a prat." But you're smiling so hard now that it's impossible to take your jab to heart. "Is that all, Oliver?"
A warm sensation is spilling into his rib cavity and his fingertips are buzzing with electricity when they come to find either side of your face.
"No." His forehead is nearly touching yours and your hands have wrapped around his wrists. "I came to ask you out on a date. A sappy, disgustingly romantic date where I bring you flowers and pay for your hot chocolate. You'd hate it."
"That truly sounds horrible." Your smile is so wide he can barely see the whites of your eyes and it pumps more adrenaline through Oliver than any argument you'd ever shared over the last seven years.
"So, is that a yes?"
You're bouncing on your toes a little bit, bumping your nose against Oliver's clumsily. The babble of passing students and gawking onlookers has practically fallen mute to him.
"Depends, are you going to kiss me goodnight after?" You whisper it, like it's a secret between just you and him.
He nods slowly, "pretty desperate to kiss you right now, if I'm being honest princess--"
You don't wait for him to finish, thank Merlin you don't wait for him to finish, and push up onto your toes: crashing against his mouth. You're kiss is as dizzying as he remembers, but softer this time. You kiss like you know he's not running away, hands pressing softly over his neck.
It's nothing like your kiss outside the Ravenclaw common room: where that one was desperate and hot and angry, this time it's born from longing and tenderness and acceptance.
It leaves him just as fucking breathless as the first time.
Somewhere behind him, he hears wolf-whistling (he's sure it's Cherry) and when you pull your lips off his, your face is flush with embarrassment.
"I will go on a date with you, Oliver."
He takes your hand into his, curling his fingers between your own. You lean up to peck him softly and bat your eyelashes at him, grinning innocuously when you whisper: "If you treat me like you did with Delilah, I'm throwing your broomstick into the fireplace."
-
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It was difficult. Difficult for Malfoy's wife, Astoria Greengrass, to understand her husbands withdrawal–the lifeless look in his eyes, the loss of appetite–every May, around the anniversary of the Battle of Hogwarts 3 years ago.
Typically, he was the loving and devoted husband she adored: bringing her favorite flowers after long days of work, listening patiently to her rambles, and reciprocating her affection.
But during May, he became a completely different person, haunted by the day he ended up losing you.
–
Astoria vividly remembered the first time she had met him, as a young girl visiting the Malfoy estate with her family. Coming from a pure-blood family, she often attended these meetings though they were extremely boring.
That day, her mother was awfully anxious, reminding her, "Darling, remember to speak nicely and become friends with their son, Draco," whilst nervously adjusting her black gloves.
Her father, far more relaxed, greeted the Malfoys like old friends, immediately sparking a discussion of the Ministry's troubles as her mother was swept away by Narcissa to discuss recent pure-blood marriages.
Feeling out of place, Astoria stood awkwardly by her sister as the manor's grand doors closed behind them. The Malfoy manor being too cold and empty, much to her disliking. It was the complete opposite at her home which was fully encompassed in warmth and comfort.
"Astoria, I'll be a moment," Daphne, her older sister, suddenly said, nudging her forward, "Find something to do. I'll be there later when mother calls for dinner".
Astoria nodded slowly and began to wander aimlessly through the manor, just passing through the living room before a sharp voice stopped her.
"Greengrass, what are you doing just wandering about."
Astoria turned to see platinum blonde hair, a boy older than her, staring at her blankly with piercing gray eyes–an air of entitlement surrounding him. Her heart raced as she stood frozen, being drawn into the intensity of his gaze and his alluring confidence as he leaned against the doorframe, a flutter of excitement igniting in her chest.
Then, it immediately dawned on her who he was.
Draco Malfoy, the boy her mother encouraged her to be friendly with.
She watched his expression contort into a mixture of curiosity and annoyance, hinting at the layer of arrogance that she had heard so much about from others. But in that instant, time stood still, and the feeling as though a spark had been ignited made Astoria realize this was more than a passing attraction–something profound.
The beginning of her journey to falling in love with Draco Malfoy.
–
When Astoria became a 1st Year at Hogwarts, Draco was in his 3rd year and Daphne was in her second. Having not seen the older boy for a while due to school at Hogwarts, she was excited to see him again in hopes that they would kindle a strong friendship and possibly something more.
But her hopes were short-lived when she learned of you, and your relation with Draco.
You were a Slytherin, like him in your 3rd year, but unlike many in your house, you were more kind-hearted and well-liked by many of the students. Never once did you trample on others or comment negatively about other students.
Yet, at the same time, you were just like the other Slytherins. You were prideful, loyal, and cunning when you needed to be.
So to many, it was a surprise knowing that you were one of Draco Malfoy's closest friends. Though the two of you weren't especially close during your first year, over time your bond deepened and the two of you developed an unspoken understanding of each other.
You knew each other so well to the point where words became unnecessary, communicating effortlessly through shared glances and gestures. This unspoken language was enough to convey everything the other was feeling.
So, every day to Astoria, watching the closeness between you and Draco was unbearable and incredibly difficult. But, she never stopped trying to achieve that same level of closeness with him: inviting him to study sessions, engaging in Slytherin's Quidditch Practices and cheering loudly for him during games to receive a smug smile from him whenever he noticed her in the stands.
However, she quickly began to realize that all of this was futile. Why would anything she do matter when he had you?
You, who never needed to ask him to participate in activities. You, whom he had invited to the Yule Ball and asked to accompany him on every Hogsmeade trip–always remembering to buy you your favorite candy from HoneyDukes. You, who he was always side by side with, chatting and laughing so carefreely.
You, who brought out a different side to that arrogant, prideful boy–wiping away the familiar sneering and haughty look from his oh-so-handsome face.
Astoria was jealous of you. Extremely jealous. It was so painful for her to watch from the sidelines, feeling no matter how much she liked Draco, you would always come first.
There were times she often wondered if there would ever be room in his heart for someone other than you. Would she be overshadowed by your connection? Would he still think of you when spending time with her?
She'd figure that out soon enough. Even when she would find herself in rare moments with Draco, talking about their similarities, she could see him peeking over her shoulder in the library to stare at your figure as you laughed with friends from Ravenclaw and Gryffindor.
It was then that she knew, you would always be the center of his attention.
–
During the final moments of the Battle of Hogwarts, Astoria frantically looked around for Draco and Daphne.
Despite knowing he was on the Dark Lord's side, she still loved him dearly, harboring the same emotions she felt ever since she was a little girl.
But as she turned the corner, she saw Draco kneeling over you, as if the two of you were in your own little bubble. His body trembled violently as he cradled you so gently, grasping at your figure with such a tightness as if he never wanted to let you go.
All the chaos of the battlefield began to fade out as Astoria watched Draco whisper soft words to you–words she couldn't hear but feel in her bones and soul–as you looked up at him hopelessly with a sad smile on your face.
Tears streamed endlessly down Draco's face as your lungs tightened and your eyes began to close; Astoria slowly saw Draco reveal a vulnerability he rarely ever showed–so different from his typical cold demeanor.
She watched silently, remaining unnoticed, as tears brimmed in her eyes watching the melancholy scene unfold in front of her. Oh, how she wished it was her he was crying over.
Draco hadn't taken notice of her until he lifted your body carefully in his arms, facing Astoria with a raw look in his eyes clearly filled with love and heartbreak.
Astoria's heart ached.
This was something she'd never seen before. Something she knew only belonged to you.
–
Since then, Astoria had always known: she was simply a placeholder of you.
Still, she had hopes of being capable of taking your position.
She chose to pursue Draco, somehow becoming his "girlfriend" a year after the Battle of Hogwarts, and his "wife" two years after.
But deep down, they both knew that titles like "wife" and "girlfriend" carried little meaning in the shadow of his true love for you.
But Astoria wanted to be selfish. She chose to put her desires first.
So despite knowing that if you were still alive, Draco would leap into your arms, abandoning the life Astoria and he had built just to be with you again, She didn't care.
So, every May, Astoria chose to be reminded of your significance to Draco.
She chose to hopelessly cling onto an opportunity that would never come–the chance to be Draco Malfoy's true love, one that would forever belong to you.
Authors Note: my first fic ever! please enjoy <3 also GUYS PLS IGNORE MISTAKES IM FIXING THEMMM AS WE SPEAK