What The Hell? I've Been Isekai'd Into A Tumblr Fic.
(Sukuna x Reader)
˖᯽ ݁˖· ─ Chap 2 ─ ˖᯽ ݁˖·
⁺˚⋆｡°✩ Summary ✩°｡⋆˚⁺
You get isekai'd into a Tumlbr fic of your favourite character, Sukuna. Yay! You get to join his harem of concubines and get bent like a pretzel. Only problem is...he's not interested.
It's time to change that.
‧₊˚✧ Warnings ✧˚₊‧
There will be some boning at some point so....18+, MDNI, lots of swearing, nudity, titty stuff.
(More warnings when there's something to actually warn you about)
‧₊˚✧ Word Count ✧˚₊‧
3k+.
˖᯽ ݁˖· ─ Previous Chapter ─ ˖᯽ ݁˖·
⊹₊˚‧︵‿₊୨Masterlist୧₊‿︵‧˚₊⊹
“Stop!” you cried, back arching so hard the water sloshed over the wooden rim. Your legs kicked uselessly, heels drumming against the smooth cedar bottom of the tub. Head thrown back, wet hair slapping your shoulders like whips as the sensations drag over you. “Please…it’s too much, too much, too much!”
“Hold. Still.” The woman’s voice, who you now knew as Lady Miko, cracked like a whip of its own.
She dragged the coarse cloth, which you were now certain was actually sandpaper, down your arm again, scraping until your skin sang like a raw flame.
“I look like boiled lobster!” you wailed, fingers clawing at the tub’s edge until small splinters bit into your fingertips. “You have to stop, my epidermis is gone, gone I say!”
Another attendant, the same wide-eyed girl from before whose name you hadn’t caught yet, pushed your shoulders down with a surprising amount of strength.
Water closed around your chin, and then ,more hands descended, scrubbing and scouring relentlessly like you were a barnacled ship.
Your skin gleamed an angry red under the assault, every pore screaming. You thrashed once more, someone yelped as your elbow caught a rib.
“This is against my human rights” you mumbled, voice half-drowned in the tub, half-dead from the heat. Moisture beaded upon your lashes, dripping onto your cheeks each time you blinked. “I’ll call PETA. Or Amnesty International. Or...or someone. Don’t make me do it.”
Miko let out a shrill, exasperated cry that could’ve shattered porcelain. She attacked your shoulder with renewed vigour, cloth rasping like she was trying to sand down a barn door. “Honestly, I don’t know what’s gotten into you, Lady Y/L/N. Ever since that wretched hunting incident, you’ve been… strange. Unnatural. Speaking like a street peddler and thrashing like a landed fish.”
“That’s because I’m not Miss Whoever-the-hell you keep calling me!” You jabbed a dripping finger into the air, water arcing in triumphant droplets. “I’m Y/N. Just Y/N. No fancy title. I want to go home. I’m Y/N! Y/N dammit!”
The scrubbing… stopped.
Every hand froze mid-motion. Water dripped from suspended washcloths, each one striking the bathwater with startling clarity.
Miko’s eyes, usually narrowed in perpetual disapproval, widened instead. Worry flickered somewhere within them, replacing the annoyance like someone had flipped a switch.
“They’re the same…Miss Y/L/N” she said quietly.
You blinked through wet lashes. “Huh?”
And for a moment, everything stopped, it was like time had been suspended.
A sickening sense of deja vu washed over you all at once.
Y/L/N…
Y/N.
The names overlapped in your mind, vague at first, then sharpening into cruel clarity.
The name they’d been calling all morning, Lady Y/L/N, hadn’t been some random title. It was... your name. Or this... body’s name. Or… both?
Nothing made sense, but everything made sense…all at the same time. Your head swam.
Your hand, still raised, still dripping, slowly lowered, dropping beneath the water. You stared at it, then looked down at yourself in the water, really looked.
The breasts you’d jokingly called ‘upgraded’ earlier weren’t just bigger. They were… different. Higher, fuller in a way that felt strange. Waist nipped in sharper, hips flared wider. Skin tone almost luminous under the scrubbing.
Even your moles were different, shifted, missing one, gaining another in a place you’d never had them. But you still recognised yourself, it was you…just…upgraded.
Your breath hitched.
Miko watched you, face pale, lips parted like she wanted to speak but couldn’t find the words right now.
“You… truly do not remember?” Her voice dropped to something fragile. Almost pitying. “The fall from the horse during the autumn hunt. The physicians said the blow to your head might… cloud things. But we prayed—”
You laughed. Short and sharp.
“Prayed for what?” Water rippled as you hugged your knees to your chest, suddenly cold despite the heat of the water. “This isn’t amnesia. This isn’t a bump on the head. This is—”
You cut yourself off.
Because saying it out loud, I died in a toilet cubicle, and now I’m locked inside a fictional word, would make it all too real.
Miko reached out hesitantly, damp sleeve brushing your shoulder. “My lady… Y/N… whoever you believe yourself to be… the lord has summoned you. He does not wait long. And he does not tolerate… confusion.”
You stared at the rippling water, reflection fractured, distorted, not quite yours, but yours all the same. Your features and hers overlapping, distorting and mixing.
Their hands returned without mercy. The scrubbing resumed, but this time it was joined by silence.
You slumped against the tub’s edge, defeated, mumbling half-hearted threats until even your words ran out of steam.
…
By the time they finished dressing you, you felt like a Russian nesting doll.
Layers upon layers, silk under-robes, padded kosode, stiff obi cinched so tight your ribs creaked in protest, fabric upon fabric cascading in heavy waves.
Your hair was hair piled high with combs and pins that clinked like tiny bells every time you breathed, and makeup was daubed on in precise strokes. By the end, you were powdered and coiffured to within an inch of your life.
“Am I going to battle?” you asked, voice thin from the effort of speaking beneath the constricting garb. You glanced around at the women fluttering around you like anxious hummingbirds, tying, draping, tucking, and gathering manically. “Because I’m wearing enough fabric to stop a bullet, or a small cannon.”
“A… bullet?” Miko asked from where she was orchestrating everything across the room, head tilted, brows knit in confusion.
You waved a limp hand, too tired to explain modern ballistics to a woman who'd probably accuse you of witchcraft.
“I can barely move” you whined, attempting to lower yourself off the low podium they’d stood you on like a mannequin. Your arms couldn’t even lie flat against your sides anymore, elbows stuck out at awkward angles. Every inhale came in quick, shallow gasps. Breathing privileges had been temporarily revoked it seemed. “Look at me! I’m a walking tent!”
The women exchanged glances, no one laughed, but no one disagreed. They just kept smoothing nonexistent wrinkles, as though perfect presentation could fix whatever madness had taken root in their lady’s skull.
“Is this some sort of foreplay?” you asked as they finally led you, more waddling than walking, down yet another endless corridor. Your sandals clacked against the wood, the only thing to break the suffocating silence. “Does undoing sixty-two layers make his tackle rise to the bait?” You pitched your voice into an exaggerated, sultry drawl. “Because if so, he better get ready, I'm wearing sixty-three.”
No giggles or humoured gossip, no scandalised gasps, they simply marched you forward like pallbearers escorting the condemned.
The next thought hit you sideways. You were about to be handled by the King of Curses himself. The same Sukuna Ryomen you’d spent countless late nights reading about, fantasising about. A lascivious little chuckle slipped out before you could stop it.
Miko’s head snapped toward you so fast a hairpin nearly flew free. Her eyes narrowed, like she could see the filthy slideshow playing out behind your pupils.
A final door slid open.
Smoke hit you first, heavy, heady, laced with incense and something darker, turning it into an almost carnal scent. The room beyond looked nothing like the rest of the estate. No muted greens, no bleached wood, no restraint.
Everything here drowned in rich crimson, molten gold, and shades of the deepest black. Plush furs spilled across the floor. Thick futons and mats layered out across the floor. Pillows of down and silk piled in decadent drifts. Draperies hung from floor to ceiling in languid waves, turning the space into a sea of luxury so opulent it felt obscene.
You took one eager step forward.
Miko hissed like an offended cat.
You froze and turned to her slowly, cumbersome, metal pins clinking in protest, and followed her horrified downward stare.
“Take off your shoes” she whispered through barely moving lips, her back bent at a perfect ninety degrees.
You blinked, glancing down in disbelief at the wooden sandals they’d only just wrestled onto your feet, before slowly, carefully, sliding them off.
Your socked feet met cool wood as you stepped inside.
Without another word the door slid shut behind you with a decisive click, locking you in there.
You spun, robes tangling, accessories jangling, and pressed both palms to the wood. You pushed, but it didn’t budge, not even an inch. Nothing. You slapped the panel harder, shaking it viciously “Hey! Let me out! This isn’t funny anymore!”
“It seems you have a thing for escaping.”
His voice rolled over you like hot honey.
You screamed, short, startled, and spun again, back slamming against the door. Your heart tried to punch a hole through your ribs.
Sukuna stood in the center of the room like he’d grown there. Four arms crossed casually over his bare chest. Four eyes fixed on you, two narrowed in amusement, two lower ones glinting with a darker interest. The abdominal mouth parted in a slow, mocking grin.
“Afraid?” he hummed, head tilted just so.
You waved a frantic hand. “Would it matter if it was? Don't answer that, just—” You gestured at the mountain of fabric currently imprisoning you, the obi winning the war on your lungs. “Come on then, you kinky bastard, unwrap me. Seriously. This is too much. You need a hobby.”
“Kinky?” he echoed. One brow arched slowly. “Bastard?”
“Dude.” You groaned, head throbbing from the weight of combs and pins. “Are you going to repeat everything I say, or are you going to come over here and do something about the two tons of fabric I’m currently suffocating in?”
He didn’t move at first, just watched you, gazing at you like you were a lab specimen.
Then, he took one deliberate step forward, the floorboards protesting under the pressure. The air was suddenly saturated with the scent of him, smelling faintly of blood and something spicy.
He stopped close enough that heat rolled off his skin in waves. One clawed hand lifted, hovering near the knot at your waist, not touching, not yet. The anticipation was anticipating.
The abdominal mouth licked its lips like it was savouring the taste of you before the rest of him even decided what to do with you.
“I won’t be touching you.”
“Alright—wait, huh?” You blinked once, the room’s heavy incense suddenly clogging your throat, and your thoughts. “Back to the fun little pastime of saying the exact opposite of what I expected. Absolute Classic.”
A door to his left slid open with a soft hiss, and Uraume stepped through.
They looked… wrong. Softer than the sharp, androgynous menace you’d built in your head from manga panels and fan-art. Younger, almost delicate looking, porcelain skin, pale hair straight and neat, eyes cool and distant like frost on glass.
Innocent, if innocence could coexist with the casual knowledge that this person’s favourite hobby was flash-freezing human limbs for later snacking.
They inclined their head once to Sukuna, the perfect bow, zero flourish, then turned that indifferent gaze on you.
“Okay, no.” You thrust a finger toward them both. “We are not doing dick by proxy! I draw the line at outsourcing!”
Sukuna let out a long, bone-deep sigh. One thick hand raked through pink strands, mussing them just enough to look almost human for a moment. “I’m absolutely certain they’ve sent me a madwoman.” His voice was tired. “Take care of her.”
“Hey...what the hell is going on?” you spluttered. The filter between brain and mouth had officially dissolved in the steam bath earlier. “What was I dressed and scrubbed like a sacrificial lamb for if not—”
“I meet all of the new concubines” he cut in, already turning away. Vermillion eyes flicked toward some distant point beyond the crimson drapes, distracted, almost bored. “Make a show of accepting them into my household, but that is all.” He paused, then said quieter, almost to himself. “I will not partake in debauchery.”
Your mouth flopped open, disbelief dizzyingly hot behind the eyes. You clutched your forehead with one hand, stumbling half a step while the layers of silk tried to constrict around your lungs. “Oh. Wait. Oh—”
You were convinced that the fic you’d been devouring on that cursed toilet break was pure, unfiltered smut. Explicit tags, 18+ warnings, the whole nine-yards. Sukuna railing someone into next week. So what the actual fuck was this 'I will not partake in debauchery' nonsense? The whole fic had been debauched!
Before you could form the question, before you could even wheeze it out, he swept from the room, robes snapping behind him like a flags in a storm. The door slid shut with the same calm finality as a guillotine.
You stared at the empty space he’d occupied.
“I don’t get it" you muttered, voice strangled. “Why have concubines if you’re not going to fu—”
“Lord Sukuna is a unique individual” Uraume began, voice flat, perfectly monotone. Their eyes slipped shut as though entering some private meditative trance as they continued. “Unparalleled in power. Focus, pride and control. He has cultivated—”
You tuned them out, slumping against the wall. thoughts racing in a frantic, feral spiral.
There was no way, no damn way you’d been isekai’d into a janky smut fic just to end up in blue-balled celibacy hell.
One expertly trimmed and filed nail tapped against your chin as you tried to think.
“I’m gonna have to stop you there, my dude” you announced, hauling yourself upright. The motion looked pathetic, like a baby deer trying to stand in six-inch stilettos. “I’m gonna need to break that… ultimate focus… pride… whatever-the-fuck wall you just said.”
Uraume’s eyes opened again, their head tilted just a fraction.
“My lady...” they said, and there was actual smugness bleeding through the monotone now. “He has never touched a single one of them.”
Your brain short-circuited just a little.
“What are you, the chastity belt protector?” you grumbled under your breath, looking away like a petulant child. Uraume’s frown deepened, they took one precise step closer. “Are you really telling me that dude is a virgin?”
There was no answer, just that cool, unblinking stare, like the truth was so obvious it didn’t require words.
Your mouth popped open on a gasp like a starving guppy, sucking air and disbelief in equal measure.
Uraume watched in quiet delight as your face cycled rapidly through each emotion in turn, from horror to confusion, finally landing on desperate reasoning.
Then with a soft, almost pitying look they added. “He considers physical indulgence beneath him. A distraction… a weakness.”
…
The words had lodged themselves in your brain. They replayed on torturous loop while servants led you, still waddling in your silk prison, to a shaded garden pavilion for what they called 'the ladies’ midday gathering.'
You’d expected scheming, backstabbing, maybe some light tea poisoning. Instead, you got embroidery and flower arrangements.
Now you sat among them, jaw still hanging open like a broken hinge, mind obsessively replaying those words like it refused to settle on the truth of it.
The other concubines chattered around you in soft, chipper voices. They were gorgeous, every single one of them. With flawless skin, luminous hair coiled in elaborate knots, their lips painted crimson or plum.
Even swathed in unflattering yards of layered silk just like yourself, they radiated sex on legs. Some of them you’d have climbed like a tree on the right kind of Tuesday back home.
Their conversation droned on, something about the tensile strength of gold-thread versus silver, until you couldn’t take it anymore.
“So… he’s never…” You cut straight through the thread talk like a pair of fabric shears. “Lord Sukuna’s never… gotten down with any of you?”
The silence was profound.
Their heads turned, eyes widened, several fans even froze mid-flutter.
One woman, a stunning flaming redhead with cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass, cleared her throat. She seemed to have appointed herself spokesperson.
“What is it you mean, Lady Y/L/N?” she asked carefully, as though you might be speaking in tongues.
“Horizontal tango?” you supplied helpfully.
Blank stares all around.
“Hiding the sausage?” You suggested slowly, arching a brow.
They exchanged all glances now, slow and mildly startled.
“Going to pound town?”
The redhead cleared her throat again, a habit of hers apparently. “Most of us… keep our distance.”
“Why?” You leaned forward as much as your bindings allowed, which wasn’t much.
“He’s... terrifying” the mousy girl at the end blurted. Youngest of the group, barely out of teenager territory, eyes huge and darting like she expected lightning to strike her dead for the admission. She clapped a hand over her mouth immediately after, glancing around as though the garden itself might tattle.
“What in the fat hell are you talking about?” You narrowed your eyes, genuinely baffled. Were you even living in the same reality? Did you posses the same eyes? “Because that is a full-blown beef cake—”
“He’s so large” another woman interjected. She trembled as she said it, sleeves quivering. Her gaze flicked toward the distant estate roofs like Sukuna might materialise from thin air just to punish them.
“Yeah, like a tree. All the better to climb” you mused, mostly to yourself. A slow, wicked grin tugged at your lips as the imagery of coiling yourself around him like a serpent played out in your head.
“And his eyes” someone else whispered. “They’re red.”
“Sexy, aren’t they?” You smirked wider. Heat curled low in your belly just remembering the way those four crimson slits had dragged over you in the corridor, so full of derision it made you quiver. “Come on. Be honest. Not one of you has ever looked at that man and thought, ‘Yeah, I’d risk dismemberment for that’?”
The only answer was more silence. A few cheeks pinked beneath their powder, and one girl hid behind her fan entirely.
The redhead sighed, long and resigned. “He does not… indulge. Not with us. Not with anyone. To even suggest it is—”
“—a death wish?” you finished for her, that sinking feeling in your stomach more pervasive now. “Yeah, caught that vibe” You said dryly.
The mousy girl made a tiny, strangled noise.
You leaned back on your palms, staring up at the billowing leaves above you “Look. I get it. Four arms, four eyes, a mouth on his stomach that’s probably a little...nippy. But terrifying?” You snorted. “Nah, I don't understand that.”
There was a ripple of gasps, the redhead stared at you like you’d grown a second head. “You speak as though… you are not afraid."
“I’m not.” You shrugged, or tried to, the layers fought you for the right. “I’m intrigued, big difference, buddy”.
Another concubine, a quiet beauty with inky-black hair that fell down her back in loose waves finally spoke, voice barely above a whisper. “The last one who… expressed interest… disappeared. We never saw her again.”
You paused, the garden suddenly colder despite the sun filtering through the trees.
Then you laughed, a low, delighted, completely unhinged sound, then you shrugged.
“Good” you said, eyes glinting . “More man mountain for me then.”
Reincarnated as a Doomed Villainess, I Must Marry the Duke of the North to Escape My Execution!!
A modern girl wakes up as a villainess in a manhwa and quickly learns her fiancé—the Crown Prince—is destined to kill her, so in pure panic and survival logic she does the only thing she can think of: rewrites her fate by aiming for the one man even scarier than him—the Duke of the North.
Warning: Contains stronglanguage, suggestive humor, and mature themes.
Part 1
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
“Duke of the North—Sir Gojo, or whatever your title is! Please, marry me. I don’t have much to offer except my family name and my body—”
Y/n’s POV
“Wh—what?! Wedding?! Me—?!”
My voice came out louder than I meant to, slightly hoarse like I’d just woken up mid-argument.
I pushed myself up too quickly, my head spinning for a second.
Okay… pause.
Think.
What happened last night?
I blinked, trying to piece it together.
I didn’t drink. I’m pretty sure I didn’t. And even if I did, there’s no way I ended up… here.
My hands pressed into the sheets beneath me. Soft. Way too soft.
Slowly, I looked around.
This wasn’t my room.
Not even close.
Everything looked expensive. Clean. Put together in a way that didn’t feel real—like something straight out of a historical drama.
“…What the hell,” I muttered.
“My lady?”
I froze.
A woman stood nearby, dressed like a maid. Not “cosplay maid.” Not “theme café maid.”
An actual maid.
“My lady, are you feeling unwell? Should I call for a physician?”
“I—I think I’m fine,” I said, slower this time.
My eyes moved around the room again.
Why does this feel familiar?
Not like I’ve been here before.
More like—
“I’ve seen this somewhere…”
“My lady?” she asked again.
I frowned, pressing my fingers lightly against my temple.
“I feel like I’ve seen this room before.”
She hesitated, then said carefully,
“…My lady, this is your bedroom.”
My stomach dropped.
“My… room?”
That didn’t sound right.
At all.
My gaze shifted to the vanity beside the bed.
There was a mirror.
Of course there was.
“…No way,” I whispered.
I reached for it anyway.
The moment I lifted it—
I stopped breathing.
…
That wasn’t my face.
Clear skin. Different features. Hair styled too neatly.
And the eyes—
I knew those eyes.
I’d seen them before.
“No… wait…”
My grip tightened slightly.
“Isn’t this that bitch from that manhwa—”
I cut myself off.
Because it clicked.
The room.
The clothes.
The maid calling me “my lady.”
“…You’re kidding.”
A quiet laugh slipped out, but it didn’t sound amused.
More like disbelief.
“I got… transmigrated?”
Silence.
“Into a manhwa?”
My eyes stayed locked on the reflection.
“…As the villainess?”
And just like that—
I remembered.
The engagement.
The Crown Prince.
The ending.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Two days.
Two whole days in this absurd life, and I had done absolutely nothing except sit in this room and spiral.
I hadn’t stepped out. Not for meals, not for fresh air—nothing.
Thankfully, this body came with privileges.
As the favored second daughter of House Valemont, locking myself away wasn’t questioned. No chores, no responsibilities. Just silence.
Which would’ve been perfect…
If not for one thing.
The wedding.
“…This is insane,” I muttered, dragging my hands down my face.
A knock came before I could continue panicking.
“Enter,” I said quickly, forcing my voice steady.
The door opened, and she walked in.
My—so-called—mother.
Elegant. Composed. The kind of woman who didn’t need to raise her voice to be intimidating.
“My dear daughter,” she began, her gaze sweeping over me, “you’ve let yourself go. You must tidy your appearance.”
Right.
I glanced down at myself—half-slouched on the couch, the corset digging into my ribs, the dress wrinkled from how long I’d been sitting like this.
“…Yes, Mother,” I replied, straightening slightly.
Her eyes narrowed just a fraction.
“Posture,” she added calmly. “A lady of this house does not slouch.”
I immediately fixed it.
God, even sitting properly feels like a full-time job.
She took a seat across from me, lifting her teacup with effortless grace.
“Still,” she continued, studying my figure, “I commend you. Your discipline with your diet has shown results.”
Ah.
Right.
The “diet.”
More like I’ve been too stressed to eat without feeling like I’ll throw up.
“…Thank you, Mother,” I said, offering a polite smile that felt a little too tight.
“I appreciate your concern. Though, I wouldn’t wish to take too much of your time—”
“You cannot dismiss me so easily,” she cut in smoothly.
Of course I can’t.
Her gaze settled on me, sharper now.
“We are here to discuss your wedding.”
…There it is.
My fingers curled slightly against my lap.
“Your long-awaited union,” she continued, as if this were a pleasant topic, “one you have insisted upon since childhood.”
Yeah.
Not me, though.
Wrong girl.
“I have arranged for you to meet His Highness, the Crown Prince, tomorrow.”
“…What!?”
The word slipped out before I could stop it.
My hands hit the table with a soft thud.
Silence.
My mother slowly raised a brow, taking a delicate sip of her tea.
Right.
Fix it.
“…Forgive me,” I said quickly, forcing a small laugh. “I was merely… surprised. And—excited.”
Excited to die, maybe.
Inside, my thoughts were anything but calm.
No, no, no—this is bad.
I can’t meet him.
Not now. Not ever.
That man—
He didn’t just dislike the villainess.
He hated her.
In the story, he had already tried to get rid of her more than once before the wedding even happened.
And tomorrow?
That’s basically me walking straight into his line of sight.
“…Mother,” I started carefully, keeping my tone soft, “might it be possible to… reschedule the meeting?”
Her teacup paused midair.
Then, slowly, she set it down.
“…Reschedule?” she repeated.
The temperature in the room dropped.
“That is a most unreasonable request, Y/N.”
I swallowed.
“The Crown Prince’s time is not something to be adjusted on a whim. You, of all people, should understand the importance of this engagement.”
I do.
That’s why I’m trying not to die from it.
“You must present yourself properly,” she continued, rising from her seat. “Do not forget—you carry the name of House Valemont. You will not embarrass us before His Highness.”
She turned toward the door.
Panic spiked in my chest.
“Mother—wait—”
She paused, but didn’t turn.
“You will attend tomorrow,” she said firmly.
And just like that—
The conversation was over.
The door closed behind her with a soft click.
Silence filled the room again.
I stared at the empty space for a long moment.
Then—
“…I’m actually screwed.”
I let myself fall back against the couch, staring up at the ceiling.
“Meeting him tomorrow?”
A humorless laugh slipped out.
“Great. Amazing. Fantastic.”
My hands covered my face.
“I just got here and I’m already about to die.”
A pause.
Then, slowly, I lowered my hands, eyes narrowing with a hint of something sharper.
“…Unless I don’t follow the script.”
Because if there’s one thing I remembered clearly—
It was this:
I don’t have to marry the Crown Prince.
There’s another option.
Someone the original villainess never dared approach.
The man everyone avoided.
The one place even the Crown Prince couldn’t easily touch.
“…The North,” I murmured.
And more specifically—
“The Duke of the North.”
A slow breath.
“…Yeah.”
A small, determined smile formed despite everything.
“If I’m going to survive…”
“I’m marrying him instead.”
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
“Lyria.”
I leaned in slightly, lowering my voice like I was sharing state secrets.
“I’ll be sneaking out later. You will help me—and keep this absolutely between us. Or I’ll… I don’t know, slap you or something.”
There was a beat of silence.
I nodded to myself, satisfied.
Yes. Very threatening. Very noble. Very convincing.
I straightened up again, hands folded neatly in my lap like I hadn’t just issued emotional blackmail.
The maid—Lyria—blinked at me.
“…Yes, my lady.”
Good.
I cleared my throat.
I’ve decided something important… since I already have a bad reputation. I might as well use the built-in privileges.
Lyria hesitated.
“…Shall I escort you, my lady?”
“No need.”
I waved her off casually.
“Instead, prepare a carriage. I need to meet the Duke of the North.”
That did it.
A loud gasp escaped her.
“My lady?! Surely you are not intending to meet that Duke?!”
Her face went pale like I’d just said I was going to wrestle a dragon barefoot.
I raised a brow.
“…I intend to! you’re dismissed!” can’t let her know much
She looked genuinely alarmed now.
“I will… I will prepare the carriage immediately!”
Ah.
So that’s the reputation he has here.
Perfect.
I smirked slightly as she rushed out of the room.
Alone again, I leaned back in my chair.
Okay.
Time to work with what I’ve got.
As someone who had read way too many manhwa at 2 a.m. instead of sleeping like a normal person, I remembered bits and pieces about him.
The Duke of the North.
Cold, untouchable, terrifying in battle—
…and apparently weirdly weak for sweets.
That was it.
That was the whole detail.
But honestly?
That was enough.
I stood up and looked down at the small box on the table.
Homemade mochi.
Not exactly something from this world, but close enough to pass as “foreign delicacy” if I played it right.
“…Alright,” I muttered to myself.
“If I’m going to gamble my entire survival on a man I’ve never met…”
A pause.
“…At least let it be with dessert.”
I picked up the box, adjusting my expression into something confidently unreadable.
Then I walked out.
“Duke of the North,” I said under my breath, stepping toward the carriage waiting outside.
“Please don’t be allergic to mochi.”
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Walking through a public market without attendants was something the second daughter of House Valemont had never done before. And yet, here I was—cloaked plainly, carrying my own belongings, surrounded by strangers who did not bow, greet, or whisper my name. It felt strangely peaceful.
House Valemont. One of the empire’s most influential noble families. A family famous for power—and for raising its greatest embarrassment.
Me.
In the original story, Lady Y/N Valemont was remembered for only one thing: her obsession with the Crown Prince. Since childhood, she had cried, pleaded, and clung to her parents’ robes, begging to be promised to him. The engagement had eventually been secured through political pressure rather than affection.
The result?
A prince who despised her.
A prince who loved another woman.
And a future where the “villainess fiancée” conveniently died before the wedding.
Poison. Assassins. A falling chandelier. The novel had been very creative.
I touched my neck unconsciously as I walked. I would prefer not to die repeatedly.
The moment my memories returned, I understood my only path to survival: cancel the obsession, avoid the Crown Prince, disappear somewhere he would never bother to look.
Which left only one option.
The Duke of the North.
Untouchable. Isolated. A man even the royal family avoided. If I married him, the Crown Prince would finally lose interest in eliminating me. A political marriage was infinitely preferable to assassination attempts.
I tightened my hold on the wooden box in my arms. Inside lay carefully prepared mochi. In the novel, there had been one insignificant line—the northern duke possessed an unexpected fondness for sweets. It was barely mentioned, but I intended to stake my life on it.
I turned a corner, focused on rehearsing polite greetings—and collided directly with someone.
“Ah—!”
The impact sent me stumbling. The box slipped from my hands. The lid flew open. Mochi scattered across the ground.
My heart stopped.
“No…!”
I dropped instantly, gathering them in alarm. Dust clung to the soft rice cakes. One flattened entirely beneath a passing boot. My shoulders slumped.
“…How am I supposed to bribe the Duke now…” I muttered helplessly.
Silence followed.
Slowly, painfully, I realized I was not alone.
I looked up.
A tall man stood before me, wrapped in a dark cloak. His posture was relaxed, almost leisurely, as though watching an amusing play.
Oh no.
He definitely heard that.
I cleared my throat and resumed collecting the sweets with dignity. Five-second rule, I reassured myself internally. Surely northern nobles value determination.
I brushed one piece carefully against my sleeve and placed it back into the box. Another followed. Waste was unacceptable.
Without hesitation, I ate one of the slightly dusty pieces.
The man spoke.
“You intend to bribe the Duke of the North?”
I nearly inhaled the mochi whole.
“I said no such thing.”
“You spoke quite clearly.”
His tone was calm. Curious. Infuriatingly composed.
I stood, lifting my chin. “A lady is allowed private thoughts.”
“You voiced them.”
“That was… intentional.”
It was not.
His gaze lingered on me, faint amusement hidden beneath his hood.
“A distracted lady walked into me,” he added mildly.
My eye twitched. “You cannot even apologize?”
“I believe we share responsibility.”
Unbelievable.
I gestured at the ruined sweets. “These were handmade.”
“You continue eating them.”
“I refuse to waste.”
I placed another into my mouth with resolve. He watched in silence.
“…You are a noblewoman,” he said slowly.
“Yes.”
“And this does not trouble you?”
“I have survived worse humiliations.”
Such as begging the Crown Prince for affection in front of half the imperial court. Compared to that, dusty mochi was nothing.
A quiet laugh escaped him—low and warm. It startled me. I straightened immediately, remembering my role. Elegant posture. Calm expression. I was still Lady Valemont, even while eating fallen desserts.
“I must continue north,” I said. “Please step aside.”
And there I go to my journey to live.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
The audience chamber of the northern estate was colder than I expected. Not unpleasant. Just… severe.
Tall windows allowed pale northern light to spill across polished floors, illuminating banners marked with a crest I had only ever seen described in the novel. Every step I took echoed faintly, reminding me that I had walked willingly into the territory of the most untouchable man in the empire.
And now—I sat across from him.
The Duke of the North.
White hair fell loosely around his face, catching the light like frost. His eyes—clear, piercing blue—rested on me with unsettling focus. Broad shoulders filled the dark uniform he wore, posture relaxed yet impossibly commanding.
He was beautiful. Unfairly so. And far more terrifying up close.
A man capable of surviving political isolation does not become gentle, I reminded myself.
Still… he was beautiful.
Which only made this harder.
A table separated us, the wooden box of mochi resting carefully between my hands like a shield.
“So,” he said at last, voice smooth and calm, “what brings you here unannounced, my lady?”
His gaze moved slowly over me. Assessing. Measuring.
Was he… inspecting me?
He is definitely inspecting me.
I resisted the urge to adjust my sleeves.
Perhaps I should have worn something more revealing.
I straightened my back.
“Y-Your Grace,” I began, then corrected myself quickly, “Duke… I am Y/N Valemont.”
One pale brow lifted.
“Well, of course you are,” he replied, lips curving faintly. “You are quite infamous.”
Ah. Yes. The reputation.
The obsessive fiancée. The jealous noblewoman. The empire’s most embarrassing villainess.
I forced a composed smile.
He was smirking. He was absolutely enjoying this.
He’s cocky, I realized. Dangerously cocky.
Good. I could work with arrogance.
“I have come,” I said carefully, “to present a business proposal.”
He leaned back slightly, surprise flickering across his expression.
“A business proposal?” he repeated, clearly amused. “From Lady Valemont?”
His gaze sharpened. Then his smile turned knowingly wicked.
“My lady… are you asking for assistance regarding the Crown Prince? Are you not still engaged?”
I exhaled slowly.
Of course that was what he assumed.
Everyone believed my world revolved around the prince.
“You misunderstand,” I said quietly. “It is quite the opposite.”
Before he could respond, I slid the wooden box toward him and opened it.
The mochi rested neatly inside—carefully chosen, carefully preserved.
“My request can wait,” I added. “Please taste this first.”
He looked down at the sweets. Then back at me.
Suspicion flickered openly now.
“You traveled to the North… carrying desserts?”
“Yes.”
“…For me?”
“Yes.”
A small pause followed.
Then, slowly, he picked one up.
I clasped my hands together beneath the table, praying silently to every possible deity.
Please like sweets. Please let the novel be accurate.
He took a bite.
And the change was immediate.
The faint severity in his expression softened. His eyes widened just slightly, surprise replacing caution.
Hope sparked in my chest.
I might live.
He finished the piece without realizing how quickly he had eaten it.
“M-my lady,” he said, almost thoughtfully, “what is this delicacy?”
Relief nearly made me laugh.
“It is called mochi,” I replied, allowing myself a small smile. “I can prepare many varieties. Sweeter ones. Softer ones. Even better than this.”
His gaze returned to me, interest unmistakable now.
“…I see.”
Good. Very good.
I folded my hands together, gathering what remained of my courage.
“However,” I continued, allowing confidence to slip into my voice, “there is a condition. Surely Your Grace understands—nothing offered by a lady such as myself is free.”
A slow smile appeared on his face.
“Speak.”
His tone carried amusement… and curiosity.
I inhaled.
This was it.
“As the second daughter of House Valemont, my proposal benefits us both,” I began carefully. “You gain political connection to a powerful central family. Increased influence at court. And… a wife who will not interfere with your actions.”
He watched me closely now. Not amused anymore. Interested. Measuring every word.
My heart pounded.
Then I stood abruptly, bowing deeply before I could lose courage.
“Duke of the North—Sir Gojo… whatever title you prefer,” I said quickly, words rushing despite my effort at elegance, “please marry me!”
Silence filled the chamber.
I continued before fear could stop me.
“I do not seek affection. I will not demand attention. I offer only my family name, my loyalty, and—”
I hesitated.
Then forced the words out.
“bod—myself, as political value.”
The room felt unbearably quiet.
When I finally dared to look up—
He was staring at me.
Not menacing. Not amused.
Something far more dangerous.
Intrigued.
Slowly, the Duke leaned forward, resting his chin against his hand.
A smile spread across his lips.
“So,” he murmured, voice low with unmistakable delight, “the empire’s infamous villainess travels across half the continent…”
His blue eyes locked onto mine.
“To propose to me instead the Duke. While being engaged to the crown prince”
Synopsis. “Here ye, here ye—a royal wedding is upon the horizon!
The uniting of two kingdoms long held in fierce battle: hybrids and humans. At the first light of sunset His Majesty, King Gojo Satoru, the sole snow leopard hybrid in all the lands, shall wed Her Royal Highness, the princess: you.
For one moon the princess shall have to succeed - or survive - in marital bliss with the King, in order to commence peace negotiations between the two kingdoms.
But remember, dear princess, no matter how gentlemanly a hybrid may seem…they still remain hybrids. They possess powers. They undergo ruts.
And humans aren’t built to handle them.”
Pairing. Gojo Satoru x Reader
Content. MDNI, fem!princess!reader, snow leopard hybrid!Gojo, hybrids AU, royalty AU, he’s the cruel king of the North, King!Gojo, pIot, worldbuilding, humans vs. hybrids, poIiticaI marriages, arranged marriages, for the good of the people, reader is lowk a BAMF, YEARNING Gojo, paintings, palaces, setting descriptions, RÚTS, pheromones, hybrid tendencies, he goes FÉRAL, first times (both), sIight bIood, oraI (fem rec.), pússydrúnk Gojo, fíngering, spítting, hoIding you down with his tail, stopping you from running, p talking, rings, manhandIing, matíng presses, bréeding, making him BREAK, making it fit, cervíx smoochin, dúmbificatíon, p worship, HEAVY overstím, Gojo’s powers, creampíes, cúmpIay, KNOTS, implied marathons, fated mates, confessions, HAPPY ENDING, pet names swéaring.
Word count. 17.4k
A/N. PHEWWWWW y’all knew I just had to-
White dress.
Rouge.
Soaps and scents from all over the world.
Milk bath. The concoction of pale liquid stretches around you like a neverending sea; in a bath tub just as vast, with flower petals locked in a constant state of battle against the torrential waves of your attendants scrubbing you down to the very bone.
Above the seething splashes, your mother’s droll tone emanates—veering into her fourth hour of pacing the royal bathing chambers now.
“—such an unseemly arrangement- but of course, we ought not to have expected anything more from a hybrid.” Her lip curls in distaste, “The Ton might even consider it scandal- and yet, I fear we have no choice in the matter. Not with him.”
“Yes, mother.”
“Not even the kingdom’s best advisors could negotiate his terms, my dear.”
“Yes, mother.”
“This is the only resolution remaining for the kingdom.”
“Yes.” For who was to go against the Queen?
In just an hour’s time, you’ll be married to King Gojo Satoru.
Gojo Satoru.
The infamous ruler of the Kingdom of Hybrids.
The shadow looming over your kingdom.
The last snow leopard hybrid alive.
There was a reason to that that made your heart clench—you’d felt the floor fall out of your history lesson the second it’d been taught to you. Legend said that your people had hunted down every last snow leopard hybrid after discovering that the opposing kingdom’s monarchs were of that family - every last one.
Except for one.
It was unsure how or when Gojo Satoru had escaped during the massive conflict, but your people had gotten their penance once he’d returned - stronger than ever - and declared battle.
But you didn’t want to think about that right now- not when all that led to were thoughts about just how the patriot might enact revenge for it upon you.
The Kingdom of Hybrids and the Kingdom of Humans have sat beside one another since the dawn of time, and so has the resentment between the two. It has always been ever-present and ever-growing. Your ancestors, and your ancestors’ ancestors. Like the overpass of frothy white clouds hovering through your blue, blue skies above—churning into dark storm clouds and blizzards once they reached the gloomy land of the neighboring kingdom.
The opposing kingdom always seemed colder, always seemed crueler.
And you were sure that the primary reason for that was the geographical difference between the two: your kingdom sat at the bottom of a mountain, where the valleys were fertile and nature flourished. Whereas the Kingdom of Hybrids was scattered in large, stone towers and huts across the enormous mountain range.
Only sharpening in weather and bite the further up the mountain one went. Its peak was completely obscured by clouds, and not even on the clearest day could you spot the spirals of where Gojo Satoru’s palace - aptly named the North Palace - was rumored to be.
Out of morbid curiosity, you did sneak a glance every day. Hell, you even fixed a lantern from your royal chambers—perhaps hoping that someday you might witness a lantern blinking back.
Though that was an experiment yet to bear results - you haven’t spotted even a single hybrid subject coming out of those hard stone homes. It was as if a ghost kingdom.
Even if the news from the front lines clearly stated otherwise.
The hybrids obscured themselves with snow and fog. Cloaked themselves in storms that sent trundling vibrations even to your palace. Residents of a perpetual winter that tore through their kingdom - even the stray gusts of air from the mountain made your subjects shiver, you couldn’t imagine what it was like to be borne and passed in such a state.
Borne and passed, because it was forbidden for subjects of either kingdom to cross into the other.
As all good neighbors must, your ancestors had raised a barrier separating the two lands for good; a thorny forest about seventy feet high and several towns’ length wide. It was made of thorned trunks about the size of boa constrictors. Plunging into the clouds with their barbed limbs as though to make the world pay for ripping apart the one body of the land into two parts.
Though if you made such a comparison in any of your tutoring classes, you knew you’d be punished forthright.
It wasn’t a surprise when the resentment had exploded in the coming years.
By the time you were in your teenage years, announced as next in line to the throne, Gojo Satoru had already taken the mantle as king. And that was when the conflict had started.
Hybrid warriors attacking the outskirts of your kingdom. Your own feverish subjects bloodthirsty to set fire to their sparse farms.
It’s been a long and cruel battle.
You could sit here and recount the history lessons that your palace tutors had drilled into you - all those sabotages of war plans, all those attempts to oust either throne. The time your locals had been attacked by a ravenous pack of wolf hybrids, and the time your subjects had cut through the barrier, and clamored up the mountains just to spear through some of the prey. Hybrids with a taste for humans, and humans that bled no warmth. Blood and gore. Blood and gore.
There never flourished a fruit sweet from blood and gore.
And the roots of the thorn barrier had been watered with such for ten years now. More from your own kingdom’s people than his.
Why had it even started? One could only guess.
You knew what the royal history tutors proclaimed - this was because of their hybrid powers, they’d been poisoning the wells and farmlands with their mystique, they’d been kidnapping humans for nourishment - but you also knew that those of the other side must proclaim something far different. Have conflicting stories ever settled on one answer? One truth?
Most definitely not. Battle only gave one answer, and the question was what numbers were lost.
Luckily for your kingdom, however, the end of the fighting was nigh.
It had happened last week—the letter.
Just a day after you’d been announced to take up the throne in the upcoming week. The next Queen.
The resurgence of the people.
On a day when the fighting was stalled, and it wasn’t looking pleasant for your side: a sole hawk hybrid flew between those winding thorns, scratches upon his wings from the long flight, a white handkerchief of surrender tied around his neck.
The arrow upon your kingdom’s front lines had raised the moment the flapping of wings became clear. Drew closer.
If not for the wave of surrender, you weren’t sure what would have happened - Gojo Satoru was not the type of ruler to stand for a single one of his subjects being harmed. Especially one so seemingly harmless. And your lines of soldiers had been pushed back in the last few months…they wouldn’t have stood a chance.
The soldiers had shuddered as the half-human, half-bird creature drew nearer—something mythical from their storybooks, their greatest nightmares.
You hadn’t been there alongside them that day, and Commander Masamichi Yaga was the one to take the first step towards him. A handkerchief of white held in his own hand.
The two had met in the middle, you’d heard, on your side of the nation.
There, the hook-nosed Commander - or so you’d heard from the whispers of the soldiers that had been there that day - had handed over the envelope. It was a snow-white parchment, cool to the touch; so starkly empty except for the slight heft in its weight, and the single, slanted line of blue cursive on its back.
To the future Queen.
A carriage had been called immediately to the royal palace.
Higuruma had flown off thereafter, and the Commander had set off down those high-ceiling, gold-capped corridors of the palace. At once.
You remember exactly where you’d been when you first saw the letter - in the circular meeting table with your royal advisors, poring over your nth war tactic that day. You’d just opened your mouth to suggest another treaty proposal between the two kingdoms - your strongest men and women and every warrior in-between couldn’t possibly last much longer against the formidable foe - when Yaga had barged in—his face solemn, his body bowed, his hand trembling where he held that unopened letter.
And at first, you’d assumed that something had gone horribly wrong - that your subjects had been harmed. But then you’d reached out and taken it.
The letter had no sender’s name, but it didn’t need one.
It was the first correspondence with King Gojo Satoru since he’d taken up the throne. Ever.
“To my dearest future Queen,
Though I suppose it shall be a falsehood to claim you as mine—that is not a privilege this lowly hybrid holds just yet. So I suppose you must forgive me; to the dearest future Queen.
I am aware of your kingdom’s valiant efforts against my own, and I commend you for maintaining such a fervent battle. I admit, no kingdom prior has managed to prolong one of my battles thus far—you’ve made me exercise battalions I never believed I would get the chance to, in this lifetime, and it has been quite thoroughly exciting to face my first challenge. You hold your fights well, my future Queen.
My apologies, it has happened again.
But you must be aware of what is undeniable - your kingdom is losing. Though not instantly, it is inevitable that, ultimately, your kingdom shall crumble before mine. Your humans are injured, and you falter in resources.
I know you know.
However, fret not. For it seems that across the duration of our snipes, I have grown to hold a strange affection for your kingdom, and most of all—you.
To the future Queen: if you wish for the war to come to a close, in a way that benefits both parties equally, I am extending this one olive branch.
Marry me.
Marry me. Marry me. Marry me.
You may hold the celebrations in any manner or place you wish, you may annul the marriage if you do so please. This lowly hybrid proposes that you may even take other lovers, shall it be your desire to do so; my only condition is that Your Majesty must reside in the North Palace alongside yours truly for one moon.
Yes, one moon with you is all I ask. After which you are free to return, to register the annulment, to even reside in the North Palace as long as you please.
Though, this lonely King shall do his best not to heighten his hopes.
On the moon after our union, my troops will pull back from the borders - we shall be at war no longer.
On the third moon after which this letter has been received, Commander Higuruma will be awaiting in front of the thorn barrier for your response. Do not attempt to herald an attack, for there is a reason that hawks are birds of prey.
I await your response impatiently, the my future Queen.
Yours truly,
Gojo Satoru.”
The letter had dropped from your hands once you finished reading it.
One moon.
One night.
One night with the cruel King Gojo Satoru.
And of course, there was no promise that you’d ever be coming back—for, who could trust a King like so?
There was nothing more to be said about Gojo Satoru.
Everyone had a story about him.
Everyone.
Perhaps from the odd disappearance of a family member that strayed too close to the barrier, or a childhood bedtime story that always featured him as the fearsome villain. Lately, you have been the hero, of course.
Though one knew not of what the hybrid looked like, nor his age, nor the full extent of his powers, nor any insight into his motivations - everyone knew one thing for certain: and that was to stay away.
Gojo was deemed to be a brutal king—the cruelest of them all. The most wicked. The one that appeared on battlefields as fleetingly as a snowflake upon your palm, and disappeared just as quick - so quick that one won’t even be able make out his features, his form - leaving behind a trail of carnage that piled up high enough to form their own kingdoms. In just a single second.
And the more he aged, the more his powers grew.
He was the reaper. And you were being asked to walk right into his claws.
What followed had been a fervent series of letters - penned by only the best of the best advisors, authors, and peace negotiators in your kingdom - that were rejected one by one. Your kingdom’s messengers disappeared into the barriers upon their surrender-white horses, holding bagloads of letters and pleas from your council, and arrived with the very same an hour later—somewhat disoriented.
According to them, they’d followed the route to the other kingdom to a T - and yet, somehow found themselves exiting back out through your side of the wall once more.
Gojo’s magic, you knew. Though unaware of its uses and intricacies, you understood that this was what you’re getting for not following his instructions—waiting for Higuruma.
And you also understood that if his prowess was this expansive, then what more could they possibly do to your kingdom…
And so - after three moons - you’d accompanied Commander Yaga and the troops to the area where they’d first encountered Higuruma. Sure as ice, the hook-nosed man was standing there proudly.
He bowed luxuriously at you, before clipping the response letter into his clutches—then he stretched the massive wingspan upon his back and took flight. Disappearing towards his own kingdom in but a few blinks.
And you could only watch as your response was carried away.
“To Gojo Satoru,
I accept your proposal. It is time we finish this war.
Regards,
The future Queen.”
The date was set. You were to be married.
And so you’ve found yourself being fussed over by the entire palace - and even the tailors, and cake-makers, and florists from outside. The people. The outraged and the delighted alike.
Everyone and anyone bursting the seams of the palace in an attempt to catch a glimpse of you on your wedding day. What an honorable date it was, wasn’t it?
On the day that should have been your coronation as Queen, you’re being fitted into your wedding outfit.
It was initially supposed to be your first gown as ruler.
A lavish few meters of white silk pampered, teased, and pressed into frills. Millions upon millions of miniature diamonds bedazzle the fabric in increasing saturation towards the bottom, making it look as though you were the beauty of nature itself; the soft sunlight across freshly-ladden snow, the hymn of tree branches against the winter wind, an ice shard itself. Sharp when you’re not looking.
The train of your wedding outfit had taken several attendants to fix onto your jewel-encrusted tiara, and it billowed out the length of several ballrooms.
It was equally as decorated with tiny fixtures of diamonds, heavy yet grounding - you’d specifically asked the tailor to add these on. If you’re going to bear yourself before the most wicked King, then you might as well make an impression.
You touch the silk gloves that covered you from fingertips to elbows - also something you’d requested. Just one night. You’d show that your kingdom wasn’t just the feeble humans he must think he was toying with- and afterwards all diamonds were ordered to be distributed amongst the people.
This was your choice to marry your opposing monarch. Everything was yours.
Though the bouquet of white roses must have been a choice of the palace. Must have…
Your mask of quiet acceptance fixed. Your appearance radiant. You’re staring at the person in the mirror that seemed so distant from yourself—was this the new Queen of the Hybrids?
Attendants and tailors fluttered around you like butterflies, harried that they weren’t able to suckle the honey out of you fast enough. They’re smoothing your fabrics down and fussing with your train, they’re making last-minute adjustments to the size and fitting-
“Careful.” Your mother warns from a distance, and her tone is enough to make the entire room jolt. She stares down one of the tailor’s apprentices, “Heaven forbid you prick her- goodness knows what he will have to say.”
“Pricked or unpricked, he shall have to deem fit what he sees.” You’re responding, head held high. “For I was not the one that insisted upon a marriage.”
“But you simply must understand that—”
Mercifully, your mother’s getting cut off by the shrieking of trumpets outside.
There were many a royal and noble guests invited to your wedding, and each entrance had been marked by the stirring of your orchestra and the announcement by the chief butler. But this…this was a sheer symphony of sound, shivers, and suspense that made you realize that this couldn’t have been anyone but—him.
There was a special melody for your husband-to-be, and your heart thundered along to its march as everyone inside the dressing room rushes to the window overlooking the sprawling courtyard. It was a massive stone masterpiece - the brilliance of human craft - a swooping row of colonnades with a glittering fountain in the middle. Areas sectioned off for the spectators, and marbled pathways from which guests came and went.
Your hands grip the smooth windowsill as you witness a coach of pure white approaching.
It was as unassuming as that of any other guest, only standing out for its sheer elegance.
Large spiralled wheels pulling along a well-built carriage, with a gleaming white hood and its curtains drawn. Larger than most. It seems that the Kingdom of Hybrids had a tendency to use horse hybrids as both coachmen and those tugging on the reigns, they threw their long heads proudly as they pulled on the royal carriage.
“Can you see him—can you see him?!” The attendants whisper to one another.
“I can’t see him yet- say, is it really true that he has the horns of the devil and wings like a bat?”
“Don’t be ridiculous, he’s a snow leopard hybrid. I’ve heard he turns into a leopard at whim.”
“My acquaintance’s acquaintance says he’s cursed with six eyes- yes, six.”
“I’ve heard he’s grotesque-”
They falter, and flicker their gaze towards you. You don’t react.
Your eyes follow its parade between crowds that hush as it passes. It leaves a cold breeze behind it that makes even the heartiest of those celebrating tremble, it leaves the flowing water of your royal fountain freezing. Ice.
You’re leaning even closer to the edge of the balcony, hoping to see but a-flutter of those curtains that might reveal something about the man who was surely inside-
“Ouch-” Startling at the sudden prick of something against your shoulder, you’re turning around to find that the young apprentice had leaned into you- holding her needle from before. The very tip of it had accidentally touched your skin, in her frenzy to see the King himself—and as her face drops in apology, you’re opening your mouth to tell her that it was perfectly alright when-
BANG—!
When a sharp gale causes the windows to slam shut.
Everyone in the dressing room jumps back a foot away from the offending part of the chamber, looking at each other as if to confirm whether they didn’t feel a single breeze prior. You certainly hadn’t, either.
That had just come out of nowhere…
Rattled, no one makes to open the window once more.
The trumpets blare yet again - this time with a slightly less rich tune signalling another guest from a far-off land - and some of the younger attendants merely stare at the closed window longingly—wishing to just see. But one look from the main attendant has them jumping back into action, pins and all.
They had a wedding to prepare you for.
And the groom was already here.
.
.
.
Music was pouring out of the gilded venue.
In a letter later sent by Commander Yaga - and allowed through the barrier by Gojo’s powers - you’d specified that you’d like the wedding to be held in this magnificent limestone building; older than the rest of the palace it was attached to, and just as revered. Gojo’s reply had been simple: I am already aware of this arrangement, my future Queen.
And you didn’t want to think of how he knew.
Low chandeliers. Sprawling rose pathways. Attendants zipped back and forth between extending your train and sneaking looks inside the royal cathedral.
“Do you see him- move-”
“Oh, heavens—is that him?” Your skin prickles in goosebumps.
“I thought he had…”
“I would never have expected him to be so…”
Traitorous to that expressionless facade you had on, your heart races as yet another attendant hastens to join the troupe peering inside the pews- and gasps. For, what could that mean? What could such a reaction be indicative of?
What did Gojo Satoru look like?
It’s not that you held physical looks upon a pedestal - you knew such frivolities were ephemeral, and you’d met far too many handsome nobles whose good looks did little to compensate for their manners or lack thereof. But it’s just…
You had an image of Gojo Satoru in your head.
Though legends often described him as a half-man, half-leopard with six eyes and bat-like wings that carried him over vast battle fields—you envisioned him as something slightly different. Perhaps a half-man, half-beast just as they said, with paws far larger than a normal snow leopard, and a fur-muzzled face that looked ready to eat you.
Something as mythical as they made him sound.
You’re shivering, and one of the attendants asks you whether you’re cold.
You’re shaking your head evenly, and they look up at each other and nod. You touch your gloves for comfort.
They throw the gauzy veil over your face and fully open the double doors to the cathedral. The music had uplifted: it was time for you to walk down the aisle.
Your steps were just as poised and perfect as your years of etiquette lessons had taught you - and to the naked eye, you might even look confident. There goes the Queen, our savior, our monarch, marrying off the monster from the Kingdom of Hybrids to protect her people.
But out of their view, you knew your hands shook where you clutched that white rose bouquet.
It really was cold inside the venue.
It seems like eons before you’re reaching the end of the altar, and before your royal officiant begins his speech. Due to your veil, your vision of Gojo was obscured - other than the pointed tips of polished white shoes. You could sense that he was tall—but just how tall (taller than a human could be?) was still a mystery to you.
As the officiant reaches the end of his speech, two pale hands come into your line of vision. Long with slender fingers, slightly blushed at the tips of his knuckles - Gojo’s hands, you realize with a jolt - were reaching out for something you had.
Your own hands, it catches up to you.
And, tentatively, you’re putting your left hand in his.
It flinches- for just a split-second because of its frigidness. Before you’re keenly aware of the restlessness of your ministers in the front row, and you’re placing it back into his grasp.
“Your Majesty, if you could now place the ring on Her Highness’s finger and repeat after me—” And there was no ring in Gojo Satoru’s hands- there was no ring. But the next time you’re blinking - as if it had just manifested out of thin air - he’s suddenly holding the most beautiful band of silver in his hands.
A delicate wreath of precious metal, fashioned into two ferns that enveloped your ring finger perfectly, settled with a teardrop alexandrite in the middle and two smaller white diamonds on either side. Gojo’s fingers were cold as they held yours and pushed the ring on. The officiant continues, “-with this ring as a symbol of love, of commitment, of unity, and of peace—”
And a soft, smooth tone follows- his.
Not quite the low, animalistic growl that you might have expected, nor the hissing sibilance of something shadowy - but something different entirely.
“With this ring as a symbol of my eternal love, of my commitment, of our unity, and of peace—”
It was the rich, noble tone of a royal. Gojo enunciated his words perfectly - and his deep voice echoed across every corner of the vast cathedral. Such a pretty voice and so- so human that it makes the hairs on your body raise.
The officiant continues with a light cough - if he were equally as surprised at the King’s voice, then he makes no indication. “I wed thee—”
“I wed thee—” And then Gojo says your name and it makes your heart almost stop. The way it rolled off of his tongue…it sounded like a prayer.
“-and pledge my love to you in this lifetime.”
“-and pledge my love to you in this lifetime, and in each one after.”
There’s a slight shifting on the numerous wooden pews as Gojo takes his freedom with the vows. And then a slim silver band is handed to you - it feels cold in your palm, impersonal, though not nearly as cold as your future husband’s fingers - and your hands tremble as you take them in yours. The officiant turns towards you and utters those same vows-
“With this ring as a symbol of love, of commitment, of unity, and of peace…” You’re repeating, sliding the ring onto his lengthy ring finger. Almost inhuman in nature. “—I wed thee, Your Royal Majesty, King Gojo Satoru-”
Your voice falters.
His hands grow a little tighter on yours.
“-and pledge my love to you in this lifetime…” And you’re unsure what makes you take it- you’re so unsure. But you can’t help but echo just what the snow leopard hybrid had stated earlier, “-and in each one after.”
A soft rush of exhales as both rings now glint upon your matching fingers.
United as one.
The officiant’s booming voice announces, “By the power vested in me, I now pronounce you…husband and wife.” In the distance a bell tolls, and it swells above the creaking of mahogany as the spectators lean in their chairs. “You may now kiss the bride.”
Gojo’s hands - now clad with a single wedding ring - lift up the safety of your veil. And you’re blinking at the sudden rush of light now—you’re blinking up at him.
And oh.
Your breath catches in your chest, heart a-stuttering. Pert lips. Dimpled cheeks. Young- he couldn’t have been more than a few years older than you. Eyes such a pale blue that they looked almost white. For the crisp white strands of his hair catch the sunlight filtering through the windows, setting his features a-glow and revealing to you the most beautiful man you’ve ever seen. Human.
He looked utterly human.
Gojo Satoru lowers his head towards yours but hesitates, his gaze searching for an answer in yours. And perhaps it was the shock of seeing the King of Hybrids for the first time - after so long looking out of your window for a glimpse of him - or perhaps it was the dizzying rush of warmth that’d suddenly run through your body but—but you’re leaning in first.
You’re the one kissing him, sealing your fate with the cruelest king of them all.
His lips were smooth and cool to the touch, tasting faintly sweet.
You feel Gojo smile into the union, before he’s pulling back and re-slotting his mouth more eagerly against your own.
Cheers erupt in the cathedral. And surely your advisors were shaking hands with one another, surely your mother was wiping off tears.
One of your hands rests against the silken material of Gojo’s suit, pressed up against his chest where his heart battered. Only slightly faster than your own racing one - even though it wasn’t an embrace too scandalous nor prolonged, a thrill rushed through your body that you couldn’t explain.
Gojo cups your left cheek softly, though there was a lack of pressure that let you know that you were free to pull back any time. And you had to pull back - you needed to.
If not for the fact that this was a man you’ve never met before, then for the fact that The Ton would have far too much to say after the wedding - the King’s condition of a single night only added to the scandal.
But you just….you just didn’t want to. Some strange part of you deep, deep down only wanted to sigh through your nose as you leaned even deeper into him.
Something deep, deep, deep—
Before a hoot of celebration from somewhere in your audience jolts you back into your senses.
And you’re pulling away from him as if it burned.
Burned.
Burned—your body felt as though you were burning up. Feverish.
It feels as though your veins were suddenly thrumming with an energy that wasn’t entirely yours, and the faster every single particle of you was vibrating - the hotter your body was feeling.
Warm tears welling up in your eyes. Mind never having felt clearer.
You’re panting once and it’s the most scorching breeze you’ve ever felt—“Fuck.” A ripple runs through your body as you realize you’ve just sworn without meaning to- and it seems to extend past you and into the body of Gojo himself.
Gojo.
Gojo. Gojo. Gojo.
Whose nostrils flare and his eyes grow sharper. Behind him, his fluffy tail of white with rosettes swings from side-to-side—tail? You hadn’t seen that before…And you’re stumbling closer as if to get a closer look, to which Gojo Satoru easily catches you in his arms.
His strong hand clasps at your waist, and you’re finding your body leaned shamefully into his chest.
Looking up into his pale, pale blue eyes - like the skies of an ever-present winter - you gulp. And then you tilt your neck slightly to the side, as though bearing it for him.
Gojo’s lips part, and you see sharp canines peaking between his pink lips.
The cathedral has gone quiet by now, any sense of humor and victory bled dry - as dry as he could bleed you, if ever his canines chose to make a target of your pretty neck. As though reading their urgent thoughts, the Hybrid King leans in—close enough that his cold pants cascade down your throat and your arched spine.
You gulp as his dampened teeth approach until they’re mere millimeters away.
In what feels like another far-off land, you’re hearing the cluttering of iron and armored knights approaching. The footsteps of your kingdom’s best troop, led by Commander Yaga, and their shouts for Gojo Satoru to cease as he himself plunges into this inexplicable daze. Flesh on flesh.
But you’re only closing your eyes in anticipation of his bite-
His bite that falters as Gojo flicks his snow leopard-like ears over to the storming knights- and he cracks a slight smile.
One arm on your waist, and the other gently grasping your nearly ring-clad hand, he swings the two of you around as though waltzing to a music you couldn’t hear. The orchestra had long stopped.
And then you’re both disappearing into thin air.
Leaving behind only the rose bouquet.
.
.
.
By the time you’re opening your eyes, you weren’t at the royal cathedral any longer, and it feels as though you never were.
And one look around the room you were in makes you think that you never will be again. Ever again.
The chamber opened up like the mouth of a beast, of which you were inside with no way out. Teeth-like artifacts and ridges of bookshelves swathed the circular room luxuriously; titles of both human and hybrid languages of which you knew only a few sparse words. This was clearly the room of someone well-read, and your eyes glazed over at the large mahogany desk scattered with pictures, diagrams, and maps.
Portraits. Balconies with more bookshelves. Stairs and spirals. And a few remnants of armor emblazoned with your kingdom’s insignia, the debris of a meal well-had. Like a massive uvula a chandelier hung from the high ceiling, and the longer you stared at it- the more it dawned upon you that it seemed to be made of some ever-lasting ice.
Its windows provided little light and even less location. Fogged with frosty clouds, they were merely windows into a beast that had no soul—a beast that only hungered with no thoughts. A chill runs down your spine.
In just a second, you knew where you were: you were in the North Palace. Presumably in one of King Gojo’s studies.
You’re feeling his cold presence next to you- and you’re pressing yourself against the stone wall instantly. And he follows. Putting a hand down your right glove and pulling out the dagger you’d hidden beneath—always had. Always will.
You raise the tip of its silver blade to kiss Gojo Satoru’s neck.
It trembles just a little as he swallows.
Gojo has you pushed against the wall - chest to chest, pant mingling with pant - and one of his arms rested on the space above your head. He looks down at you with steely blue eyes.
His snow leopard tail quivers for a little bit- before coming to wrap around your leg.
He almost tugs you to him and you’re gasping, pricking the dagger against his neck until a bead of crimson follows. “A step closer and I shall end this war right now-” You’re hissing.
And to your surprise, Gojo merely smiles. “You may believe that.” He lazily flickers his eyes down to the weapon you had clutched, and a slow frost starts overtaking everything from its handle to the blade. “But I am aware you won’t.”
“You know not a thing about me-”
“So you may think.” He reaches up and you almost flinch- in fact, every fibre of your rational being believes that you should flinch. But something else…something else entirely deeper and ancient keeps you in place, staring into Gojo’s eyes as he runs his fingers down your cheek. Letting the cold metal of his wedding ring kiss your skin, and you’re leaning into the touch - you wanted it so bad. But you didn’t know why. “But I believe I know you more than you might think, my Queen. In this life and others.”
You struggle to keep your breath even- why did you wish to lean into him once more? “You’re nonsensical. You’re crazy.”
“Perhaps so.” Gojo hums, his canines glinted in the dim lighting of the chandelier. “But this lowly hybrid only grows crazy for you.”
Your breath stutters. You’re breathing in his ice-cold scent.
Gojo raises his nose in the air as if smelling something - you do, too, but you’re unable to sense anything but the coldness of winter and pine. But whatever he smells in the air makes him smile something simpering, “You are free.”
You balk, “What?”
“You are free to roam wherever you wish.” He says, finally creating some distance between you two. “You are free to…” Something catches his attention- he reaches out. And for a second there, you think he’s about to steal your dagger—but what Gojo clasps onto is your glove. The King presses that precious fabric against his face and inhales your essence, “-do whatever you wish.”
Leaving you stunned, the hybrid turns his back to you and walks towards the arched door. Glove crushed between his fingers.
He makes it until the frame of the door - of which he fills out most of its vast shape - before looking over his shoulder at you. “Everything except leave, of course. For the night.”
As he walks away, he calls.
“My attendants shall see to it that you’re led to your room and given a tour around the palace, and they shall provide you robes to which you may change into. The bath is already drawn, and my kitchens have prepared refreshments.”
You feel yourself sliding down the stone wall.
“Dinner shall be served once night falls- do not be afraid to let the royal chefs know what nourishments please you.”
Ultimately ending up on the floor. Hand shaking on your dagger.
“Once morning comes, you may do anything you please.”
You’re wondering what it was you felt earlier as you bared your neck to him.
“You may even leave.”
It’s then that a troupe of attendants enter after Gojo’s exit, hybrids of all shapes and sizes and colors—human. For the most part. They were similar to Gojo in the sense that they possessed more human features than the stories of your kingdom foretold, with ears and tails pertaining to their hybrid type, and demeanours which gave away their status as hybrids even if they wore cloaks.
One such hybrid - a red panda with a scar across her beautiful face - introduces herself as Utahime, the head attendant. She looks down curiously at you.
Your panting breaths. Your widened gaze.
“Forgive my manners, Your Majesty, but I haven’t seen a human before.” She tilts her head down at you, red ears twitching. “Worry not…it’s a little startling the first time for us, too.”
“The first time?” You’re being helped to stand by her.
“The first time.” Utahime nods, “Are you perhaps a little disoriented? We may pay a visit to my mate, Shoko, in the healing ward - she’s a caracal if that interests you - if you wish?”
“A caracal—no, hold a moment-” So much was swirling in your head—the first time, the mate, the existence of a healing ward just as your palace did. What on Earth was…“What do you mean by the first time? A mate?”
Utahime looks confused, mouth dropping slightly. “Why, because His Majesty has-”
“Utahime.” A stern, feminine voice sounds from the doorway.
You’re looking over the red panda hybrid’s shoulder to see a woman with short, straight hair standing at the stone door. Her ears so large and triangular - twitching back and forth with its tufted tips—“Allow me to look over Her Majesty.”
“O-of course.” Utahime moves to the side.
The hybrid - Shoko, you assume - looks over you for any signs of injuries or scratches during the journey here, including testing you for symptoms of magical nausea.
And it seems a somewhat regular check-up, one that was reminiscent of the ones conducted in your own kingdom, until Shoko takes a cotton swab out of her medical bag and slides it down the tender spot of your throat.
All down that column. Lymph nodes.
As if your skin was more sensitive than ever, you’re shivering.
She inspects that cotton swab and lets it waft in the air for a seconds - seemingly all ordinary, it’s not long before Shoko’s wrapping it up and placing it all back in her bag.
And you’re not able to ask what that particular process was about before Utahime’s bounding up to you again. The attendants had waited for your brief check-up to conclude.
“Are you prepared for your tour, Your Majesty? Or would you prefer we bathe you first?” She asks.
“I believe I would like to freshen up first.” You answer, before looking at the woman that had an open expression on her face. Little nubs of her canines peaked out through her smile. She wasn’t nearly as terrifying as all the stories had led you to believe, “For what reason do you do that?”
“Pardon?” She cocks her head.
“For what reason do you call me that—‘Your Majesty’?” Being led by her out of the study, you’re being shown around the various hallways and artifacts that were just as grand. “My coronation is yet to be held, though it was supposed to be today…”
“Oh…” Utahime looks at you in slight confusion, “But you are our Queen.”
Your brows furrow, “I am yet to be the Queen of my kingdom yet-”
“You are the Queen of the Hybrids, Your Royal Majesty.”
.
.
.
You’d been slightly too harrowed to wonder just what the condition of ‘one night’ would entail. If you were to go that far…perhaps you’d expected for the consummation of your marriage.
Or whatever it was that hybrids had equivalent.
You’d been ready for it, however, both with your knife and your will.
If you had to fuck Gojo Satoru, then so be it—at least, that had been what you’d thought. Before. Before you’d seen him on the altar, and now, there was a part of you that would gladly exchange the rites of flesh.
And that scared you more than any legend.
Utahime was a wonderful guide around the palace, she explored every grand nook and cranny with you. The ballrooms. The libraries. The frozen fountains- yes, frozen. She took you from staircase down hallway down secret alleyways between bookshelves, leading you into grand halls with portraits of the Gojo family.
You stared quite longingly at those: white-haired, noble-faced hybrids that resembled Gojo in their species and strength. He looked more like his beautiful mother, you learned.
And something clenched in you as you remembered just why they weren’t here.
Looking at the cherub face of the blue-eyed heir in the portrait, you couldn’t help but ask Utahime- “What are the consummation traditions in your kingdom?”
She’d looked towards you slightly startled, “The mating traditions, Your Majesty? Why…the same as your human mating traditions, I suppose.”
You gulped, “And the King-”
“His Majesty would never force you into something that you do not wish to happen.” Utahime reaches out and holds your hand, you’re learning that it’s just as cold as her monarch’s. “Fear not for your safety in this kingdom, my Queen. Harm shall never fall upon you in the Kingdom of Hybrids.”
You trusted her- you didn’t know why, but you trusted her.
It had been past afternoon when you’d arrived at the North Palace, and well into the evening once you’d finished your tour. Thoroughly spent, your jaw had dropped once Utahime told you that it was just a few wings of the palace that’d been explored-
“Tomorrow, we may explore the towns. The people shall be overjoyed to meet their new Queen-” And then she’d stopped in the middle of her sentence, throwing a nervous look your way. “That is…if you so wish to stay past the conditions, Your Majesty.”
And you did not know how to answer her.
Later, after some reading in their vast libraries - far greater than even your own palace’s - you’d been led into a sprawling dining hall for dinner.
It was a chamber that reminded you of Gojo’s study, though vertically longer to accommodate for the snaking table. Polished wood. Sparkling chandeliers. Paintings plastered across its oblong walls. Spread from nearly end-to-end of the royal room, you counted at least a hundred or so chairs on either side as you were bowed inside the great dining hall. Knights stood on guard with their weapons, though they didn’t seem to pose a threat.
The table was laden heavy with food, fantastical ice sculptures, and a fireplace: you wondered how those ice sculptures didn’t melt. Was this a work of Gojo’s powers, as well? Puddings and pastries. Truffles and rice. Steaks and vegetables. Sweet and sour.
Piled higher than your head.
Chocolates melted and crafted into all sorts of artworks that you didn’t even know was possible to do with such an ingredient. In the middle of the table sat a six-tiered wedding cake, proudly crowned with miniature fondant figures of Gojo Satoru and…you.
A cake like this would have taken well over two days - since your response - to create. And that’s not to mention the fact that he already knew what you looked like…
Just how long had he been planning this?
There was everything your heart could desire- and you meant that. You hadn’t taken Gojo up on his offer to make the kitchens privy to your preferences, and yet you were pleasantly surprised to find that almost all of the foods were…your favorites.
All your favorites.
How did they…
You’re being led to the chair positioned at the very end of the table - the head chair often reserved for the leading ruler. The King, in this case.
Only…Utahime pulls out the silver-tipped chair at the very end and gestures for you to sit there.
You?
You’re stopping short, “King Gojo—”
“Shall be sitting beside you, Your Majesty, worry not.” And you’re unsure whether you should be embarrassed that she’d assumed you missed him - rather than the fact that you were wondering when he’d make an appearance, claim that chair the way he claimed you.
And as if to emphasize her point, she’s tapping at the chair right beside yours.
Not the one at the head of the table.
The one beside it.
Lower-tiered.
“His Majesty’s request.”
You’d never heard of a King who’d been happy to sit at a position lower than his Queen- let alone request for such a seating arrangement.
Slightly trembling, you’re taking your seat nonetheless.
And just as soon as you’re settling in- the doors bang! wide open.
In hurries a ferrety man in spectacles, holding an agenda to his chest and bowing so low that his nose touches the floor. “Y-Your Majesty!”
“At ease.” You’re responding, somewhat wary.
“Ijichi…” Utahime grumbles, “What’s the meaning of this? You’re interrupting the royal couple’s dinner together.”
“I-I fear that’s exactly the problem, Your Majesty.” The man - Ijichi, it seems - turns to you with an expression that couldn’t have looked more apologetic if he tried. “I have been sent by His Majesty to inform you that he extends his deepest apologies, for he shan’t be able to attend the royal dinner tonight.”
You’re gripping the silver butter knife at your side, “Pardon?”
And he flinches as though he’s just been struck—“Forgive me! It seems that some ah- unavoidable circumstances have risen that make it somewhat…difficult for His Majesty to join Her Majesty tonight- th-though that’s not certainly not for a lack of want! And His Majesty is supremely upset over the fact, it’s simply…”
Ijichi looks to Utahime for help. In the far corner of the room, the knights shuffle on their feet at the tension.
With a cautious expression, the woman steps closer - and as soon as she’s within his proximity, Ijichi leans down to whisper something in her ear—and her expression melts into one of understanding. Disappointed, but understanding.
She turns to you with an equally apologetic expression, “My apologies, Your Majesty…”
Your heart jumps to your throat.
“The King is unable to attend tonight’s dinner.”
You don’t know why you’re disappointed.
.
.
.
You admit that the dinner passed by in a blur - delicious, and yet still a blur.
Perhaps if you don’t miss anything of this excursion, then you’ll at least think back on those delicacies fondly.
Although, you admit that Utahime - and even the ever-anxious Ijichi - had certainly grown on you. They kept you company throughout the rest of the dinner, and once you were finished the red panda hybrid escorted you to your royal quarters.
It was a vast chamber located not too far from Gojo’s study.
Even though most of the palace found itself composed of cold, hard stone—this room was special. It had the most delicate layers of paint spread across it, something you hadn’t seen before even during your tour - baby blue in color, with faint patterns of snowflakes etched into every corner. Gilded decorations on every piece of furniture. A fireplace against one wall. More books than you could ever read in your entire life - let alone single moon here.
There was a balcony overlooking a befogged land that you could not discern, and a drop from it would have been fatal.
What drew you in the most, however, was the painting.
Most chambers in the North Palace were decked with precious paintings - hand-crafted oils of color in silver frames, those that looked more valuable than a room full of treasure and perhaps just as ancient - for it seemed that King Gojo was a lover of the arts. Interestingly enough.
You wouldn’t have expected that of him.
But this one…this painting was the largest of them all.
It took up the space of one entire wall, which - according to your mental calculations - would have been thirty-two feet tall and eighty-eight feet wide. One side of your bedroom that was donning robes of oil paint—featuring the most picturesque vision of…your kingdom.
Your palace. Your people. Your dream as a monarch: seeing the people of your kingdom as happy as they should be.
The humans in this painting were hand-in-hand in the town square, dancing around a roaring bonfire. Around them were heaving tables laden with food, and behind- oh. Your eyes widened as you take in the painting even further - it wasn’t just the humans that were dancing with one another. There were hybrids, too.
Your bed was a sprawling four-poster, and you huddled in amongst the silk-covered pillows.
This was your one night with King Gojo Satoru.
The first and the last.
Your one and only.
But there must have been a reason for this marriage, for his condition- there must have been. A full moon circled high in the sky, and peace couldn’t have been so easy.
You kept your dagger underneath your pillow that night.
And so you slept—not as fitfully as one might have expected.
When you wake up- it’s still nighttime.
You’re sitting up on the bed and attempting to blink your vision back. It must have been an hour, perhaps two, since you’d gone to sleep- and you hate to admit it, but that must have been the best hours of sleep you’d gotten in years.
You might not even have woken up at all had it not been for the thunderous sound of footsteps outside.
Someone was running- no. Multiple people were running.
Heart battering against your chest, you’re grabbing the dagger out from underneath your pillow and getting onto your feet. You were wearing a thin layer of silk Utahime had bestowed upon you as a nightgown, but there was no time to consider propriety now - something was happening inside the North Palace.
Quickly unlocking the latch upon those double doors, it’s dark enough in the corridors that you’re slipping past the personal guards stationed outside your chamber. And crowded enough that you could slot into the chaos unnoticed.
Attendants. Advisors. Knights.
Hybrids of all different types and varying degrees of urgency - from urgent to being nearly in tears - were trampling like a herd in the same direction down the corridor.
You’re keeping your head down low as you fit into a sparse gap of space and let yourself be led to wherever it was they needed to be. Forwards. Down a hallway. Forwards. Forwards.
Ultimately, you’re not travelling too far before heading down a high-ceiling hallway—the pathway leading up to a private chamber. And by the sheer luxury of this wing - and the constantly incremental paintings of the Gojo family - you’re guessing that this must be where the Hybrid King slept.
Something stirs at the pit of your stomach- did something happen to…?
No, you couldn’t let yourself think that.
Shaking your head free from such thoughts, you’re managing to squeeze past attendants and staff that stuffed every nook and alcove here like sardines. Everyone was fervid to get inside, and even more desperate to get out before too long—
Then…the slightest crack in the door.
Breath catching in your chest, you shoot your arm out to catch it before it closes. Warm light filters from inside, and even warmer air follows it - fighting against whatever hybrid attendant was attempting to close it, you’re managing to wrench it open far enough to push yourself within.
Just as you’re thrust inside, you turn around and catch Utahime’s gaze- also pressed against one wall of the corridor.
Her eyes widen as she realizes just who it is—and her mouth shouts out a silent ‘no-’
Those double doors slam! shut.
It’s a royal bedroom just as large as yours.
And you could go on describing all the polished pieces of furniture, and the draped blue curtains, and the chandeliers, and the books. One of the walls in his bedroom was covered in a painting, just as the wall in your room had been - though you’re not too focused on it right now. A carpet spread from underneath the king-sized bed and nearly to every corner of the room—it was a stone-cold white, stitched intricately in the Gojo family emblem. But that was exactly what caught your eye.
Not the carpet, no- the bed.
Not exactly the bed itself, but rather the heavy metal chains on either side of it. Like dungeon chains.
There were six rings - thick and composed of rusting iron, one being half the length of your body - fastened to both walls sandwiching the bed. Falling from them were chain-links, each one the size of your head and twice as hefty—snaking like boa constrictors along the chamber floor, the foot of the bed, on top of the mattress.
Each one was shackled to the hands and feet of Gojo Satoru.
Panting. Flushed.
Feverish.
Surrounded by some guards, Shoko, and the rest of her healers who kept pressing cold cloths to his forehead, wiping him down furiously.
Bucking into the air with a husky groan- it makes the dungeon chains rattle as they’re tugged on. Hard enough to make the metal creeeeeak—!
You don’t know what more to gape at - the fact that he was strong enough to fight against six of those massive chains and nearly win, or the fact that Gojo was underneath a thin cover and…naked.
Something stirs between your legs.
And instantly-
Instantly, Gojo stills.
The healers take a startled step back, cold cloths suspended in their hands as they assess their silent King.
But Gojo doesn’t mind them.
He’s sitting up properly on the mattress, eyes widened and locked on- oh.
Locked on you.
It makes you jolt.
For there was a harrowed look in his gaze - as though he’d just stumbled across a carnage site, might perhaps be tempted into creating one. And Gojo’s pupils were the size of pinpricks, the sea of blue around them somewhat glowing—were you going mad? Were they really glowing?
His beautiful face was expressionless and primal.
His head raises into the air and sniffs it-
And suddenly those pearly white teeth display in an animalistic growl.
One by one, the healers follow their monarch’s line of sight - and their lips part as they take you in. His human bride.
Shoko’s the first to take a step forwards, “Your Majest-”
“Out.”
A strange thrill runs through your body.
It’s not that Gojo’s voice was particularly loud, nor was it particularly threatening—but it makes every single hybrid inside the room bow.
Falling to their knees.
They’re nodding once.
And in the blink of an eye, the healers - and most of the guards - are jerking onto their feet and running out - barely even throwing you a glance. Those double doors crack open once more, and you’re realizing that the commotion outside had calmed—you get the strange feeling that if you were to turn around, you would see that every other hybrid there was kneeling, as well.
You don’t know how you’re so sure - but you know he isn’t speaking to you.
In mere moments, it’s only Shoko and Higuruma that remain at Gojo’s bedside. They look at you in concern, and then each other- opening their mouths to say something when—
“Out.”
Gojo’s sole command is followed by gales of wind that clatter the windows open and send the two hybrids toppling. They’re collapsing to the ground from the sheer force - ultimately being pushed up until the tips of your feet.
Their King needn’t say a word more for them to stumble onto their feet and make a break for it.
The doors close thunderously, though not nearly as loud as your racing heart.
The wind dies down as they’re leaving you alone with Gojo, and you’re wondering whether he even realized. Not a single waft of the gales had touched you somehow.
You swallow.
It’s just you and him now.
Him and you.
And you’re not understanding where it came from, but you’re overwhelmed by the sudden feeling to walk over to him-
As soon as the thought manifests in your chest, you blink—
And Gojo Satoru’s standing right in front of you.
Towering figure. Heated pants.
Your dagger falls to the floor.
He was flushed as though burning from the inside out.
You swear that he’s even larger than you remember him—and you do remember him being large in the first place. But Gojo’s size right now was nearly inhuman - he stood about a foot taller than before; and the tips of his fingers had elongated with predator-like claws, the canines of his teeth had grown even sharper.
His fluffy patterned tail swishes agitatedly from side-to-side.
Nostrils flared as he drinks in your air.
Envelopes in it.
You’re hesitating before raising your eyes up to meet his- and a gasp catches in your chest at his contracted pupils. Like a snow leopard on the hunt.
He stares you down like his most delicious prey.
And it should make you run- it should. But your body takes a stuttered step closer, until you could feel the heat radiating off of his body in feverish waves.
You’re keeping your gaze confined to the area of his face n’ his sculptured chest, words picked carefully. “Satoru…”
“Leave.” But whatever was on the tip of your tongue washes away with his breathless tone- voice sibilant as though a prayer. “I need you to—fuck, I wish for you to-”
“I refuse.” And your response bewilders the both of you, “You’ve exhausted your requests of me. Are we not fulfilling the marriage contract?”
“We will- we have—” His blue eyes clench shut, as though he was holding himself back. Fists clenched firmly at his sides, they shake- “Fuck, this was not the planned course for our first meeting. Know that you are free to leave if you so wish - leave the chamber, leave the palace, leave the kingdom-”
“I will not breach the conditions-”
“I rescind the conditions.”
Shock pumps through your body, “Pardon?”
“I wished to romance you, I wished to write to you- I wished to show you the beauty of my kingdom tonight but…those gloves- you made me…” He shakes his head, “War shall not prevail—we shall commence the peace negotiations without a moon spent together.” He’s slicking back his dampened white hair, “O-on the terms of an unforeseen illness, you may leave-”
“What sickness?” You demand.
“Rut.”
Oh.
Oh.
It was one of the preliminary lessons in your hybrid history classes: the rut. A period of intense pheromonal and sexual desire; during which the hybrid grapples with the physical, emotional, and pheromonal desire to mate. It was always a concept that intrigued you. For a hybrid, these ruts are best exhausted when spent with a partner, though unmated hybrids may choose to weather through the week independently.
The mating period ends once the hybrid bites into the scent gland of their partner.
Between hybrids.
So why were you feeling so feverish, as well?
You’re unsteady on your feet- and Gojo’s hands shoot out, but then surge back to his sides as though he thought better than to touch you when he was in this state. “Please-”
“I would like to spend the moon with you.” You’re blurting out before you can stop yourself, drunk on the heady scent of winter pine in the room—was it growing stronger? You look at him squarely, “As newly-weds do.”
His breath catches, “You are not aware what you ask of me-” Though his tail wraps around your ankle.
“I am.”
“You are not aware what you ask of yourself.”
“I am.” Insisting.
Something deep inside you. Something deep inside you. Something deep inside you.
Fingers reaching up to the tie of your nightgown- before getting stopped instantly by Gojo’s hand. He pulls back with a hiss as though you burned—the pine fragrance grows even stronger inside the chamber.
His voice cracks as he looks at you, “You…” Eyes blowing out ferally, “You humans are not built to handle a hybrid in rut. I shall easily ruin you-”
“Then so be it.” Your cunt twitches.
And Gojo sniffs the air as though he could smell it.
He moans.
And in a split-second you’re being tackled to the ground- pounced upon. As though you really were nothing but a pretty prey beneath his fingertips, Gojo spreads your back flatly against the carpeted ground—too far gone right now to even start thinking of the bed.
Hands caging either side of your head. Hot breaths wafting your features like a furnace.
He slots his toned, naked hips between your bent legs and ruts-
“Fuck.”
Before letting out the most erotic sound you’ve ever heard in your life - his spit-slicked lips fall open with it and stay open as he keeps pushin’ his trembling hips into yours. Glazed eyes clenching shut. Perspired head falling behind him.
Again and again.
You’re feeling his thickened, throbbing erection press against your pussy through your thin nightgown. Openin’ up the crevice of your folds and massaging all along your outer cunt - because of how closely he was collapsed on top of you, you couldn’t make out just what his cock looked like. But you could feel the heat, you could feel the pulsing of his prominent veins that glissaded down the damp patch of your entrance and made you squeal—
“Y-Your Majesty-” You buck.
And he’s fucking pinning you down with his capped knees upon your legs. His bodyweight leaning on you. “Satoru.” He whispers breathlessly, eyes wide and somewhat dazed still.
“Pardon?”
The hybrid reaches his hand across your body, “My mate shall call me Satoru.”
Mate…?
The fingers on his dominant hand snake down your front and grab a fistful of that satin nightgown you were wearing- before his claws extract and he’s teeeeearing straight through it. Ripping it into nothing but shreds that he’s throwing blindly over his shoulder.
Soon enough, you’re left in nothing but the scraps of what had once been a decadent robe. And the coating of lust across your body.
The evidence was undeniable - even in the yolky yellow fireplace lighting up the bedroom, there was a lecherous glisten between your legs. Naked. Pulsing.
A pretty gloss that makes Gojo take just one wide-eyed look- and gulp.
You think you can audibly hear the effect merely seeing your dampened cunt has on him, and it sends a thrill up your spine. The bed chambers only seem to be spiking in temperature.
A bead of glitterin’ slick drops from your tight hole, making you shiver as it falls vertically between your pussylips- only to be stopped by a single chaste kiss of Gojo’s swollen cockhead. He grasps his base using his right hand, motioning that plump, puckered tip to point around the orifice of your cunt.
He’s probing the reddened top of his shaft against your hole and letting it stretch just a lil’ bit- “Fuck.” You think that it should be you spewing out the profanities - but it’s Gojo instead. He growls. His blue peripherals roll to the back of his skull as he feels you clench around nothing. “Fuh-fuuuuck.”
“Shit—”
He dots at the pearly bead of slick.
He swirls it around your entrance.
He uses it to lacquer his already-glistening cock before reeling his hips back and pushing in-
You’re gasping, hands coming up to dig your nails into his broad back. “Sa-Satoru-”
And his jaw practically unhinges at the hot, heavenly feeling. “Oh heavens…” Muttering something primal at the back of his throat—“O-oh heavens.” He’s feeling the first few centimeters of his throbbing cock get suctioned in, before there’s a sudden tightness of resistance that makes jerk his hips back and push once more- “Oh my Queen—”
“Satoru…” Just about the only thing that you can say, like a frenzied mantra. Eyes shuttering, “Shit, I think you must know-”
The knobbly edge of his thumb veers between your pussylips, stretchin’ them apart and taking a good look in-between. He pumps even harder - “My Queen—please take it.”
Mewling.
He’s tugging those dampened lips even further apart, “Please fit in.” Only growing more and more desperate the longer your cunt refuses to gobble him up whole, “Please- please fit in–”
“Satoru- fuck.”
Fingertips trembling where they were glued to the side of your pussy, stretching your entrance. Thwack after thwack. “Please take- me-”
“You must-” And he was now hammerin’ his hips into you in short, rapid semi-thrusts just to see himself swallowed up. So tight that it felt nearly impossible. So tight that a single drop of crimson escapes you, “-know that-”
“My Queen-”
“-this is my first time.”
There’s a ragged exhale that gusts across your features, making your eyes fall shut at just how scalding hot it was feeling - molten inside. Every bit of his skin in contact with yours felt as though he was burning up—“Oh.” That pretty, spit-glossed mouth of his falls - he ruts once more. “Oh.”
Your toes curl at the swabbin’ intrusion - Gojo was just so big that it was hard for you to take him. Bigger than any normal human.
And you’re feeling it even more once he’s pulling out.
With the most lecherous squelch! his erection plops out of your geysering orifice and ends up laid between your shivering thighs.
“I see…” Gojo hoarsely mutters, eyes entrenched in a staring competition with your pussy. “Mine, too.”
“Pardon?” You lean up onto your elbows instantly.
“I believe I said—” He trails off, “Mine, too.”
A thousand and one questions are whirling through your mind - everything from why Gojo hadn’t partaken in a mating period prior to this, to why he’d chosen you—
And then you’re blinking.
And suddenly you’re finding yourself sprawled out across his king-sized bed.
Head laid gently against the numerous luxurious pillows, your legs spread apart as though you’d never moved from the floor. You’re faced with the slight inertia of the entire room shifting so suddenly- and it takes you longer than it should’ve to realize that he’d just teleported the two of you once more.
You’re clamoring up to rest upon your elbows, and staring down at the hybrid that’d slotted between your legs now.
His soft strands tickle your body. Gojo’s already shifted until his face was level with your navel - his hot breath wafting across your skin. It sends goosebumps skittering across your middle n’ all the way down to your cunt—
Something that he’s leaning in and sniffing.
Breathing in.
And then Gojo trundles out a low, animalistic growl.
You feel your hips bucking up in response and you’re not quite sure as to why-
But you don’t have the time to ponder upon it for too long before Gojo dips the tip of his looooong, luscious tongue between your pussy’s slit.
He’s sticking just the very edge of his tastebuds fitting between your folds and slide-slide-sliiiiiding down that dampened crevice. Up and down. Slipping between the two and slurping away the dewy droplets of sap that cling onto your cunt-
Gojo halts as the first taste of your pussy trickles into his mouth.
And then he’s gasping his parched lips open- already sounding as though he’s run a fucking field. “So this-” Letting those deep vibrations of his voice scatter right between where you were most sensitive, “-this is what my mate tastes like.”
There it was again—mate.
Your body thrums, taking a strange pleasure in being titled that by the hybrid.
“Wh-what do you mean by m—oh.” Moan turning into a yelp as his fluffy rosette-decorated tail - one you hadn’t even realized was snaking ever-closer to your body - wraps around your right thigh and wrenches you closer to his hungry body. You stare into his eyes- starving.
Plastering his lips against your other ones as though he was fucking famished- Gojo’s nose digs between the wet slit of your core. Delving in-between. “My mate.” The only thing he can manage to utter. The pointed tip pushes on the nub of your clit as though a button, grindin’ away deftly as he’s making out. “My mate, my mate, my mate—”
“Satoru—” You’re crying out, “I-I’ve never done this before…is it supposed to feel this good?”
“Hmmm…” He’s clearly leering against your sensitive parts- and you can feel it. The hardness of his pearly whites tracin’ all over your entrance - “I haven’t partaken in such activities either, is this kitty supposed to taste this sweet?”
You gasp. “You can’t just utter such obscenities-”
To which he pays no attention before rubbin’ his flushed cheek along the inner parts of your thighs—Gojo leans in takes a gooooood whiff of where your pheromones were most saturated. Eyes falling shut as he indulges himself in it, and once he’s opening them back up you swear those pupils of his have transformed into hearts. “Is this kitty supposed to smell this sweet?”
You’re simply bucking in shock at that.
Elongated claws tapping warningly against where he’s holding the right side of your waist, “Settle, my mate.”
And he can smell it- the way your cunt grows even more aroused, even sweeter, at being given this command. Paired up perfectly with your pet name.
That’s when he decides that he’s had enough of lappin’ away at the numerous layers of slick that polished your cunt - he’s had enough.
He wasn’t some little kitty.
Gojo Satoru was a big cat, and that meant he has a big tongue.
Big enough to drown himself completely n’ utterly silly in the sweetened juices leaking out of you. In a mere few moments, he’s licked you completely dry. And he’s spreadin’ away the inside of your rim, scouring his tongue inside for more, more, more—
Long, thorough slashes inside your cunt.
“Sh-shit—” You’re babbling away stupidly, back arching off of the mattress. Ending up draggin’ your pussy even further against Gojo’s mouth - knocking against his nose and making him take your restless body on happily. “Shit, your tongue-” Your eyes nearly bulge out of your skull, “-it’s sho big—”
“All the better to taste you, dear.” It’s a wonder that Gojo could detach himself from your pussy even for those brief seconds to answer.
Thrusting right between those swollen pussylips of yours- right into that quivering hole. He swirls his thickened muscle around a few times, “And y-you’re so…” You could feel the texture of his uniform, ridged tastebuds molding to the sides of your walls. “-fuck, your tastebuds are so pointed.”
“All the better to feel you, dear.” But of course, if you were in any better state of mind then perhaps you would’ve remembered that snow leopards in particular possessed tongues with specialized tastebuds. Longer. Sharper.
Yet right now, the only thing you’re thinking of is just how good it feels to have Gojo Satoru fuck you with said tongue.
He was just so looooooong and thick. He stuffs you to the brim already.
Spreading and stretchin’ his tongue against your walls- as far inside as it could possibly go. Quite audibly, you swear you can hear the sounds of his wet muscle expanding against that snug channel. “A-and, Satoru…” To him, your mewls sound like the prettiest song he’s ever heard. “-you’re so ravenous.”
He chuckles out something feral - something octaves higher than his usual baritone - against the front of your pussy. Pulling away from it with a wet smack! “All the better to…” And you know the strangely predatory tone of his voice shan’t bode well for you. And you know the way he fucking purrs—yes, purrs as he nears your pussy once more shan’t bode well for you. “-eat you, my dear.”
And then Gojo’s slamming every inch of his tongue back inside you - every fucking inch.
Except, this time…there’s a clear motivation tinglin’ at the honed tip of muscle. You could practically taste it in the soft sizzling wads of spittle that kept on leaking out of you.
Gojo was tonguing at your pussy like a maddened man- letting his nose crush against your clit, letting his canines nip slightly on your bloated folds. He plasters your cunt against his chin, head angled juuuuuust the exact number of degrees it’d take for him to propel his tongue forwards and hit a particular spot inside you.
Your feet anchor onto the luxurious mattress. Your back forms the perfect curvature against the bed.
You’re letting your moans pour out of you twofold as you throw your head back n’ forcefully wrench your hips forward. “There—” Registering, it takes a second for your mind to catch up to the fact that Gojo’s lengthy hybrid tongue has just rammed into your g-spot - with just his tastebuds. “Y-you hit my…I didn’t know that was even—oh, Toru.”
“My Queen.” Hoarse. Hissing. His tone was completely fucked as he uses his powerful tail to tug you even further against his slackened mouth, “My mate.”
“Toru, that feels too-”
“Let this kitty cream on my mouth.” Even his high cheekbones burn a faint crimson at the declaration, though he doesn’t deny nor retract it. “Let this, kitty—” Come to think of it…the snow leopard hybrid was purring as he’s makin’ out between your legs. “-let this kitty cum…”
“Gonna—” Your voice starts hatching at the back of your throat, “G-gonna cum-”
Spurred on by your affirmations, those slashes at your g-spot grow even faster. More frequent.
Deeper.
There’s a tingly buzz coating your outer pussy at the rapid movements of his tastebuds- back n’ forth, back n’ forth, back n’ forth. And you’re feeling your pleasure start to ember even more powerfully as he keeps on planting constant hits and thrashes.
Tugs and pushes.
Hit after hiiiiiiit upon your poor g-spot.
Soon enough, your vision starts to overload with sultry white stars of bliss. And Gojo smells the cloying pheromones on you before you even register it- but you’re cumming.
All over his tongue.
It’s a wave of euphoria that starts from the tips of your toes and explodes where his tongue was diggin’ between your pussylips- before ultimately shooting through every valve, blood vessel, and capillary within you. Taking over you.
Toes curling. Tears shooting up to your eyes.
This might just have been even better than those long, lonely nights beneath your royal covers - when you’d slip in a finger or two and fervently hope that your attendants didn’t need you for anything.
You’re letting out the prettiest few echoes of his name- and you don’t even care who hears you right about now. Because the one person that commanded them all - this entire land - had his head between your legs and his tongue lappin’ away hungrily.
As though he hasn’t had a proper meal in months—you’re suddenly remembering with a jolt that he’d missed dinner tonight.
Gojo manages to probe your most sensitive spot during peak after peak.
Rush upon rush of dopamine flooding your body- he was sure to drag his textured tastebuds along your most precious caverns when those times came. And perhaps if your mind was any less muddled, he’d be able to tell you that he’s timing them perfectly using the spikes of your heady pheromones whenever you felt too good - but he was happy to merely listen to your babble right now. To fuck you stupid with his mouth.
He was tugging aside your pussylips and scraping every inch of your walls as though he wanted his entire nation to hear you—“Mine.” The pointed tip of his tongue tickles your g-spot, “My mate-”
Those mere few droplets of slick you were letting out wasn’t enough for Gojo, and he’s using the unyielding restraint he had on your ankle to keep on gyrating your hips. Manhandling your hips. Grinding your wet pussy against his mouth.
His maw slurpin’ every orifice-
Spreading aside your velvety walls as though he wished to go even deeper. And he’s reaching up his right hand to push aside those swollen lips of yours and—
“Sh-shiiiiit—” You’re just barely surfacing from your last orgasm when you feel something cold n’ clammy sliding down your swollen pussylips.
Claws retracted. The knobbly tips of Gojo’s fingers spread you open—and you’re just starting to wonder which set of hands this is…when you feel the frigidness of his fucking wedding ring probe inwards. It was a band of pure silver far colder than even his own hands- contrasting thoroughly against the heat of your pussy.
You’re whining as though you’re wounded (though it was the complete opposite of feeling as such) as the ice-cold sensation of it circles your sensitive hole a few times.
Gojo teases your entrance before he’s properly sinking in. Taking his time—not at all.
Did you really think that a hybrid in heat took his time? Did you really think that a hybrid in heat didn’t have the patience to merely take his ready mate?
And that was exactly what the King was doing with his perfectly prolonged digits - already having stretched out your cunt enough that he doesn’t have to hesitate before plunging in two fingers into your wet cavern. “Wait- you’re still not done?”
His long lashes flutter, “Would you like me to be, Your Majesty?”
“N-not exactly, it’s just…” And you almost feel shy admitting this to him - even though you’ve already come…so far, there were still some etiquette lessons drilled into you. “-I thought I’d be getting Your Majesty’s cock by now.”
And that makes him stall.
That makes his doughy fingertips lurch up and hit the roof of your cunt—accidentally locating your g-spot with just a bit of swerving.
“Oh.” Gojo’s jaw drops a bit- and those dimples make an appearance once more. “Worry not, my Queen.”
There’s the most long, lecherous sluuuuuurp! as he then pulls his fingers out.
“A beautiful creature such as yourself shan’t be fucked like any other lowly human.” The hybrid leers up at you with a half-lidded gaze, and those fingers of his twitch excitedly at your entrance. He murmurs thickly, “I’m going to breed you.”
Slam!
And that’s all it takes for his fingers to stuff you in every nook n’ cranny.
Those mountainous knuckles of his start up like a battering ram between your legs, and no matter how much you’re squirming at the overstimulation- you can bet on Gojo’s tail to hold you in place. Stronger than it looked with its unassuming demeanor.
Every time you’re being lurched backwards by the sheer force of his fervid thrusts, the King drags you back down using his appendage.
Leaving you not an ounce of mercy as he’s swabbin’ his rounded fingertips into your g-spot—so long that he’d be able to tease that particular bundle and then glide down to swat your cervix.
Your eyes bulge at the feeling of his intrusion, back arching. “O-oh my god—”
“Satoru, you mean.”
“Sato—pardon?” Tears layering over your peripherals, your vision’s starting to become hazy nonetheless. And a shiver runs down your spine as you’re watching his handsome face lean closer to your dripping wet core once more.
All the excitement of Gojo hookin’ his fingers in n’ ruining you from the inside meant that your slick was overflowing. Excess that he leans down to lap his tongue over as though the sweetest nectar- and maybe it really was.
Gojo’s flattened tongue starts rolling the most lewd kitty licks over your throbbing clit—holding eye contact with you all the while. “My mate.”
“Satoru-” You yelp.
“My mate—” The constant rhythmic slamming against your g-spot was starting to make your g-spot feel tender. Perhaps it has even started bruising - perhaps you were hurtling into your second orgasm faster than you might’ve thought.
And it’s with his upper half bowed over your pussy - with his canines gnawin’ away on your clit - that Gojo pushes you into cumming. Again.
He makes yet another zap of euphoria take over your body- so lightheaded now that it felt as though you could keel over at the softest breeze. Your thighs tremble. Your legs fight to wrap around his head.
And Gojo’s taking such utter pleasure in stopping your squirming hips from moving- from smoochin’ and smoochin’ the slender tips of his fingers against your sweetest spots.
“Hafta make my- ngh, mate feel good.” He’s whispering, almost to himself. Gojo runs the plumpness of his fingertips aaaaaaall across your insides, quirking them perfectly when he has to run you through a peak of your high. “Hafta-”
“Cumming—” Too late, you’re bellowing out. “I’m c-cumming, Toru.”
“I know.” He responds simply. “This kitty told me.”
And you swear that’s enough to push you straight over another edge - another high. Sparks of friction breaking out across your skin. As Gojo stimulated your clit n’ your deepest innards to elongate this current one, and past that into another one, and another one, and another-
“Cum—fucking cum, kitty kitty.” He hums.
Four- yes, four of his fingers pushing aside your slick-glazed walls now.
By the time you’re letting the waves of pleasure wash over you, you’re completely and utterly spent. Exhausted. Unable to do anything but lay yourself spread-eagle on the duvet, you’re raising your head weakly to look down at Gojo.
He pulls off of your clit with a lecherous pop!
A few thin strings of spittle still connect you to his mouth, “Brace yourself, my mate.”
“Brace…?” And as he straightens from his position at your feet - from his position worshipping your pussy at your feet - you’re letting your jaw drop. “Oh.”
Because it was justified for him to ask you to brace yourself.
Hell, you might just not make it out alive if you didn’t brace yourself.
You’d already known that Gojo was considerably big from his time ruttin’ against you on the carpeted floor like some animal. But what you didn’t know was just what he looked like exactly.
Large.
Lavished in veins.
It was expected that Gojo would be bigger than a human man - or, at least, what you’d assumed a human man would average based upon your sparse knowledge from anatomy books - but it’s just how much bigger than made your jaw drop. For he was comfortably around eight inches, perhaps even veering into nine.
Seeing the sheer girth of his base was enough to make your thighs squeeze together- squelch! You’d underestimated just how wet you’d gotten.
Plump tip furiously swollen n’ agitated - the merest breeze was enough to make him dollop out a generous serving of his precum. It was flushed a shade of pink that matched the blush upon Gojo’s cheeks as he took in your staring.
Vermicular veins. Throbbing circumference.
And then there were his pretty balls - so full. Decorated along his v-line with a spattering of snow-white hair.
And you found yourself admitting that Gojo Satoru was strangely—pretty.
All the way down to his cock.
You swallow, “S-so?”
“Pardon? And so?” The King cocks his head in cute confusion.
His ancient bedframe then creeeeeaks as you’re lifting your hips up, “Aren’t you going to breed me like you promised, Your Majesty?”
He flinches as though he’s just been struck.
Oh…hasn’t anyone ever taught you not to poke the bear? Or in this case, the snow leopard? Nevermind that now, however, because it was far too late for it - given you’d found yourself married to one.
To the beast that bears his teeth carnally upon your provocation.
To the monster that slots his hips between your thoroughly jittery legs and gives your cunt a gooooood spankin’ with his ruddied tip.
To Gojo Satoru who runs his twitching tip down the forefront of your pussy a few times before he’s spreading apart your pussylips and push-push-puuuuushing. Sinking in his teeth into his lower lip as he sinks his cock into you—and immediately, tears spurt to his eyes.
Gojo’s barely easing an inch between your swollen folds before he’s fucking sobbing-
“It- it feels—” He’s clawing out a few wretched moans from the back of his throat. “It feels s-so—”
“So—?” You’re attempting to coax out of him. This was his first time just as much as yours, and although you might not know much about hybrid mating rituals, one thing was for sure - Gojo was extra, extra sensitive tonight.
“So g—ngh.” Choking those words straight back into his throat- he’s just barely managing to fit his plump, reddish tip in. It was throbbing against your walls and slippin’ inside with the help of your slick. “How can it feel so good?” He hisses.
Your eyes nearly bulge out of your skull, “Pardon? Y-you’re asking me- hck! how?”
“How.” As though no other explanation was needed. Gojo’s fucking into you in shallow, short thrusts—almost nothing. Barely squeeze-squeeze-squeezing the first thickened segment of his shaft inside before he’s met with the resistance of your tight channel- and then he’s pulling back with a pained groan as if it killed him to detach himself from the glutinous embrace of your pussy.
And the more n’ more he’s feeling you—the more he’s utterly breaking upon entering your warmth. “Is there magic that you use? I-is there a spell you’ve put me under?” His grip on your waist trembles.
“No…” You whimper, “And for what reason…”
“For i-it should not be possible for a kitty to feel so…” He groans. Gojo’s eyes are fluttering shut once you give his throbbing girth a little clench, and when he opens them back up again you’re finding those sky-blue peripherals to have been covered with a few layers of tears. “-so delicious.”
“You make it sound as though you wish to- ngh, feast upon me.”
“Perhaps.”
“Perhaps?”
The hybrid edges his perspired head closer to yours, letting the tips of his white bangs tickle your skin. “For what else must newly-weds do on the night of their wedding?”
That silver wedding ring glints on his left hand - both due to the quality of the metal, and due to the fact that it was still covered in the remnants of your sweet juices.
Gojo notices this, too.
And without a single warning, he’s reaching his hand up and sucking off the glaze of slick. Looking you straight into your dilated pupils as he does so.
It sends a carnal throb down to your cunt that he sniffs in the air-
And then everything’s happening at once.
Gojo’s jolting, Gojo’s grasping both of your pretty legs and throwing them over his shoulders. Hands upon either side of your limbs n’ wrangling them easily as he bends his upper half down looooow—kissing his sweaty forehead to yours.
The sudden change in positions makes you keen. “A-and you’re completely sure you’re inexperienced, Toru?”
“Promise, my mate.” He exhales into your mouth. “I’d never take another but you.”
And though the gesture had started off sweet…the further his mazin’ tip scoured in, the sharper his canines grew against your poor wobbly lips. The stronger his body seemed to grow in response to pinning your needy hips down and shoooooooving rude cock inside-
“Take it.” Gojo snarls into the crook of your neck, “Take it.”
“Please—” Being pushed constantly up towards the mahogany headboard.
“Take- oh.” Absent-mindedly, he wraps his powerful tail around your left thigh once more. Stopping you from being jostled back and forth because of the sheer force of his rovering hips- hips that were just hungry to feel his mate warped around his entire, rock-hard cock.
And you wonder whether he even realized.
Because if you thought it was far-fetched to assume that Gojo Satoru was breaking on your pussy just from the ruined state of his voice, then you’d be sorely mistaken.
The longer he’s tunneling between your sodden pussylips, the more n’ more he’s less the composed gentleman you’d been married to at the altar. “Take it-” To be quite honest, you’d be comfortable stating that he was becoming more hybrid than human the longer he was in lecherous contact with the wet cavern of your cunt. “Take it, take it, take it—please.”
Tears falling down his pretty cheeks.
The longer his thrusts became, the more hidden crevices inside you that he was opening up. You’d been completely right to ogle Gojo’s massive cock- because right now it felt like he was splitting you in half.
In the best way.
“You need to take it, sweetheart—” Gojo damn near whimpers, “You n-need to take your mate’s cock…”
He was straightening out the smallest crevices at your innards, he was digging his claws deeeeep against the sides of your thighs. Pulling you back after every thrust.
And it’s not long before Gojo finds himself completely bottoming out.
Letting his divot baaawl out a few ribbons of pre that slick towards your womb. Letting his bulbous, blushin’ tip thud! away at the very back of your cervix.
The silken bedsheets are bunching up where Gojo’s knees were scrambling to get even closer to the bottom of your pussy. Attempting to push his probin’ cockhead even deeper inside your sponge-covered depths, Gojo’s practically falling over himself to bend you in half.
To bend and to bend.
To thrust and to thrust-
The bed creaks in a cacophony that accurately represents just how he’s fucking you like he’s furious. Body burnished in heat. Hissing and snarling between his clenched fangs.
Those unfairly attractive hips of his were affected, too, because they’re starting to stutter forwards as though he’s just found heaven inside of you. Reeling his hips aaaaaall the way back in reverse - until his rounded, reddened tip was the only thing holding your entrance open.
And then Gojo wastes no time before pounding himself inside all the way till the hilt.
The very hilt.
You’re squirming at the patch of his white, white hair that scratches your pretty clit. “A-and about the breeding thing…”
“Hmmmm?”
“Are you really going to fuck me- ngh, pregnant, Toru?”
Awwwww—how cute. Those glowing azure eyes of his widen in amusement- or perhaps something else entirely that you weren’t able to pinpoint. He leans in with a simpering smile, “Fuck you pregnant? How crass.”
“N-ngh—” Your head throws back at the feeling of his globular cockhead lining down your g-spot. He ends up rubbin’ over that particular bundle of nerves for a few seconds, before glissading a hit straight to your womb-
“I’m going to make you my mate, my Queen.”
“Oh-”
“Officially.”
You’re unsure what exactly such an arrangement between hybrids would entail—but all you know is that you want it. Badly.
A primal desire deep-rooted into your very being, one that you couldn’t explain even if you tried - it was from the depths of your soul, pouring outward in every ribbony wire of slick that you were letting out. All for Gojo Satoru. Clinging onto Gojo Satoru.
It’s coating his thickened cock in numerous layers that glisten underneath the pale lighting of a royal chamber, splatterin’ between your two bodies as his frenzied pace only accelerates. “Sa-Satoru—”
“Yes, Your Majesty?”
It always sent such a shocking thrill across your body to realize that he was the one referring to you like that - perhaps your most formidable foe yet.
And the massive bedframe creaks as you’re raising your hips up to meet his- the constant smack-smack-smacking of skin on relentless skin growing in pitch and volume. “I need it.” Looking at him through your tear-drenched lashes, “I need it s-so badly—”
“What is it?” He breathes out in an almost desperate tone. Gojo presses his lips to yours and kisses you in a way that was so fucking filthy—he’s flickering his tongue in and out, fishing out the sweet wads of your saliva. Before leaning his head back a bit and spitting between your wobbling lips - claiming every spot inside you that he wanted to. “What is it that you wish for, my Queen?”
Before anything else, his right hand then snakes between your two sweaty bodies.
Familiarly locating your cute clit and giving a few niiiiice rolls between his index and his thumb.
“Tell me—” He responds. He begs. “Tell me what it is your heart desires-” His sentences and syllables being punctuated by a solid slam against the back of your pussy every time. “Tell me, and I shall move mountains and heaven for you, my mate.”
And after such a declaration, a part of you almost feels embarrassed about the next words out of your mouth—“I want you to…cum inside me, Toru.”
He jolts. “Sweetheart, are you aware-”
“Not that.” Gojo answers - and the sudden leer that follows is something that makes your lips part. Something that was certainly not going to bode well for you or your poor pussy…“Sweetheart, are you aware that-”
And before he’s finishing that particular sentence, Gojo reaches down and gently clasps your dominant hand in his own.
He tugs it down between his legs-
To where you’re feeling the smooth gliiiide down his erect shaft—down every single curve, crevice, and vein. He was just so long that this made you squirm. Ultimately, you’re ending up with your fingertips pressed against the very start of Gojo’s hilt, where the carpet of his white hair was just ending.
And you’re wondering just what it is he was trying to oh-so-lecherously make you feel when…
When your palm pushes up against something so very thick and swollen at the base of Gojo’s cock. And you’re just gasping-
“A-are you aware of the effect you have on me, Your Majesty?” Gojo’s ragged tone permeates your hearing, punctuated by the constant thrashes n’ bucks of his hungry cock. Inside, inside, inside. “Are you aware that this is how you make me feel?”
He crushes your hand even further against that extra swollen portion of his erection, “And h-how exactly…”
He falters, “Pardon?”
“How exactly is…this, Toru?”
“How exactly?” He’s hissing through his teeth, tone wavering unsteadily. He sounds ruined, he sounds shattered—he sounds gone. There’s almost a sense of amusement in his tone as though you were pulling on his leg - he bores deeeeply into your eyes whilst he fucks you. “How exactly—?”
“Y-ye—oh.”
Slam!
At that very moment, he’s rammin’ his hips into yours so hard that the skin around his pelvis reddens. Stings.
And Gojo himself can’t help but let his head fall backwards with a guttural hiss, those pretty white brows of his knotting—“Fuh-fuck.” Before starting to rut down in even sloppier pushes of his firmed-up cock.
Hard.
Fast.
Your ass cheeks were practically refusing to have contact with the bedspread below. Just bent that far.
The question he’d asked you earlier had been a rhetorical one - though that doesn’t stop Gojo himself from pistoning into you as though he was attempting to fuck the answer out of you. As though he was hoping the globular edge of his shaft would reach your pretty brain, n’ swerve around a bit to ultimately activate whatever part of you there was that’d understand.
To flick a switch on - something carnal.
Once you’ve been pounded utterly stupid- Gojo presses down with his mazing cockhead until you’re filled up to the very hilt. And you can feel the swollen ring at his base start to relax against the front of your puckered pussylips, “What you need to know is…this is a knot, sweetheart.”
“A knot?” Babbling through your tears.
“A knot.” Gojo affirms, “And do you know what hybrids do to their mates using their knots?”
Shaking your head.
“First, we claim our mates.” He’s draggin’ his roughened thumb down between your sultry pussylips and rolling over your clit. If you were in any clearer a state of mind right now, perhaps you’d have noticed that he was spelling out his first fucking name on top of that swollen nub. “First, we fuck them until they can’t speak—can’t move—can’t do anything but beg for more.”
You’re bucking upwards greedily, and in response he’s letting out a growl. “Y-yes, and?”
“Then we let them cum a few cute times—” He’s giggling at the way your mouth drops in realization - he was doing the exact same thing to you.
Was technically, still doing the exact same thing to you with the way he’s stimulating every fibre of your being. “And then-”
“Then we get them in a cute- hah, mating press.” His fluffy tail swooshes around before looping around your left thigh and tightening, veering dangerously close to the in-betweens of your legs. As if he was sharing his most precious secret in the world with you, Gojo leans dooooown until his lips were at your ear- “Then we cum so much inside them that they can’t even breathe without feelin’ me all inside your pretty kitty.”
Sobbing, “Th-then—?”
“Then…” The King’s reeling his powerful hips backwards, all the way until he’s nearly pulled out. Only the better to fuck you with…“Then m’fucking you with my fat knot until you can’t even think about letting my cum go to waste, my mate.”
“Oh—”
And with one hand braced upon the right side of your head - the other furiously toying with your perked clit - Gojo’s striking your pussylips in constant thwacks! Thwack! after thwack!
Trying to get his knot to fit inside.
Gojo’s vein-covered cock massaging your walls in such a frenzy just feels so good- “O-oh my god…” You’re babbling out, “Toru, m’gonna cum again.”
“Good.”
“Toru, m’gonna cum now—”
“Good.”
Those half-lidded blue eyes of his were locked on every expression you were making - even the tiniest shifts and twitches. His nostrils flare once you’re feeling your stomach give into the surges of pleasure shooting up from your cunt—and the hybrid seems to know before even you do when you’re crash-landing straight into your nth high of the night.
You’ve seriously lost count.
“C-cumming…” You mewl out weakly- hands coming up to clasp onto his sweaty head. Pressing your lips against his as he fucks you through every zap of pleasure. “Feels so good- ngh, feels so good—”
“Is that so?” He harkens, “Is that so, Your Majesty?”
“Never felt anything better-”
Eventually, your high rises and falls faster than it has before - solely due to the sheer number of times tonight. It’s nothing but the splash of dopamine that engulfs your body and leaves it sizzling with pleasure moments afterwards.
Even the slightest rub-a-dub of Gojo’s veiny patterns leaves you gaping. Those aftershocks were so strong that it makes your eyes tear up—“I need it.”
Before long, Gojo feels you grab onto a handful of his perspired hair and haul him even closer. And he can’t deny the way that makes his swollen tip twitch just a little harder inside you-
“I need you to c-cum inside me…” You’re pleading up at him, “Need you to- ngh, mate me, Toru.”
“Oh…” After a few more sloppy strikes, he’s letting his tail drift up from your legs to your abdomen. Just where your spine ended, you’re feeling that powerful appendage of his push up on your body and arch your hips up a bit further. “Then brace yourself, my mate.”
And it takes only a single, slammin’ thrust for him to empty out his wads of cum.
Bucketload upon bucketload that he’d been waiting to pour into you for soooooo fucking long now. Thick. Treacly. Those constant ribbons of cum web your insides like a flood, splashin’ around and helping him reach your womb in no time.
It’s just so hot and wet.
It’s just bloating up those poor pussylips of yours- before the man himself eases down his pace to better end up pushin’ those wettened wads inside.
You could physically feel the flared ridge of his mushroom tip—spreading apart those gluey walls of yours and fucking his cum even deeper. Deeper. “Fuck.” Clinging onto every nook n’ hidden cranny inside you as you’re getting utterly stuffed—straight to the brim. It’s already starting to froth outwards, “Fuck-”
“Settle, my mate.” Gojo’s dragging you in with his fluffy white tail, ears flattened in pleasure. It takes a single tug for him to jerk you down- “Shhhhhhh shhh shh, settle.”
“I’m- I’m trying—”
“We’re not even halfway done yet.”
“Pardon?”
It’s the last thing you’re hearing before Gojo jerks his hips forward and fucks his knot past that first ring of your entrance - only about halfway through.
The Hybrid King has to use his hand upon your clit to stretch your pussylips apart- to ease your elastic hole to the side just a bit before he’s siiiiiiiinking his thickened base inside. It takes a few tries - a few animalistic bucks - for him to finally fit his knot between your legs with the loudest slurp. “Got it—”
Gojo’s hissing breath cascades down the front of your body, and his clammy head drops into the crook of your neck.
“G-got you.”
Before you know it, you’re feeling the sharp punctures of his canines against your swollen scent glands. Those sensitive bumps against the side of your neck - you’d noticed them growing more and more inflamed throughout the course of the night, and they’re just so volatile as Gojo sinks his leopard-like fangs in.
You feel something deep inside you pop!
Your scent gland. Or whatever it was that humans had similar…
And he holds you there like this - like a predator with his teeth dug into the throat of his prey - until both your waves of bliss have completed. Until he’s emptied his swollen balls inside of you, and he’s completely n’ utterly sucked dry by the wettened warmth of your pussy.
You’re squirming at the feeling of his heaping puddles of ivory deep inside you—“T-Toru.”
Gojo finally pulls off with a heated pwah! and stuffs his face into the crook of your neck. “Yes, my mate?”
Mate. Mate. Mate.
Now you were officially his mate.
His knot was pulsing deep inside you, softening ever-so-slightly as the moments pass.
You’re running your hands through his perspired air, “I just wanted to know…” Wording your sentence carefully, your sentiments hidden. “Why m-”
“Who else would it be but you?” He’s interrupting you instantly. Immediately, Gojo pulls away and peers at you with his widened eyes—“Forgive me, Your Majesty, but in this life and every other…” He grasps your hand and presses his pinkish lips to the back of it, “-this lowly hybrid has always been fated to be yours.”
“Every other?” You ask with bated breath.
“Every other.” He affirms. “In every life, we were meant to find one another…” And he looked almost shy admitting such a thing—“We hybrids…we can feel it. Though for you humans, it may not be so strong.”
“Oh.” Your mouth drops softly.
“But even if we weren’t…” Gojo finally tears his eyes off of you- as though it pained him to not have you before his gaze for even a mere moment. “—I would have found you if it tore down the Earth.”
And then you’re turning with him.
Following his line of sight.
Right to the wall of his bedroom that you’d noticed had been painted before- but never noticed exactly with what upon it—
It was a painting of you.
More specifically, of a landscape from what you’d assumed to be this very bedroom: the sprawling valleys and fields that led up to your kingdom. The thorn barrier that separated him from you. Though no barrier could ever possibly hide the spiral of your wing, the blinking light that you’d put out every night - hoping, just hoping that someone would see it and answer.
How had you not noticed this before?
Perhaps, in your own way, you’d been searching for him, too.
“I would like to stay, Satoru.” You breathe, as if a secret. “I would like to stay- and I would also like for you to love my kingdom just as much as I shall love yours.”
“Then it shall be done.” He presses his forehead to yours, “Revenge has never been my strong suit.‘
Unbeknownst to yourself, you’ve teared up- and Gojo reaches down to gently wipe those hot tears away. He murmurs deeply, “My mate…”
“Yes, my husband?”
“We’re going to rule the world.”
You’re learning two more things about hybrids in the succeeding hour.
The first being that they really did have a particular talent for the arts - Gojo especially, considering that he’d been the one to paint most of the artworks in the palace. Including this one.
When your kingdom is under attack and your husband mysteriously dies, the emperor extends an invitation to you. What could he possibly want that he just couldn't take?
A/N: Y'all this took forever like I've started school and I took a little break bc I got a bf but he's just as weird if not weirder than I am so we're good chat, enjoy babiesssss also lmk if any tags for medieval series
Your kingdom was under siege.
It had been under siege for the past several months, various attacks from the empire that surrounded you on all borders. Your people were hungry and tired and overworked trying to fend off the massive armies.
Your husband, the king, had spared no care for his people dropping like flies left and right, too busy caring about his own honor. What kind of king would he be if he just surrendered?
All your neighboring countries had been taken over, the emperor’s armies slowly infiltrating and leaking the life out of their land. Now, your former allies had all turned against you, only a puppet for the Emperor Sukuna to use to vanquish your helpless people. And maybe they wouldn’t be as helpless if it wasn’t for your husband who sent all supplies and food and energy into keeping the armies supplied, drafting as many people as he could, the male population shrinking as more and more of them got conscripted.
But, as queen, as a woman, you didn’t have much of a choice. Every morning you awoke from your separate room, was dressed to your husband’s liking and paraded through the castle and meetings and audiences like a puppet. You’d receive lewd glances and comments from advisors and nobles alike, forced to keep your mouth and legs shut until your husband deemed so. You played a deaf ear to the audible sounds of young women being brought to your husband’s room late at night.
You’d been dragged on horseback through battlefields for hours just to meet with the Emperor Sukuna and listen to your husband’s arrogant tone as he bragged to the Emperor. You and some of the servants would stand in the back for hours, legs stiff and sore, praying that you wouldn’t be killed by your husband’s audacity.
Occasionally, in those longer meetings, some of the Emperor’s servants would tend to you and your maids quietly, offering chairs and drinks and food, all behind your husband’s back.
The entire castle suffered in silence, forced to watch your people suffer loudly on the battlefield.
That was, until you woke early, hearing a scream of terror sounding from your husband’s separate room.
You rushed there, quickly as guards fell in step with you, their duty to you, not your husband. Inside the room, your husband lay on his bed, the rich silk sheets soaked red with blood. His eyes were still closed, like he hadn’t been woken when his final breath left his punctured lungs.
Servants rushed to you, gently removing you from the room, away from the gruesome, (but satisfying), scene of your husba-...
Your former husband’s death.
Oh how that small word held so much freedom. You were no longer a placeholder, queen in name only. Now, you were queen, you held all the power of your entire kingdom in your hand.
No children, no male relatives meant that you could rule in total power. No more being a silent puppet, a trophy, you were free now.
Your people weren’t going to die anymore.
Surprisingly, you went out on the front lines, directly against the emperor’s forces along with your army.
The battlefield was drenched in blood, armor and bodies underfoot as your mounts charged forward, metal armor on their sides and front.
You were side by side with your soldiers, dressed in identical attire as them, a simple breastplate with armor and chainmail, a sword strapped on your hip. Thankfully, your helmet hid enough of your face for most of the army to not recognize you.
Only a select few generals were aware of your disguise, the rest believing that you were still in your castle, mourning the death of your husband.
How funny.
Swords and spears clashed and arrows reigned overhead, shot by archers far back behind your city walls. The stench of metal and rot stunk the air, the dead beginning to decay from the constant heat.
Thankfully, it had rained yesterday, washing most of the heat away, but the terrain proved treacherous, thick, heavy mud crusting armor and horse’s hooves as your forces charged, connecting with the empire’s black armored lackeys.
When your wave got there, most of the fighting was already continuing, your sections just finishing or helping out your allies.
But that’s when you spotted him.
Clad in elaborate armor, Emperor Sukuna stood in a slight clearing, laughing joyously as his long weapons swept through your forces. Your men didn’t stand a chance against his brute force and long range.
At least, not on foot.
While his back was turned, you charged right at him, your steed’s hooves stomping over fallen bodies as it rushed. Drawing your sword, you leaned to the side, letting the momentum carry the sharp edge to his head, his helmetless head.
With a rough twang!, your strike was interrupted by a sword swung by a man with long black hair, an ugly stitched scar on his forehead.
General Kenjaku, known well for his cruelty and beastility towards your forces. He was a brilliant mind, patient and cunning, but with an ugly heart. He had tortured your men and raped your women all while taunting the throne.
To say less, it was very satisfying to see a sword plunge through his gut, driven by one of your close generals, Satoru Gojo, able to sneak up while Kenjaku was distracted with you.
Sukuna whipped around, eyes narrowing as he saw his General go down, his spear slipping right between the cracks in your horse’s armor as his other hand, holding his sword dug into Satoru's side, falling right next to Kenjaku.
Satoru’s white hair was stained with blood as he fell next to the body of Kenjaku, crimson blood mixing with the brown of the mud.
Your horse’s leg buckled, falling towards Sukuna as you pushed yourself off the opposite way, Sukuna’s long sword swooshing right where you were sitting on your saddle.
He snarls and advances, stepping over your horse and throwing his spear on the ground, drawing his sword.
Sukuna wasn’t angry that Kenjaku was killed, he couldn’t care less if a pawn died, what he was pissed about is that you caught him off guard. You would’ve killed him if Kenjaku interfered.
You would’ve killed him when he was weak.
His first strike is pure fury, a harsh swing directed to your side, clanking against your own blade, arms straining at the force. Again, he takes a step forward, swinging and slashing and stabbing.
Your blades ring and scrape, fighting happening all around you, but no one dares to challenge or interrupt the Emperor when he is in battle.
Each block, your shoulders jar, straining and aching as you take the brunt of his attacks. You may be deflecting the blade, but the force is still there.
Sukuna slows down, focusing more on strategy and not anger as he gets more precise and trickier, accessing in a game of mental chess. As he slashes, he pulls up, dislodging your helmet.
It falls off, leaving your face bare.
The Emperor’s lips curve into a grin, “And here I thought you’d be mourning your poor husband.”
You don’t give him the effort of a response, gritting your teeth and swinging.
He parries it with ease now, more curious than angry, laughing at your attempt, “Do you soldiers know their queen fights among them like a common peasant, or was this your clever idea to beat me?”
You keep fighting, now more on offense versus defense, your sword darting and jabbing and feinting to try to find a chink in his defense.
His moves were flawless, so simple that they caught you off guard. He didn’t use any more brute force, just dodging and parrying when necessary.
But the ground was muddy and crowded, your foot catching on one of the fallen soldier’s armor, stumbling forward, Sukuna easily knocking your weapon out of your hands, leaving you defenseless.
He grins, his horrid mouth baring his teeth as advanced, grabbing your arm and yanking you towards him.
“Come with me, and I won’t kill you,” he whispers in your ear.
With your proximity, you grab the knife from his belt and slot it right next to his vulnerable neck. He grins, dropping his sword and letting you back away.
“You’re mad,” you hiss, snatching a sword from the ground, keeping a careful eye on him.
“Mad?” he repeats, eyes roving over your face and blood coated armor, the cut on your cheek, and your clenched jaw. “Perhaps, but being mad when it comes to you, my queen, feels like sanity.”
Before you can snap back, you’re yanked to the side, being pulled onto a horse by Satoru Gojo. His arm was bracketed tightly around his side, putting pressure on his wound from Sukuna.
Sukuna’s gaze darkens as he sees Satoru pull you up, away from him. He raises his sword, ready to cut the poor horse down but hesitates as he sees you scan the fallen, searching the faces of your fallen soldiers.
He signals to his troops to withdraw from the fight, one of the generals blowing a loud horn that the men immediately respond to, abandoning their fight and retreating.
Sukuna doesn’t move, just watches your back as you are taken away from him. He doesn’t bother himself with going after you.
Besides, he’d see you soon enough.
By the end of the week, the number of deaths and people conscripted were cut in half, the people praising you, practically worshipping you. Mercifully, the emperor’s army drew back slightly, giving you more than enough time to regroup and think about your next move before the next wave began.
You punished wrongdoers and removed some of the corrupted advisors and nobles, the various servants able to work without being harassed now. The kingdom was peaceful, but you remained on edge, knowing it wouldn’t be long before Sukuna would come back.
And come back he did.
About a week later, you received a letter, the envelope unmarred and pristine, the wax seal unbroken and intricate. The parchment was rich and the penmanship smooth.
To the free queen,
I assume you have found your current situation quite pleasing, the unrivaled power, the complete jurisdiction. Now, just know that the satisfaction and power you feel right now can be taken away in an instant. I withdrew my troops in well wishings of your new rule. Nobles and advisors left and right will take any chance to stab you in the back, like your so unfortunate husband.
I advise you to meet with me at noon tomorrow and the eastern border to perhaps negotiate and discuss terms about your new power and discuss the future conquest of your kingdom. You will not be able to prevent it, so do not try. But perhaps we can come to a few terms we can agree to, I imagine your future fate will be a lot kinder.
Besides, I wouldn’t want to have to take your newly found freedom away.
His Imperial Majesty, Emperor Sukuna
His stupid signature glared at you from the bottom of the page. The thick, red, swirls that cursed out his name took up the whole bottom half of the parchment. That pompous bastard, thinking could just march in and threaten your people like he had any right to speak, much less insult you. But, you would have to go to the so-called “negotiation” if you had any hopes in preventing the destruction of your people.
You paused as you reread it, seeing the date in the corner.
Five days before your husband was killed.
He wrote this letter, before your husband died, talking about his death. There was no doubt he had something to do with his death, yet you weren’t angry in the sense of sorrow, you were angry because it went just according to his stupid plan.
The power of an emperor, to move kings around like pawns, knocking them over once they lived out their use.
It made no sense though, why would he kill your husband but not you? Why kill the king when there is still a queen?
Perhaps he thought you were weak, willing to let a gust of wind push you over, bending the knee for anyone who asked.
The news of the negotiation reached outside of the palace walls by the end of the day. The entire kingdom felt like their days were numbered, the Emperor of Fate ready to snip the thread of their life and their freedom any day now.
The following afternoon, your maids dressed you for battle. A metal and gold breastplate over your chest over finely woven chainmail with limited skirt for freer movement. Every exposed inch of you was covered in some sort of protection, even a helmet, one thats top had crown detailing adorned your brow. A sword at your hip, one that had been passed down from kings and warriors before reaching you. Several of your knights followed behind, your entire group on armored horses.
You didn’t look how you did on the battlefield last time you saw him, you no longer looked like a simple footsoldier, no, you looked like a goddess of war, a symbol.
As you got closer to the border, the signs of previous conflict grew, barren wastelands with birds circling above, armor and bodies scattered around. A bright red tent was visible just past it, up on a hill, braziers burning next to the entrance and the ornately decorated guards.
Once you reached the top, the fold of the tent parted, a short figure with a white bob approaching you as you dismounted your horses.
The person bowed to you, “I am Uraume, His Imperial Majesty’s messenger, he asks you to leave all of your guards outside, as none of his are inside.”
It has to be a trap, there was no way he managed to get you in the middle of a barren wasteland, unpopulated and destroyed while so close to his territory and expect you to walk in practically defenseless. As far as you knew, thirty soldiers could be waiting inside, waiting to slaughter you as soon as you entered, where no one could hear your screams.
But you didn’t have much of a choice, Sukuna had made that clear.
So you let out a breath and enter, your armored guards standing vigil outside.
The inside of the tent was large, maps set up on crates, tables, and desks, little colored objects depicting armies as if it was some childish game. There were small symbols of wealth everywhere, a golden and silver chessboard with the pieces carved out of rare gems, silk and velvet pillows were scattered around the room leisurely like the place wasn’t right next to a war ground.
But what stood out was the man sitting on a throne-like chair. His hand held up his chin as the sharp red eyes studied you. He didn’t move, almost like an ancient statue, well, he sure looked like one. Rich robes draped across his form, vibrant pink hair framing a sharp face with even sharper eyes. The very way he looked at you felt like he was peeling you apart, trying to take you down without even moving a muscle.
The stare of the Emperor.
You didn’t speak, standing close to the tent, hand on your sword. He appeared unarmed, yet, you had no doubt he could take you down as easy as breathing.
“You come to negotiate peace, yet dress for war, Your Imperial Majesty,” Sukuna drawls.
“You cannot threaten me and expect me to dress for peace,” you respond coolly, taking your helmet off and setting it on the table next to you. You meant to mock him on purpose, make it seem like you didn’t consider him a threat.
What you couldn’t get out of your mind was why he called you an Imperial Majesty. It was a title only reserved and addressed to emperors. You were a queen, yes, but even then you were only addressed to as Your Majesty.
His lips curve into a smile, either at your comment or your taunt. “Fair play. Ah, I must give my condolences to you.”
His condolences?
Oh right, your husband had died a mere two weeks ago.
“I couldn’t help to notice your date on the letter you sent me was written five days before my husband was killed,” you say, keeping your tone carefully neutral.
Sukuna tilted his head, eyes filled with amusement as he leaned down, “Are you insinuating that I might have something to do with it, my lady?”
You smiled, teeth bared and took a seat, “Of course not, just an odd coincidence to find. However, I do wonder why my husband was killed but not I?”
Oh how you despised this man in front of you. Sure, he might’ve gotten rid of your husband, but at the cost of the majority of your population.
“Perhaps they knew that you’d be better suited as a ruler than him,” he says slyly.
You clear your throat, you weren’t here to waste time, you were here to try to find a way to protect your people.
“And what of my people? Will they benefit under my rule?” You ask boldly.
He’s quiet for a moment, gaze scrutinizing, “I will give you options. You can either give in and your people will be under my rule, but will not be slaughtered, or, you can wait and see and I can take your kingdom by force. Remember, you are a kingdom, but I am an empire.”
“But what of me? Will you dispose of me as you did with my husband?” You interject, not caring about formalities or about the fact you were speaking to a man who held your fate in the palm of his hand.
“You? I do not plan to dispose of you. Give in, be my bride, be my empress and your people will remain unharmed, your kingdom the empire’s capital,” Sukuna said, his gaze cool and level as he studied you.
So your options were basically give in and be his wife, or refuse and have your kingdom taken by siege, and then be forced to be his wife, only this time, as a spoil of war.
But, you wanted to keep him on edge and waiting as long as possible, “And how long do I have to decide?”
He glances at you, amused, “I’ll give you five days, if I do not hear from you before, then my soldiers will be knocking at your door on the sixth.”
It was a threat, that much was clear, yet it didn’t feel like one. And even then, why did he want you to be his bride anyway?
You stood up, fuming, and started to bow stiffly before he raised his hand with a sharp look, “Never bow or lower your eyes when you are talking to an enemy, especially with no head protection.”
He peered down at you from his makeshift throne, lips pressed together in disapproval, “You do realize you are a queen? You have no need to bow.”
With a curt nod, you walk out, your face hiding all the confusion you felt underneath. Your knights and horse were still there waiting, a tense silence in between them and Uraume as you climbed on your mount. Uraume doesn’t move, giving you a nod, most likely already knowing Sukuna’s proposition.
You returned it silently, if you were going to be married, then you should at least find someone who’s on your side. Besides, it might prove beneficial to get possible information and weaknesses about your new “husband”.
The journey back was long, nothing filling the silence and nothing distracting you from your thoughts. Would Sukuna be as monstrous as he was known for? Did he really plan to make you his wife, or was it just a tactic for you to give in? Maybe he planned to lock you away as soon as he had you.
It was useless, to wonder, to fear, it would be better spending your time planning on how to survive in the cutthroat of the emperor’s inner circle.
That night after you undressed and bathed, you sat in the library next to the big window, letting your hair dry from the fire as you were left with your thoughts.
You’d bring some of your own people of course. Your maids were the ones you’d had since birth, they were the only ones you’d ever trusted. Maybe you’d bring a few musicians with you, after all, they’d probably have better success in such a larger court.
Maybe a few days later you’d send him your acceptance letter, but tonight you weren’t going to concern yourself with the man. Or his eyes, or his hair, or the way he looked in his armor…
No, an enemy was an enemy. Keep your friends close and your enemies closer, right?
That night, before you went to bed, your helmet you left at Sukuna’s tent was sitting on your window, looking polished and shinier than before. There was no sign of any entry to your room, none of the maids or guards reporting seeing anyone. As you picked it up, there was a small flower inside, a single pink orchid, the same shade as Sukuna’s hair.
You sighed and tossed the flower out the window, setting your helmet on your table, crawling into bed and shutting your eyes.
Every night, before you went to bed for the next few days, you found another fresh pink orchid sitting on your windowsill. You had guards and maids keep lookouts and prevent anyone coming inside, yet the flowers didn’t stop.
One night you decided to leave the old one on your windowsill, waking up to find another one next to it. You’d given up trying to prevent them, growing expectant to have them show up.
Yet on the fifth night, you had no choice but to send your letter, giving up your freedom once again.
Emperor Sukuna,
I accept to be your wife on my terms. I will be empress, and I will still live the majority of my time in my current household. My people will not be harmed and they will be cared for as well as my city becoming the capital of our empire. I will have freedom to come and go as I please and I will be treated on equal status as you.
Her Imperial Majesty
Miles away, the fearsome Imperial Majesty, the Curse King himself cracked a smile at your audacity.
Her Imperial Majesty?
It was good that you already knew your place.
The next day, Uraume arrived at your palace, several of the emperor’s guards in step, each one of them bowing to you.
“Your Imperial Majesty, I have been told to escort you back to the Emperor. I suggest you pack travel clothing for we will be visiting the current temporary capital to tell the rest of the empire of the marriage and changes,” Uraume spoke, rising from their deep bow.
You glanced at them and the guards behind them, “Am I meant to travel alone?”
The advisor briefly hesitates, “His Imperial Majesty says that you are welcome to bring a few personal companions, as long as they do not complain and can handle the journey.”
With a nod, you welcomed them inside, letting the servants give them tea and food as you packed light, having a short meeting with your closest knights and advisors, filling them in on your plan for the kingdom’s future.
When you went back downstairs, you had a small bag, only full of necessities. You had decided not to bring any maids or knights, who knows what danger they could be in once you arrived to the heart of the empire.
Later, you departed from your castle with Uraume and Sukuna’s knights, venturing back to the same exact tent you had been in several days prior.
Sukuna was waiting outside, dressed in red billowing robes inlaid with gold, the same crimson color of his eyes that stared at you. He held the reins of two horses, both a rich black that practically glistened in the sun.
“My wife,” he greeted, watching as you dismounted your own horse.
“Sukuna,” you returned, inclining your head slightly.
The barest glimpse of a smile ghosted his lips before he offered you one of the reins, his hand intentionally brushing yours.
You held back a grimace, did this man know how much blood was stained into his hands, or did he even care?
“I see you’ve brought your own horses, but let me give this one to you. Think of it as one of my wedding gifts. My general can take yours back to your castle, I assure you,” he said, like he was trying to reassure you. “We must leave quickly, the journey would be long and traveling at night would not be welcoming.”
You knew he was right, too many stories have been heard about bandits or monsters that lurked in the thick brush that not even the mighty emperor could control.
Sukuna stood by your side as you mounted the horse he gave you, one hand on its chest like he was steadying it for you to get on. It was only once you were safely up on your horse did he mount his.
Surprisingly, he led the path side by side with you. You had expected to be next to him and sandwiched in between guards in front and behind like most royal parades.
But perhaps it was because some part of Sukuna liked the thought of not being protected. Some feral part of him relished it, hoping that something would leap out of the trees, giving him a reason to use the large sword strapped to his thigh.
He also knew that you could protect yourself, but he’d have enough space and momentum to at least get you out of the way.
After all, what use would a pretty wife be if she’s dead?
Hours of riding later, you reached the outer gates of the heart of his empire. The beautiful city of Nara rising in the distance.
You’d heard stories of the city, famous for its art and sophistication, a home of inventors, artists, musicians, and innovative thinkers to surround the emperor.
Your entire kingdom looked like the slums compared to the carefully constructed houses and streets, all that led to a humongous palace in the center of the city.
People on the streets stopped to watch the procession, you and Sukuna on horses made of midnight, the sun setting from behind you, framing your clothing in liquid gold.
As you glanced around, your gaze lingered on Sukuna. He looked like a King of Hell, his pink hair looking like flames in the dim light, robes spilling across his form like blood. He turned to look at you, molten eyes amused as he watched you take in the city.
That’s when you realized.
The people were throwing flowers.
All sorts of flowers, different shapes, different colors. Some were clearly bought from stores while others looked like they were handpicked from fields.
The people were rejoicing. Their emperor, their savior, had come back.
To them, he was doing what was necessary, doing things to benefit their empire, all while your people were being slaughtered by his own.
You regretted not killing your husband yourself when you heard of what he was doing. How many lives could you have saved? How many children wouldn’t have had to be sent to the front lines?
And this man beside you was the cause of it all.
How many people has he killed in his conquests? How many children have no fathers, no mothers? How many families now have empty spots at the table? How many parents have outlived their children?
The number would be too high to count. Some stories would never be told, some people were silenced, their voices snatched away before they could even speak.
And even worse were the people left behind.
How many of them were slaves now? How many were starving, barely able to survive day by day? How many were begging just for a chance to have their old life back?
But that was how the world worked. One set of people were shoved down so the other could reap the benefits.
But now you were in a position to change it. You could change the future of this empire, you could benefit your people.
That very night, before the sun had set, you had your coronation.
Maids had swept you up the second you entered the palace, bathing you and clothing you in a ridiculously ornate gown, twisting your hair up and powdering your face.
It felt like you were being weighed down by the amount of jewels and skirts you were wearing, not even mentioning all of the gems that were inlaid into your bodice. The sleeves were itchy and tight and your hair was pinned so tightly it felt like it was stretching your skin on your face.
You looked like a doll.
You hated it.
This wasn’t your first coronation, but this one was by far the grandest and most elaborate thing you’d ever seen. There were tables upon tables of food, stuffy nobles and important people flitting through the room, flutes of expensive liquors in their gloved hands. Flowers and gold covered every possible surface as you gazed in from outside.
When it was your time to come in, everyone was seated as you strode up to the dais, Sukuna waiting in elaborate garb while holding a crown that was identical to the one nestled in his pink locs. Both were gold and gleaming, every inch inlaid with gems and glistening in the torchlight.
He stood stiffer than you’d seen him, every movement calculated and precise as he lowered the crown onto your bowed head, taking your hand and pulling you up next to him.
As you had been informed by the maids, this ceremony was to serve as your coronation as well as your marriage versus letting you have more attention than just one night.
After that, the two of you practically stood there for nearly an hour, accepting congratulations from people who were clearly lying through their teeth, bitter that a foreigner could somehow marry the emperor instead of a noble daughter.
It was painful to sit there with that heavy ass crown on your head, your dress weighed down with all sorts of gems while your heels dug into your feet. But, you smiled and pretended to be as sincere as the people.
Once the people filed out, Sukuna sighed and took his crown off, setting it on the table next to him, sprawling out on one of the dinner chairs.
“You can eat you know,” he drawls, looking at you with amused eyes, loosening his shoulders and grabbing a rib of lamb. “I had the chefs make everything, I didn’t know what you liked. Also, I assume you didn’t have much time to eat before.”
He doesn’t bother with plates so neither do you, grabbing food straight off the trays that lined the long tables.
As you slide in the chair next to him, eating off the pile of cheese in front of you, he gently reaches out and takes the crown off your head, setting it next to his with a shrug, “Figured it was heavy.”
It was quiet, but not uncomfortable, the two of you eating everything from fruit to desserts to meat and cheese and side dishes. There was food you couldn’t even name, odd shaped vegetables and fruits and odd dishes you’d never even heard of.
It was surprisingly peaceful. You could eat as informally as you wanted, no audience or guards watching you eat. You could eat dessert before the main dishes, you could mix foods, play with them all while Sukuna scarfed down dish after dish next to you.
“Is this why you made them cook so much?” You asked, glancing at your husband who had steak juice dripping down his mouth.
He grins and nods, “This is the best part of any gathering.” He pauses, thinking before letting out a snort, “Hell, it's the only good part of any party.”
“I assume you don’t get along with the nobles?” You ask, grabbing a piece of steak before he could eat it all.
Sukuna groans and leans back in his chair, “All they do is lie and introduce me to their daughters like a vendor.”
You laugh, taking another sip from the mostly empty glass of champagne.
He pauses mid chew, staring at you with wide eyes as he watches you laugh. Slowly he comes to his senses and slowly chews before swallowing, “Come with me to my meeting tomorrow.”
“Why?” You ask, propping your chin up on your hand.
He shrugs, “You’re my wife, you’re the empress. I mean no one will force you to come because no one can, but I would like you to be there.”
You nod slowly, processing his words as servants come in and start to clean up the dishes and decorations. The sound of the word made your thoughts grow sour.
His wife.
You were married to a monster, you ate alongside him, you laughed with him. How could you forget about all the deaths he’d caused just because he hadn’t threatened you?
Sukuna stands, offering a hand to you as he leads you through the halls, “Remember, your status is equal to mine.”
True, you now had power to command armies, wipe places off the map, to order someone’s execution like you were ordering dessert.
He leads you into your shared bedroom, a gorgeous room truly fit for an emperor. There was an impossibly large bed on the side wall, curtains draping around the sides. There was a balcony that looked on the gardens as well as the rest of the city beyond the walls. Rich rugs decorated the floor and intricately made tapestries hung from the gold traced walls.
The bathroom was off to the side, a colossal tiled bathtub set into the ground like a pool and an entire wall made from mirrors.
There was another room connected to the bathroom, windows were everywhere, letting you see the last slivers of sun slip beyond the far forest. Stained glass covered the view, letting in a comforting light that shone around the shelves and shelves of books.
Sukuna had his own personal library.
You and Sukuna and a personal library.
One that had comfortable chairs and cushions on every corner, perfect for curling up late at night. One that had a fireplace for the colder months. One that no one else was welcome in.
Sukuna watched each of your reactions carefully, cataloguing them so he’d know what to get you as gifts in the future.
He showed you your closet next, beautiful gowns and sleep clothes and jewelry.
So much jewelry.
You could practically swim in it if you wanted to. Necklaces, bracelets, rings, anklets, crowns, diadems, belts. All in any gem you could possibly desire.
“I didn’t know what you liked,” he said, almost sheepishly.
You turn around and gape at him, “I’ve never seen this many gems in my life.”
A slight satisfied smile flickers at your words, “You are the empress now.”
He was right. But it still didn’t feel real that night as you changed into one of the rich silk nightgowns from your extensive closet and crawled in bed next to your husband. Your husband.
You were at least glad he didn’t expect you to immediately "consummate" the marriage, instead, crawling in the bed on the other side. The space was big enough that you could barely notice him, content to relax in the plush mattress.
After all, you had only met the man less than a week earlier, and now you were wedded and in bed together. A month earlier, you were listening to the man you married bring other women to his separate bedroom.
What a change.
You laid there stiffly until his breathing slowed and he grew still. You had looked around the room earlier, not a single weapon of something you could use to slit his throat, most likely a precaution he’d taken.
Perhaps tomorrow you could search and find one to slip into the layers of your skirts to kill him later.
Right, you’d be patient, and you’d have to be careful. After all, you were laying in bed with a monster.
The next morning, you woke to a couple maids flitting around, drawing you a bath and setting out clothes for the day. They washed your hair with delicious smelling shampoos and lathered sweet lotion on your body.
Once you were dressed, they sat you down in front of a golden gilded mirror to do your hair and makeup. Sukuna watched from where he was sprawled in the sheets, already ready.
He watched as they powdered your face and darkened your lashes and draped you in all sorts of jewels, each color matching his outfit.
Once you were done, the maids were dismissed and Sukuna offered his arm to you, the other one sliding a sword into the belt at your side.
At your questioning look, he shrugs, opening the bedroom door for you as you stepped out, “You never know if you may need it, besides, it makes you look more threatening.”
What a fool, he had just handed his own demise to you without batting an eye.
The journey to the meeting room was awkward. Maids and servants would see the two of you and immediately bow and stare until you rounded the corner, as well did the knights that guarded every entryway.
A pair of knights opened the tall, oak doors as you neared the end of a long hallway, revealing a huge room. There were rows and rows of seats, all facing towards a dais where a large throne sat. Hundreds of faces turned your way once you and Sukuna stepped in, men that looked like they were barely old enough to have children to men whose long beards were whiter than marble.
Sukuna, calm as ever, led you through and up the stone steps to the intricately carved throne. There were scenes of triumph, of conquest and of victory etched into the sides of the throne.
The only sound in the room were the scuffles of your shoes as you were led up, like a lamb to the slaughter.
Before you reached the throne, Sukuna turned around to face the men and purposefully pushed you into the seat.
At once, the room erupted, men jumping up and yelling in protest at the sight of a woman on the throne, their faces red and hair wild.
Sukuna paid no mind, simply standing next to the throne and letting one of his hands rest lazily on your shoulder, reminding you that he was there.
“Do not mind them,” he spoke quietly, “They cannot stand something that does not benefit them.”
His eyes bore into your head as you kept your calm face, squeezing your shoulder gently.
“Silence!” He snapped, raising his voice at the screaming advisors.
Immediately, they stopped, sitting back down in their seats, eyeing the emperor cautiously.
You wondered what his motive was. Why would he place you so highly, over his own court? Was it to test you? Or maybe it was all for show and behind closed doors the tables would flip.
“I told you I would take a wife soon, and I told you that she would be empress. Now bow,” he said curtly, no room for argument, “She is my rank, which is above all of you, remember that.”
There was a moment of hesitation, of complete silence, before slowly, like a waterfall, the crowd of men bowed their heads, bowing low as you sat on the throne, looking down on them.
You glanced to Sukuna who gave you a firm nod, a slight grin on his face as he took it all in.
Power looked good on you.
“Rise,” you finally spoke, your voice calm and smooth, not betraying the pressing feeling of all their stares. “I’m sure you know I am from Heian-kyō, which was recently unified into the empire. There will be a slight change.”
You pause, letting the suspense hang over then men.
“We will be moving the current capital to Heian-kyō.”
For the second time, the room erupted in outrage, men on their feet, shouting accusations and mentions of witchcraft, of love spells and seduction.
Sukuna’s eyes narrowed, his grip on your shoulder tightening as his free hand lingered on the hilt of his sword threateningly.
The crowd quieted at his silent warning.
“Anyone who speaks to my wife like that again will be removed,” he said calmly, “I do not care what your position is, you are replaceable.”
“But Your Imperial Majesty, I don’t thin-” one advisor started.
Sukuna’s glare cut to him, “Your Imperial Majesties,” he corrected, “And now, we will listen and let my wife, the empress, finish her sentence.”
You cleared your throat, leaning back in the throne, “Like I said, we will be moving the current capital to Heian-kyō. You are not required to move, and hopefully, you won’t. But, for important meetings, you will travel there or we will travel here.”
The advisors are visibly fuming but stay quiet, glaring at you with a plotting look in their eyes, glancing from you to Sukuna.
Perhaps you could turn them against Sukuna, but then nothing would be stopping them from turning onto you too. You’d have to wait this one out, maybe you could hope that they’d look at you wrong and give you a good reason to have them removed.
Maybe, once you wormed your way into the Emperor’s heart, you could make your move.
And bring his empire down for good.
Sukuna was by no means a benevolent ruler, nobles and servants alike cowering aback whenever he entered a room. Even his most feared generals stayed out of his way.
You were now in the war room, listening to various generals and commanders give their reports on the empire and its expansion. You were surprised he even let you in here, but it was clearly a power move, something to show you that you weren’t considered as much of a threat.
But you listened intently, keeping detail of the important statistics. Numbers, locations, supplies, plans, you kept it all in your head and every night, you’d write them all down in the margins of a romance book you found in your personal library. The book was tucked behind several others, its front page with hearts and flowers and a couple on it.
Sukuna didn’t seem like the type to read romance anyway.
And speaking about Sukuna, he was surprisingly not a bad husband. He let you pick your clothes and outfits and you had free roam around the castle, only having to be back in your room by midnight.
He did make sure to take any weapons you had before falling asleep. You weren’t sure how he managed it, but he’d always find a way to get your sword before you could hide it for later use. Sometimes he’d lean in, whispering sweet words while his hands unlatched the holster, setting it on the table as he left a lingering kiss on your neck on cheek. Later on, a servant, usually Uraume, would come over and take it while you were changing in the closet.
Sukuna was casually affectionate, a simple brush of hands or shoulders during the day or he’d gently straighten your crown before you went out, his hand would stay on your shoulder during audiences, grounding you with his presence.
During balls, he’d always ask you for a dance as if you weren’t already married, spinning you around and guiding you around scheming nobles, trying to find a way to undermine you, steering you away from grabbing hands and feet.
He’d feed you as you ate outside or you’d find new books in your library when he heard you talking about a genre or author.
But he never kissed you on the mouth.
On the cheek, on the neck, on the forehead, on your hand, yes, but he never even grazed your lips.
You couldn’t explain what bothered you about it, but you got this odd feeling in your stomach every time he avoided it. Was he seeing someone else? Did he think you were that repulsive?
He couldn’t have been seeing someone else, right? You would know, most of your day was spent by his side, eating, going to meetings, or taking walks in the huge gardens. He treated you more and more like his wife and less like a prisoner.
You still sat on the big throne in the meeting hall and gazed down at the sneering nobles, Sukuna standing over your shoulder, his hand resting next to you.
“Remember, you are up here, and they are down there,” he would whisper, leaning close to your ear.
You resisted the urge to shiver, you couldn’t allow your facade to break, you couldn’t give in to his influence.
So far, you’d received no word or clue about any rebel groups, you were hoping to hear of some so you could give them your notes. It appeared your kingdom had been appeased with the news of your newfound power and marriage. They were content to live out their lives under the empire as long as you ruled.
Still, you continued to spy on the advisor and war meetings, sitting there quietly and absorbing the information. The men don’t even give you snide glances or make comments about your presence anymore, having gotten used to you.
You had gotten used to your routine as well, slowly waking up closer and closer to Sukuna everyday, the space in between your bodies shrinking. Then, you’d choose what you wanted to wear and you’d be dressed, all while your husband watched you leisurely from the bed. He’d take you around the palace, arm intertwined with yours and escorting you from meeting to meeting, sitting you down from throne to throne.
Every week you’d get dressed up in jewels and layers and gems, all matching his, to flaunt around at a ball, twirling through flames of silk and tulle and velvet.
You were getting used to the weight of the clothes and jewelry and the crown, as well as your husband, almost getting affectionate.
Nights were spent just like this one, sitting out on the balcony and staring down at the gardens and further on, the flames and firelight of the city.
“I must say, I wasn’t expecting this arrangement to be so… beneficial,” Sukuna drawls, glancing at you under the stars.
You remain looking at the stars, glancing at him teasingly, “You really did not give me much of a choice.”
A sly grin breaks apart the harsh contours of his face. “True, but I didn’t think you’d listen otherwise.”
He’s right. You wouldn’t have.
“I never did thank you for getting rid of my husband,” you say.
Sukuna scoffs, “He was going to die either way. He was a shitty husband and an even terrible ruler.”
That gets a laugh out of you, oblivious to how Sukuna’s eyes soften as he glances at you. It was the best decision he ever made to rid you of your husband. No one should be trapped in a cage they did not put themselves in.
Sukuna liked how you were warming up to him, acting as if every fleeting glance, every touch didn’t kill him inside to reach back. Oh how he just wanted to pull you into his lap right now. There was no need for formalities in the comfort of his own room.
But, he’d wait for you to make the move, he couldn’t imagine undoing all the progress so far just because he couldn’t control himself.
So he waited alongside you. He woke up and went to sleep in your bed, oblivious or uncaring to your inner confusion. Every night and every morning there were fresh pink orchids to go with whatever outfit you wore.
The moment you woke up you knew something was wrong.
Sukuna was not beside you, there were no maids, no servants waiting on you. No one had woken you up early to dress you as usual.
As you stood, you glanced around, searching through your bedroom, the closet, the bathroom, the library.
No one.
Quickly, you pulled on a simple dress and shoes and marched to the door, planning to search the palace for your husband.
The door wouldn’t budge.
You tried again and again but it wouldn’t move, the wood clanking as something prevented it from opening. Panicked, you tried every other door you could find.
You were trapped.
Pacing, you tried to hear anything from the hall or outside but it was dead silent. No guards, no footsteps, no voices, just a blank silence that came from stillness.
You started tearing up the room to try to find something to get out with, you couldn’t be trapped inside. Was this whole marriage just because he got bored? Were you not entertaining enough?
As you scanned the place, the doors opened, Sukuna and several of his commanders and guards stepped in alongside him, blocking off the door. Their faces were cold and emotionless, staring at you like you were the enemy.
“What is going on, Sukuna?” You demanded, glancing around.
“Sit,” he commanded, his tone giving no room for argument.
That made your blood run cold. He had never used that tone with you, even when you met him on the battlefield months ago, he had never talked to you like that.
Gingerly, you sat on one of the chairs, eyes narrowed as you studied him and his blank expression.
“What is the meaning of this?” You ask again.
“You tell me,” he snaps back, tossing a book on the table in front of you.
The cover of the romance book stared up at you, no doubt filled with the numbers and locations of his armies from the past meetings you’d been in.
You’d forgotten you still had it, so wrapped up and comfortable in your new life that you forgot the main reason for coming here. Yet, the evidence glared up at you harshly from where it sat on the table.
Steeling yourself, you slid it back to him, “I think you already know.”
Sukuna was two seconds away from exploding, his eyes glaring into you fiercely as he leaned towards you, “Was this your whole plan, witch?”
You had nothing to say. No excuses would be able to erase the hard proof they had. You could tell him that you loved him, that you had changed, but nothing would be able to smooth over the situation.
He scoffs, turning away and letting the guards take your arms and pull you out of the room. You didn’t protest, only looking down in shame as they dragged you down, floor by floor until the light filtered away and the smell of dampness clung to the old stone.
You were placed in the furthest cell from the surface, only containing a bed of moldy straw and a deep hole that previous prisoners had used to relieve themselves.
Horror stories of the empire’s interrogations and dungeons had reached every corner of all kingdoms. If torture didn’t kill them, then the coldness of the cell and the rats and diseases in the straw would kill them.
For hours you sat there, the floor soaked and a leak steadily dripping from the ceiling. Your beautiful skirts slowly getting wet and stained from the dirty water. There was nothing else to do except sit with your thoughts and your guilt while you waited for any sign of human life.
Above ground, Sukuna sat on his throne, the stone unusually cold without your presence as he listened to advisors all clamoring and shouting for your execution. Yet his mind kept circling back to the book, all the dates and numbers and stats of his men.
He tried to go back in his memory, running over every interaction with you and trying to see if there were any holes or any suspicions that you could’ve been plotting against him. He didn’t want to believe it but the evidence was right there. Your handwriting, your book, it was indisputable.
Thinking back, you never seemed like you would betray him, sometimes quiet, but it never felt like you were scheming behind his back. Besides, who could you be selling him out to? He was always by your side, always.
Days passed and Sukuna grew sharper without you, frequently lashing out at servants or advisors even more than he did before you. He couldn’t bear to think that you were down there in the cold dungeons, freezing and soaked as you awaited your sentence.
Were you crying? Were you starving? Were you anxious? Or had you already accepted whatever fate befell on you?
Now, he’d never admit it, but the truth was he missed you constantly. He ate alone, he slept alone, he walked alone, there was a lingering shadow where you used to be. Was he destined to always be so close to happiness, only for it to be taken from him just as quick?
That’s when he realized, missing you hurt worse than your betrayal.
Whatever your sick plan was, he’d rather you be by his side and plotting his demise than trapped and locked away from him. Sukuna would rather be overthrown by your own hand than be forced to follow through with your execution.
“Silence,” he commanded, the room of advisors falling silent. They’d never been one to try to test Sukuna’s temper, but now it was even worse, like walking on cracking ice.
“Bring her to me,” he continued, ignoring the glances from the audience.
He was the emperor, and no emperor was complete without his empress.
You were stirred awake when two guards came into your cell, hoisting you up by the armpits and carrying you back up the many flights of stairs. You recognized the path, it was one you’d taken many times, only with your husband guiding you and not being dragged in chains.
The metal clinked along the stone floor as they dragged you in front of the throne, dropping you on your knees in front of Sukuna.
You couldn’t look up at him, keeping your head bowed, partly ashamed at your appearance and guilty of your actions. The once beautiful dress was torn and wrinkled, the rich fabric stained and sagging. Your hair was down, uneven and matted, tangled with the beads of jewels around you.
To put it simply, you looked like a beggar.
“Leave us,” the Emperor said firmly.
Amid the shuffling and scuffing of feet as they left, you realized how much you missed your husband's voice. It was much better than the scurrying of rats or the drip of leaks.
As the door shut, you kept your head down, even as the Emperor descended from the dais, coming to a stop in front of you.
Sukuna sighs, crouching in front of you and tilting your chin up, “I told you never to bow, especially to me.” His voice was soft, almost tender, his finger smoothing the confused crease in your brows.
Your eyes dart around, noticing the empty room but staying quiet. You didn’t deserve to look him in the eye. Not when you had been ready to betray him, to throw all of his leniency and kindness in his face while watching him fall.
No, you were not worthy.
Could this be a trap? Could this be to give you the illusion of comfort and domesticity to trick you out?
“My empress, it would do you good to know that… that I grew to long for your presence. I could not imagine your punishment, much less your death. I would rather you bring me down then have such a brilliant soul waste away underground,” he murmurs, bringing you closer.
Gently, he unlocks your chains, rubbing his hands over the irritated red marks they left. Sukuna kisses your brow, smoothing back your hair. He doesn’t mind if you keep quiet, maybe he’d fill up the silence for once.
“Come, I will draw you a bath,” he says, pulling you to your feet and wrapping an arm around you.
He leads you through a set of halls you’d never been in, blissfully empty, no maids or servants or advisors milling about like usual, just dead silence.
Thankfully, Sukuna was warm and dry, contrasting to your cold and wet clothes clinging loosely to your form as you huddled near him. The whole while there, he spoke quietly, his soothing tone wrapping around you like warm honey, filling up the space with simple talk about the gardens or how the palace was built or telling you myths about the statues that lined the way.
He walked you through a door which opened up to the familiar sight of your room, only items were scattered, clothes tossed around and vases upturned. Silently, he led you through the mess, making sure your feet wouldn’t catch on the clutter as he entered the bathroom.
As he sat you on the sink, he smoothed your hair back, dirt and grime smearing on his hands alongside his tattoos. It was as if you were marring him somehow, like disfiguring a god.
Sukuna caught your glance and sighed, standing up and beginning to draw water for your bath. You sat there, watching him work with preparing the scents and soaps that your maids always had used.
Then, he walked back over and took you up in his arms, walking towards the water. He let you sit down on the edge while he stood behind you, undoing your dress and many layers, now dirty and unwashable.
HIs hands traced down your bare skin carefully, calloused and rough but as light as a feather. Before this, he had never seen you completely nude, perhaps in a nightgown or a shift but never fully bare in all your months of marriage.
And still, he was careful, respectful, mindful to not let his hands linger too long on certain places as he undressed you.
Once you were bare, he gestured silently for you to get in fully, his hands resting on your shoulders as he sat behind you.
His hands ran through your hair, soaking the tangled mess and letting the water loosen some of the worse tangles. Long, strong fingers rubbed the sweet smelling shampoo into your scalp and washed away the dirt. Even though his fingers weren’t as soft as your maids, they were twice as gentle, tenderly rubbing away as you closed your eyes.
Once he finished washing your hair, you opened your eyes, twisting around slightly in the water to look at him.
“Come in,” you asked, your voice slightly hoarse. “Please.”
Sukuna visibly hesitates but stands up, loosening the layers and layers of formal attire. His eyes stay on you the whole time as inch by inch his body is revealed.
Expanses of toned, trained muscle show as he shrugs off his shirt, faint white scars tracing maps along his rough skin. He’s more beautiful than you ever could have imagined, each tattoo and scar swirling around the other like flames as his muscles ripple, lowering himself next to you.
His hands gently wrap around your waist, guiding you to his lap and settling you upon the broad muscle of his thigh. As one arm holds you in place, his free hand starts to lather your body with soap, scrubbing away the layer of grossness and grime that penetrated deeper than the visible eye.
Ever so slowly, your tense body relaxed against his, letting him wash you tenderly.
His chin rested on your shoulder, lips next to your ear, “I should’ve known you’d try to fight. I took you away from your world, your kingdom, everything you’d ever known to tie you to me. And for that I am sorry.”
He was sorry?
Were you truly dying? Hearing the great Sukuna Ryomen apologize wasn’t something you’d ever thought you’d hear. Well, then again, you didn’t expect to be married to him.
Through the hour or so you were in the bath, you must’ve nodded off against his chest, lulled to sleep by his soothing words and comforting touches.
You woke in your bed, clothed in one of your regular nightgowns and securely held to Sukuna’s chest, one of his arms bracketing your waist. The rising sunlight streaming in from the loose curtains, wind billowing them around in the quiet.
“Are you awake?” A low, rumbling voice sounded from behind you, Sukuna’s chin resting on the top of your head.
Wordlessly, you nodded and turned around, curling into him and letting the warmth of his body embrace yours under the richly embroidered covers.
He adjusted slightly to make you more comfortable, lacing his fingers through yours and sliding your wedding ring back on your finger from where you had taken it off that morning where you were found guilty of treason.
As you look up at him, his tattoos on his face flicker as he nods, “You are my wife as well as empress. You do not belong without a ring.”
His voice was gruff and his words were short yet the simplicity was needed in the moment, letting you regain some of your confidence and push your guilt aside.
Teasingly, you took your fingers from his and rolled over on top of him, straddling his bare chest. Grinning, you traced your hands down the dark shadows and rolls of muscles, “Well, according to the laws of your empire, we are not married, and such a position is quite scandalous for anyone, including us.”
His jaw clenches and his eyes narrow, trying to figure out where you're going with this but his hand curls around your waist, the other digging slightly into the flesh of your thigh, spreading them slightly.
“I wasn’t aware you were one for such technicalities or traditions,” he grits out, eyes flickering down to where your nightgown dipped ever so slightly revealing your collarbone.
“A man’s duty to his wife is to please her, correct?” You teased, cocking your head and leaning over him.
“Then what would my wife want?” Sukuna all but growls, hands flexing from where they had slid up under your nightgown, resting on your hips.
You pretended to think about it, leaning back just enough to rub over the growing hardness between his thighs, ignoring his slight hiss.
As you opened your mouth to respond, he snarled and yanked you down, crushing your lips to his and holding you in place. When your hands sank into his hair, he pulled you impossibly tighter, opening his mouth and pushing his tongue into yours.
You froze momentarily. He had never kissed you on the lips, and certainly not like this. It was rough, almost primal, but then again, so was he.
Before he could pull away, you kissed him back, hands curling into his hair as your hips lifted in a slow drag over his crotch, bringing a sound from his lips that were still crushed against yours.
His hands tightened on your hips, trailing up your sides, pushing your nightgown up with them.
Breaking the kiss momentarily, you slid your arms up and pulled the nightgown off, the only clothes still on being the underwear he put on you as you had fallen asleep. His scarred hands trace delicately on your body, the rough texture clashing with your soft skin, fresh from your bath the previous night.
Sukuna leans up, littering kisses on your collarbone and neck, his lips soft compared to the rough kiss earlier, his tongue tracing the skin. Your hands grip his bare shoulders, nails digging into the muscle as you tilt your head back before being gently pulled back down so he could slot his lips against yours.
Your hips stuttered causing him to let out an unpleasant hiss from the loss of contact. His arm wrapped around your waist and softly pushed you off him, rolling over so he was on top, his lips still onto yours.
As he broke away, he had a reverent look in his eyes, his hand brushing your face and traveling down along with his mouth, trailing along your skin and nipping at your breasts, mouth enclosing around one while his hand played with the other, tongue traveling downwards to trace the juncture where your thigh meets your body.
Sukuna glanced up, head tilted slightly, eyes questioning, his fingers resting on the lip of your underwear. Barely, you nod and that seems enough for him to nearly rip your underwear in half trying to pull it down.
Before you could huff a laugh at his antics, his mouth dove in between your legs, tongue burying between your folds licking a stripe between your legs, ruby eyes meeting yours as he sucked roughly on your clit, sliding two fingers into your cunt. As he scissored his fingers, he watched as you arched, pushing and grinding your hips into his face. Sukuna hummed in satisfaction, nipping at the skin on your thigh and sliding his elbows up farther to push your legs apart more, his free hand pressing down on your stomach as his fingers slid in and out of you. Mouth opened in a gasp as he took them out only to push them in as deep as he could, moving them back and forth inside you, drawing lewd sounds from your cunt.
Moaning, you lean up to look at him with rolled eyes, mouth in a perfect “o” all to find him grinning, the bottom half of his face wet with your slick. You tilt your head to look at him as he glides up above you, his tongue tracing your body as his fingers remain inside of you, the hand that was pressing on your stomach was by your head, allowing him balance to slip his tongue into your open mouth. His lips curved into a smirk as he felt the moans against his lips and you clench around his fingers.
“You don’t need to be quiet, my orchid, no one's gonna say anything,” he croons against your lips, tongue tracing your open mouth as his fingers tore you inside out.
Softly, he nips along your neck as you get closer to the crest of your orgasm, him feeling it around his fingers and from the obscene sounds coming from your mouth and cunt.
Then, he bites down hard on your neck, fingers stilling inside you as you cum hard, nails digging into his scalp as you ride out your orgasm on his hand, muscles tensing. Slowly, Sukuna’s mouth became softer, leaving light traces of kisses as you came down, breathing hard.
Almost tender, he slid his fingers out of you with an obscene sound, the brief softness vanishing as he smacked your pussy with the flat of his hand, smearing the juices on your folds and on his hand.
“You gonna be good for me, hm? You gonna let me have you right?” He croons, lips tracing your cheek as you yelp as he presses his covered cock against you, your wetness soaking the fabric.
You nod, dazed as you watch him remove his pants, the tattoos trailing down from his chest down to his thighs, framing the shadow of his hard cock, the veins visible and thick, tip flushed almost as red as his eyes.
Gently, he leaned over you, letting his tip brush against the wetness as he layers kisses among nips and bites along your face before returning to your lips, pressing his against yours hard as he pushes inside. And god was he big, a hiss left your mouths at the sharp pain at the stretch, nails digging into his back.
Sukuna let out a sound akin to a moan as he sunk into you, feeling your walls clench around him, he didn’t want to leave ever. Slowly, he pulled his hips out before slamming back in, pressing your knees towards your face.
He growled, backing up so he was standing, pulling you by your legs to the edge and shoving himself back into you, folding your knees to your chest as he fucked you hard. Lewd sounds filled the room from both of your mouths as well as the wet sounds as you gripped hard around him, splitting you in half.
Out of nowhere, he stilled, as far in as he could get, yet he wriggled his hips, trying to get even deeper, brushing against some untouched hidden spot that had your hips jerking as you moaned.
Suddenly, he pulled out, leaving you gasping at the sudden emptiness but when you caught a glance at his cock, your mouth dropped. It was absolutely soaked and shiny from being inside you, flushed and veiny, you could see it twitching.
His hands returned to your hips, flipping you over onto your stomach and ramming back in, this time much easier, a loud smack sounding as his hips collided with your ass, your insides squelching.
He let out a low groan in your ear, standing up and sliding a hand along your scalp, gently pulling you back into a mean arch as he used you, his other hand sliding down and drawing circles around your soaked and swollen clit, giving it a light smack before pressing down on the skin of your lower stomach, moaning as you tightened around him, sucking him in so he couldn’t get out if he tried.
The slap of skin echoed throughout the room as he fucked you with a punishing pace, ramming into you like a toy.
Panting, you gasped as he let go of your hair, letting your head drop before his hand slid around your neck, applying light pressure as the hand that was pressing down hit you on your ass hard.
“Yeah? You wanna be good for me and take it, hm?” Sukuna panted, smacking you again. He leaned down close to your head, listening to your moans and cries, slightly quieter due to his hand on your throat, tightening.
“Mhmm,” you gasped, nodding quickly, head falling forward as he let go, continuing to fuck you into the mattress and pressing your head into it, groaning as he felt your pussy squeeze around him, squelching as you gripped him around every vain.
You were practically drooling as you let him fuck you senseless, crying out for him and every deity that might forgive you for the nasty act you were doing. Still, you never wanted to leave this moment, clamping down around him and milking him for all its worth as you grew in sensitivity.
He stilled, wrapping his hands around your hips and pulling you back so you got yourself off on him, so he could see you taking every inch and the slick coating him as his hands squeezed you, trailing down to cup your ass.
You rose yourself up onto your forearms, collapsing as he sheathed himself completely in you at once, leaving you gasping as he started up quickly again, your orgasm cresting again.
Almost tenderly, he pulled out of you, watching you as your legs twitched and your hole clenched around nothing before laying on his back next to you and pulling you on top, hoisting you up and feeling around before settling his dick back inside you, this time with you on top.
You tilted your head, still dazed as you leaked around his cock, feeling stuffed. Hesitantly rising up, you tossed your head back in a rough whine as you slid each inch inside, sensitive clit rubbing on the soft hair above.
Before you could move up again, Sukuna stopped you, his eyes focused on your lower stomach where he could see the slight imprint of himself as you moved, twitching inside your warmth. That image only got him more turned on.
Was he the only one to do this? Was he the only one to get you so lost in your own pleasure?
Well if he was, and he better be, then he was making sure it was gonna be the best you were gonna get.
He thrust up quickly, splitting you in half with his cock as he watched your breasts bounce with the motion, his hand enclosing around one and tracing his finger around the nipple while his mouth wrapped around the other one, sucking and twirling it around in his mouth.
“You need help, pretty girl?” He murmured in your ear, watching as your thighs shake from the constant motion and having to make room for his broad hips.
Firmly, you shake your head no and push him back down, hands on his chest as your hips rise all the way so barely his tips inside you before coming down. Your hips moved tantalizingly in circles, teasing him just enough to let a whine slip from his lips, abs flexing as your fingers ran over them.
Grinning, you quickened your pace, giving him some relief to the needy sensation he was craving. He twitched inside you as his hand pressed against your lower stomach, heightening the feeling for both of you, drawing circles on your clit simultaneously.
As you moaned, he sped up his fingers, eyes transfixed on your face as it scrunched up in pleasure, ignoring his release to keep fucking up into your sweet pussy, wanting your release dripping around him.
Your nails dug into his skin as you clenched around him, eyes rolling back as you orgasmed, him following right behind you and pumping load after load into you, filling you up with his warmth. Some escaped around where his cock entered you, leaking out of you.
Gently, he pulls you so you’re laying on his chest, him still inside of you, still twitching. He kisses the top of your head, tracing along your back.
“We’ll clean it up later, my wife. We have plenty of time,” Sukuna says softly.
However, you didn’t get the chance to sleep before he pulls you back up, an evil glint in his eyes as he looks at your fucked out face.
“The empire needs an heir, my love. After all, our duty is to the people.”
You could already feel him hardening inside you, gently kissing your temple and pressing in, tucking a pink orchid behind your ear.
pairings. bowser!sukuna x princesspeach!reader x mario!satoru
summary. you’ve been “kidnapped” by sukuna again—but the castle’s luxurious, you’re not exactly restrained, and every time satoru storms in to “rescue” you, you’re a little less willing to leave. they think they’re fighting over you… but you’ve always liked being in the middle.
content warnings. 7.1k words (super mario if it was peak), explicit sexual content, threesome, sukuna tops satoru AND YES THEY KISS yay!, power imbalance, possessive behavior, jealousy themes, bratty reader, light dubcon/kidnapping roleplay, oral sex, fingering, face sitting, creampie, spit sharing, degradation and praise kink, voyeurism, competitive bickering during sex, mild humiliation, overstimulation, spit roasting, lowkey dom-ish reader?, emotional manipulation played for comedy, lowkey crack so don't take this super srs.
author's note. got violently high last night and watched the super mario movie w my boyfie then this was born (my excuse to write yaoi)
you don’t know how this keeps happening, except you do. it’s always the same: the soft pull of teleportation magic or whatever the fuck he calls it now, the slow blink of disorientation, and then pink silk sheets or marble floors or a three-person bath sunk into the center of the room like a stage.
the castle is always the same, too—lavish in a way that feels intentional, like it’s been redecorated for you, like someone keeps hitting “reset” and changing the theme just enough to pretend it’s not a pattern.
last time it was rose petals. the time before that, champagne on ice. this time it’s cherries. purple and cold and split in half like he knew you’d complain about the seeds. there’s a gold tray floating nearby, embossed with little star motifs that glow faintly when the steam rolls over them.
“open,” he says, and of course you fucking do.
the bath is hot enough to sting. the steam’s curling your hair at the edges. your face is tight with that honey-clay-fancy-shit mask he special ordered from the capital, some absurd royal apothecary with a logo shaped like a mushroom crown, and there are cucumbers on your eyes that you didn’t ask for but now can’t remove without effort, so here you are.
dripping wet. blind. mouth open. being hand-fed by the most dangerous man in the empire. again.
this isn’t a rescue mission. it’s a spa day.
there’s a small brass bell by the tub, too. he told you it was decorative. you rang it once. servants appeared instantly. you’ve never touched it again.
and yet—if satoru gojo kicks down the castle door one more time while you’re soaking in a three-foot-deep lavender salt bath, you are going to commit an act of treason yourself.
“chew princess,” sukuna says lazily, and you chew, because arguing while topless in cucumber-blindness never works out in your favor. his fingers graze your lips. cold and wet. it doesn’t feel like a fruit offering. it feels like a game. a game you’re pretty sure he keeps winning on purpose.
“i should lock the door this time,” he mutters, mostly to himself. “fucking idiot’s probably already scaling the south wall.”
you snort. inelegant. a sound unbecoming of a captive princess. “you say that every time.”
“and every time, you let him ruin our date.”
you flick one cucumber slice off. barely crack an eye. he’s sprawled by the edge of the bath, arm balanced on the porcelain, hair up, chest bare, tattoos coiling, like this is his personal brothel and you’re the treat he summoned.
there’s a throne in the corner of the room you’ve never seen him sit on. he prefers this instead. he pops a cherry into his own mouth and chews like he invented the concept of pleasure. he probably thinks he did.
“i wouldn’t call it a date,” you mutter, and he tilts his head.
“you’re naked. i’m feeding you. he’s jealous. feels like a date.”
somewhere far below, a pipe groans as magic reroutes through the castle, like it’s bracing for impact.
you roll your eyes and sink deeper, the water sloshing over your collarbones. the tub is too big. the room is too warm. the air smells like fruit and whatever spell he always sneaks in when he thinks you’re not paying attention—the one that makes your legs feel floaty and your mouth dry. the one that makes you stay.
“he’s not jealous,” you lie.
sukuna laughs like you’re adorable. or pathetic. you’re not sure which one is worse.
you hear the splash before you realize he’s serious.
one thick leg, then the other. the water sloshes violently like the bath itself is trying to escape, and you almost lose one of the cucumbers off your eye again, but you don’t move—won’t give him the satisfaction. you lay there, blank-faced, toes wrinkling, cucumber-blind and bath-drunk while the warlord of five provinces and serial homewrecker of your peace slides into the tub like he fucking owns it.
because he does. because this castle was built to keep people out, and redesigned to keep you in.
“you have no boundaries,” you mumble, voice thick from heat and honey-mask goo and emotional exhaustion.
he hums. does not disagree. doesn’t say anything at all, actually—just settles in at the foot of the tub, lounging like it’s a throne, arms spread along the rim like he’s posing for a painting, and stares at you like he’s about to ruin something again.
you’re pretty sure this is how he waits between boss fights.
"this was supposed to be me time,” you mutter. more for yourself than him.
“it is,” he says, “i’m here.”
like that helps.
somewhere, a distant alarm chimes once. not loud. not urgent. just enough to say someone has entered the level.
you feel him hook one finger under your ankle and drag your leg toward him slow, indulgent, like he’s hauling in a catch, like your foot is a prize he won. the water parts, slick against your skin, and suddenly it’s his lap your heel’s resting in. he starts. thumb to arch. palm to sole. pressure applied just shy of pain. and you hate him for how good it is immediately.
"relax," he says, all fake-softness and amused mockery, "you act like i’ve never touched you before."
“you’ve never touched my feet before.”
he squeezes the ball of your foot just right and makes you groan through gritted teeth. “maybe that’s your problem. ungrateful. high-strung. too busy pretending you don’t love it here to let yourself enjoy anything.”
"i enjoy silence."
"never met a brat who didn’t lie for sport."
you hate that he's good at this. hate that you didn't know he could be good at this. hate that you’re not stopping him. that the bath is still hot, that his hands are still rough, that your other foot is already twitching in anticipation and he hasn't even touched it yet.
“yeah,” he mutters, low and satisfied, “there it is.”
"if you're gonna rub my feet like this every time, you should just kidnap me more often," you mutter, trying to sound bored and failing spectacularly.
"princess," he says, digging his thumbs in deeper, "you say that like you're not the one who keeps showing up."
his hands drift.
not immediately. he massages your other foot like he’s not planning anything—like he’s just being generous, like the ache melting from your calves isn’t calculated, like the bath isn’t a trap he set and walked straight into with a hard-on and a god complex.
but then his thumbs start creeping up. past your ankles. into your shins. up the backs of your calves where your skin’s the most sensitive. and you're still laid out, stretched and floaty, letting it happen. he's rubbing slow, like he has all night, like no one's coming to save you.
which they aren’t.
not yet.
you’ve been here enough to know the stages: the soak. the rubdown. the corruption. the bonus round.
his hands slide higher. up to your knees. your thighs. a palm braces against the bend of one leg and eases it open under the water, like that’s normal, like this is a trust exercise and not the prelude to filth. your cunt clenches like it knows what’s coming and wants to pregame the panic.
"i don't think this is in the massage manual," you say, voice dry, throat hotter than the bathwater.
he doesn’t answer. just leans forward. plants one lazy kiss on the inside of your knee like you’re something worshipped. like you’re a feast. like he’s already decided how you’ll taste.
and you—god help you—you don’t stop him.
you should. you know that. you should sit up and slap him and demand to be returned to your kingdom of overpriced skincare and mediocre royal suitors. but instead you let your legs fall a little wider. let him shift forward in the water. let him hook your knees over his shoulders like he’s done this before—has done this before—and let him drag you down the sloped edge of the bath until your ass is half out of the water and his mouth is hovering right there.
"say please,” he says, because of course he does. “go on. be cute for me.”
he grins, and then—boom.
the door slams open with enough force to shake steam off the walls.
the lock was enchanted. doesn’t matter. the hero always finds a way.
“GET YOUR HANDS OFF HER—!”
you don’t even lift your head. just sigh, high and long and put-upon, like your favorite face mask just got interrupted by a meteor. again.
“hello, satoru,” you say flatly. “nice of you to warp in after the cherries this time.”
there’s a faint squelch behind him as the castle seals the pipe he must’ve dropped out of. the scent of ash and ozone lingers in the air.
sukuna laughs. satoru is already halfway into the bath chamber with his stupid sword glowing and his white hair damp from rain and his eyes wide and horrified like he just walked in on a war crime.
and to be fair, he kind of did.
your legs are still over sukuna’s shoulders. your throat is still tight. your cunt is still pulsing like a fire alarm. and sukuna doesn’t even flinch. doesn’t retreat. just flicks his tongue out once, once, against the softest, most humiliating spot of you—as punctuation.
“oh,” he says, lazily. “you’re early.”
“you kidnapped her again,” satoru snaps, storming fully into the room like he pays the rent here, like he didn’t just walk in on you spread open in a royal bath.
“i invited her,” sukuna says.
“you never asked—”
“she never says no.”
“he’s got you under a spell,” satoru gasps, like this isn’t the eighth fucking time. “he’s—he’s doing something to you. you would never stay here willingly—”
“she asked for a refill,” sukuna says, not even glancing up from your inner thigh. “and a massage.”
“that’s not what this looks like.”
you bolt upright, peel the other cucumber slice off your face, dripping and humiliated and pissed off in five different directions now.
“oh my god,” you mutter, voice raw from heat and water and the whiplash of almost getting your pussy eaten into the astral plane. “both of you—shut the fuck up.”
sukuna doesn’t move. still lounging. big and broad like a final boss screen, steam curling around his tattooed chest like smoke from a fire-breath trigger, gold rings glinting at his fingers like coins from a chest you weren’t supposed to open. his shoulders are sharp. his jaw sharper. there’s something beast-shaped about the way he takes up space—even wet and lazy in the bath, he looks like he could wreck half the kingdom if you gave him a reason.
you shove sukuna off and stand. the bathwater crashes back into place. you step out, dripping, glistening, glowing with leftover soap and fresh vengeance, and snatch your robe off the heated hook like you’re the only adult in this cursed castle.
“you’re not rescuing me,” you snap at gojo, tying the sash. “you’re not corrupting me,” you shoot at sukuna. “you’re both just horny and dramatic and in love with the sound of your own arguments.”
satoru sputters. “i—i care about you—”
“you want to win me,” you correct. “like a sword duel or a fucking cake contest.”
“not everything is about your pussy,” sukuna drawls from the water, licking your taste off his lips like a challenge.
his tongue is sharp when it flicks out, forked at the tip like some kind of demon king parody of affection. his eyes glow just slightly—red and cruel—like he’s gearing up for his next form. like if you say the wrong thing, he’ll shift. claws, maybe. a shell. something ancient that drags you into him no matter how many times you run.
the castle hums again, and for a second, you swear the tub jets pulse in sync with your heartbeat.
“but you always make it about that,” you bite back. “so what’s the truth, huh? one of you wants to save me. the other wants to ruin me. but both of you are stuck in this dumb, pathetic tug-of-war and i’m the only one smart enough to say it.”
they’re both quiet now. dripping. wet. steaming in different ways.
you cross your arms.
“you don’t want to fight over me.”
you pause. drop your voice.
“you want to share.”
the silence is heavy.
you step forward, slow. drip across the floor. eyes locked on satoru first, then sukuna. neither of them flinch. neither of them breathe.
“and maybe if you two would stop acting like enemies and admit what you really want,” you murmur, “you’d both get to cum.”
sukuna stands.
and god, it’s a final boss animation.
he rises from the bath like he was spawned, not born—huge and horned at the shoulders with muscle and menace, black tattoos flaring like molten paths across his chest, glowing faintly gold under the water like lava veins. his aura crackles. the air bends. if he roared, you’d flinch. if he laughed, you’d cum. his dick is out like it belongs on a pedestal, and you’re not entirely convinced it doesn’t breathe fire.
you stare. satoru stares harder.
"what the fuck are you doing," satoru blurts, instinctively taking a step back like the sheer audacity is contagious.
“what’s it look like?” sukuna shrugs, climbing out completely, no towel, no shame, not even a flicker of modesty. he walks across the marble like he was born to stalk enemies and lovers barefoot and naked in his own castle. “i’m giving the lady what she asked for.”
he even leaves scorch marks in the water where he stood. not literal ones. just hot enough that your skin remembers them.
“she said kiss,” satoru says, face full panic, eyes full don’t make this real. “not—whatever this is.”
“you scared?” sukuna smirks. “it’s not gay if it’s for her.”
“that’s literally the most gay justification I’ve ever—”
“do you want to fuck her or not?” sukuna snaps, suddenly louder, stepping into his space, wet and steaming and mean. “because if we’re gonna fuck her, we’re doing it my way.”
he’s close enough now to smell like fire. not smoke. fire. heat from the source. it clings to him like sweat, like magic, like a dragon-shaped threat that decided it wanted you instead of treasure.
satoru's mouth opens. closes. twitches at the corners like he’s trying to glitch out of the conversation entirely. like if he blinks fast enough, he’ll wake up in a normal situation where he hasn’t just been pressured into gay chicken by the demon lord of wet arrogance.
"this is coercion," satoru mutters.
"this is teamwork," sukuna corrects.
you lean against the wall. robe loose. "tick-tock," you sing, "someone kiss someone or i’m going back in the bath, alone."
sukuna doesn’t break eye contact.
he steps in closer.
his hand curls around the back of satoru's neck, slow and tight like a threat dressed in silk. satoru flinches. exhales. and stares at sukuna’s mouth like it’s a moving target.
“just a kiss,” sukuna murmurs, voice low. “then you can pretend you hated it.”
his fangs flash. not cute little vampire points. canine. beast. prehistoric.
you’ve seen him bite before. once, during a sparring match, a rival ended up with puncture marks through enchanted armor. that rival never came back.
satoru doesn’t mean to do it. that’s what he’ll tell himself later.
he didn’t want to. didn’t plan to. didn’t lean in.
sukuna did. sukuna always does.
but his mouth is right there—wet and hot from the bath, and his hand’s already on satoru’s neck like he owns it, like he could snap it or kiss it or both—and there’s something about the way he says just a kiss that makes it feel like a dare.
so satoru folds.
he doesn’t tilt his head, doesn’t breathe, just stands there frozen while sukuna leans in—and kisses him like he’s trying to win something.
and fuck, does he.
it’s not sweet. not gentle. not curious.
it’s filthy.
it’s tongues first, lips second. teeth clacking, spit everywhere, heat rolling off both of them like a second bath was summoned just from the sheer friction of hate-fucking a kiss into place. satoru grunts, shocked and breathless and already grabbing at sukuna’s arm like he’s going to shove him off, like he should, but his hand stays. fingers digging into wet muscle, other hand on sukuna’s hip like maybe he needs to keep him steady, like maybe he wants more leverage.
sukuna groans into it. obscene. hands everywhere—cupping satoru’s jaw, dragging down his ribs, gripping his waist and pulling like he wants to fuse them. he kisses like it’s combat. like he’s breaking satoru’s mouth in. like he wants you to watch.
and you do.
robe open. chest heaving. eyes wide and wet and locked on the way satoru’s knees are buckling slightly, the way he breathes like he forgot how to, the way he moans when sukuna sucks his tongue just to be mean.
satoru gasps. sukuna doesn’t let him go.
hand in his hair now. tongue deep in his mouth. hips angled forward like if this keeps up he’s going to grind on him, and maybe he is, maybe that’s the point, maybe he wants to be rutting up against his rival’s thigh while you stand there wet and smug and choosing which one of them you’re gonna ride first.
when sukuna finally pulls back—strings of spit between them, both of them flushed and panting and glassy-eyed like they just got head in a thunderstorm—he laughs.
"see?" he pants, mouth red. “teamwork.”
satoru stares at him. you stare at them. no one says anything for a second.
“again,” you say, eyes bright, mouth sticky-sweet with command. “this time—on my bed. chop chop.”
you clap your hands once, like they’re stable boys and you’re the duchess of debauchery, and then turn on your heel like you expect to be followed.
they do. of course they do.
sukuna grabs a towel off the bath hook like it’s a weapon and slings it low over his hips, still smirking, still red in the mouth like he just fed on something divine. the towel looks absurdly small on him. more like a concession than coverage. like if he flexed wrong it’d be gone.
sukuna follows last. heavy footsteps that make the stone beneath the rugs shift like the castle’s recalibrating for his weight. every torch along the corridor flares brighter as he passes, flames bending inward like they recognize their source. the air stays warmer behind him, heat lingering like a warning sign you ignore on purpose.
you lead them barefoot through the hallway, robe swinging open, dripping water on the tile floors of the castle like a trail of sins you dare someone to mop up. the room you step into is ridiculous. all blush pink and soft textures and filigree mirrors. a bed so fluffy it looks like it would absorb a body whole. silk pillows with lace trim. a plush throw with your initials embroidered in gold thread.
sukuna scoffs. satoru blinks. you climb up onto the mattress like a throne.
“both of you,” you say, voice light, like you’re calling dogs to heel. “on your knees.”
they hesitate. for half a second. then obey.
sukuna throws the towel. satoru swallows like his soul’s leaving his body. and then they’re there—crawling up the edge of the bed, one on each side, eyes locked on your legs like they’re being drawn in by gravity.
you spread them.
you don’t even have to say it. they both move at the same time.
sukuna’s mouth goes to your inner thigh, tongue dragging slow and cruel up the softest skin, teeth brushing just enough to make you jolt. satoru kisses the other side, open-mouthed and reverent, like he’s trying to cancel out every filthy thing sukuna’s ever done to you with sweetness.
but it’s not about balance. it’s about devastation.
their mouths meet in the middle.
tongues brushing. lips sticky. spit mixing against your cunt like you’re the altar and they’re fighting for prayer rights. one sucks your clit. the other fucks you with his tongue. and then they switch. again and again. passing you back and forth like a dare, like a game, like if one of them makes you cum first it means something bigger than it should.
sukuna groans when you grab his hair. satoru moans when your thighs twitch around his ears. neither of them can breathe and neither of them care. they’re loud. messy. competitive. syncing up without meaning to.
you whimper. they grunt. you twitch. they dig in deeper.
you are dripping. soaking the sheets. arching into both of them like a spoiled royal, and they like it. they want it. they want to make you cum while staring at each other across your cunt just to prove they can do it better.
and you? you let them.
of course you do.
they’re exactly where they belong.
it hits you all at once, the way you’re being devoured, the way their tongues never stop, the way sukuna grips your thighs like he’s trying to carve his name into the bones underneath while satoru makes these fucking noises like he’s praying into your cunt. they don’t stop. they don’t breathe. they act like this is the final round of a competition neither of them wants to lose.
and you let them go until your hips stutter, until your fingers clutch the sheets, until your voice breaks in that perfect little way that makes them both glance up like they just heard the bell ring.
“switch,” you gasp.
they blink.
“want both of you,” you breathe, dragging one arm behind you, looking over your shoulder, “in me. now.”
it’s not a request. it’s a fact.
and god, do they scramble.
sukuna grabs your hips first. of course he does. palms you like he’s measuring the curve for fit, like he’s already imagining the drag of his cock inside you. satoru moves to the front, eyes wide and stunned and already hard like he knew this was coming and still wasn’t ready.
“on your knees,” you murmur, breath shallow, voice fucked-out and full of authority you didn’t earn but own anyway. “both of you.”
you turn over. press your face into the pillows. arch your back like an offering.
you feel sukuna’s cock drag through your folds first—slow, like he wants you to remember every inch. and satoru’s in front of you now, hand in your hair, cock flushed and leaking and twitching under your breath.
"open up, sweetheart,” he murmurs, just before you do. and then his cock is pushing past your lips, warm and salty and soaked, like he’s been ready to fuck your throat since the moment you told them to kiss.
sukuna sinks in at the same time.
you choke around satoru’s cock the moment sukuna bottoms out.
both of them groan. like your body was built for this. like they’ve been waiting their whole lives to ruin you together.
you can’t breathe.
you don’t want to.
there’s no rhythm, just need. sukuna’s hips slap against your ass, unforgiving, relentless, fucking you deep like he owns you. satoru holds your head like he’s afraid he’ll fall apart if he lets go, fucking your mouth with this desperate, whimpering pace like he’s sorry but also not stopping.
it’s spit. and heat. and suction. it’s tears down your face and drool down your chin and the brutal, gorgeous fullness of being used by both of them at once. your hands grip the sheets. sukuna’s fingers dig into your waist. satoru moans when you gag, tells you you’re doing so good, so fucking good, fuck—just like that.
you are choking. soaking.
and you never want it to end.
you can feel them in stereo.
sukuna buried in your cunt, hips snapping like a weapon, groaning every time you clench down like your pussy’s trying to keep him. satoru fucking your throat in short, desperate thrusts, hand curled tight in your hair, saying your name like a prayer he’s breaking on.
you’re dripping. crying. choking. perfect.
you don’t even have to look up to know they’re watching each other. you can feel it—the tension, the breathless, biting rivalry still simmering under all the moaning. they’re trying to pretend this isn’t what it is.
you ruin it.
you pull your mouth off satoru’s cock with a wet gasp, drool stringing from your lip to the head of him, your voice wrecked and raw and still smug when you gasp:
“kiss again.”
satoru blinks. panting. flushed to his ears.
sukuna doesn’t stop fucking you.
“she likes it,” he pants, slamming into you harder. “go on. be a good boy. give her a show.”
satoru groans. confused. humiliated. hard as fuck.
“what, you don’t want to kiss me when your dick’s in her throat?”
you swallow him again on instinct, just to watch him twitch. he gasps.
“you’re such an asshole,” satoru pants.
“then kiss me like you mean it.”
and he does. god, he does.
it’s brutal. hot. confusing and primal and way too much spit, but their mouths crash together over your body like it’s a battlefield, like they’re using each other’s tongues to claim you without saying it out loud.
you’re drooling around satoru’s cock again, the moan in your throat vibrating against him as sukuna fucks into you harder, deeper, one hand tangled in satoru’s white hair now, pulling him in to keep the kiss going.
they’re kissing over you while you’re getting fucked within an inch of your life.
spit and teeth and groans, tongues sliding, lips parted, their bodies rutting into yours at perfect opposite angles and still finding the time to moan into each other’s mouths like it’s a contest.
your cunt is clenching so tight it makes sukuna swear, low and hot, like he’s about to break.
and you? you’re soaking the sheets.
you wanted this. all of it.
and now you’re watching them fall apart for you. together.
you pull off satoru’s cock again with a gasp—spit trailing down your chin, your cunt dripping down your thighs, breathless and soaked and ready to be worshipped—and you look up at him like you’re about to give him his final test.
but before you can say a word, sukuna speaks behind you.
“lay down.”
and satoru does.
no hesitation. no backtalk. just drops back onto the mattress like his bones dissolved, like the command short-circuited something in his brain. his cock bounces against his stomach, red and wet and aching, and he looks up at you like he’s scared you’ll disappear if he blinks.
sukuna catches your wrist. leans in close.
“sit on his face.”
he says it like it’s nothing. like it’s inevitable.
and you move like you were waiting to be told.
satoru blinks up at you, already sprawled on the mattress, already halfway gone, cock flushed and twitching, lips wet from the last time he kissed sukuna like he forgot how to hate him.
“wait,” he breathes. “what are you—”
you crawl up. your knees land on either side of his head, and you hover—just long enough for him to look right at your pussy, glistening and dripping and open for him, so close he could lick it without moving.
“what are you…” he tries again, voice cracking now. “what are you doing—”
and then you sit.
his tongue doesn’t even wait.
it lunges.
like he can’t help it. like you just landed on a pressure point and released something primal. he groans—loud—mouth already open, tongue licking up your slit like he’s parched, like he’s sorry, like he’ll make up for every mistake he’s ever made if you just keep grinding down like that.
you moan. roll your hips. grab the headboard for balance.
and in front of you—you hear sukuna laugh.
a hand wraps around your waist. the other grabs satoru by the hip.
“don’t stop licking,” sukuna mutters again. “or i stop fucking.”
“wait—what—” satoru tries, voice muffled under your pussy, tongue still twitching, mouth still moving, breath already shaking.
sukuna doesn’t wait.
he never does.
sukuna grabs a fistful of satoru’s ass like he owns it. spreads him open. wide. rough. mean. just enough to make satoru twitch under you like he knows what’s coming and it’s already too much.
“you wanna eat her out so bad?” sukuna growls, breath hot across your spine. “do it with my cock in you.”
you hear it more than you see it.
the spit.
wet. thick. dragged right from the back of his throat and hawked down directly onto satoru’s hole like it’s a claim. loud and disrespectful, like he’s not even trying to be subtle about it, like this hole was made for him, and he’s just taking back what was already his.
it lands with a wet splat, stringy and hot.
satoru moans into your pussy. like it turned him on. like he hates that it did.
“fucking tight,” sukuna mutters, spreading his cheeks wider with both hands now, spit glistening on that perfect pink ring, watching it flex like it’s trying to run and take at the same time.
you don’t stop grinding. your thighs are shaking. your cunt’s soaked. satoru’s tongue keeps twitching under you like he can’t focus, like he’s trying to eat you out while processing the spit sliding down his crack, pooling where he’s already so sensitive it hurts.
sukuna spits again. harder.
watches it drip down. watches it stick.
then he lines himself up.
no warning.
just one filthy, stretched-out second of silence—then the slick, press of the head of his cock right against that spit-slick hole.
satoru gasps. tries to lift his hips. can’t. you’re on his face. sukuna’s got his ass spread wide like a fucking offering plate.
then sukuna starts to push.
you feel the way satoru shakes beneath you. feel the tremble in his hands on your thighs. feel the moan rip out of his chest and into your cunt, his tongue fluttering against your clit like he doesn’t know if he’s overwhelmed or about to cum untouched or both.
sukuna hisses through his teeth. forces himself deeper. grabs satoru’s hips and pulls him down onto his cock like he’s shoving the last piece of something perfect into place.
“fuck,” sukuna grits. “you feel that, princess? this tight little bitch clenching around me while he eats you out?”
you moan. it’s not a word anymore. not even a sound with meaning. just a shudder dragged from your ribs because satoru won’t stop licking, won’t stop moaning into your pussy while sukuna ruins him from behind like he was made for it.
sukuna leans in.
his hand comes up your spine, slow and steady, and then across your chest, fingers rough and wet from satoru’s skin, trailing up to your jaw to pull your mouth to his. he’s panting. flushed. still thrusting into satoru in long, brutal strokes. and then he kisses you.
wet. loud. hungry.
he kisses you like he owns the air between your teeth. like he wants to eat the sounds right out of your throat. you kiss him back with your whole body—mouth sticky, tongue filthy, your hips grinding harder on satoru’s face because you want him to feel it while sukuna devours your mouth.
“look at him,” sukuna growls, breaking the kiss, voice wrecked. “fuck, look.”
he grabs your chin. turns your head down.
and you do.
satoru’s face is soaked in your slick. lips swollen. nose shiny. tongue still out. his eyes are wet, desperate, fluttering like he’s already on the edge. you can feel his moans inside you, against you, vibrating straight up your spine.
you slide off his mouth slowly. his lips chase you for a second—instinct—but you’re already shifting down, dragging your cunt over his chest, your hands planted on either side of his face. sukuna keeps fucking him, cock slamming in deeper, rhythm rougher now that you’re watching.
you lean in.
satoru gasps, eyes wide, and you kiss him.
you kiss him like he’s already lost, like the only thing left is how thoroughly. your mouth is still wet from him, from sukuna, from everything, and when your tongue slides in he makes this broken little sound in his throat like he didn’t expect you to want him after all that.
you do.
your hand slips down between your bodies. wraps around his length. he’s hot and slick and so hard it’s almost embarrassing, like he’s been holding himself together on sheer adrenaline and your approval alone. you jerk him slow at first, thumb brushing the slit just to feel him twitch.
he moans into your mouth.
and that’s when his hands come up—hesitant for half a second, like he’s checking if he’s allowed—and then he pinches your nipples between his fingers, not mean. not gentle. just enough to make you gasp against his lips and grind your hips down without realizing you did it.
“fuck,” you breathe, breaking the kiss just long enough to look at him.
he looks wrecked. pupils blown. mouth open. chest heaving. still being fucked, sukuna’s hips snapping in a rhythm that never stops, never slows, like a reminder that satoru doesn’t get to forget where he is or what he’s being used for.
you jerk him harder now. faster. wrist flexing. spit-slick sounds filling the room. he whines—actually whines—and pinches you again, thumbs rolling like he’s trying to hold onto something, like the sensation is the only thing anchoring him.
“don’t stop,” he says, voice cracked, stupid, desperate.
you smile.
“i wasn’t planning to.”
you kiss him again, messy and open-mouthed, teeth bumping, tongues sliding, your hand working him steadily while sukuna fucks him deep enough to make his whole body rock. he’s trapped between it all—your mouth, your hand, sukuna’s cock—and it shows. his breathing is wrecked. his hips keep trying to thrust up into your grip even though he can’t go anywhere.
you pull back just enough to look at him again.
then you shift.
not fully. not yet. just enough to line yourself up, to let the head of him brush against you, to feel that hot, stupid pressure that makes his breath catch and his fingers dig in harder.
“look at you,” you murmur. “so fucked out already.”
his eyes flutter.
and you start to climb.
you do it like it’s yours to take. like his cock belongs to you, and you’re just coming back for it. you slide up and over him, knees planted firm on either side of his hips, one hand braced on his chest, the other still slick and wrapped around his shaft. you line him up. tease. not because he needs it—but because he can’t do anything about it.
you’re dripping.
you’re still open from earlier, still twitching, still needy, and the second the head of his cock catches on your entrance, you feel him twitch under you.
“fuck—” satoru pants, voice high. “please—i—”
you cut him off with a moan of your own.
and then you sink.
slow. tight. wet.
you feel every inch. you make him feel it. the way you clench down just to see his jaw lock. the way his breath stops in his throat halfway through. he tries to lift his hips—instinct—but he’s still full of sukuna, still being fucked, still being used, and he can’t do shit except take it.
you bottom out.
his eyes roll back.
you sit fully on him, hands planted on his chest, the weight of your body and the stretch of his cock and sukuna’s cock inside him making him shake like he’s about to cum untouched.
and sukuna—he grunts behind you, still buried in his ass, pace faltering just slightly.
“fuck, look at him,” he growls. “he’s gonna cum just from this.”
you roll your hips. slow.
satoru chokes on a moan.
“you like that, huh?” you murmur, leaning in close, your cunt pulsing around him. “being split open, used like a toy.”
he nods. once. quick. like he’s ashamed to admit it out loud. like it’ll make it worse if he says yes and you believe him.
his mouth opens. nothing comes out.
sukuna fucks into him harder.
your whole body jolts from the force of it, your hips sliding down, satoru’s cock pressing deeper inside you just as he lets out this little choked-off gasp against your mouth, like he doesn’t know how to hold it anymore. his hands are trembling where they cling to your waist, his chest rising too fast under yours, his eyes wide and wet and full of it—heat and pressure and disbelief. he’s shaking. so are you.
you kiss him again. open-mouthed and soaking in it, tongue messy, noses bumping, the two of you completely unraveling against each other while sukuna ruins him from behind.
“he’s gonna cum,” sukuna grits out from somewhere close, the sound of skin on skin louder now, sharper, his hand gripping your waist again, fucking into satoru like he can’t stop even if he wanted to. “he’s gonna fucking cum like this. you feel him?”
you do.
you feel everything. the way satoru’s cock kicks inside you, leaking and twitching, every muscle in his stomach flexing like he’s trying not to lose it too fast. the way his moans have gone quiet now—small, desperate, breathless little exhalations against your cheek like he can’t catch a full one anymore. he’s crying a little. you think. or sweating. or just overwhelmed. it doesn’t matter. he’s close. you can feel it in your spine.
you grind down on him harder. not even bouncing anymore—just moving in slow, tight circles, keeping him deep, dragging out the friction, letting the rhythm build slow and cruel and perfect while sukuna keeps fucking into his ass like he owns it.
your voice breaks before you mean it to.
“cum,” you whisper. not loud. not sweet. just necessary. like a spell you know will work.
and he does.
so hard it punches a sound out of him that he’s never made before. his whole body spasms under you, legs shaking, back arching off the bed like he’s trying to crawl out of his own skin. his cock throbs inside you, hot and thick, spilling deep while you’re still pulsing around him, still grinding down, still clenching like you need it to keep going just a second longer.
it’s enough.
your orgasm hits like a wave slamming into concrete.
you shake. full-body. your mouth open but no sound coming out now, not really, not when you’re gushing around him, cunt fluttering, thighs locking up around his waist like you’re trying to drown him in it. your head drops to his shoulder. you don’t even know if you’re breathing.
behind you, sukuna groans. it’s low. fucked-out. the sound of a man hitting the edge with no brakes.
he grabs your hips—hard—and drives into satoru one last time, deep enough to shove satoru back up into you, your body jolting on top of him as sukuna growls and spills inside him with a hiss.
you can feel it. the way satoru flinches. the heat. the mess. the way he groans through it, lips brushing your jaw, body still twitching.
nobody moves.
sukuna stays there, cock still buried in satoru’s ass, chest pressed against your back, breath ragged. satoru is wrecked beneath you, chest heaving, eyes fluttering shut, lips wet and open. your body’s still twitching. your cunt still fluttering every time he shifts under you, too sensitive now, too full.
you don’t say anything.
you just stay like that.
you roll your hips once more. slow. indulgent. squeeze him just to feel him twitch. sukuna hasn’t pulled out yet. satoru’s cock is soft inside you now, slick with his own cum and sweat and whatever’s still leaking out of him from behind. everyone’s breathing hard. everyone’s quiet.
you blink down at him. stretch your spine. adjust your hips like you’re just getting comfortable.
“you’re both so easy it’s disgusting.”
satoru twitches. sukuna snorts.
“the fuck does that mean,” satoru wheezes, voice cracked, hands still shaking on your thighs. “i just got spitroasted for like an hour—”
“and you liked it,” you mutter, already reaching for the nearest towel. “you fucking loved it.”
“she’s not wrong,” sukuna grins, pulling out of him slow, messy, mean, one hand dragging down your spine like he knows he’s about to say something that’ll start another fight. “you were moaning like a little bitch the whole time.”
“you kissed me first,” satoru snaps.
“you came while i kissed you,” sukuna snaps back.
satoru’s whole body jerks like someone slapped him with a wet cloth. “i came because she was riding me—”
“with my cock inside you,” sukuna interrupts, smug. “say it slower.”
“that’s not—no—that’s not what happened, you manipulated the timing—”
“oh my god,” you groan, flopping back against the mattress. “are you seriously arguing about whether or not that was gay now?”
“it wasn’t,” satoru insists immediately. “it was about her.”
“you tongue-fucked me.”
“you grabbed my face.”
you blink at the ceiling. “you literally moaned into each other’s mouths while i came. like.”
“okay but that’s not gay, that’s—” satoru starts, voice a little too high.
“oh my god,” you mutter, flat on your back now, towel draped over your stomach, one hand over your eyes. “can you both shut the fuck up.”
they don’t.
you know they won’t.
satoru’s already gesturing with one limp arm, trying to make a point about tongue placement and emotional sabotage. sukuna’s flexing like he didn’t almost fall over two minutes ago. you’re pretty sure there’s still cum drying on the sheets. no one’s moving.
“guess we have to go through this again.”
the room goes quiet.
you peek through your fingers.
they’re both staring at you.
satoru’s mouth is open like he forgot how to argue. sukuna tilts his head, eyes already darkening again.
How ruthless a man he was. Rome's greatest general. The man of the hour. Caesar, his battle name was, but Gojo Satoru in heart. A tyrant, a beast, a genius himself, your... only hope. Because how could you get back your title as the Queen of Egypt, by not using the help of the Imperator himself? And how could you not predict for him to drop down to his knees so pitifully?
part of the Gods, Heroes, Warriors collection!
pairings: Julius Caesar! Gojo x Cleopatra! Reader
content/warnings: ancient Egypt AU, historical settings, reimagining of historical figures, Gojo is a general lmao, oral (fem. rec.), pussydrunk Gojo!, mild breeding kink, mating press, cunnilingus, tummy bulges, manhandling, facesitting, reader is sly!, based on a true story lol
WC: 8.8k !!!
a/n: how about we talk about the romance of the century, hm? I tried to keep their meeting as historically accurate as possible lmaooo. Art creds @/ola_chan on X.
Divider by @saradika-graphics
The bathhouse was quiet when the servant girl came in. She could only see your hair, half-soaked in water, and soft skin shimmering with single droplets. Her feet were dressed in sandals as she stood right next to you, fingers nervously clenching the white material of her robes. She noticed your closed eyes, breasts rising slowly together with a light breath, as the gold necklace gleamed on your collarbones. So beautiful was Her Majesty, the servant girl couldn't help but hitch faintly, before you sent her a glance.
She bowed quickly, not daring to meet your eyes.
"My Queen," a soft voice had spread around the bathhouse, bouncing off the water. It cooled your body pleasantly, during nights such as this one, after lengthy days, with the sun hanging high in the sky for far too long.
The warmish night wind was coming through the high, open entrance, tickling your skin in a childlike manner. You looked at the servant girl, bent in half and shivering slightly, before your eyes gazed somewhere over the vibrant lights of the city.
Your country.
Your Egypt.
"Yes?" you asked, taking a small bottle of almond oil to rub it into your soft skin. The servants could do it, of course, but you wouldn't wish to deprive yourself of this pleasure and finally deserved alone time.
The girl came closer, her eyes looking down at her feet, not daring to glance at her queen in such a bare state.
"My Queen, Imperator have come."
Your hands continued to massage the skin gently with an oil, but your lips twisted in a smirk. Faint light from the flickering candles kissed your blushed cheeks gently, as you hummed lowly and giggled in such a girlish manner, your servant tensed a little. How rare it was to see Her Majesty in such a delighted humour!
"Such a needy man he is," you murmured nevertheless, glancing at the darkness spreading over the dunes. "Doesn't Imperator have any manners? The night has already come."
The girl moved nervously in her place, not taking her eyes off her sandals even for a second. She knew, indeed, that Imperator's visit at this hour was not in place, but how could she talk back to the most powerful man in the world! The gallows would be the most merciful punishment she would hope to receive.
"My Queen, should I inform Imperator that you not wish to see–"
But before she could finish, you giggled once again, giving this poor child almost a heart attack!
"No need, lead him to my chamber. I shall join him soon."
The girl nodded quickly and bowed, once again leaving Her Highness alone in a bathhouse, now filled with the sweet aroma of almonds, and Queen's plump skin glistening under the heaviness of the oil.
While walking the long corridors of Queen's Palace, with a milky moon creeping through the windows and tall torches leading the way back to the main hall, the servant girl reminisced about the beginning of this unusual affair.
She tried to remember Her Majesty before Imperator's appearance – this utterly beautiful, but soulless woman, wandering around the palace lifelessly, with no warmth behind her eyes, just anger and desperation.
Her Majesty came from a long line of ruthless kings and queens, the rulers of Egypt spreading their terror over the country and its people. Sad has been their fate, for being forbidden to marry outside their blood.
That's right, the Queen herself was engaged to her own brother, who took over the country after their father's death. And what a brat he was, the servant girl must've admitted, a Pharaoh not worthy of this title, crude, stupid man, taking over the throne for himself. He's been dead for quite a while, after drowning in the Nile during the war, but the days of his rule were such a turbulent time for Egypt. And while the servant girl indeed frightened the ruthless Imperator, she would also keep him in her heart dearly, for saving Her Majesty and bringing her back to the throne.
But the girl didn't dare to think about it any longer. The story of this affair and passion between the two rulers has been far too immoral for her young mind to comprehend!
࿇ ࿇ ࿇
Your father has just died, and Egypt entered the era of chaos.
It was only you, your brother (husband?) and the council, establishing a new rule over your beloved country. Far too humiliating was your position for a so-called Queen, who didn't have an ounce of power to herself. The Council have stripped you of everything that made a ruler more than a symbol. You were young, female, and – most damning – expected to share authority with your brother. A husband by law, by rule of your family, but even blood has never softened his resentment.
He hated you.
And you gladly shared this feeling.
Perhaps his hatred came from the fact that people loved you. Because you spoke their language, walked among them and understood Egypt as a home it was. Perhaps, because you were beautiful and directed by wisdom, choosing words carefully and acting like a true ruler, not just a silly child who by accident was born with a cock between his legs.
The council, however, loved him.
Old men spoke over you in meetings, dismissed your decrees as womanish enthusiasm, praised your brother's advisors while quietly stripping you of influence. You felt your authority being slowly, deliberately hollowed out, until it was there in a name only.
And while Egypt was sinking into chaos, the world was slowly conquered by one man only.
The man of the hour.
Rome's greatest general.
Caesar, his battle name was, but Gojo Satoru in heart.
You have only heard of him through stories carried across the sea by merchants and diplomats, soldiers who spoke too loudly after the wine. A tyrant, a saviour, a butcher, a genius – all often under one breath.
He had crossed the Rubicon with a single legion, an act so brazen it shattered centuries of Roman tradition. Brought a civil war into Rome as his rivals tried to drive him from power. He was swift and merciless, and when he arrived, all countries would fall.
Gaul had learned of his ruthlessness first, with tribes subdued, cities burned, and survivors sold into slavery by the tens of thousands. He was always triumphant, leading Rome through another victory.
Those who opposed him were erased slowly, but those offering support became trusted companions.
Such a powerful, clever man he was, ruling by his pure wisdom and power.
As tyrannical as he stood, legions adored him. He marched with them, bled with them, and rewarded them lavishly. To Rome, he was both protector and a threat, a man who claimed to restore order while quietly collecting every lever of power for himself.
And unlike you, he was never truly alone.
He had armies, Rome, an undeniable authority granted by heaven, and a violence that could only be held by the simple fact of being a man.
You, meanwhile, had the same ambitions but lacked a quite important thing. Right between your legs.
You didn't want to accept this humility.
Your utterly pitiful state.
Losing Egypt to your cruel brother.
And they say you cannot fight a fire with fire, but what if you had something more powerful, more ruthless in your hand? What if brought the weapon of destruction that could extinguish your brother's flame?
And as Rome's shadow stretched over to Alexandria, the heart of Egypt, you needed to act quickly.
So, how beneficial the decision of your exile turned out to be, after your brother, together with a council, decided to strip you of power and throw you away like a rag.
So the rag you've become.
"My Queen, I cannot," Haibara whispered pitifully, seeing the bed linen gathered on the floor.
Your plan was simple.
Well, maybe not that simple, nevertheless, depending on the Gods' blessing on your loyal follower's bravery. Haibara was a simple man at first, a servant who had caught your eye and followed you through the palace's sizzling walls like a pup, all polite and devoted.
After your exile and news that Caesar has settled in Alexandria's Palace for a while, you decided that whatever the Gods planned for you, one thing needed to happen – you would get into Alexandria without your brother's knowledge and meet with the general.
And then. Well.
Everything else would be left to the Gods' wishes.
So under the cover of darkness, you have left Pharaoh's palace and run away towards the capital, Alexandria.
Long was the road, and quite adventurous, but Haibara was following you all the way to the city. The easiest path led through the sea, so soon after packing your things into one simple bag, you decided to go towards the nearest harbour.
"My Queen, are you certain of this?" Haibara would ask quietly, scanning the road ahead.
"No," you murmured just as softly, with a dark cloak sitting heavily on your head. "But certainty has never saved anyone."
The road north stretched long – by day you hid among merchants and pilgrims, by night you moved quickly, guided by stars older than each dynasty. Haibara would walk ahead of you, testing the ground and listening for any trouble.
"This is not how it should be done," he muttered once, as you paused near a well to drink. "You should have an army and guards – a hundred, no thousand!"
You laughed softly, looking at the fuming boy, nevertheless checking the surroundings for any dangers.
"You know we need to make contact," you whispered, eyes following the blazing sun, burning your skin mercilessly. "General is the only one who can help us."
You continued the road, already feeling the ocean breeze grazing your lips.
"And if he won't?"
You smirked. The harbour came into view, with masts rising like a forest of spears, sails furled and already waiting. The hope bloomed in your heart, together with unwavering confidence.
"Don't worry, he will."
And so you boarded the ship without looking back.
The harbour slipped slowly away, and the sea opened its arms for you, as Haibara finally exhaled and gripped a railing like his life depended on it.
"My Queen, I shall never underestimate you again," he murmured, his eyes glancing at the water with a sickly look. His boyish face was almost green, with eyes stuck into slowly disappearing waves. "But please let's find another way to come back."
You laughed heartily, the breeze blowing your hair under the scorching tongues of the sun. You felt the Sun God's protectiveness over you, as if she followed your journey attentively, pushing towards greatness.
"We are not going back," you whispered, closing eyes to enjoy the rest of the journey.
And you enjoyed it indeed, but haven't thought about the way to get into the palace. Twilight has come, with the soft glowing of the sun hiding over the horizon. You waited until night, when quietness spread over its walls, and the guards stood leisurely, keeping watch almost sleepily.
So the simplest plan you could think of included you being taken to the palace wrapped in bed linens like a newborn, and Haibara taking you right to Caesar's chamber. Every person in Egypt recognised your face, but Haibara, as a servant himself, had higher chances.
"My Queen!" he whispered, seeing you taking off the cloak, standing almost bare, in your majesty's robes.
"I need to be presentable, at least."
The bed linens you somehow stole from a ship were next, rolling yourself with them like a cocoon, with a bit of help from Haibara's utterly dissatisfied manner.
"My Queen, seeing you in this state," he sighed, nevertheless wrapping the white cloth around your head. "Such a disgrace, I'll never forgive your brother for pushing you to such actions."
"Hush," you scolded him. And the boy indeed shut his mouth and picked you up like a rag, looking as if his hands were truly full of bed linens only. "Cover me with some more and go inside."
He murmured something under his nose, but nevertheless, went towards the entrance. As a Queen of Egypt – no, right now an ex-Queen of Egypt – you could try to sneak inside by yourself. However, every soldier and general has surely been informed of your exile, thus turning even the last corner of this country hostile to you.
The Imperial Palace, where the general stayed, has been located on the island in the eastern harbour of Alexandria, with the ocean humming softly under its mural columns. Haibara carried you all the way through the long bridge, surrounded by calm waters and lush green, with a pale moon leading your way through the dangers of the road. The palace rose in front of you, beautiful in its monstrosity, with white sculptures and long torches guarding the gates.
Not just them, surely, the guards have also been standing right there, blocking your path with long spearheads. You didn't worry, however, as Haibara had worn his servant clothes and held the servant token right in his hand.
Guards looked at him harshly, but their faces flattened the moment he presented his token.
"What's that?" one of them asked, pointing to the bed linens with his spearhead.
You felt Haibara shifting in his place, hands squeezing your rolled body. His fingers went right into gold bracelets wrapped tightly around your thighs, and a small hiss needed to be blocked by gritting your teeth. "Fresh bedding for the General, just delivered from the port."
The first guard hummed, but the other looked at him suspiciously, one eyebrow following up to the hairline.
"And why would he need them now, boy?"
Heavens, how could they ignore his token? It should be enough to not follow with any questions!
"Sir, it was Pharaoh's order. Look closer, it's a token taken from his palace, granted by His Majesty himself."
The round token truly has been of the finest quality, embedded with Pharaoh's initials, sitting heavily in the guard's palm. He frowned, but gave the token back.
"Come in, boy. Don't bother the General, he's resting in his chambers."
Haibara nodded and quickly entered the marble gates of the palace. He walked through the courtyard, with long columns guiding him right inside. The palms tottered slowly with the wind's faint whispers, while stars shimmered brightly, as if cheering your pitiful attempts to get the throne back.
"My Queen, where shall I go now?" he murmured while entering the inner court.
It looked even more massive inside. Colourful paintings of heroes and warriors embellished the high walls, stories told through generations, honouring the gods who birthed the children of Egypt. The sculptures sat peacefully in the corners, following your every move with their hollowed eyes, nevertheless possessing this perilous stare, as if their spears would fly your way any second.
The Palace was truly difficult to navigate for newcomers. But not for you.
"Turn left from the entrance, his chamber should be somewhere at the end, with a view of the harbour," you whispered, feeling your body move together with Haibara's quickened pace.
Your head rested right on his chest, and you could feel his heart bumping against your ear with every beat.
Such a poor boy he was, but you would surely let him bathe in riches after getting the throne back.
"My Queen, what if someone sees–"
But he didn't finish, as his arm was suddenly grabbed "Boy, who are you?"
Heavens! The obstacles were never-ending!
The female servant who had spotted Haibara glanced at him suspiciously, rumble almost shooting from her eyes.
Haibara took out his token once again. "I was ordered to deliver these to the General."
She hummed in an even more suspicious manner. "General? Boy, have you lost your mind? Who ordered you–" but as she looked at the token, her face flattened the same way as the guards' before. "Oh, nevermind. Come this way, you shall meet Sir Ichiji first; he will decide whether you can have an audience with the General."
You cursed under your breath as the female servant led you deeper inside the palace, with the moon creeping here and there, just to follow your journey curiously. You could feel its gaze going right through the thin linen, bathing your body in its cold light, as if it could see it shaking in excitement right under the pile of bedding.
She knocked on the heavy doors, and a second later, you heard murmurs, followed by quick footsteps and the movement of the handle.
"Sir Ichiji, I apologise for disturbing the General, but this boy wishes to speak to him," she said on one breath, and you could hear it quiver slightly.
There was a short silence before a man cleared his throat and murmured something under his breath.
"What's the matter?"
The voice was melodic, quite delicate for a man, like a bird chirping. There was a gentleness in it, making it quiet and pleasant for the ear.
Haibara showed his token once again, this time, however, answering more truthfully, with a stern tone.
"I have important information to deliver for the General."
Ichiji furrowed his forehead, and the female servant followed him quickly, her version of the story being quite different from the one she had heard just now.
"Let's hear it then. Pharaoh sent you?"
There was a second of hesitation before Haibara sighed deeply.
"The Queen herself."
Silence fell heavily, like a fog sneaking its way through the palace's corridors. All three of them kept mum for a while, with stars glaring with curiosity right through the window.
The female servant looked at Haibara with parted lips, her breath slightly shaking. Ichiji kept his gaze on a boy, as if thinking about his answer.
But before he opened his lips, another voice came, like thunder crossing the sky. Deep tremble, but with such a soft manner, it made your breath slightly hitch. "Let him in."
Ichiji gave Haibara one last glance before sending the female servant away with a wave of his hand and opening the heavy door. It groaned lowly, with a warm light spilling into the corridor. Gold fire and shadows danced on the walls when Haibara stepped inside carefully, with the bundle in his arms. As if holding something fragile and priceless – which, in truth, he did.
You didn't see him, but could feel his presence. Heavy, commanding. Like the air itself had learned obedience to him.
Haibara bowed slightly, as you already started moving in his arms.
"My General–"
But before he could finish, General cut him off. "What is it that you hold?"
The boy didn't answer, but he moved nervously, thinking whether now was the time to reveal the secret he had come with.
But he put you down, lowering onto the polished floor right before his feet. For a breathless moment, you remained hidden – linen wrapped tightly around your body, the hush of the room pressing in on all sides.
You didn't know who was inside, but quiet murmurs told you that the general definitely wasn't alone.
Was it a woman?
Did he caress someone before you came in?
Your fingers moved slowly, unwrapping yourself from the white clothing.
And then, the gasps were swallowed.
You rose from the linen like a goddess summoned by myth, with feet bare against the marble. White and gold robes hug your body carefully. A thin linen around your chest, and a heavy necklace pressed just above your breasts. White skirt hung lowly on your plump hips, somewhere below a gold chain hugging your sun-kissed belly, flowing down till your ankles. Kohl-lined eyes glanced at the man before you, with a gaze so intense and curious it left people breathless.
You looked like a true goddess, a Queen herself, gleaming under the faint golden fire, with the wind mussing your hair gently.
And general.
Oh.
The general seemed to be speechless too. He did not move. Did not even speak. His gaze traced you openly, unashamed, not with a hunger of a man, but like a ruler assessing another for the first time. Something flickered in his eyes, a surprise, playfulness even. But among all – interest.
He stood near the window, draped in crimson and ivory. A cloak rested over one shoulder, fastened with a clasp of shimmering gold, the fabric falling effortlessly along his broad frame. Armour gleamed right beneath it, as if he entered this chamber right from the battle. A gold laurel circled white hair that caught the torchlight like a polished marble, looking almost unreal under the darkened sky.
And his, heavens, eyes. You tried to keep your composure, but his eyes, blue as an ocean you've just crossed to meet him, looked at you in a way you did not know how to describe.
Months later, you finally discovered that the word you were looking for was adoration.
A slow smile curved his lips when he glanced at his companions sitting near the table. Soldiers, maybe, who stood up the moment his cold eyes met their postures.
They bowed and, together with Haibara and Ichiji, left the chamber.
The doors closed with a thump, and silence fell between your heavy breaths.
"So," he said at last, voice smooth, with a weight of command without even raising itself. "Egypt sends me a goddess to negotiate."
You smirked.
"This is how Egypt survives," your eyes moved behind him, to look at the harbour stretching right outside the palace. "By sending the only person who still dares to speak for it."
His brow lifted in amusement. "Bold words for someone who entered my chambers wrapped in a linen."
How devilishly handsome he was, shaded by the cunningness and wisdom you had not expected from a man to possess. You never had a chance to meet a man worthy of your hand. But, maybe, you would consider a tyrant, with muscular arms crossed on his chest and a smirkness in his face.
"Boldness is all I have left," you said. "That, and a throne stolen from me by a boy who mistakes a cruelty for a rule."
He stepped closer, his gaze following your body painfully slowly, while he circled you with measured steps, echoing softly against the marble floor. He studied you like a problem worth solving, with hands clasped loosely behind his back and eyes never leaving your bare skin.
"Your brother," he murmured. "Killed a man I came for. He's quite an idiot, isn't he?"
You laughed quietly, eyes curving like a moon.
"My brother does not understand Rome."
"No," the general agreed. "He understands power given to him by others."
He stopped before you, close enough for you to feel the warmth of his body, with a chest wrapped tightly by an iron. The man, who had bent nations to his will, dropped his gaze briefly – to the gold hugging your throat and the steady rise of your breast – before returning to your smiling eyes. Only now have you noticed that he must've been much older than you, somewhere in his late thirties. Such a young man with so many victories on his account, truly mesmerising.
"So what do you wish for, My Queen?" You tipped your head, hearing such a bold title coming from another ruler's throat. But he looked at you steadily, with an unwavered confidence.
"Stability, loyalty. For Egypt to be mine," he raised his eyebrows, but you continued. "You would rule. Through me."
The air between you tightened, charged with something dangerous and passionately intoxicating. His eyes gleamed with anticipation.
He laughed then, low but genuine. "You do not pretend otherwise."
"I am done pretending, General," you said softly. "I will not beg for my crown, but I know how to share."
"Satoru," he murmured, eyes following your heavy gaze. "Drop the general title, My Queen. For you, I can be just Satoru."
Your heart flinched, breath hitched.
Maybe visiting him was a bad idea, with warmth spilling somewhere in your belly, not far from his big hands hanging leisurely near his body.
"But you know the cost," he said quietly. "If I take your side, blood will be spilt in Egypt."
Another step closer, his body merely a step from yours.
"Egypt is already bleeding." You answered, eyes never leaving his face.
Something shifted in his look. Something you didn't anticipate seeing. Or maybe you did, knowing how men reacted to your presence.
The youngest goddess, they would say. Treasure of the Nile. You would charm them with your intelligence and charisma, a captivating voice, flowing through their ears sweetly like honey, and a magnetism that only a woman of your sort would possess. They would see you as a symbol of divinity, a Queen worthy of her title.
And the greatest general, tyrant himself, a Roman God was, after all, nothing but a man.
So when you saw it in his eyes, a quick, almost unrecognisable glance of painful wretchedness, you knew it was over.
For him.
"You would have me go to war for you," he admitted.
"And you would have to win," you smirked. "Are you able to, Satoru?"
For a long moment, he said nothing. But a challenge you have just dropped was impossible to ignore for a man of his calibre.
And then his hand lifted, slowly, deliberately, tilting your chin up so you could look at his tormented eyes. His palm burned you, touching your skin with calloused fingers and strength you couldn't imagine they possessed.
This tyrannical gaze, which led to so many deaths and conquests, that night, looked at you with nothing more than pure agony.
"Very well," he said, voice like a promise wrapped in iron. "I will restore you to your throne."
Your heart thundered.
"And Egypt?"
His eyes slipped down your lips, twisted in a gentle smile, while he brushed your jaw with a reverent and possessiveness all at once. "Egypt, My Queen," he stopped, looking back at your shimmering eyes, "will belong to Rome."
Your eyes narrowed, without pulling away. But you just slightly, barely, tilted your head and put his hand fully on your cheek, grazing his thumb with plump lips. Scarcely, but enough to feel his body tense.
"Then let history remember the moment our empires chose one another."
His gaze softened, just a little, almost dangerously.
"Oh," he murmured, almost painfully. "I assure history will never forget you."
And maybe that was the moment when Gojo Satoru, the greatest general in the Romans' history, decided he would conquer the world if you ordered him to.
࿇ ࿇ ࿇
Months later, already as the Queen of Egypt, you would reminisce that night with a quiet giggle and warmth filling your heart.
Even then, relaxing in you bathouse and thinking about, now Imperator, sitting obediently in your chambers, would bring a sweet smile to your lips.
Droplets of water rushed down your skin when you left the cooling bath and put on a flowy, almost transparent robe, immediately sticking to your dripping body. But it was fine, the night was hot enough, and you would get wet soon anyway.
The hallway back to your chambers seemed almost too long, with just a few servants greeting you on the way, eyes never above the level of your knees.
You wouldn't describe yourself as a ruthless ruler. A fair one, yes, but the tyranny was a speciality of the Master of Egypt. Imperatus, whose name would still bring a shiver to people's spines.
And while Gojo Satoru indeed won a civil war in Rome and then took back the power from you pathethic brother, there was a rumour going on, about Rome being stolen.
By a witch herself!
A Goddess, who wrapped Imperator around her finger and held him like a viper, poisoning his mind with lustfulness and wickedness.
A Whore Queen.
A Fatal Monster.
Egypt's Shame!
Such creative titles have you heard, but never directly and never for long. Imperator wasn't of a patient sort, merciful too, thus only whispers, rumours would be brought to you before someone's head would roll.
Your chamber was basking in moonlight when you entered it, with wide windows overlooking Alexandria's rebirth. The city was alive at night, with faint melodies and laughter coming from the far markets.
The days were long, tiring, ruled by your strong hand.
But nights?
Nights were for him.
He didn't turn when you came inside, with wet dripping down the marble floors and robe clinging to your skin – rounded hips and plush thighs, rubbing against one another as you walked towards him, leaving wet patches on the floor.
He stood near the balcony in simple ivory linen that clung to his strong frame – muscular back and overpowering arms, stretching usually loose robe to its maximum. He almost covered a moon with his monstrous height and wide shoulders. You noticed the laurel was taken off, now lying discarded on a table. He looked like a simple man.
No.
A God himself.
A creature who brought a sun and a whole empire to your knees, driven just by a simple force of passion.
"Maybe I have bewitched you, after all," you whispered, embracing him from the back, with hands wrapped tightly around his body, shiverred by a laugh. "You've been staying here longer than in Rome."
"Have I ever denied this accusation?" Satoru asked playfully, without turning.
You burried nose in his back, smelling the freshness of his linen. The night was warm, but his skin was sizzling, burning, and also absorbing the water from your tightly pressed breasts.
"You think of me as a witch?" you asked, rubbing thighs slowly. You felt his body tensing up when you graced his back with your perked nipples. "What if they'll accuse me of being the Queen of Rome next?"
He hummed quietly, putting his hand on your arms, embracing his posture weakly.
"I'm afraid I would be the one spreading rumours"
You chuckled quietly, when he turned around, scanning your posture with a longing.
"Oh?" he raised an eyebrow, looking at the transparent robes sticking to your body. Linen wrapped around your blushed nipples, thighs soaked in almond oil, the curve of your hips fitting his hands just right and this smile. Heavens, this slick, mischievous smile that left him awake at night.
You wrapped your hands around his neck, bringing closer the ocean eyes that gazed at you with tenderness. Admire, even. Searching for strength in your soft whispers and firm commands.
How pitiful he turned out to be for you, truly feeling as if a viper had wrapped around his neck, poisoning his mind and gut. Your presence was intoxicating, addicting, and he found himself running towards Egypt a few times a month, leaving his Empire in the hands of trusted generals.
"Shouldn't you arrive in a few days?" you questioned, feeling his hands on your hips, pushing you slightly back, right towards the bed, waiting quietly for your bodies to tangle once again.
The faint light of the candles was guiding you through the dark chamber, with nothing but gold bracelets on your arms gleaming softly under his sharp gaze.
"I couldn't wait. The sole thought of you sleeping alone in this bed was giving me shivers." His grip tightened, and when the back of your knees touched the edge of the bed, you dropped silently on its soft linen.
But Satoru stood in front of you, with eyes following your body up and down, from the wet calves, up till plush thighs, your sweet core covered by a simple robe, and soft tummy, breathing slowly under his gaze.
He stood quietly, proudly, truly an Imperator, with his forehead clouded by your smell, your touch, the sheer view of your pinkish nipples hugged by wet, white robes. Your breast looked milkish under the cover of the chalky material, and he thought of the way they fit his palm, so heavily and fully.
"Ruling the Greatest Empire in the world bores you, my Imperator?" you asked, raising your legs and parting them slightly, just for him.
For his fingers to follow your calves up from the ankles, gripping the wet material and moving it slowly, slowly, up your thighs, dampen with a mixture of almond oil and your juices.
His breath ragged when he dropped to his knees, groaning at the sheer look of your shimmering pussy, displayed for him like a feast.
"Ruling half the world doesn't satisfy you?" you continued, with a voice so syrupy he wanted to drink it like a madman.
Your charm bewitched him, and before you noticed, his lips were already making their way up your thigh, kissing soft skin and licking its sweet taste.
"My Queen," he whispered, exposing your smooth belly and breasts, as he cupped them with strong fingers. He smirked like a jackal when his tongue licked your nipple and bit it gently. "Even ruling the Greatest Empire doesn't match the feeling of being between your thighs."
And then your lips crashed in long, dear kisses. Your fingers landed in his white hair, pulling them slightly just to push a soft groan from his throat. He bit your lower lip, cupping your cheeks firmly, to draw away with a string of saliva between your hot tongues.
"What a fucking sight you are for an eye, my Queen."
Your breath hitched, and just a second later, the great Imperator was the one lying on a bed, with your thighs strangling his hips, hot core right on his bulge.
"I could say the same thing about you, my Imperator." You rolled hips slightly, with a whine escaping both your throats.
Satoru was easy to tame, although wished not to be. Maybe he didn't want a tyrant's reputation to be shattered. For people to look at him as if a dog sitting obediently by your leg.
But the truth to be told, the moment you lifted your hips and moved them right above his head, when he felt the fragrance of your pussy and long, sticky ropes of your juices glued between your puffed folds, the eerie thought have crossed his mind, and suddenly the idea of being nothing but a tamed dog wasn't that bad.
"My Queen, you fucking–"
And you didn't ask. You need didn’t have to.
There was no need to beg for anything, because with one strong pull, leaving marks on your hips, he brought your core right to his opened mouth and stuck out tongue.
"A-ah–"
You shivered, feeling his fingers spreading your folds. Lips wrapped around clit and tongue following right after, lapping through your pussy with a deep groan, sending bolts through your body.
"Don't even think about holding back. Sit on me fully," he groaned, and you wouldn't even think of disobeying his order. Your mass was heavy when you gripped his head with your thighs and arched slightly, lolling your head back.
He was nose deep in your corse, slurping, ravaging and inhaling the scent of your hole, whining deeply, as your slick went down his throat, like the sweetest ambrosia served only by the gods. The goddess herself, spread on his mouth without any shame, with hands clenched tightly on a bed frame and gold bracelets on her arms quivering every time he sucked your harder.
"S-satoru, aren't you a starved jackal, hm?" You could barely chuckle while grazing the strands of his hair sticking to his forehead. He truly looked like a beast, lapping you starved, maddened, with faint groans and hips bucking up with desire to be touched.
He groaned in an answer, putting his muscular arms on your thighs, shoving you down even harder. He looked almost possessed, with brows creased and mouth fully covered by your fat, without any care in this world.
And maybe you should be afraid of choking him with your mass, but how could the greatest Imperator be bothered by your goddess body, weighing less than a feather?
"My Queen, my dearest," he muttered, slurping your folds obscenely, with tongue running circles around your clit. The wet muscle went inside, licking and tasting your pinkish walls clean, the slick smearing both his mouth and a face, although he looked as if there was no other place he would like to be at.
"Hm?" you hummed, feeling his finger nudging at your entrance, slowly, almost painfully, gathering the slick and scooping it out, just for Satoru to take it down his throat. Then he put it in, into your tightening folds, looking for the spot which would bring you – and him! – down to knees.
"I was talking to her," he bubbled, clamping one hand on your hips. "Move them for me, baby. Ride me as you wish."
He didn’t beg, but the look in his eyes was devouring you whole, so possessed and filled with crude passion. It seemed like an Imperator was truly pussydrunk!
Your hips weaved, slowly, deeply, with a clit nudging the tip of his nose and shivers running down your spine. He helped you move them, with tongue plastered to your slit, catching the dampness and soft moans that spilt right into his mouth and hands gripping your ass. He groaned, adding a second finger and feeling your walls fluttering, when he bent them down.
And then something snapped!
"Oh? Is it here?" He smirked slyly, a wide grin spreading on his lips when he pushed the spongy spot again. And your whole body bolted, head fell back, and eyes shut so tightly, this time you felt like bewitched. "Anything happened, my Queen? You were so full of yourself just a second ago?"
"S-shut up and make me c-cum," you hissed pitifully, almost with a cry, feeling your lower belly clenching together with your walls.
He smirked, giving you a long, filthy lick. His hand cupped you harder, moving back and forth just for your pussy to grind against his face, painting it with your stickiness. "Such a golden mouth, aren't you?"
Satoru sent you a last look, and then his gaze dropped down to your sweet clit, waiting for his tongue to come back and suck till you'll squirt all over his face. Maybe that was his favourite part of all of this. Not the sex alone, just the feeling of your warm core on his tongue and a taste, that made his toes curl, hips buck in undeniable pleasure, waiting for your soft glance to meet them at some point.
"Mmm, this is why I conquered half the world for you," he mumbled, not you, but her, glancing at your pussy with almost tears in his eyes and once again going deep inside your folds.
Your body spilled on his face, loose and relaxed, while your hips pushed against his tongue. Fingers, working your from inside, pumping your cute hole and pushing the spot every time Satoru sucked on your clit. He clenched your thighs hungrily, cupping your ass with a strength you couldn't imagine, truly worthy of the conqueror.
He guided you with a demand, patience, giving you enough power to let you think that you were in control. Because oh, baby, you were the only one he would ever drop to his knees for, without a second thought.
So while you were grinding your hips against his mouth, clenching your thighs on his head and giving him throaty moans, he slurped on your pussy, sucking and groaning right until he felt your walls clench.
"S-satoru," you whined, moving hips quickly, sloppy, with your mind clouded by obscene moans and his face drenched in your juices. "I'm cumming, S-satoru I'm–"
"Come on, baby, my Queen," he moaned just by the sheer look on your face twisted in pleasure. "You're so fucking ethereal. Come on, cum for me, hm? Give me another victory."
You stopped, hands clenching on his hair, pulling them slightly as his eyes rolled back. One last lick, one last bend of his fingers and your pussy gushed with a nectar sweeter than honey, melting on his tongue and festing the buds.
You whined lowly, your belly trembled and folded, fluttering around nothing, when Satoru took you off his face.
"My sweet Queen," he murmured, placing you down on your back, with shaking thighs glued to your chest. Your wet body softened beneath his touch, surrounded by soothing linens and the hush of the flickering flame. He dropped his eyes, looking at your poor hole, so raw and needy, with new slick flowing down your thighs. "Seems like she needs to be filled with something else, hm?"
He took off his drenched robe, finally revealing the mountains of muscles, hanging solid on his body. Skin white as pouring milk, embedded with single droplets of sweat, tasting sweeteishly when you wiped one with your finger placed it on your tongue. You purred looking with a lost gaze on his broad shoulders and muscular arms, wide back and absolutely delicious, almost goddlesly hard cock, already wet with precum.
"Aren't you a sight, my Imperator?"
You smirked, placing your foot on his chest, moving it slowly down, down his abs, till his feverish cock, flinching under your electric touch. Satoru furrowed his brows and parted lips slightly, following your foot till it touched his wet head. He hissed lowly, the moment you fingers curled, squeezing his sensitive skin and smearing precum all over the soft pads of your feet.
"You're killing me, my Queen," he mumbled, nevertheless letting you do whatever you wished for.
Your head tilted when a soft moan escaped his lips, as you pressed his cock to his belly. Drops of precum rolled down its fat shaft, and you could only imagine yourself licking it clean, until the last ropes of his cum would land deep in your throat. He felt heavy, massive, with veins curling up around it and hottishly red head, extremely sensitive under your touch.
"Am I? Then you're quite easy to kill, my Imperator."
He shuddered, hearing this title, when your foot was stomping the symbol of his manhood. Such a cruel creature you were, truly just a cunning viper.
You knew he was going absolutely insane, with your nectary pussy just in front of him, spread widely like a feast. And with his white hair stuck to his shining forehead, dilated eyes glancing between your needy eyes, your even needier hole, he couldn’t contain a gasp that escaped his lips.
"Only by you, my dearest."
But before you could answer, he grabbed your ankle and put it right on his shoulder, kissing you calve gently, grazing skin with his teeth.
"Ah!" you whined when the head of his cock caught on the entrance of your pussy, as she invited it with a sweet purr and open folds, fluttering just at the sheer thought of his huge cock ripping her raw.
Satoru bent down, shoving his tongue down your throat, till nothing but moans spilled from your cunning mouth. He moaned, licking your lower lip and pushing your tongue back, heavy, needy and whiny as the opposite of the man he usually was.
And he pushed. Slowly. Truly slowly, glueing your thighs back to your chest, and soaking his shaft in your drenched pussy.
"My fucking–" His breath shuddered when you clenched around him and cried pitifully, bucking your hips to meet his pelvis. His cock was almost feverish, throbbing and pushing through your muscles, pinkish walls catching down on its bulging veins, crying with a delicious tear he was bestowing you with. "So tight, dear goddess."
"T-toru," you put palms on his chest, pushing him slightly. It was too much, with his cock almost in your lungs, pushing against your poor belly. His head suddenly kissed your cervix, making your mind stuppidly foggy, as if blinded by the sheer heaviness of his shaft inside you. "W-wait, I–nghhh"
But Imperator could only smirk at your wretched state and brush your parted lips with his thumb before forcing it right on your wet tongue.
"Forgive me, my Queen. But don't you think I deserve this sweet treat for giving you back the throne?"
And it was enough for him to push.
Truly push, raw and deep, stretching your hole like it was your first time, dragging his thick cock through your folds with a squelch. You could feel it all the way in your tummy, with walls clamping on his cock and cervix already swollen from his furious strokes, going to the deepest corners of your pussy.
He put his whole monstrous weight on your thighs, pressed against your chest, and kissed you deeply, swallowing a mean moan that escaped your lips. "Toru–mmmm–t-too much."
You felt so fucking full that even deep breaths wouldn't help the feeling of his heavy cock sitting heavily inside your walls, and the simple, stupid, womanly desire to feel him spill right into your burning womb. He was pumping you with his girth, shuddered breaths escaping his lips when you glanced at him like lost in a pleasure, almost filled with fresh, fat tears ready to roll down your blushed cheeks.
"I can hear your thoughts, baby," he mumbled, looking at your crossed eyes with a grin. He sank deep with balls hitting your ass, pace so fast and intense, you could only loll your head to the side and let him sway your body as he wished. "You want an heir, don't you? You wish to carry my baby? The most powerful child in the world? Just think of empire he would inherit, hm?"
And you couldn't give him another answer than just a nod, so frantic and quick, he laughed deeply, pumping, pumping, pumping his cock till your slith caught around him like a glue. You moaned with a pitched voice, spreading around the walls of chamber like the sweetest melody, making Satoru pump his hips even faster, bold, raw, to scratch with his cock the deepest parts of your pussy.
"She doesn't want me to go, hmmm," he groaned lowly, with a wet forehead sticking right to yours. "Can you hear her talking?"
His pace quickened, cock going even deeper, with your plush thighs shoved against your chest so painfully, it almost felt like a strangle. The mating press was absolutely, fucking mean, as he pulled away just to look at your clenched thighs and reddened pussylips. He parted them slightly, smirking at the way your walls gripped his monstrous cock in a fever. You could only hear filthy squelching and his cruel laughter, when he circled your clit with a wet pad of his finger.
"Where's your golden mouth, my Queen? What got you so quiet?"
Oh, how much pleasure he took from seeing you in such a miserable state, so weak and harmless, the only thing he could think of was to fuck you pregnant and stuff you full of his cum. With your lips slightly parted and breasts breathing feverishly, bumping softly every time his hips met yours, shuddering under the tight clench of your pussy.
And when he thought, he finally managed to overpower you, rip your smuginess away, you smiled.
Softly, slyly, like a devilish fox, a deadly jackal itself, circling on the West Bank of the Nile to devour its prey.
You wrapped your legs around his hips, tying your ankles behind his back tightly, maddeningly, almost too sure and proud of your small victory.
And a second later, he was balls deep inside your clenching walls, caught on him so feraly, brutally, hugging his cock with their plush muscles, the only thing Satoru could do was to tremble weakly, looking straight at your lips twisted in a smirk.
"You're so easy, my Imperator. A single clench and you're down."
But he moved away, somehow, straightening his back and lifting your wrapped legs together with him. His strong hands gripped your hips and when you thought he will change your positions and let you ride him, he also smiled.
He had a different plan.
And the moment he clutched your hips tighter, pushing fingers into your skin till left with purplish kisses, you knew that the next push would be so cruel, even your clenched muscles wouldn't be able to stop his cock from moving further, ripping your pussy raw.
"You're the only one who can tame me, my Queen," he said, bucking his hips once, like a madman, gripping your ass with his wide hands, to stuff you right on his cock, and push it against your womb. Your back arched deliciously and feet curled, when licked a looong strip against your neck. "But this fucking grip, I'll give you points for that. Making me fucking feral with this sweet pussy."
He hissed, driving his girth right against one spot. You were fucked by a true monster, with a belly swelling from his sheer size and clit rolled viciously between his fingers.
"Mhmmm–Satoru, my–mhmmm," you cried, nails going down his back, painting it long, red scratches. "I'm g-going to–"
The whine escaped his throat when your sensitive walls gripped his length. He bent down, pinching your chin with his fingers, only to look at you absolutely gone, with tenderness and lust that filled his mind. He felt almost blinded by the sheer beauty of your crying eyes and puffed lips, full breasts moving deliciously within his every push, and the feeling of his cock smearing your walls with his precum and your juices leaving his shaft drenched.
How proud he was to have such a woman under him, to feel her feverish body hugging his and tongue dancing on his lips, before he deepened the kiss, groaning softly, trembling under your touch.
He knew you were close when your lower belly was clenching and hole fluttering around his cock, thigher and thigher, keeping him almost in a lock.
"Come on, baby. Give it to me. Aren't you my whore queen, hm? This pussy glued to my cock so hard, waiting to put my heir inside."
You felt his fingers once again pinching your clit, till your body shuddered with pleasure, bucking hips to meet him halfway. His muscular body strangled you with its sheer mass, nose hidden deep in your neck and palms pushed against the back of your thighs.
"Aren't you my pretty Queen? Come on," he guided you right through it, with the sweetest and meanest, whorish praises leaving his trembling lips. "Cum on my cock like a good slut you are. That's the pussy I conquered the world for, baby. The least you can gave me is a ton of fucking heirs"
Your cunt was aching, pulsing, every corner kissed by his cock in such a disgustingly pleasant way, sending shivers down your spine and making your belly clench.
"C-come on–ugh." He finally gave up, pistoning his hips like a beast, gasping and fucking you with bruises on your hips, pushing your thighs in the meanest mating press he could be capable of.
"T-toru, I'm–"
But you didn't finish.
Just whined right into his ear, clenched and shuddered, with tears rolling down your cheeks and a knot in your belly finally untying as your pussy drowned him with another wave of squirt, dripping down his aching cock and sheets.
"O-oh fuck, my Queen, you p-pussy's–" he continued his feverish strokes, with a sweat glistening on his temple and eyes far gone.
His lips grazed your ear, and then, muscles shuddered, finally followed by his thick cum filling your womb. So deliciously, you could almost swear he grew by size, sitting tightly against your walls, with his head kissing your womb, pumping it full of cum.
"S-satoru–" you shivered, feeling the warmth coiling in your belly, and his strong fingers pushing your skin juuuust over the tip of his cock bulging through your skin.
"The fucking chokehold you have on me. Do you feel it? My cum is going that deep, my sweet girl."
Your thighs trembled as he groaned in pleasure, pushing your belly and lolling his head back. And when you could feel his cum gushing out your puckered hole, with his cock not softening even for a moment, you cried softly, bringing his eyes back to you.
His fingers took the white ropes that slid down your skin and pushed them back inside with low groan. Oh, how ruthless he was, absolutely thrilled by your desperate, dishevelled look and eyes crying for more.
So before you could protest, he threw your legs over his arms, kissing your soft calves gently. A sly smile grazed his lips, when he rutted slowly, barely, sliding his cock down your juices and his slick cum.
"Egypt's not enough, just ask me for a whole world, my Queen."
Let's leave Ancient Egypt for a while and go to Hades! Choso next ;p
Another lonely birthday, another empty year. You miss your family. You're late for your bills and rent, and even then, you got robbed last Tuesday.
Still, you buy yourself a cupcake, because you need it. I mean, hey. What's dessert for if not to get over cheating boyfriends and dead relatives?
As you blow out the candle, watching the clock switch from 11:59 pm to midnight of the next day, you make a wish.
And because the world doesn't like to make much sense, it comes true. Your life is suddenly flipped on a dime, and you're stuck trying to catch up with it. Fantasy becomes reality. You're a Wayne now, apparently. Or you used to be. You're loved, you're rich, you're talented and powerful.
Well, sort of. Careful what you wish for, right?
(TRIGGER WARNINGS AND MASTERLIST HERE)
PREV - NEXT
It’s on your fifth trip back and forth from the flower shop, arms overflowing with every single bloom you could carry, that you remember Molly. You go to reach for your phone before you realise you are going to drop literally everything, but manage to right yourself before the leaning tower of plantlife falls. There’s a second where you think you might lose a tulip. After you collect yourself, you rush off to put the flowers down at the base of the memorial.
People are taking photos. Both of you, and the half of the flower shop you’d already bought out. Some were even taking selfies. Filming videos, you think. You already know you’re gonna end up on TikTok. Twitter, Instagram, Youtube. Plastered across the internet. Despite how awkward it feels to be openly gawked at, you just try to ignore them and keep doing what you’re doing. You keep telling yourself that you don’t care what they’re thinking, and sure you don’t believe it, but maybe you will at some point.
And sure, it’s insane, and you look like a freak. But shockingly enough, as the petals start to swallow your family’s photos, you feel better and better. Cathartic. You’ve already cried twice. Some asshole tried to photograph that too. So you took a detour on the next flower run and picked up sunglasses, a face mask and a trucker hat. Just like that weird fucking guy. If he came back, you could say the two of you were twinning. You wouldn’t, because you weren’t sure if you really could be held back from murdering him if he popped up again and started spouting his nonsense. After the George IncidentTM as it would now forever be known, you weren’t sure if you were secretly part rabid raccoon. So yeah, that guy’s safety was not confirmed around you.
Now, looking like a proper celebrity hiding from the press, you take a seat on that same bench from earlier, and try to facebook stalk your missing best friend.
The two of you had met in elementary school. Some kids were trying to bully you, and you weren’t paying enough attention or something because they decided the best course of action was to hit you. Molly, self-proclaimed ‘defender of justice’ had enjoyed the opportunity to swoop in and start biting your accosters. Maybe you’d learnt the behaviour from her. Her braces had left some serious damage on those kids, and she’d got you both suspended. You’d been inseparable since then.
Your research into ‘yourself’ showed that at some point during your high school career, instead of continuing to go to the Narrows nearest public school, you’d been switched to Gotham’s top private academy. This was all found through your wikipedia page. Which was an absolutely fucking insane statement. Still, as far as you could tell, everything that had changed in your life was still only coming back to the one big divergence in the timelines.
Your mother meeting and marrying Bruce. Even more insane statement.
Anyway, that’s where the two of you had… parted ways, you guess. It probably wasn’t instant. Most things in life like that aren’t. And you can’t imagine that Molly would have left you alone after what happened with your family, not even after you two had drifted apart. But things are hard in the big city. Everyone’s got their own life, their own issues. It’s hard to stay connected.
Still, you wish you knew what had happened. You worry that you’ll say something that will reveal that you’ve somehow forgotten years of your life. Something that can’t really be explained away by simple depression. Well, you don’t know. Maybe you can just tell Molly you started taking cocaine and you’d only recently gotten out of rehab or something. It’s not like you think she’d judge.
At least, the Molly you knew wouldn’t have. Fuck, you don’t even know if the number you have - the one you memorised because you had absolutely no one else - was even hers anymore. And even still, if you randomly called her, what would you say?! How would you explain you’d found it? Was this even a good idea-
For God’s sake. You’re never going to get anywhere like this, are you? You need something to anchor you in this new unfamiliar world. Molly was almost a lighthouse in the dark for you.
If your positions were reversed… you’d want her to come to you. You would. And with that last resolute thought, you pull up your big girl panties, and hit the big green call button. It rings. Once. Twice. Three, four, five times. Your phone is shaking in your hand.
And of course, just when you decide this was a horrible idea, the phone answers.
“Uh, hi, who’s this? Oh, it’s Molly by the way.”
You wonder if your phone picks up the sound of your comically loud swallow.
“Oh, uh, it’s…” you hesitate for a second, but eventually you can swallow down your fear. When you do say your name, it’s with the slightest hint of a stutter. Not totally embarrassing or whatever. And then you get so many tiny flashbacks of the last few days that you realise, oh, it could be worse.
If you think like that you’ll jinx it. You knock on the wood of the bench and hope the phone’s mic doesn’t pick up the sound.
“Oh, wow,” Molly replies, sounding genuinely shocked. It kind of hurts for a second. You rub at the point over your chest where it feels like she dug at something.
…You’re gonna get that something back, you just have to try for it. And you throw every terrible little screaming evil thought into the back recesses of your mind.
“Yeah, it’s me! Sorry, I know this is sort of out of the blue, but I was just wondering how you’d been and all.”
“How I’ve been?” she repeats, and you suck your teeth.
“Yeah, how you’ve been.”
“…I’ve been alright, I guess… uh, just got a new job doing some freelance work at the Museum. So that’s pretty cool.”
‘Pretty cool’ was actually the understatement of the year. About a month ago Molly had gotten her dream as an assistant at the Gotham City Museum, and you’d spent the entire night afterward partying and clubbing. Since she wanted to be a curator one day, it had been absolutely huge. She’d been near impossible to communicate with when she’d first gotten that email. Sobbing and blabbering and screaming. You’d thought something bad had happened, or she’d seen a spider. Nope, she was actually ecstatic.
So yeah, pretty cool.
“…That’s amazing! You know I’ve always loved the Museum here.”
“Yeah, me too. I’m still obsessed with the dinosaur exhibit,” she says, and you have to laugh. It sounds forced to you, but you have to wonder after all this time if she can tell the difference between your real laughs and your fake ones.
“Remember all those school trips where you’d inevitably escape from the pack just to end up right back staring at the T-rex?”
“Hey, you were there too,” she protests, and again, you laugh. This one feels a bit more real.
“I was just following you, you know.”
“Yeah, yeah, I know.”
There’s a moment where you find yourself struggling to find what to say next.
“Molly, I-”
“We haven’t talked in years,” Molly says, cutting whatever your terrible attempt at easing the awkwardness off would’ve been before it could even
“…I know, I’m sorry,” you say, after far too long. You’re screwing this up. You’ve never been good at these sorts of things and even as you’re trying your best right now, you’re still not any different than you were yesterday. Scratching at the back of your neck awkwardly you almost wish you think it’s kind of ironic how Molly was always the one who cheered you on when you struggled through situations like these.
Your hand moves to cover your already hidden face, and you feel so utterly ridiculous for a moment that you almost lose your nerve.
“No, you don’t need to be sorry it’s just… I don’t know why you’ve contacted me,” she replies,
“Well, I-uh, I got these tickets a couple days ago, and I remember you liked the band. Coldplay. And they’re fancy ones, backstage meetup and stuff,“ you
“Oh wow, oh… Yeah, I still love them. I was actually really wanting to see them but couldn’t quite manage it this time. But I thought you said you didn’t like their music?”
“I’ve matured,” you tease, and to your relief, Molly laughs. Of course, your taste in the music didn’t matter at all. You’d asked Jeanine to get these tickets specifically to try and gift to Molly. She’d complained before everything had gone haywire about how she hadn’t been able to afford the band and their upcoming tour through Gotham, and now you had the money to overpower even the most greedy scalpers on Ticketmaster. It was the first thing you’d thought of when you’d thought of how to get back in contact with her.
And this further reinforced that despite everything this was your Molly. This was the Molly you knew and loved, even if she didn’t know you. Sure, every time you thought about the second part your heart broke a little more in your chest, but you needed to keep going. That’s all that mattered in the end.
Your relationship wouldn’t be the same. But maybe you could fix this. You’ll give it the good ol’ Gotham try, as always.
“I thought you said their stuff was immature? Not proper rock or whatever?” she shoots back, and you scoff.
“I changed my mind.”
“Right, that sounds like you,” she continues, voice sarcastic.
“It happens!” you insist, and again, she laughs.
“You realise this is really weird, right? I haven’t seen you since… since the accident,”
Accident’s a bit of a vague term. Your family had been blown to smithereens, and it was very much on purpose. Whatever, you weren’t going to nitpick. You knew she said it like that to be nice. And even if the other Molly knew that… that you didn’t like that, this one didn’t. If this adventure was proving anything, it was that your circumstances molded who you were. This Molly hadn’t had you for half her life, and you hadn’t had her.
Was it wrong for you to hope for her to be similar? Maybe, you can’t tell. You’d try not to compare them, in the end. It wasn’t fair to either Molly. Maybe it wasn’t fair to try and befriend an alternate version of your best friend on the assumption that the two of you would get along, even as you know that she could be completely different now in ways other than superficial music tastes.
Again, you find yourself not knowing what to say, and the line goes silent.
“Hey, remember that promise we made? It was summer and we were in your Grandma’s tree-house, I think?” you offer, your voice vulnerable in ways you’d rather it not be.
Molly chuckles, “God, that’s a memory that had been buried deep down. The ‘no questions’ one?”
“Yeah, that one,” you say, thinking of the Molly who you’d found kissing a girl, the one terrified how her parents would react.
That Molly had been 12 years old and not ready to face her violently bigoted family. She’d asked you to leave the subject alone, and because you were a good friend, you had. Still you were endlessly curious, of course. Any 12 year old would be. But you waited until she was ready to talk to you about it, because again, you were a good friend.
“Can we do that again, please? I’ll make it up to you, I promise. I just… I don’t really know what’s going on either,” you sigh. It wasn’t a lie. You had no fucking clue what was going on, much less how to begin to explain it. Maybe when you understood the mysteries of the universe, you’d tell Molly.
Which might take a while. You’d never been all that bright. Why try, it’s not like you could afford college.
“That’s not reassuring, but sure. I mean, you’re filthy rich, what problems could you have?” Molly jokes, living the mentality of every lower class person. You’d thought that rich people couldn’t really have any problems either, until… Well.
“You’d be surprised,” you hedge, brows pulling together. Maybe she hadn’t read the news. You really hoped she hadn’t, actually. Though you can’t imagine any universe where Molly doesn’t have TikTok, or facebook stalks people. She’s probably just going to do it once she gets home.
You wonder if she’ll still be willing to spend time with you after. Actually, thinking about Molly-
“Well, you know me, I’m always up for trouble. No questions it is,” she finally says, seeming to dismiss the situation entirely.
And that’s why Molly was your best friend. Because she had a taste for bullshit and chaos, and you attracted it like fruit flies to a rotting feast. She saw every day as an adventure while you saw it as more of the trials and tribulations of simply being a hot mess. And you’d bet that while a normal person would see all the bullshit you’d been through the past few days, Molly would just be delighted to get the live-show reality-TV version of what she’ll probably equate to Succession to watch.
Really, Molly was a miracle. In your past life, and thankfully, in your new one too. You don’t know what you would’ve done if she’d very rightfully told you to go fuck off. Probably cried. You feel like crying anyway, honestly, but you’ve done enough of that.
Instead, you let out a deep, relieved exhale, “Thanks Molls, I appreciate it.”
“Don’t mention it, moron. I take any and all bribes,” she replies cheerily, and this time when you laugh it’s not got any force to it at all.
The next day, the two of you meet up for what for you has only been a few days, and her a few years. To say it’s awkward is an understatement. She doesn’t know what to think about you. And you don’t really know what to think about her. She’s your best friend… but not. It’s too much of a mind fuck to think about.
So you’ve just elected to stop thinking, and just keep doing. It was working yesterday.
In a small cafe near your family’s memorial you’d suggested for its amazing coffee, the two of you sit in a booth near the back. The place is crowded but nobody has noticed you since you’re still wearing your disguise and haven’t done anything crazy. Well, crazy yet.
Apparently, the flower thing has caused a bit of a stir.
You stare down at Molly’s phone in mild horror at the 11-million-liked video of you placing your fifteenth bouquet at the base of the memorial. She scrolls down, and it’s another video of you, probably 30 minutes later with even more flowers and the words ‘Isn’t that the lost Wayne girl?’. It has only five million views, but you know. You’d really rather it had none.
“It’s not that bad. And I mean, you’ve started a trend! People are buying more flowers for the memorial now! In fact, I think some cops had to show up this morning to start cordoning people off and stuff-”
You groan, placing your head in your hands. Yes, you could’ve foreseen this happening, but you were really just… Using your money the way you wanted to. Maybe the average rich person was more likely to hide themselves from the public than you were. But you think you’d been very much an outlier in however rich people functioned even when you weren’t you. People this rich were usually able to have personal assistants who waited on them hand and foot right?
So… again, what the hell was up with Jeanine? Nothing made any sense, and it made less and less sense the longer you spent time here. You couldn’t pick apart the strings in the knotted mystery that was your life. You felt like a cat that had gotten its claws stuck in a cotton ball. Tangled up and confused, flailing about on the floor and screaming your head off.
“I just wanted to buy my family some more flowers,” you mutter, passing the phone back.
“Well, you achieved that,” Molly acknowledges, taking it into her hands, “I think that they’ll all go bad soon if you don’t make a plan. Do you have a plan?”
You groan in response.
“Guess not. Don’t you have a P.A. or something who can deal with this?”
“She’s disappeared on me,” you reply, putting your head in your hands.
“What? That’s so weird. Shouldn’t she be waiting on you hand and foot? You’re a millionaire, I’d give anything for a job that paid half as much. Wait, you’re paying her well, right?”
“I am.” You think. You have to be, right? You pull out your phone and your banking app, ignoring the near breathtaking amount of money in your accounts and check your recent statements. Yup, Jeanine’s salary is huge. The sort of money you’d have killed for back then.
“Then why the hell did she ditch you?”, Molly asks.
You look at Molly and shrug, as stumped as she is. Jeanine’s life by all means should revolve around yours. But it doesn’t. You were starting to suspect there was something going on in the background you were missing. But still, you didn’t feel you had the right to ask.
“She did tell me she was busy and gave me a different business card. It’s not like I’m usually very demanding.”
“Then why do you have a P.A.?”
“Can I be honest with you, Molly?”
“Uh, yeah, sure. Shoot me,” she says, and you sigh.
“I have absolutely no idea what I’m doing and I’d be totally lost without her. Also firing her feels mean.”
“Wow,” she says, making a face of surprise, “You’re as bad as you were in middle school. Aren’t you supposed to become mean and greedy when you get rich?”
“Are you disappointed in me for being not mean?”
“I mean…” she pinches her fingers together, “A little bit? Just a tad. You got scammed for your lunch way too many times.”
“I’m not going to lose my lunch money, Molly. I don’t know if it’s actually possible for me to get scammed out of that much money. And I dumped my boyfriend for cheating on me in public yesterday, I’m cleaning up my act,” you protest, cleanly skating past the fact that you attacked him like a rabid dog. Molly does not allow this.
“And you bit him,” she says with not too a small amount of excitement, typing into her phone what you can only imagine is your name followed by some heinous string of words that might be brought up in a future assault case George would bring up against you.
“I don’t need to see me biting my ex-boyfriend,” you say, a deep weariness in your soul. Molly chuckles at your words.
“You may not, but I do. Especially after learning why you did it. Hey, do you remember when we met in elementary and I-”
“Yes. Please can we not talk about it? I don’t want to think about George of all people right now,” you beg her, and despite her natural teasing attitude Molly has always known when too-far is too-far, so she relents with a pout.
“Still, don’t worry about it, dude. Anyone can see in the videos he was yanking you about and with the cheating stuff and a Wayne lawyer there’s no way George could touch you,” Molly says, and you want to listen to her but you just don’t believe it. For one thing, all the evidence of his cheating was on his phone. You know there’s no way he’d ever give that up.
You don’t know if the Wayne’s would support you anyway. Your relationship with them is tenuous at best. And you keep embarrassing yourself in front of them. You don’t want to think about it, really.
“Well then, what else do you want to do today?” Molly offers when you don’t say anything back, and again you shrug.
“I think I should probably wait to go back to the memorial again. I guess we could go to a movie. I’d be willing to shout the snacks?” you offer, knowing Molly never much liked gifts from people she wasn’t fully comfortable with. You were still going to try anyway.
Molly scoffs, “Seriously, the movies?”
“Well, then do you have any bright ideas?” you ask, giving her a look.
Her grin is all teeth when she replies, “Well, with all that money…”
-
“Ikea? This is your grand plan?”
“You said you didn’t like your apartment, so we’re being pro-active! Besides, I was kinda craving the meatballs,” she shrugs, then glances at you, “What? Too posh to appreciate our Swedish overlords now?”
You don’t meet her gaze when you reply, instead staring up at the bold yellow letters, “Like I told you, I don’t know what I’m doing. I’ve been out of the loop for a while now. I don’t have a clue where rich people buy their furniture.”
Despite living your entire life in Gotham, you always felt bad lying to people you were close to. And even if you weren’t technically close to this Molly, you felt the same towards her as you always did. An overwhelmingly loyal love. You were never very good at turning those sorts of feelings off, even if they weren’t reciprocated. It got you hurt. It got you hurt, a lot.
But at least you weren’t lying about not knowing where rich people bought their furniture. That was as mysterious as the secrets of the universe to you.
“I’m pretty sure they get other people to do it for them,” Molly says, before walking towards the giant square structure.
“You know what, that makes sense,” you reply, thinking your apartment probably suited Jeanine’s minimalist sense of style. Sure, it was beautiful in an architectural-interior design sort of way, but it didn’t feel homey to you. That was important.
You take a step forward, following Molly along, finding that the idea of screwing around at Ikea for the day actually… sort of fun.
It’s the sort of dumb thing you and Molly had done before. But back then you’d always been extremely frugal with the things you bought. The meatballs were good, and cheap, too. And now you didn’t have to put down every potted plant you found you liked.
You think any apartment could be improved with plants, even your white minimalist nightmare. Maybe you could even buy some coloured sheets. That’d make your life a little less miserable.
That was all you were aiming for, really.
The two of you continue to chat as you push a giant trolley around the place, picking up random bits and bobs, dorky items and potted plants and lamps. Molly finds a star lamp that she likes that you offer to buy for her, but she refuses you. When she puts it back with a longing look, you put it in your trolley behind her back. Eventually the two of you will grow close enough for her to let you give the lamp. You just have to keep trying.
You spend a few hours like that with your old friend. Mucking about, hanging around the display rooms. You eat in the cafeteria with food that tastes better than you remember. And just for a little while, this awful, foreign, terrible new world, feels like it isn’t all that terrible after all.
-
Tim realises something, as he listens in to the conversation between you and your friend inside the display area. You’re both lying on your backs on top of a premade bed, staring at the ceiling. You have your hands crossed over your stomach. Your friend has one of hers behind her head, and one of hers curled up in the headboard, tugging at an artfully placed throw blanket.
What he realises is… you are both the stupidest creatures he’s ever seen. He’s frankly shocked either of you have made it to adulthood.
“Honestly, I think the Batburger kinda sucks these days,” Molly says, and you gasp, whacking her in the stomach.
“How dare you?! Where’s your gotham pride! The burgers there are still better than any chain restaurant you can get anywhere else in New Jersey,” you shoot back, giving her a slight glare through the side of your lashes. Your friend shrugs her shoulders.
“Eh, I think they’re kinda overpriced. And ever since they did that collab with the actual Nightwing it’s been less funny—” Tim agrees, Dick did ruin the joke with that one, “—and plus I can get an actual burger for the same amount like two stores down. Why the hell would you go there?”
“Mostly because I know how much it embarrasses Batman,” you nod your head, a false intellectual look on your face.
“The professional hater over here.”
“I even had a job there for a while.”
Seriously? Why would you need a part-time job at a fast food restaurant?
“Really? Miss princess calloused her precious fingers like us other peasantry?” Molly jokes, and you roll your eyes.
“You did say I was a professional hater, after all,” you repeat her words back to her, and Tim has to admit, if anyone would do something like that… it would’ve been 15-year-old you.
Tim barely remembers that girl since he was so busy with his training and Young Justice at the time (and would soon be getting hunted down by his newly resurrected adopted brother, to add onto his issues) but he can remember the soul deep hatred you had in you. Never get between a teen girl and her arch nemesis, as he’s learnt. Steph beat that lesson into him multiple times over their relationship.
There’s a moment where the two of you pause, both staring quietly at the artificial lights above you.
“Is it okay if I resent you a bit?” your friend asks you, and you smile.
“Yeah, I do too,” you admit with a sheepish smile, like you forgetting your Molly’s existence for the last few years was an oopsie and not the catastrophically large wedge between your relationship.
“What happened to you, man?” She asks you, and you shrug, turning to stare back up at the ceiling.
“I don’t know, really. I think I died for a little while.”
“That’s deep,” she nods, like you said some wise sage statement. You did not.
“It’s really not.” Tim snorts, at least you’re self-aware. “Everyone’s depressed. We live in a twenty-first-century Gotham.”
“Ha, yeah. I’m even on these new SSRIs that make it so I can’t come.”
“…At least they’re helping, right?” you say after a moment of stunned silence.
Molly just shrugs. You snort. Then chuckle. Then giggle. And then you’re falling into a desperate, wheezing, breathless laughter. You’re laughing so hard you’re curling in on yourself, clutching at your stomach. There’s tears in your eyes. Molly starts laughing too. And Tim has to wonder, what the fuck he’s doing sitting here watching you two reinvent the wheel that is post-modern philosophy.
There’s very clearly nothing going on in the two of your brains. Certainly nothing malicious. He’s mesmerised nonetheless. Almost like watching a train crash, he just can’t look away.
The rest of Tim’s day is a pleasant waste of time as he watches the two of you waste Bruce’s money like it’s paper to be burnt, go bar-hopping in such a chaotic manner that he loses the both of you several times. His face scanning AI has to pick you out in an Uber, at a pizza shop you stop at for recuperation, one time when your friend is puking on a street corner…
And finally, the two of you hand-in-hand, by your family's memorial surrounded by flowers and cheers-ing the dead. And though Tim has followed a thousand people, watched a million moments, this is the first time he’s truly felt like he’s intruding on something.
He doesn’t stop watching till you’re home, and even then there’s an itch in his chest he can’t put out.
You were never meant for masks, for midnight crusades, or for Gotham’s cruel shadows. You only ever wanted to shine as a socialite in the city’s limited light. But destiny has sharp claws— no matter how much you resist, the curse of a mantle hunts you down.
Sweet Thing, Lost Cause:
Trouble Never Looked This Good:
[ Post just so all the parts are easy to find :) ]
pairing: steve harrington x byers!reader
summary: you kick the shit out of steve harrington for messing with your brother -- from that moment on, he's sickeningly infatuated with you.
themes & warnings: byers! twin reader, intro takes place around the time that jonathan beats steve up but instead of jonathan its reader!!, switches time periods after intro, slow burn, not accurate to plot necessarily, reader is kind of mean, lovesick steve, descriptions of violence, enemies to ALMOST lovers
The Byers' family women had always been fierce.
You defended your brothers in more than one way -- in all of the ways that your mother couldn't be there for. You'd joined forces to make sure that your brothers' sensitive souls were always protected. Jonathan, your twin, was gentle, quiet, and never one to snap. Will was the same.
That couldn't be said for you or your mom.
You'd socked more bullies in the face than you could count when you were in middle school. When things were their worst for Jonathan, no one could so much as look at him without you kicking them in their knees with your sparkly pink sneakers, promptly ensuring that no one would ever touch him again or get the chance to say something that he'd think about for days after.
Will, your younger brother, knew you extended the same type of protection to him. But instead of putting your hands on people, you terrified the little shits by chasing them in your Sedan, honking loudly. You'd yank the window down and yell something in warning, then drive away satisfied.
You were the spitting image of Joyce.
You were a storm in a hand-me-down flannel. The spitfire second child, born ten minutes after Jonathan and inheriting all the fight he seemed to have been born without. Where Jonathan observed the world through a camera lens, absorbing its pain and beauty quietly, you met it head-on, fists up and teeth bared. You were your mother’s daughter through and through -- the same wild curls, the same wide, expressive eyes that could flash from warmth to warning in a heartbeat, the same stubborn set to your jaw that said try me.
Joyce fought monsters you couldn’t see, battles with bills and bad wiring and a world that felt constantly tilted against her. You fought the monsters you could. The ones with names like Troy and James, who shoved Will into lockers and called Jonathan a freak. Your weapon of choice evolved with age: the sparkly pink sneakers of middle school gave way to a terrifying competence with your father’s old wrench, the one he'd left when he did, and finally, to a reputation. A reputation that said, mess with a Byers, and you answer to her.
Jonathan never asked you to fight his battles. He’d just give you a small, irritated frown when you came home with scraped knuckles, wordlessly cleaning you up at the kitchen sink. Will would look at you with a mixture of awe and worry, knowing his big sister was a force of nature, one he was secretly grateful was on his side.
The Byers family was a fortress, and you were its most volatile, loyal guard. You loved fiercely, protected violently, and held a grudge like it was a cherished heirloom. You didn’t start fights, but you sure as hell finished them.
When Will went missing, it wracked you and your brother's souls -- and destroyed your mother's. She was spiraling out of control, and you two were desperately trying to hold her together in any way you could. Caught between missing and grieving Will and making sure your mother would survive, it definitely made things tense.
The world had gone silent in the worst way. Will’s absence wasn't just an empty chair at dinner; it was a scream that had sucked all the sound out of the house, leaving only the frantic, scraping noise of your mother’s fear. You watched her tape up Christmas lights, her hands trembling, her eyes seeing things you couldn't. The fortress was cracking, and you and Jonathan stood in the breach, holding up the crumbling walls with your bare hands.
You took the night shifts, patrolling the quiet, oppressive dark of the house with Lonnie’s old wrench held tight, your knuckles white. Jonathan took the days, following your mother on her desperate errands, a silent, anxious shadow. You communicated in looks, in sighs, in the way you’d wordlessly make a pot of coffee at 3 AM for the other. The twin bond, usually a quiet understanding, had become a taut wire of shared dread.
School was a forgotten concept. The bullies, the whispers, the petty high school dramas -- they were echoes from another life. Steve Harrington and his court were irrelevant, just background noise in a town that was eating your family alive.
Until they weren’t.
The aroma of the corner store made you cringe -- all of the smells combined themselves into a raunchy odor. Pizza, cleaning supplies, medication and plastic. You'd only gone in to buy Jonathan something to eat. In fact, you were forcing it on him, just like you had to force your mother sometimes.
Fingering a 5 dollar bill out of your back pocket, you paid for the slice of pizza and the bottle of soda quickly, giving the clerk a polite smile before getting out of there as quickly as you could.
The street was empty. Jonathan and Nancy were nowhere to be seen.
Furrowing your eyebrows, you took a few steps forward before you heard the commotion. Scuffling, yelling, Nancy's cries of "stop!" You turned into the direction you'd heard it, your steps increasing in speed until you reached a jog. This was the sound of danger. This was a sound you were familiar with -- your brother being fucked with.
As you rounded the corner, the scene unfolded in front of you.
"BYERS IS A PERV" spray painted onto a garage door in red ink, glaring into your face brightly.
Steve Harrington, the infamous douchebag king of Hawkins High, had an iron tight grip on your brother, close to wrestling him to the ground. Without another word, you stalked forward, shoving the brown paper bag of Jonathan's lunch into Nancy's arms when you finally reached her, and threaded yourself quickly between the two men.
Your shoulder connected hard with Steve's chest, shoving him back a step, breaking his grip on Jonathan. Then, you curled your nimble hands into Steve's shirt, shoving him further, watching him stumble back.
"You wanna fight someone? Fight someone who's good at it!" You hissed.
Before Steve could regain his footing, there was a crack in the air. A groan followed soon after, but immediately, another crack sounded. After years of fighting for your brother, you'd learned how to do it effectively, not giving Steve time to respond before decking him yet again in his face.
"Where'd all that confidence go now, Harrington? Huh?" You taunted, watching him fall, jeans soaked in a puddle on the pavement, bleeding on the ground.
"Y/N, stop it--" Jonathan attempted, but you were beyond that.
Reeling your leg back, you sent it straight into Steve's gut.
Once.
"Don't you ever fucking touch--"
Again.
"--my brother again, you brainless--"
The final time, releasing all of the power in your lean, trembling body.
"--douchebag!"
The final kick was a punctuation mark of pure, unadulterated fury. Steve folded around the impact with a sickening wheeze, curling into a fetal position on the wet asphalt. The alley fell into a shocked, heavy silence, broken only by Steve's ragged, pained gasps.
You stood over him, chest heaving, the adrenaline a deafening roar in your ears. You’d done it. You’d put the king in the mud. It should have felt like victory. It just felt like another terrible thing in a week of terrible things.
Nancy was staring at you with wide, horrified eyes, the brown paper bag crumpled forgotten in her arms. Jonathan looked pale, his own anger drained away, replaced by a deep, unsettling worry. He wasn't looking at Steve; he was looking at you.
And Steve… Steve was looking at you too.
Slowly, agonizingly, he pushed himself up onto his elbows. Blood and dirty water streaked his face, his expensive jacket was ruined, and he was holding his stomach where your foot had connected. But his eyes, one already swelling shut, were locked on you with an intensity that felt like a physical touch.
He didn't look angry. He didn't look humiliated.
He looked… transfixed.
A slow, pained look of shock spread across his bloody face. "Holy shit," he breathed, the words a pained rasp of pure wonder.
In the midst of your confusion, there were police in the alley. To add bullshit to bullshit, you were being arrested.
The cold, impersonal grip of the officer’s hand on your bicep was a jarring slap back to reality. The adrenaline haze evaporated, leaving you shivering in your damp clothes, the metallic taste of fury still on your tongue. You didn’t resist as you were pulled away from Steve, who was still staring at you from the ground with that dazed, bloody smile.
“You’re under arrest for assault,” the officer was saying, his voice a flat monotone as he recited your rights.
Assault. The word seemed ridiculous. You’d been defending your brother from the guy who’d just spray-painted a lie about him for the whole town to see. You looked over at Jonathan, who was being questioned by another cop, his face pale and pinched. Nancy was crying quietly, her arms wrapped around herself.
As you were led toward the waiting patrol car, you heard a groan and a scramble of movement.
When you looked back, Steve, Tommy, and Carol were all gone. Groaning, you allowed yourself to be tucked into the squad car.
The ride to the police station was a blur of gray streets and the officer's low, crackling radio. Your knuckles throbbed in time with your heartbeat. The quiet in the car was oppressive, broken only by the occasional staticky transmission.
It gave you too much time to think. To replay the scene. The red spray paint. Jonathan's terrified face. The solid, sickening impact of your fists and feet connecting with Steve Harrington. And that look on his face... that wasn't right. People didn't look at you like that after you beat them senseless. They cowered. They swore revenge. They didn't stare like you'd just performed a miracle.
The processing at the station was a numb, bureaucratic nightmare. Mugshot. Fingerprints. The cold metal of the holding cell bench seeping through your damp jeans. You sat, arms wrapped around yourself, staring at the scuffed floor. They'd let Jonathan and Nancy go after taking their statements. You were the one who'd thrown the punches. Well, and the kicks.
You didn't know how long you'd been there when the heavy door clanged open. There stood Hopper, gesturing for you to come out.
"You're being released. Your family has been through enough without this," Hopper remarked. "Your mother's here. No more assaulting people."
Hopper’s voice, a familiar gravelly mix of authority and exhausted compassion, cut through the fog. You looked up, meeting his tired eyes. He gave you a brief, almost imperceptible nod. It wasn’t approval, but it was understanding. He knew what it was to fight for family.
You stood, your joints protesting, and followed him out of the cell. The fluorescent lights of the station lobby were blinding. And there was Joyce, a small, frantic silhouette against the harsh light. She looked like she’d been carved from pure anxiety, but when she saw you, she surged forward, pulling you into a hug so tight it hurt your bruised ribs. You didn’t mind.
“Oh, honey,” she murmured, her voice cracking. Her hands fluttered over your back, your arms, as if checking for broken pieces.
“I’m okay, Mom,” you mumbled into her shoulder.
She pulled back, her eyes scanning your face, landing on your raw knuckles. A flicker of that old, fierce pride shone through the worry before it was swallowed by fresh fear. “We’re going home.”
Hopper cleared his throat. “I’ll drive you. Your car’s still back there, and you,” he pointed a thick finger at you, “are in no state.”
You didn’t argue. The thought of getting behind the wheel made your hands shake. You just nodded.
-
When the worst was over, it seemed that everyone's perspective on Steve changed. Aside from yours, of course.
Will had returned home, tentatively healthy. Your mom was doting over him more than ever. Jonathan was now transfixed on Nancy Wheeler. And you were back in your element -- working at the automotive shop in town. There were three of them; you just happened to work at the one that Steve and family took his BMW to.
He knew it was weird. He knew it was completely off center and extremely to the left that ever since you'd kicked the dog shit out of him, he was completely enamored by you. But he couldn't help it. And he saw you a few times a week -- after all, he chaperoned your little brother and his friends wherever they went. When he picked Will up and he clambered his way into Steve's backseat to sit next to Mike, he always looked up into the window. And he always caught your look of distaste.
He'd helped your family. He'd protected the kids. He'd swung nail covered bats at alien creatures with 200 teeth to defend Jonathan. But you still hated him. It should've driven him away.
But.. Steve Harrington had a problem.
It wasn't the usual kind. Not failing grades, or a fight with his dad, or even the lingering, bone-deep terror from facing down inter-dimensional monsters. No, his problem had your wild, furious eyes, your fists that hit like a freight train, and a grudge you held that was colder and harder than the wrench you’d once threatened him with.
You. Your name was a constant hum in the back of his mind, a background noise to every other thought. It had been months. Months since the alley, since the spray paint and the blood and the blinding, life-altering moment you’d looked down at him, a vengeful angel in a hand-me-down flannel, and he’d realized he’d never seen anything more beautiful.
Everyone else had moved on. Hell, he’d moved on, in every practical sense. He’d ditched the asshole crown. He’d apologized to Jonathan (who’d accepted it with a quiet, wary nod). He’d become the kids’ glorified babysitter, a role that was somehow more exhausting and more rewarding than being King Steve had ever been. He’d fought actual monsters. He was trying to be a better guy.
But it all felt… secondary. Like he was just killing time between sightings of you.
He saw you at the shop, grease smudged on your cheek, wielding tools with a competence that made his mouth go dry. He saw you dropping Will off, your expression softening for a millisecond for your little brother before hardening again when you spotted him. He saw you everywhere, and every time, it was like a punch to the solar plexus, a jolt of something electric and painful and addicting.
He knew it was pathetic. Tommy would have laughed himself sick. Nancy, in the brief, awkward moments they still had to interact, looked at him with a sort of pitying confusion. He didn’t care.
Because the thing was, Steve had been liked his whole life. For his hair, his car, his family’s money, his position on the team. It had been easy, surface-level. What he felt for you was the exact opposite of easy. It was a bruise that wouldn’t fade. An obsession born not from getting what he wanted, but from being thoroughly, decisively destroyed by it.
You hated him. He could see it in every line of your body when he was near, in the way your eyes would sweep over him like he was something unpleasant you’d stepped in. You held that grudge like it was a precious thing, and he was weirdly, desperately proud of you for it. Of course you wouldn’t forgive him. He didn’t deserve it. You had standards. You had fire.
He wanted to stand in that fire forever.
So he drove the kids to the arcade, he picked up parts from the shop even when he didn’t need to, he made sure Will got home safe, and he stole every single glance of you he could get. He was a lovesick idiot, pining after you, who’d probably rather set his car on fire than speak to him. And the worst part -- the truly, wonderfully, sickeningly worst part -- was that he wouldn’t have it any other way. The kick had broken something in him, and all the king's horses and all the king's men couldn't put Steve Harrington back together again. He didn't want them to. He just wanted you to look at him one more time, even if it was with pure, unadulterated hate.
The scent of motor oil and old rubber was a familiar comfort, a welcome replacement for the cloying smells of antiseptic and fear that had haunted the house for weeks. You were back where you belonged: under a car, the solid weight of an engine above you, a problem you could actually solve in your hands.
You were replacing the alternator on a sleek BMW. You knew whose car it was. Of course you did. It was an unwelcome, persistent fact, like a pebble in your shoe. Steve Harrington’s shiny, expensive toy. The shop owner, old man Murdoch, had handed you the work order with a grunt, and you’d taken it without a word, because a job was a job, and you were damn good at this one.
But it didn’t mean you had to like it.
As you tightened a bolt, your knuckles -- the same ones that had split open on his jaw months ago -- ached faintly with the memory. You could still see the red spray paint. You could still hear Nancy’s cry, and feel the sickening give of his ribs under your foot. The violence didn't haunt you; you’d done what needed doing. What haunted you was the aftermath. The way he’d looked at you. Not with anger, but with a dazed, bloody wonder. It had been confusing then, and it was infuriating now.
Because now, he was everywhere. A permanent, unwanted fixture. He’d wormed his way into your family’s new, fragile peace. Will spoke of him with a hesitant admiration. Your mom mentioned him in passing, a tone of weary gratitude in her voice. Jonathan… Jonathan had forgiven him. Or at least, he’d accepted his help, which in your brother’s book was close enough.
It made your blood boil. They’d all forgotten. Forgotten the years of whispers, the casual cruelty, the way he and his friends had made your brothers feel small. They saw the redeemed hero, the monster-fighting babysitter. You saw the entitled king who’d only changed his tune because the world had literally gone to hell, and even then, it had taken you beating it into him first.
Your forgiveness wasn’t for sale. Not for apologies, not for nail bats, not for driving your brother home. That grudge was yours. You’d polished it, honed it, held it close. It was the last line of defense for the people you loved, a reminder that not everyone got a clean slate just because they decided to stop being the worst version of themselves.
Hearing steps crackle on the garage cement, you slid out from under the car, anticipating a customer or your boss coming to see how the work was going. Wiping your hands quickly on a rag, you turned to face them, a professional look on your oil blemished face.
Immediately, your jaw set.
Harrington.
He stood in the open bay doorway, backlit by the sinking sun like some misplaced golden boy statue. He had his hands shoved in the pockets of his jeans, his shoulders slightly hunched, as if trying to make himself smaller. The confident swagger he’d worn like a second skin in the halls of Hawkins High was gone, replaced by a nervous, watchful energy that was almost worse.
“Hey,” he said, his voice a little too casual, like he’d practiced the tone in the mirror.
You didn’t say anything. You just stared at him, the rag twisting tight in your grip.
He cleared his throat, his eyes darting from your face to the BMW and back again. “Is it, uh… is it ready?”
You bit your cheek, your eyes analyzing him like a snake did its prey. "No. It'll take a couple more minutes. Feel free to wait." You said shortly.
Steve fought the urge to shiver. The frigidness of your demeanor was enough to cool down the entire garage. But something about it was just so intriguing, he couldn't get enough.
The corner of his mouth twitched, not quite a smile, more like a reflex to the verbal slap. "Okay," he said, his voice softer now. "I'll wait."
He didn't go back to the waiting area with the stained magazines and the lukewarm coffee. He just... hovered. Leaning against the tool cabinet a careful distance away, watching you as you slid back under the car. He knew he shouldn't. He knew it made you bristle, that it probably violated some unspoken rule. But he was a moth to a particularly dangerous, grease-stained flame.
The sounds from under the car were efficient, professional: the clink of metal, the ratcheting of a wrench, the soft thud of something being set aside. You worked with a focused silence that was somehow louder than any tantrum.
He cleared his throat again. "What made you choose cars?"
You stilled. "What?"
He faltered slightly, but persevered. "What, um.. What made you choose working on cars? As a line of work."
Your wrench clattered against the concrete floor with a loud, jarring ring. The sudden noise made Steve jump.
For a long moment, there was only the fading echo of metal on concrete. You didn't move from under the car. He could see the tense line of your legs, frozen in place.
When you finally spoke, your voice was dangerously quiet, each word measured and sharp. "Why do you care, Harrington?"
He swallowed, his throat dry. This was it. This was the crack he'd been prying at, and it was about to split wide open, maybe right in his face. "I just... I don't know. I see you here, you're... you're really good at it. Seems like more than just a job. I was curious."
You slid out from under the car slowly, like a predator emerging from its den. You didn't stand up. You stayed on the creeper, looking up at him from the floor, grease smeared across your cheekbone, your eyes blazing. The position should have made you seem vulnerable. It didn't. It made him feel like he was the one being inspected from a disadvantage.
"You want to know what made me choose cars?" you repeated, your voice low. "Lonnie."
The name hung in the oily air. Steve knew that name. Everyone in Hawkins knew the story of Lonnie Byers, the deadbeat dad who took off.
"He left a lot of things when he walked out," you continued, your gaze never leaving his. "Bills. A broken family. A lot of bad memories." You picked up the wrench you'd dropped, your grip tightening on the handle. "And a toolbox. A really nice, professional-grade toolbox."
You pushed yourself to your feet in one smooth motion, the wrench held loosely at your side. "My mom was drowning. Jonathan was... Jonathan. Will was a baby. The bills kept coming. So I opened the toolbox." You took a step toward him, and he couldn't have moved if he wanted to. "I figured out how to fix the sink. Then the wiring in the wall that was making the lights flicker. Then the neighbors' lawnmower for twenty bucks. Then Mr. Perkins' pickup when it wouldn't start, for fifty."
You were close enough now that he could see the flecks of gold in your furious eyes, smell the sharp, clean scent of the industrial soap you used under the grease. "It was the one thing he left that wasn't completely useless. The one thing I could turn into something that actually helped my family. So I got good at it. Really good. Because when the world is falling apart, being able to fix something, anything, makes you feel like you're not completely powerless."
You stopped, your chest rising and falling slightly. The raw honesty of the confession seemed to hang between you, stark and uncomfortable. You'd just shown him a piece of your backbone, the gritty, unglamorous reason for your competence, and you looked like you regretted every word.
"So that's why, Steve," you finished, your voice dropping back to its usual icy chill. "Not because it's fun. Not because I like getting dirty. Because it pays the bills he left behind. Now, are we done with the heartfelt interviews, or do you need to know my favorite color next?"
He just stared at you, his heart hammering. He’d asked for a glimpse behind the wall, and you’d handed him a blueprint of your soul, etched in hardship and resilience. It was the most incredible, devastating thing he’d ever heard. He’d never wanted to kiss someone and apologize to them so badly in his entire life.
"Blue," he heard himself say, his voice hoarse.
Your brow furrowed. "What?"
"Your favorite color. It's blue. Will told me."
You stared for a moment, your eyes mixing shock with the leftover hatred from moments ago. Then, as if snapping back into yourself, you laughed bitterly.
"Obviously me spraining your ribs with my size 6 taught you nothing." You hissed. "I don't like you, Harrington."
The laugh, bitter and sharp, was the final straw. Something snapped inside Steve. The awe, the infatuation, the desperate hope -- it all coalesced into a stubborn, white-hot defiance. He was done just taking it.
He took a step forward, closing the distance you’d just created. He didn't tower over you, but his presence was suddenly solid, immovable. The playful, nervous energy was gone, replaced by a quiet intensity that mirrored your own.
“I know you don’t like me,” he said, his voice low and steady, cutting through the garage’s hum. “Trust me, the feeling’s been made crystal clear.”
You stared right up into his face, not moved at all by his change in behavior. But it didn't surprise him, nor did it scare him.
"I hate you. You and your fuck-face friends terrorized Jonathan for years. You broke his camera, which I don't know if you realized, but was his entire world," you growled. "And we aren't made of money like the Harrington family. If Nancy didn't feel bad, that would've taken over a year to replace."
Instead of cutting in, instead of a rebuttal, Steve just listened.
"Tommy used to knock his books out of his hands and shove him into lockers until I put a stop to it," You continued, jabbing a finger into Steve's chest. He could feel the warmth of your touch seep through his sweater. "I know your kind. You're all self-centered, shallow, day-dreaming morons. You think you have all the answers, or that your magical charm is gonna forge a relationship between us? You're delusional. I don't know what your problem is, or why you stare at me all the time, ask my brothers questions about me, why you're so obsessed, but you're gonna get a rerun of the ass kicking from months ago if you don't use your brain a little bit!" You finished, breathing hard.
Steve didn't flinch. He didn't step back. He absorbed every word like a blow, letting them land, letting them settle. The truth of them was a bitter pill, but he swallowed it. He’d earned every single accusation.
When you finished, chest heaving, finger still pressed against his sternum, he was quiet for a long moment. The garage felt charged, the air thick with the history you’d just thrown in his face.
Finally, he spoke, his voice rough but calm. "You're right."
You dropped the hand that was pressing a harsh fingertip against his chest.
"About all of it," he continued, his gaze unwavering. "I was a self-centered, shallow moron. Tommy and Carol... they were my friends, and I let it happen. I didn't start it, but I didn't stop it. I'm sorry about his camera. I'm sorry about the spray paint. I'm sorry for what I said about your family. I'm sorry for every single day Jonathan felt small because of me or anyone near me."
He took a slow breath, your touch still burning a hole through his sweater. "But I'm not asking for a relationship. I don't have any charm, not with you. It doesn't work. All I've got is this." He gestured between the two of you, at the scant inches of charged space. "This... whatever it is. This thing where you want to murder me and I can't stop thinking about you. I don't understand it either. But I'm not going to pretend I'm not obsessed. I am. I'm completely obsessed with you, Y/N Byers."
He saw the shock flash in your eyes, the way your anger momentarily faltered, replaced by sheer disbelief.
"And you're right about another thing," he said, his voice dropping even lower, almost a whisper. "I am delusional. Because I think, somewhere under all that justified hate, you see that I'm trying. You see that I'm not that guy anymore. And that pisses you off even more, because it’s easier to hate a cartoon villain than a real person who’s actually sorry."
You felt your throat close up.
"So go ahead," he murmured, his eyes holding yours, dark and serious. "Give me that rerun. Kick my ass again. I'll probably thank you for it. But it won't change anything. I'm not going anywhere. I'm going to keep driving your brother around. I'm going to keep picking up my car from this shop. And I'm going to keep being pathetically obsessed with you until you look at me and see something other than an asshole in a varsity jersey."
The silence that followed was absolute. The hum of the fluorescent lights seemed to grow louder, the scent of oil and metal suddenly overwhelming. Your hand, which had been jabbing his chest, now hung limply at your side, tingling with the phantom echo of his heartbeat.
He’d stripped it all bare. No defenses, no excuses, just the raw, ugly, bewildering truth. An obsession. He’d named it, claimed it, and laid it at your feet like a challenge.
You wanted to hit him. The urge was a physical pulse in your tightened fists. You wanted to wipe that intense, earnest look off his face, to prove that nothing he said could penetrate the fortress of your resentment.
But you couldn’t move.
Because he was right. It was easier to hate the caricature. The King Steve who sneered from the yearbook, the one-dimensional bully. This Steve -- the one with shadows under his eyes from babysitting monsters, the one who spoke in a ragged whisper about being sorry, the one who looked at you like you were a complicated, terrifying puzzle he was willing to spend a lifetime solving -- this Steve was infinitely more dangerous.
He wasn’t asking for forgiveness. He wasn’t asking for anything. He was just… stating facts. Uncomfortable, insane facts that shifted the ground beneath your feet.
Your voice, when it finally came, was a dry rasp. “You need help.”
A smile touched his lips. “Probably.”
You turned away, unable to hold his gaze any longer. You focused on the BMW, on the job you’d finished, on the mundane reality of a repair invoice. You snatched the keys off the bench and thrust them toward him without looking. “$285.40. Then get out.”
You heard the rustle of fabric as he pulled out his wallet, the soft shuffle of bills being counted. He placed the cash on the counter next to you, his fingers careful not to brush yours.
“Thanks,” he said quietly. Not for the car. You knew what he meant.
Then he was gone. The sound of his engine starting was too smooth, too perfect -- a testament to your skill. You stood rigid, staring at the greasy imprint your fingertip had left on his dark sweater, now slowly fading from view.
The anger was still there, a familiar, comforting furnace in your chest. But it was banked now, smothered under the weight of his confession. Obsessed. The word echoed, disturbing and potent.
As much as you wanted to, you had the sinking, terrifying feeling that simply hating him wasn’t going to be enough to make him disappear this time.
-
Your keys jingled in the lock, alerting Will to the fact that you were home. A weak smile crossed your lips as you heard his footsteps, leaving his room and coming to the kitchen to welcome you home.
Will padded into the kitchen, a comic book dangling from one hand. "Hey," he said, his voice still soft, a permanent reminder of everything he’d been through. His eyes, so much like your mother’s, scanned your face with an empathy that always unnerved you a little. "Long day?"
"You could say that," you mumbled, dropping your keys on the counter with a clatter that felt too loud in the quiet house. You moved to the fridge, more to have something to do than out of any real hunger. "Mom still at work?"
"Late shift," Will confirmed, hovering near the doorway. He was watching you, that quiet observation you’d inherited from Jonathan. "Steve brought me home."
Your hand stilled on the refrigerator door handle. Of course he had. "Yeah?"
"Yep." Will responded. His tone allowed you to realize that he knew the situation between you and the man in question.
You shut the fridge door a little harder than necessary. “Great,” you said, the word flat.
Will bit his lip, his comic book forgotten. “He… he asked the best way to get you to talk. Without yelling.”
The air left your lungs. So it wasn’t just general, creepy interest. It was specific. He’d left the garage, driven your brother home, and immediately asked about your state of mind. The intimacy of it, the concern, felt like a violation.
“What did you tell him?” Your voice was tighter now.
Will shifted his weight, looking down at his sneakers. “I told him… I told him you like it when people are honest. Even if it’s bad honesty. And that you hate small talk. And that you really like the cherry slushies from the Gas-N-Sip.”
You stared at your brother. He’d just given Steve Harrington a tactical manual. Honesty. No small talk. Cherry slushies. Three data points to be used against you. The betrayal was quiet but profound.
“Will,” you said, your voice dangerously calm. “Why would you tell him that?”
He looked up, his eyes wide and earnest. “Because he seemed… lost. And he’s trying. Really trying. And… I don’t know. Maybe if he stops being such an idiot about it, you could at least not hate him so much. It’s exhausting just watching it.”
The blunt truth from your usually gentle brother hit you like a physical blow. It’s exhausting just watching it. You were so busy guarding the fortress, you hadn’t considered how the siege looked to those inside with you.
You turned away, gripping the edge of the counter until your knuckles turned white. The image of Steve, with his “lost” expression, grilling your little brother for tips on how to handle you, was too much. It was pathetic. It was infuriating.
And yet, a tiny, traitorous part of you recognized the strategy. It was smart. Going to the source. Seeking intel. It showed a level of thought and effort that the old Steve Harrington would never have possessed. The old Steve would have just bought you a meaningless gift or tried to flash a smile. Turning back towards him, you rolled your eyes at the younger boy in front of you. Always doing what he could to help. Always meaning well.
"If Steve Harrington shows up here with a slushy and a page of notes on what to say to me, I'm hiding all your D&D figures."
Will cracked a small smile.
"You won't. You always say that."
A comfortable silence filled the room as Will settled into the living room couch next to you, covering himself with his favorite blanket.
"What is it that you kids love about Steve so much anyways?"
The question felt foreign to your lips. Never in your life had you allowed yourself to express any interest in the fluffy-haired rich prick. You wanted to curse yourself for allowing today to change anything.
Will didn't answer right away. He pulled the blanket up to his chin, his gaze fixed on the static-snow of the turned-off TV, as if the answer were written there in the fuzz.
"It's not one thing," he said finally, his voice thoughtful. "It's... a bunch of little things. He always shows up when he says he will. He doesn't treat us like we're dumb kids, even when we're being dumb kids. He listens. Like, really listens. He remembered that Lucas is allergic to peanuts, and he checks candy bags before he hands them out."
You stayed silent, your own fingers tracing a seam in the couch cushion.
"And..." Will hesitated, his voice dropping. "After everything that happened... with me... he never looked at me like I was broken. Or weird. Everyone else does, a little. Even Mike sometimes. But Steve just... he treated me the same. Maybe even tougher, because he knew I could handle it."
You felt a sharp pang in your chest. You'd been so focused on the past Steve had with Jonathan, you hadn't fully considered the present he had with Will. The Steve who had been in the trenches, who had seen the unspeakable and come out the other side trying to be a decent human being. A guardian, not a king.
"He's just... there," Will concluded simply. "Solid. You can count on him. And I think... I think he's lonely. And we're kind of all he's got now."
Lonely. The word landed with a soft, surprising weight. You'd never considered Steve Harrington as lonely. He was supposed to be surrounded by people, by adoration. But the court was gone. Nancy was gone. The easy, shallow life was gone. All he had was a beat-up nail bat, a BMW, and a bunch of nerdy kids who relied on him.
You hummed.
"Lonely? What about.. Nancy? I thought they were a thing."
Will shook his head, burrowing deeper into the blanket. “Not for a while. They broke up after… you know, everything. It wasn't messy. Mike said Nancy didn't even cry. Steve doesn’t really talk about it. Its just another thing to him.”
You absorbed this. The perfect King Steve and Princess Nancy fairytale had shattered. Another casualty of the upside-down chaos. It made sense, in a way. The things they’d seen would either bind people together with unbreakable glue or tear them apart with the sheer weight of it all.
“So he’s just… what? A free agent with a bunch of middle-schoolers as his social circle?” The words came out, but the old edge was gone. Now it just sounded like a genuine, bewildered question.
Will gave a small shrug. “Pretty much. He hangs out with that girl Robin sometimes. She’s cool. But mostly… it’s us. And he doesn’t seem to mind. He acts like it’s the most important job in the world.”
The most important job in the world. The phrase echoed, reshaping the Steve in your mind from a pathetic hanger-on to something else entirely. Someone who had found purpose in the rubble of his old life. It was a kind of strength you understood -- the kind forged in necessity and duty.
"Huh. Different than I would've thought. Not that I cared much." You disguised your shock with disinterest.
Will snorted.
"You spent so long hating him that you didn't even realize what you were hating changed. Even Jonathan doesn't mind him much now."
The observation, delivered with the brutal, unvarnished clarity only a little brother could muster, felt like a bucket of cold water. It doused the last flickering embers of your performative disinterest.
You stared at Will, who was now completely absorbed in his comic again, as if he hadn’t just dropped a truth bomb that shattered the entire foundation of your worldview.
Even Jonathan doesn’t mind him much now.
Jonathan. Your twin. Your gentle, wounded mirror. The primary victim of Steve Harrington’s reign. If he could move past it… what did that make you? You felt like everything was crumbling beneath you -- all of the resentment, the anger, the grudges. The things you'd held on to in an attempt to block of the softness of yourself.
Your eyes welled up. You realized who you needed. Even just for a moment. The person that knew you inside and out. Getting up gently, you walked to Jonathan's room and hesitantly knocked.
The door opened almost immediately, as if he’d been expecting you. Jonathan stood there, camera in hand as usual, his expression shifting from mild curiosity to instant concern when he saw your face. He knew your every micro-expression, the way your jaw tightened when you were angry, the way your eyes shimmered just before you cried.
“Hey,” he said softly, stepping aside to let you in. His room was a familiar sanctuary of developing photographs, band posters, and the faint chemical smell of fixer. “What’s up?”
Without another word, you curled yourself into his chest.
Jonathan didn't hesitate. He wrapped his arms around you, his camera pressing gently into your back. He didn't ask questions. He just held you, his chin resting on the top of your head, the familiar, steady rhythm of his heart a calming metronome against your ear.
You didn't cry. Not fully. But you trembled, the dam of your own stubbornness finally cracking under the weight of Will's observation and your own exhausting solitude. You clung to your brother, the one person who had shared every scar, every silent battle, every moment of defending your tiny, fragile kingdom.
After a long while, when your breathing had evened out, he spoke, his voice a quiet rumble in his chest.
"This is about Steve." He acknowledged.
You released a watery laugh, tears finally spilling over.
"Unfortunately."
Jonathan’s arms tightened around you for a second, a silent acknowledgment of the absurd, painful truth. “Yeah,” he sighed. “Figured.”
He guided you to sit on the edge of his bed, keeping an arm around your shoulders. You wiped your face with the heel of your hand, leaving a faint smudge of grease and tears.
“It’s just… everyone else has moved on,” you whispered, the confession torn from a raw place. “But it feels like betraying you if I do.. And he won't leave me alone. He keeps finding ways to reach me.”
Jonathan nodded slowly, staring at a photograph of a lonely-looking tree on his wall. “He’s hard to ignore when he’s trying that hard,” he said, a hint of dry amusement in his tone. “The guy’s like a golden retriever that got hit by a car but still wants to be your friend.”
The analogy was so unexpectedly accurate it startled another wet laugh from you. “A really annoying, formerly evil golden retriever.”
“With a blowout haircut,” Jonathan added, finally cracking a real smile. It faded as he turned to face you fully. “Listen to me. You moving on, you letting this go… that’s not a betrayal of me. It’s the opposite. It’s you finally letting me be okay. Because I am okay. I’ve made my peace. You holding onto this… it feels like you’re still fighting a battle I’ve already walked away from. It hurts to watch.”
His words were a gentle, precise incision, cutting straight to the heart of your guilt. You weren’t protecting him. He no longer needed it.
“He’s reaching you because you’re the only one still in the ring with him,” Jonathan continued. “Will’s team Steve. Mom’s grateful to him. I’m… neutral territory. But you? You’re the final boss. And he’s weirdly into it.” He made a vague, frustrated gesture. “He’s not going to leave you alone until you either knock him out for good or step out of the ring.”
You sniffed, the options laid bare. Permanent violence or surrender.
“There’s a third option,” Jonathan said, as if reading your mind again. “You stop seeing it as a ring. You stop seeing him as an opponent. You just… see him as Steve. The slightly pathetic, overly persistent guy who got beat up by a girl.”
You leaned back, staring at the water stain on his ceiling. “How?”
“Next time he looks at you, don’t think ‘there’s the guy who broke Jonathan’s camera.’ Think, ‘there’s the guy who keeps Will safe when we can't.’ It’s harder to hate him that way.”
The reframing was a mental sucker-punch. Simple. Brutally effective.
The guy who keeps Will safe.
You’d been so fixated on the past -- the broken camera, the spray-painted lies, the locker shoves -- you’d deliberately blinded yourself to the present. The present where Steve Harrington was the one in the driver’s seat when your little brother needed a ride. The one who had stood between Will and things far worse than high school bullies. The one who, by all accounts, took that job seriously.
Your anger, once a roaring fire, guttered and sank into embers. It wasn't gone, but its fuel had been cut off.
"Yeah," you breathed out, the word carrying the weight of a thousand released tensions. "Okay."
Jonathan nodded, satisfied. "Good. Now, unless you want to help me mix developing chemicals, I need you to vacate. Your emotional crises are bad for the exposure."
You managed a weak smile and shoved yourself off his bed. "You're a real comfort, you know that?"
"The best," he said flatly, already turning back to his trays of chemicals.
You left his room, the hallway feeling different. Lighter. The blueprint of your soul you'd accidentally shown Steve in the garage -- the one built on Lonnie's toolbox and sheer necessity -- had a new line on it now. A line that connected, however tenuously, to him. Not as an enemy, but as a fellow guardian. A terribly flawed, deeply annoying, but undeniably present one.
You walked back into the living room. Will was asleep on the couch, comic book splayed on his chest. You gently pulled the blanket up over his shoulders, your heart doing that familiar, fierce squeeze. The guy who keeps Will safe.
-
You sat on the bench in your bay of the garage, picking at a piece of pizza. You peeled the greasy pepperoni off, tossing it into the garbage behind you, before turning back to the food your stomach felt too unsettled to consume.
The scent of pepperoni and motor oil was a familiar, oddly comforting combination. You were on your lunch break, but your appetite had vanished somewhere between Jonathan's talk and the seismic shift in your own head. You were just going through the motions, peeling toppings off as if fixing the pizza would fix the weird, hollow feeling in your gut.
The familiar, smooth purr of a BMW engine cut through the garage's usual cacophony. You didn't need to look up. You knew the sound, the way it idled, the specific timbre of its door closing.
Footsteps approached, hesitant at first, then more decisive. They stopped at the entrance to your bay. You took a deliberate bite of your now-bare-cheese pizza, chewed slowly, and finally looked up.
Steve Harrington stood there, holding two gas station cups. He looked nervous, his free hand shoved in his pocket, but there was a new determination in his stance, a lack of that cowering deference. He met your gaze head-on.
He walked forward and placed one of the cups on the workbench beside you. Condensation beaded on the red plastic. A cherry slushie.
"Harrington." You acknowledged, now attempting to keep the bitterness out of your tone. It was easier than it had been before. But it felt so odd to you. Your constant objective of icing Steve Harrington out had been stripped bare, so now it only left him.
Now that you had no reason to hate his guts, you were forced to see the appeal in him in the first place.
He was easy on the eyes, as much as you'd previously hated to admit it. His face was handsome in a clean way, chiseled lines with a boyish smile. His hair, which must've taken time, looked effortless. And he smelled good. The scent of an impeccably picked cologne flooded the bay -- not assaulting you, but seeping in quietly. He even dressed well.
You caught yourself staring, scolding yourself with disgust inwardly.
He saw you looking. A faint flush crept up his neck, but he didn't look away. He just stood there, holding his own cup, letting you look. There was no smugness in his expression, just a quiet, hopeful vulnerability that was somehow more disarming than any confident smirk.
"The, uh... the kid said you liked these," he repeated, his voice a little softer this time. "Peace offering. From the Gas-N-Sip."
The simple, honest statement cut through the last of your internal noise. Nothing grand or dramatic. Just a peace offering, sourced from intel provided by your own brother. It was disarmingly straightforward.
You looked from the slushie to his face. The vulnerability was still there, but it was grounded now. This wasn’t the desperate, bloody awe from the alley. This was a conscious choice. He was here, trying, with a cherry-flavored token.
Your fingers curled around the cold cup. “He’s got a big mouth,” you said, but there was no real heat behind it.
A small, genuine smile touched Steve’s lips. “He’s a good kid. Worries about you.”
That did it. The last brick in the wall wobbled. Will, your sweet, observant brother, was worried about you in this stupid standoff. And here was Steve, not just acknowledging it, but showing he’d listened.
You lifted the slushie and took a long pull. The sugar was a shock, the cold a relief. You swallowed and met his eyes. “It’s mediocre.”
The smile on his face widened, transforming it. The boyish charm you’d been reluctantly cataloging became fully, devastatingly operational. “Yeah,” he agreed, his voice warm. “The cherry’s always kinda fake-tasting. But it’s the principle.”
“The principle of bribery?”
“The principle of showing up,” he corrected softly.
You hummed, unwanted warmth spreading through your chest.
"You're not afraid I'll kick your ass? Paint your windshield with slushy?"
The question, laced with a hint of amusement, made his smile turn wry, almost fond. He shook his head, his eyes never leaving yours.
“Nah,” he said, his voice low and sure. “The ass-kicking’s already happened. And it was… informative.” He rubbed his jaw absently, a gesture that was both an acknowledgment of the past and a dismissal of its threat. “And you can paint my windshield if you want. I’ll just bring it back here for you to fix. Seems like a waste of a good slushie, though.”
The logic was circular, stubborn, and utterly Steve. He wasn't afraid because he'd already faced the worst you could do, and he'd not only survived it but somehow decided he liked the view from the floor. And he’d found a way to loop even your potential vandalism back into another interaction with you.
It was maddening. It was also, you realized with a sinking feeling, kind of impressive. The guy had resilience. A stupid, baffling, unkillable resilience. And it was somewhat.. attractive, which was a truth, but also a betrayal to who you'd been since you were in 8th grade.
You took another sip of the mediocre slushie, using the cold to ground yourself. “You’re a real piece of work, Harrington.”
“I’ve been told,” he repeated, but this time there was a lightness to it, a shared acknowledgment of the absurdity. "You kicking the shit out of me in an alley turned into me having a huge crush on you. Anyone else would've pressed charges for assault."
The words hung in the oily air, stark and breathtakingly honest. He’d said ‘obsessed’ before, in the heat of the garage confrontation. But this… ‘huge crush’. It was simpler. More human. More terrifying.
The slushy felt suddenly too cold in your hand. You set it down with a soft clack on the workbench.
“Anyone else wouldn’t have deserved it in the first place,” you replied, your voice quieter than you intended. It wasn’t an excuse. It was just… context. The context he’d finally, fully acknowledged.
He nodded, accepting that too. “True.” He took a half-step closer, the space between you humming with the weight of all the unsaid things. “But it’s not about deserving it. It’s about… what happened after. I looked up from the pavement, saw you standing over me looking like some pissed-off avenging angel, and something in my brain just… clicked. Or broke. Not sure which," He admitted. "Plus, I wondered where all the strength came from. You're tiny and almost knocked me out.”
The observation, delivered with such bewildered admiration, was the final straw. The last vestige of your defensive posture crumbled into dust. An incredulous laugh escaped you, shaking your shoulders.
"Comes from Joyce. She would've handed it to you too if she walked into that alley instead of me."
"Yeah," he said, his voice so quiet it was almost lost in the garage hum. "I believe that. I met her, when Will was... you know. She's... she's badass." He shook his head, a flicker of genuine awe in his eyes. "You come by it honestly, then. The fierceness."
He wasn't just complimenting you. He was acknowledging your lineage, your roots. Seeing the connection between you and your mother not as a weakness, but as a source of power. It was a level of perception you hadn't thought him capable of.
A genuine smile finally formed onto your lips.
"She likes you. Will does too." You admitted.
The admission felt like unlocking a door you’d kept deadbolted for years. It wasn’t about you. It was about them. About the people you loved most giving their stamp of approval to the person you’d dedicated so much energy to despising.
"Will tells me every time he sees me that he has the best sister in the world. And I'm not just being a kiss ass." Steve responded, stuffing his hands in his pockets, a mannerism of his that you'd seen countless times. "You're his world. Literally."
You looked away, suddenly unable to hold his gaze. Your eyes stung. You focused on a greasy smudge on the floor, blinking rapidly. He wasn't trying to flatter you. He was stating a fact he'd observed, a truth he'd been trusted with. You're his world. It was the highest compliment, the heaviest responsibility, and the one thing that could instantly dissolve the last of your icy resolve.
When you finally looked back, your vision was slightly blurred, but your voice was steady. "He's mine too."
Steve nodded, his expression solemn, understanding the weight of that simple exchange. It was a pact acknowledged. He saw the heart of you, the protector, and he respected it. More than that, he was telling you he valued it.
The air between you changed again. The last of the combat zone evaporated. This wasn't a battlefield anymore; it was common ground, hallowed by shared love for a kid who'd been through hell.
"So," Steve said, his voice regaining a bit of its normal cadence, though it was still softer than you'd ever heard it. "I figure if I'm gonna be hanging around... I should probably be on the good side of his world. Seems like a smart play."
Another laugh escaped you. "I wouldn't worry about smart plays anymore. I don't think you've ever made one."
The insult, delivered without malice, with almost fond exasperation, made him laugh.
“You’re probably right,” he admitted, still chuckling. “But hey, I’m here, aren’t I? In your garage. You’re talking to me. You haven’t threatened bodily harm in…” He made a show of checking an invisible watch on his wrist. “...at least ten minutes. I’d call that progress. Maybe my first smart play was just being too stupid to quit.”
He had a point. His strategy -- if it could even be called that -- had been sheer, dogged persistence. A stubborn refusal to be vanquished. And against your fortified walls of anger, it had somehow, miraculously, worked.
You looked at him, this former king, standing in your domain with grease on his designer shoes and hope in his eyes. He was a mess. A beautiful, confusing, resilient mess.
“Just don’t break anything on purpose anymore,” you said, the warning lacking any real threat. It was practically an invitation.
His smile softened, turning sincere. “No sabotage. Scout’s honor.” He took a step backward toward the exit. “I'll see you tomorrow. Maybe with another slushy. Maybe with flowers if I can get Will to tell me which ones you like."
He didn’t wait for a response. He just turned and walked out, leaving you with the echo of his words.
You watched him go, the sound of his BMW fading into the Hawkins afternoon. The bay was quiet again, but the silence was different. It wasn't empty. It was full of the echo of his laugh, the ghost of his cologne, and the terrifying, exhilarating realization that Steve Harrington wasn't just a problem you'd solved or a war you'd ended.
He was a possibility. A messy, complicated, stubbornly present possibility who bought cherry slushies for research and talked to your brother about how to get a chance with you.
You finished your shift in a daze. The world had tipped on its axis, and everything looked new. Grease was just grease. Tools were just tools. But the air felt charged, like the calm before a storm, except this storm smelled like synthetic cherry and expensive aftershave.
When you got home, Will was in the living room, a knowing look on his face. "So?"
"So, what?" you grumbled, hanging up your keys.
"Steve. Did he... you know. Do the thing?"
"What thing?"
"The cherry slushy. The weird stare where he acts like you invented gravity. They're his signature moves."
You stared at your little brother, this suddenly wise, observant creature. "Since when are you an expert on Steve Harrington's signature moves?"
Will shrugged, a mischievous glint in his eye. "I pay attention. He asked about flowers, by the way. I told him you like dandelions because they're weeds and they piss off the neighbors."
A laugh burst out of you, loud and surprised. "You did not."
"I did. He wrote it down. In a little notebook." Will was grinning now, delighted with himself. "He said, 'Weeds. Got it. Makes sense.'"
You stood there, stunned. Steve Harrington was keeping a notebook. About you. And your brother was his chief informant.
The world hadn't just tipped. It had somersaulted.
That night, as you lay in bed, you didn't think about spray paint or broken cameras. You thought about a notebook entry that spoke about your favorite flowers. You thought about shared looks over a slushie, and a truce built on common ground named Will.
The war was over. The peace was strange, and it came with a side of floral research and potential dandelions. And as you drifted to sleep, you realized you weren't just okay with it.
You were, against all odds, kind of excited to see what weed-related nonsense tomorrow would bring.
EVERYONE JUST REMIND YOURSELF THIS WHEN HES LOOKING TOO GOOD....👂👈😱
NAOYA WOULD 💯 BE AN ANDREW TATE FAN 🗣💯💯💯 BRO WOULD BE TOP DONOR FOR THE HUSTLERS 🗣👉 UNIVERSITY 🚫✋️‼️‼️‼️‼️
NEVER GIVE IN YALL💯‼️‼️‼️‼️‼️‼️
EXACTLY EXACTLY EXACTLY ❗❗🔥❗🔥❗🔥🔥 MY SOLDIERS DO NOT BUCKLE OR YIELD WHEN FACED WITH THE CRUELTY OF THIS WORLD 🔥❗❗🔥 MY SOLDIERS PUSH FORWARD ❗🔥🔥❗❗🔥 MY SOLDIERS SCREAM OUT 🔥❗❗ MY SOLDIERS RAAAAAAGE 🔥❗🔥❗❗🔥🔥🔥❗❗❗
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