#divider by cafekitsune

[justageekk]

𝜗𝜚 gentleman jude who . . .

gentleman!jude who . . . lets you ride his dick after a long day.

gentleman!jude who . . . always praises you while having sex. He just wants you to know how pretty and good you are to him. Jude has so many sweet things to say to you.

gentleman!jude who . . . knows you have a huge fixation with his biceps, which is why when he’s fucking you from behind, he wraps his arm around your neck, choking you a little with his bicep.

gentleman!jude who . . . always teases during sex. Even though he’s a gentleman, Jude likes to play around and be the type to make you beg for what you want. To understand Jude's teasing, you have to focus on the questions.

"Does it feel good?"

"Do you want it? How badly do you want it?"

"Will you let me come inside you, my love? Please ask me for it."

gentleman!jude who . . . never, under any circumstances, starts undressing you without first kissing your hands, your shoulders, and your neck.

gentleman!jude who . . . treats your pleasure as a priority. If he notices you’re tired or stressed, he’ll lay you down on the bed, take off your shoes, and take care of you without asking for anything in return. He will spend hours eating you out and using his fingers, making sure you have multiple orgasms. For him, it’s: happy wife, happy life.

gentleman!jude who . . . is the type of boyfriend who opens the car door for you, who wraps his arm around your waist to pull you close to his body when you’re walking down the street, and who looks at you like you’re the most valuable prize he has ever won in his entire life. Jude will give you the dirtiest sex at night, but he will always wake up being the most polite, protective, and deeply in love man in the world. Just a real gentleman.

gentleman!jude who . . . loves looking into your eyes, demanding direct eye contact when things get intense. If you try to hide your face in the pillow or cover your eyes because you’re embarrassed by how loudly you’re moaning, Jude will gently take your chin with two fingers, forcing you to look at him.

gentleman!jude who . . . uses his suits to drive you crazy during sex. He knows perfectly well the effect he has on you when he’s dressed elegantly. Sometimes, he won’t even take off his shirt or tie, he’ll just unbutton what’s necessary to be sexier. Feeling the cold, expensive fabric of his suit brushing against your bare skin while he thrusts into you deeply is an experience every woman should feel. (just not with your charming boyfriend)

gentleman!jude who . . . adores gifting you fine lingerie just for the pleasure of taking it off you himself.

gentleman!jude who . . . has such a serious sense of chivalry that he prefers to sync his orgasms with yours so you never feel alone at the climax.

gentleman!jude who . . . pays attention to the smallest details you mention in passing. If one day you say that a specific book, perfume, or candy caught your eye while talking, don’t be surprised if a few days later you come home and find it on the table with a cute note written by Jude.

gentleman!jude who . . . never lets you walk on the curbside of the street.

gentleman!jude who . . . loved kisses, both giving and receiving them. He couldn’t live without your lips.

@ 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐞𝐞𝐤𝐤

[fushitoru]

worth the wait a nerdjo fic

pairing ⸺ nerd/academic rival/rich boy!gojo x reader

summary ⸺ you abhor your academic rival, satoru gojo. he's a cocky asshole that you fight with constantly for the spot at first place. but when you finally discover what's underneath all those lame sweaters of his with a once in a blue moon visit at the gym (spoiler alert: he's not a scrawny nerd), you'll be fighting your severe attraction to the man who makes your life a bit harder. and maybe fall in love with him, too, in the process.

warnings ⸺ smut, f recieving oral, praise, he makes you beg for it lol, p i v sex, making out, angst if you squint, a lot of fluff, college AU, nerd!gojo, reader gets insecure sometimes and is treated horribly by her discord mod TA/research advisor, typical misogyny/sexism in STEM fields, but gojo defends her!!!, sleeper build gojo with a happy trail because im a slut, the good old pining and yearning i like. art by @/deltapork

a/n thank u to all my beta readers for editing part of this for me :3 happy valentines day!!!

general masterlist

You blink at your paper.

98.

You suppose you should be happy—it’s a graduate level physics class, anyways. For a moment, you stare at the red markings of the TA that graded it, as if willing an error in the one problem you made a mistake on could make it go away. 

2+2=5.

You exhaled sharply, almost fighting back tears. You’d think you could avoid simple arithmetic mistakes, but apparently doing tensor products comes easier than simple addition to you. Shoving your backpack on your chair, you stuff in your laptop and the test haphazardly, not caring that it’s going to get messed and crumpled up in your backpack after your folders and binders jostle around. Fuck that test.

You wouldn’t normally act as if the test had personally wronged you—trust, you were not going to get that heated were it any class. But because of this one class, one person, you knew it was coming. The inevitable.

"Better luck next time." The voice, drenched in smug satisfaction, slithered through the air behind you, his voice and demeanor like a slimy, slimy snake. 

Your jaw tightened, but you forced yourself to remain calm as you turned around. And there he was—Gojo Satoru, the bane of your existence, a plague upon your academic record, a walking, talking statistical anomaly who somehow managed to be both infuriatingly brilliant and aggressively insufferable.

He leaned against the desk beside yours, glasses sliding down just enough to reveal the glint of those ridiculously blue eyes. He crosses his arms while they’re covered in that ridiculous, ugly sweater he’s wearing—he’s probably going for the old money aesthetic, but he doesn’t need to know he gives off more “finance bro that helps billionaires evade taxes,” or whatever finance bros do.

“I have no clue what you’re talking about,” you sniff, pretending to act nonchalant while you grab your backpack, swinging it roughly on your shoulder like it was the weight of your grievances against him.

"The test." Gojo unfolded a crisp sheet of paper with the kind of theatrical flourish reserved for revealing royal decrees. A perfect 100, circled in bold red ink.

Your stomach twisted. This is what those two points meant. Two stupid, meaningless, soul-crushing, rage-inducing points.

"Guess that makes it… what, five to three this semester?" He tapped his chin, pretending to count, as if the score wasn’t already seared into your brain like an irreversible branding. "My lead, obviously. But hey, if you ever need tutoring, I could always squeeze you in."

You bite the inside of your cheek in frustration. “I wouldn’t want to impose on the time for any of your hobbies. After all, when will you get the time to watch anime? My 5000 Year Old Girlfriend is Stuck in a Twelve Year Old’s Body, was it?”

He presses a hand to his chest in mock hurt, as if your words had truly pierced him through his chest. “Tut, tut. After all this time, I’d think you’d have my anime preferences memorized since you’re so obsessed with me. It’s Digimon, not whatever pedophilic shit you think I jerk off too.” He pauses, and then his voice drops into a conspiratorial whisper. “But you know Fred, the grad student TA that holds recitation every Wednesday? I just know he’s probably a Discord mod of a server that sends, like, daily tentacle porn. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s on the Megan's law registry either.”

Now, you have to hold back your smile because Gojo has a point. Fred is not just any TA. Fred is the grad student that mentors you on a research project; the program’s super selective, so when you realized you got him, you couldn’t just back out and give up the opportunity. However, Fred isn’t just a weird–-he’s sooo handsy with his greasy ass hands, so you accept any and all Fred slander. Because he’s your research advisor, you can’t wait to finish the project any faster. He probably would be into underage girls, but you don’t need to express your approval to Gojo, or worst of all, let him think he’s funny. God knows that would get into his head. “Yea, yea. Whatever. Anyways, I hope you have fun with your Pokemon—”

“Digimon.”

“—or whatever. I’m leaving. Some of us have things to do. Later, Gojo.”

You turned on your heel, lest Gojo hook you in with another taunt. 

Maybe you needed to blow off some steam, if you’re allowing yourself to lose to Gojo. 

Worst of all, it’s become a streak, like two times in a row—one on this quiz, and the other on the midterm a few weeks back. Your mind goes back to the last women in STEM recruiting event you had went to, and, how, in the middle of taking a bite of the delicious margherita pizza they offered, you registered that the woman in the panel had insisted that what helped her power through her PhD and dickwad supervisors was by exercising. Her fervor over pilates could almost qualify as a cult pitch, but it made you pause at the moment. Before you continued to further engorge yourself on the food offered on the charcuterie board. 

But maybe it was time to hone your focus in, and some sweaty endorphins might help you get just that. 

You’re not really surprised the demographic at your university’s gym looks like the way it does. After all, not only was it renowned for its academics (from all the nepo babies like Gojo whose families donated buildings and had like four generations of alumnus), but it was also a Division I school. So not only was the gym packed but it was packed with men.

As you walked in the hallway towards the room that contained weight machines, gym bag slung over your shoulder, you eyed the glistening backs of the (D1, mind you) men’s swim team through the glass that separated your path and the swimming pool. 

Wow, those Speedos really hugged their asses. You imagined Gojo in one, and almost snorted. Rich boy nerd Satoru definitely didn’t  learn how to swim; his family’s mansion probably had a twenty year old personal lifeguard that Gojo lost his virginity to, or something. Regardless, he would squint in his silly swim goggles, the exact antithesis of sex appeal while his glow-in-the-dark eyes lit up the pool while he stroked, cheeks puffed like a pufferfish.

Regardless, the smell of testosterone that hits you when you enter the weight area is almost nauseating, and, if you’re honest, a little intimidating. You’re not exactly the fittest of people, so you quickly speed walk past the grunting and sweaty men at the squat machines and barbells, avoiding eye contact and praying furiously that none of them perceive you.

 When you reach the dumbbell stands, you hunch over, taking random light weights. Then, you pretend you know what you’re doing while jumping every so slightly whenever anyone comes in six foot distance of you. It’s only when another girl comes in to grab a weight (and when she bends over, you definitely ogle her ass in a way that would get you slapped if you were a man) that your gaze removes itself from where it was focused on the 2.5 lb dumbbell you were previously bicep curling with. To see him.

The glint of ivory hair is unmistakable—you’ve basically gotten off to the fantasy of razoring it off in his sleep. His blue eyes are bored, pretty boy face framed in glasses. Now, he’s giving teenage boy turned to Andrew Tate after a breakup. Black sweatshirt and sweatpants that are too small, because they cling to his legs in a form-defining way. He’s walking over, hands in his pockets, to a barbell station. Slaps some guys on the shoulder as he goes through, gets a lot of daps. 

Which is weird to you, because you only the Gojo inside your physics class, not outside. He’s a fucking nerd—a loser that spends his time beefing with you, so why is he so popular when he gives you the time of day?

There are three dimensions to gaining alpha status, or whatever they call male popularity. You have to be 1) rich, 2) really physically fit, or 3) just really charismatic. Considering that Gojo—in all his clothing—-looks like a twink moreso than ripped gym bro, it’s definitely not dimension two. So you conclude that it’s because he’s rich and probably throws yacht parties so these ripped guys don’t push him into a locker, or something.

When he finally reaches his destination, you smirk to yourself. With that scrawny build underneath all those loose sweaters, you know he’s only going to be able to lift the bar, no plates. After all, he was warming up. insulting Gojo in countless of ways by taking jabs at his physique mentally, so you barely register that he’s grabbing for the hem of his sweatshirt, peeling it up—

To reveal his bare torso.

Your first thought: Wow, he has huge bazonkas.

That has easily got to be one of the most built physiques you’ve seen at your college so far. His pectorals basically pop out out of his torso as he moves to grab plates. First, he grabs a really big plate—you’re not a gym expert, so you wouldn’t know the weight—and stacks it. And stacks another. And another. And another, until you’re sure it’s definitely more than your bodyweight.

As you’re staring at him in awe, your 2.5 lb dumbbells hang limply by your sides, abandoning all pretense of training to openly gawk at the clench of his biceps, the sweat rolling down his temple, and the set of his jaw as he stares holes into the bar. And by the way there’s heat creeping up your cheeks you realize one thing:

You’re screwed.

“You know what?”

You keep your eyes on your notes firmly, refusing to look at Gojo sitting right next to you. You don’t know why he always chooses to sit next to you on recitation, really—it’s not like you’re receptive to his company. After all, he could be doing other things—like metaphorically sucking a TA’s dick by talking about their research, where Gojo probably knows more about the TA’s research than they do themselves. 

From your periphery, you notice Gojo pouting, then scooting his chair (dragging it, so it makes a god awful screeching noise against the floor tiles that has you cringing) until he’s so close that he slings an arm on the back of your chair and leans in closer and closer. You’re fighting to keep your eyes on your notes, face heating up traitorously until you feel his breath fan across your neck because he’s just so close.

“Rude, ignoring me. Look where that got you.” He then points to a problem on your paper, one you were currently working on. “You’re doing that wrong.”

You finally turn to glare at him, but he’s closer than you anticipated, his face just inches from yours. His grin is all sharp edges and knowing amusement, and it makes your stomach flip in a way you refuse to acknowledge.

“I’m not doing it wrong,” you argue, despite the creeping suspicion that, okay, maybe you did mess up somewhere.

“Oh, really?” Gojo drawls, tilting his head slightly. “Then why is your integral off by a factor of two?”

Your eyes snap back to your notes, scanning through the equations—and, dammit, he’s right.

You huff, begrudgingly erasing the mistake. “Whatever.”

“You know, you should really be thanking me,” Gojo muses, still leaning way too close for comfort. “If I weren’t here, who knows how many mistakes you’d make?”

“She’d have me,” comes a greasy voice, and you have to fight the tears in your eyes that arise when Fred (the aforementioned pedophilic TA and your research advisor) comes, his moldy cheese stench following him as he takes a seat from across you and Gojo. You grudgingly turn your face away from where it was so close to Gojo’s to look at him and sigh inwardly. At least Gojo’s face was prettier to look at.

“Hi, Fred,” you smile tightly, willing him to go away. “We’re good here, so you can help out other students—”

“How was your weekend?” He instead replies, and you wince. Stealing a quick glance at Gojo, it seems that his jaw and posture are uncharacteristically tense. 

“Lot of work for the class and for, uh, our research,” you respond, nodding and averting your gaze to your paper and feigning working on a problem so that he would get the hint.

Fred, unfortunately, does not get the hint. Instead, he leans forward, elbows on the table, eyes too focused on you. “You really ought to take breaks, you know. You can give me the code late. Someone as cute as you shouldn’t stress so much. You’ll get wrinkles.”

Your fingers tighten around your pencil, your skin crawling at the way his tone veers into something too familiar, too patronizing. You open your mouth to give a clipped response, but Gojo beats you to it.

“Oh? Didn’t know you were an expert on skincare, Fred,” Gojo drawls, his voice deceptively light. His arm, which was still resting on the back of your chair, shifts just slightly—not quite pulling you in, but making his presence more noticeable. “Though, if we’re giving out advice, maybe you should take your own. I mean, stress must be rough on you too, right? All those late nights grading papers, staring at screens. Takes a toll.”

Fred bristles, but Gojo just smiles lazily, pushing up his glasses as he tilts his head. “Actually, you know what? Maybe we should all focus on our own business. Like, say, teaching, instead of weirdly hovering over students. Crazy thought, huh?”

You swear you see the muscle in Fred’s jaw twitch, but he forces out an awkward chuckle, shifting uncomfortably. “Right, right. Just looking out for her.”

“Don’t worry,” Gojo interrupts smoothly, now fully leaning into your space, his arm draping a little lower behind your chair, “I think she’s got plenty of people looking out for her already.” His voice is soft, but there’s an undeniable edge beneath the words.

Fred lingers for a second too long, but finally, he mutters something about helping another student and stands, walking off with an air of forced nonchalance.

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding, slumping slightly in your seat. Gojo hums beside you, his fingers tapping idly against the back of your chair.

“You’re welcome, by the way,” he teases, but there’s something in his tone that’s softer than usual. He then makes a show of stretching, raising his arms. His sweater rides up a bit, exposing his lower abs and peeks of white that has you averting your gaze, the heat creeping up at his proximity once again. Then, his arm back on your chair. Weirdly, you find that you don’t mind it.

You sigh, resigned. You’ll figure out these feelings later. “Yeah. Thanks, Gojo.”

But you don’t immediately go back to your work, because Gojo suddenly hunches down and whispers in your ear. “Yea, I definitely saw an underage anime girl sticker on his laptop.”

Your responding snort is so loud everyone turns to look at you and Gojo, who is now sporting a mischievous and satisfied smile.

It starts with a single drop, fat and cold where it splats against your wrist. You glance up from your phone just in time to see the sky split open.

“Shit,” you mutter, stuffing your phone into your bag. The library doors shut behind you with a heavy clang, sealing away the scent of old books and the quiet hum of studying students. Outside, the air is thick with the petrichor of freshly fallen rain, and within seconds, the pavement is slick, puddles forming in the uneven cracks of the sidewalk. The streetlights reflect off the wet ground, casting fragmented golden glows against the darkening sky. You’d been studying to grind for the upcoming assignments; after all, to rival Gojo is a no small feat. It’s just unfortunate it seems to take you thousand times more effort than it does for Gojo.

“Guess we’re stuck together, huh?”

You don’t have to turn to know who it is.

Satoru Gojo, standing beside you under the library’s narrow overhang, wearing that insufferable grin like he’s amused by the entire situation. Like the rain personally fell from the sky just to give him an opportunity to bother you.

“I’ll take my chances,” you say flatly, shifting your bag on your shoulder. But as you peer past the downpour, your stomach sinks. The rain is merciless, an unrelenting sheet of water stretching as far as you can see. There’s no way you’re making it back to your dorm without looking like you took a fully clothed shower.

Gojo hums, pulling something out of his bag. You blink when he flicks open a half-broken umbrella, the metal ribs slightly bent like it’s barely holding itself together. He gives it a little shake, sending droplets flying, before glancing at you with a smirk.

“Well?” He lifts a brow. “Wanna be smart about this?”

You do not want to be smart about this. You want to wait out the rain or make a break for it. But the storm shows no signs of letting up, and the thought of walking through it alone makes you hesitate.

Reluctantly, you sigh. “Fine. But I get most of the cover.”

“Hey, sharing is caring.” He tilts the umbrella slightly, just enough to make a point.

With great reluctance, you step closer. The moment you do, you regret it.

Gojo is warm. Even in the damp, chilled air, he radiates heat, standing so close that his sleeve brushes against yours. He smells good, too—like expensive laundry detergent with a faint undercurrent of something sweet, something distinctly him.

You swallow hard, forcing yourself to stare straight ahead as the two of you start walking. The rain pounds against the umbrella, droplets cascading off the edges, and with every step, you’re hyper-aware of the way Gojo moves beside you—loose-limbed, annoyingly graceful, a stark contrast to the crooked metal above your heads.

“Man, this thing’s on its last leg,” he muses, tilting the umbrella just slightly. Water dribbles off the side, landing directly onto your shoulder.

“Gojo!” you yelp, recoiling as the cold soaks through your shirt.

“Oops.” He does not sound remotely sorry.

You glare at him, but before you can snap back, he shrugs off his jacket and—without preamble—drapes it over you.

You freeze.

It’s warm, still carrying the heat of his body, and it smells so much like him—clean, sweet, dizzyingly familiar. Your brain short-circuits.

You force yourself to breathe, keeping your gaze firmly ahead. “You didn’t have to do that,” you say, voice tight.

“I wanted to.”

Something in his tone makes your stomach flip. You glance at him from the corner of your eye, and—

Damn him. Damn him.

Water drips from his bangs, clinging to the sharp edges of his jawline, sliding down the curve of his throat. His shirt sticks to his skin, fabric clinging in a way that reveals the toned lines of his arms, the broad plane of his chest. He’s watching the rain, the usual teasing glint in his eyes softened into something contemplative.

You swear your eggs just recently got released, for you cannot help but avoid your ever going attraction to Satoru Gojo except the age-old excuse: ovulation. Your mind wanders to how his arms would feel around your head, to lay on his chest, how he’d be able to manhandle you, force you to take it—

But you’re snapped out of your inappropriate thoughts by what he says next.

“You know,” he says, voice quieter now, “I like this. Just us, no grades, no competing.”

You pause.

He says it so simply, so easily, like it’s nothing at all. But the words settle deep, curling somewhere warm inside you, and you don’t know what to do with them.

So you do what you do best: you shove them away, bury them beneath years of rivalry, of late-night study sessions fueled by caffeine and stubbornness, of sharp words and sharper glances.

You roll your eyes, forcing a scoff. “Don’t get used to it.”

But even as you say it, your fingers curl into the fabric of his jacket, holding it a little tighter.

It’s been a week since you saw Gojo. He had dropped you at your dorm in a surprisingly gentlemanly way, and you had insisted on returning the jacket only after washing it, to be courteous. What you didn’t mention was how you kept repeatedly smelling it in your dorm whenever you got a reprieve from your roommate’s eyes because Gojo smelled like expensive cologne and he did one thing most nerds / physics majors don’t do: shower. This fact, unfortunately, made you more attracted to him because the bar is truly in hell.

You’ve concluded that these…feelings can’t hurt you and that it isn’t real, like a beefy and shirtless Gojo-looking demon that’ll jump and surprise you from under your bed. So you move on your life, caught in the ever perpetual slog of studying and researching. 

Thus, you find yourself at the library once more.

The night hums low around you, quiet except for the occasional shuffle of paper and the distant hum of the library’s espresso machine (only librarians could use it, however. you fervently thought that was a form of elitism, but you digress). You’re at the corner table, the one by the window, where the dim light pools just enough to illuminate your notes but not enough to make you feel like you’re being studied under a microscope. You think you’re alone—until you aren’t.

You don’t have to look up to know it’s him.

Satoru Gojo is hard to miss, even when he’s not trying. He slides into the chair across from you with the kind of ease that makes it seem like he belongs there, like he was always going to end up sitting across from you tonight. His hair is tousled, white strands falling forward in a way that makes him look softer under the warm light. His glasses are perched low on his nose, a rare sight given that he usually has them pushed up like some kind of pretentious scholar.

The two of you don’t speak.

It’s surprising, really. Gojo never runs out of things to say, whether it’s an obnoxious quip or some unnecessarily insightful observation that makes you want to throw your textbook at his face. But tonight, he just pulls out his own notes, taps his pen against the edge of his lips, and starts reading.

You should focus on your own studying, but something about this—this silence, this late-night haze, this tiny moment carved out of time—makes your mind wander. You steal glances when you think he won’t notice. His brows furrow when he’s concentrating, his jaw tightens when he’s stuck on something, and when he exhales, it’s this slow, measured thing, like he’s trying not to get frustrated. He’s just—

He’s just really there.

You’ve spent years defining Gojo as your rival. Your competition. The person standing in your way at every academic milestone. And yet, somehow, somewhere, he’s slipped into something else, something harder to define. Because you’ve seen him like this before—when he’s so focused that he forgets the world around him, when he bites his lip in thought, when he gets so caught up in something that he mutters under his breath without realizing it. And for the first time, it dawns on you: you don’t actually hate it.

You don’t hate this comfortable silence. This moment of peace, a white flag waving lazily between you both.

The hours blur. The café starts to empty. Your notes turn into background noise. It’s late, and the warmth from inside lulls you into something dangerously close to comfort.

A soft sound breaks through the quiet.

You glance up and freeze.

Gojo’s head has tilted to the side, his glasses slipping slightly down the bridge of his nose. His hand is curled loosely around his pen, and his breathing has evened out. He’s asleep.

For a moment, you don’t move. You barely breathe.

Gojo, asleep, is not something you’ve seen before. He’s always in motion, always buzzing with energy, always running his mouth about something. But right now, he’s still. His long lashes cast faint shadows over his cheekbones, and the tension he always carries—the cocky bravado, the smirking sharpness—is nowhere to be found. He just looks… peaceful.

Cutie.

What?

The thought slips in so quickly, so effortlessly, that it nearly makes you jolt. But when you look at him again—head tilted just slightly, glasses slipping down his nose, breathing slow and even—you can’t deny that the word fits. He looks like a lazy cat napping in a sunbeam, limbs loose, utterly unguarded. It’s so unlike him that you find yourself staring, caught in the contrast.

Your fingers twitch. Before you can stop yourself, you reach forward, slow and hesitant, to push his glasses back up his nose. But you catch yourself just before you touch him, as if the warmth of his skin might burn. Your hand hovers in the air for a fraction of a second too long, and then—

You pull away.

Your heart is pounding. It’s fine. It’s nothing. You just need to get out of here.

You gather your things quietly, glancing back at him one last time before slipping out the door into the cool night air. The moment you step outside, you take a breath, deep and shaking. The world feels different now. You feel different now.

Because for the first time, it isn’t just that you find Gojo attractive.

It’s that you care.

And you don’t know what the hell to do about it.

The gym, once again, smells like sweat and overpriced protein powder.

You don’t know what’s possessed you to come here today. Maybe it’s because you keep telling yourself that you need to exercise more, or maybe it’s because you need to take a break from studying before your brain melts. But deep down, if you’re really being honest with yourself, you know the real reason.

Gojo is here.

You spotted him the first time by accident. You were on the treadmill, barely jogging at a pace that wouldn’t embarrass you, when you caught a flash of white hair across the gym floor. And there he was—dressed in a fitted black sleeveless top and joggers, casually loading plates onto a barbell.

And he wasn’t wearing his glasses.

It was a stupid, inconsequential detail, but it made all the difference. Without them, he didn’t look like the annoying academic rival who constantly got under your skin, flashing his smug grin as he beat you in exams by the smallest possible margins. He looked… sharp. Unfiltered. Effortlessly attractive in a way that made your stomach tighten in ways you didn’t like.

You’d seen him in his regular clothes before, of course. You knew he had broad shoulders and long legs, that his body wasn’t just a lanky frame hidden behind layers of sweaters. But here, in the gym, watching him roll his shoulders as he prepped for another set—it hit differently. He was lean but muscular, his arms flexing as he adjusted his grip on the bar, and for some godforsaken reason, you couldn’t look away.

You shouldn’t be watching him. You should be focusing on your own workout, pretending you don’t care. But the way his shirt clung to his back, the way his forearms tensed, the way he exhaled sharply as he lifted—

You’re so screwed.

You force yourself to look away, grabbing the smallest dumbbells available and curling them in what has to be the weakest excuse for a workout imaginable. You’re barely paying attention to what you’re doing, too busy sneaking glances at Gojo between sets. It’s pathetic, but at least no one else is watching you.

Or so you think.

Because then she appears.

A girl.

Tall, toned, and effortlessly gorgeous, with sleek hair pulled into a high ponytail. She strides over to Gojo with a confidence you could never dream of and smiles at him, saying something that makes him laugh. Her ass is definitely bigger than yours, and she’s in this coordinated, cute, pink set, looking like she walked straight out of a fitness TikTok. You can’t hear what they’re talking about over the sound of weights clanking and some obnoxious EDM song blasting through the speakers, but you can see it. The way she leans in, the way she tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear, the way Gojo—

—smiles at her. That easy, lazy grin he always wears when he’s teasing you, except this time, it isn’t for you.

Your grip tightens around the dumbbells, something ugly curling in your chest. It gets worse when she gestures toward the squat rack, and Gojo nods before moving behind her, hands hovering just slightly as she sets up for a squat. You watch as he spots her, one hand resting lightly on her lower back, close enough to correct her form but far enough to be polite. He’s focused, watching her movements carefully, murmuring something that makes her laugh before she drops into another rep.

Your stomach twists.

This is stupid. You have no reason to be feeling this way.

It’s then that it hits you—you can have your silly little academic rival moments with Gojo, but, in the end, you’re just a footnote in his story, a fleeting challenge in a life where everything already belongs to him. He quite literally has generational wealth; he’s not going to spend his life buried in grant applications or clawing for recognition in a field that demands twice the effort for half the reward. He’ll be the one funding the research, sitting at the head of the table, making decisions that shape the future. And you? You’ll be one of the many who struggle just to be in the same room.

He’s the guy who spends his vacations on yachts or private islands—not just surrounded by wealth, but by people who belong there. Girls who glide through life with the same effortless ease as him, girls who don’t second-guess if they deserve to be in the spaces they occupy. Girls who don’t have to fight for their place at the table because it was always set for them.

Girls that are his equal—equally attractive, equally smart, equally rich.

Not you.

You swallow hard, forcing yourself to look away, but the image is burned into your mind. The easy way he talks to her. The way she tilts her head when she listens. The way he doesn’t even know you’re here.

You shouldn’t care. You shouldn’t care. You shouldn’t care.

But you do.

You grip the dumbbells tighter, exhaling sharply. Then you put them back, pick up your water bottle, and walk out of the gym before you do something stupid.

The office is too small. Too suffocating. Too filled with the weight of unspoken words and the sharp-edged smile of Fred, the TA, as he leans back in his chair and laces his fingers together.

"You know," he begins, voice sickly sweet, "I really expected more from you."

You sit stiffly in the chair across from him, your hands curled into fists in your lap, nails digging crescents into your skin. Your heart pounds, but your face remains carefully neutral. You've been called into his office under the guise of "academic guidance," but you know better. You always know better.

"I don't know what you mean," you say, keeping your voice even.

Fred exhales dramatically, shaking his head. "Come on. You and I both know you're barely keeping up in this project of ours."

You grit your teeth. You're not barely keeping up. You're giving him your work at the highest level, at its best. But Fred—Fred has always had a way of twisting things, making you feel small, insignificant, like your achievements are nothing more than accidents.

“I think my progress speaks for itself,” you respond tightly. Mind you, while he was supposed to be your mentor, you’ve done 80% of the work.

But you think Gojo’s defense of you ran deep into Fred’s heart because by the way he’s sleazily smirking at you, you know he’s trying to get back at you.

He smirks. "Your progress? Sure, you’re smart. But you think that’s enough? You think anyone’s going to care about a girl like you when there are people out there who don’t have to struggle to be exceptional?" He leans forward, voice dropping into something conspiratorial. "You’re wasting your time. The best you can hope for is being someone’s assistant. Maybe a glorified research grunt if you’re lucky. Just like for me."

Your stomach twists. You shouldn’t care. You know you shouldn’t care. But the words burrow deep, hitting a place inside you that already doubts, that already wonders if you’re nothing more than a temporary obstacle in a world built for people like Gojo Satoru—people born brilliant, born wealthy, born effortless.

Fred’s eyes flick over you, assessing, smug. "You’re working yourself to the bone for what? You’ll never be at the top. Not really."

The bitterness of the situation really dawns on you—Gojo’s the one who took a jab at Fred last week, not you. But you’re the one who’s left to deal with its consequences. You’re not going to assign blame and lament that it’s not Gojo in this office dealing with him. It was in your defense, after all. 

But Fred’s words remind you. You’ll never be at the top. At Gojo’s level, who’s at the top without even seeming to put in effort.

You’ll never be his equal.

You stand abruptly, shoving your chair back so hard it scrapes against the floor. "If that’s all, I have work to do."

Fred chuckles, leaning back, clearly pleased with himself. "Sure, sure. Don’t say I never tried to give you advice."

You don’t respond. You just walk out, gripping your bag so tightly your knuckles turn white, the echo of his words following you down the hall, settling in your bones like lead.

The hallway is too bright. Too loud. Too full of people who don’t know that you’re on the verge of crumpling in on yourself like a dying star.

Your breath feels too shallow, too quick, and there’s a weight pressing down on your chest that no amount of rationalizing can shake off. It’s not even your meeting with Fred—just a slow accumulation of stress and exhaustion and frustration that’s settled deep in your bones. A grade lower than expected, an upcoming deadline you’re nowhere near prepared for, a general sense of drowning no matter how hard you try to keep up. It’s all too much, and your hands are starting to shake from how tightly you’re gripping the strap of your bag.

You just need to get out of here. You need air, space, something.

But, of course, the universe has a cruel sense of humor, because when you round the corner, you slam straight into Satoru Gojo.

“Whoa—”

Your balance is already precarious from the way you were rushing, and the impact sends you stumbling. For a split second, you think you might actually fall—your ankle twists awkwardly, the world tilts—and then there’s a strong hand gripping your wrist, another bracing against your back, steadying you before you can hit the ground.

You don’t process what happens immediately. Your mind is still stuck on too much, too fast, can’t breathe, and it takes you a second to realize that Gojo is holding you upright, his hands firm but careful, his expression hovering somewhere between amusement and concern.

“Jeez, what’s the rush?” he teases, but his voice lacks its usual careless lilt. He’s searching your face now, eyes narrowing behind his glasses, and that’s when you realize: you must look as bad as you feel.

Shit.

You jerk away from him, a little too fast, a little too sharp. “I’m fine.”

Gojo doesn’t look convinced. “You sure? Because it kinda seemed like you were about to pass out on the spot.”

“I said I’m fine.” You adjust your bag over your shoulder, shifting your weight onto your other foot, ignoring the faint throb in your ankle. “Go bother someone else.”

Most of the time, that’s enough to send him off with an exaggerated sigh and a smirk. But not today.

Today, Gojo just stands there, watching you like he’s trying to piece something together—like you’re a problem he wants to solve. He doesn’t press, not yet, but the silence stretches, and it’s unbearable, because you can feel the weight of his gaze, and you don’t want to be seen like this. Not by him.

So you give him a tight nod in dismissal, and walk away.

There’s a knock at your door. You frown because you didn’t expect any visitors, and you’re in your sleepwear. Regardless, you pad your way lazily and open the door.

To see Gojo.

What the fuck.

He’s drenched in the glow of the hallway light, looking entirely too at home despite standing on your threshold. His hair is still slightly damp from the rain, white strands falling over his forehead in careless disarray. He’s not wearing his glasses.

"Why are you here?" you demand, gripping the doorframe, willing your voice to stay steady.

He quirks an eyebrow, tilting his head just slightly. “You’re holding my jacket hostage.”

Oh. Right.

You make your way to your wardrobe, where the now-cleaned jacket hangs neatly on a hanger. Grabbing it, you hand it over to Gojo, who’s standing at your threshold while eyeing the insides of your dorm, as if trying to take in what your living space looks like. You shove it into his chest, stepping back like the heat of it burns. "Here."

Gojo takes it, but instead of leaving like a normal person, he lingers, running his fingers over the material like he’s checking for something. Then,, he lifts a hand to the back of his neck, rubbing it in that way that only makes his biceps flex, his lean muscles shifting beneath his shirt. You hate that you notice.

A beat passes.

"You know," he muses, far too casually, "you seemed a little disheveled back there."

Your stomach twists. "It's not a big deal—"

"—Bullshit." His voice cuts through yours, sharp and immediate. He shifts, stepping just the tiniest bit closer, his tone losing its usual teasing lilt. “You’re lying. I saw what you looked like. What happened?”

“It's none of your business,” you say, stiffening. “Nor is it a big deal, really.”

Gojo exhales, something heavy in the sound. His eyes don’t leave yours, and for once, they aren’t filled with their usual mirth or mischief. Just something searching, something that makes your chest ache in a way you don’t have the strength to deal with right now.

"You always do that," he says, softer now, but no less intense. “Act like no one’s supposed to care. Like you’re carrying the world alone.”

Your fingers curl into your palms. Your lips press together. You don’t want to hear this. You don’t want to acknowledge the way his words settle too close to the truth.

And then, quietly, Gojo asks, “Do you not consider me your equal?”

You swallow.

Your silence must be enough of an answer because something shifts in his expression. It isn’t anger exactly, but it’s something close—something bitter and disappointed and aching all at once.

"You’re the one who shuts me out, you know." His voice is sharp now, edged with frustration. "You act like I'm the one keeping you at a distance, but every time I try to get close, you push me away."

Your throat tightens. “Why do you even care?”

Gojo lets out a breath, his head tilting just slightly, eyes scanning your face like you’re something he’s trying to figure out. Then he laughs, quiet and humorless.

“You really don’t know?”

“I—” Your voice wavers. “What do you mean—”

“For a girl so smart, you sure do act stupid.” He steps forward then, closing the space between you just enough to make you want to back away, but your feet don’t move. His voice drops lower. "Do you think I talk to you because I give a fuck about physics?"

Your brain short-circuits. “What—”

He groans, dragging a hand through his hair, frustrated. “I give zero fucks about the class or any class, trust me. I have better things to do than to try to aim for 100s on every test."

Your heart is pounding now, too loud, too fast. “Then why—”

"God," he exhales, tipping his head back, like he's debating whether or not he should even say it. Then, after a beat, he looks at you again, and whatever is in his eyes makes your stomach flip, makes your breath hitch.

Something in your chest lurches, but before you can even process it, he huffs a laugh—like he’s just remembered something ridiculous.

"You didn’t even look my way the first week," he says, eyes flicking over your face, searching. "I could tell you only cared about anyone that could challenge you. Like, it wasn’t even until I did better than you on the second midterm that you even talked to me."

You open your mouth, then close it, heat prickling at the back of your neck. Because—yeah. He’s not wrong. You had ignored him, dismissed him as just another overconfident rich kid who thought he was smarter than he was. It wasn’t until he proved himself, until he became a real obstacle in your path, that you bothered to acknowledge him.

Gojo smiles, but it’s not cocky this time—it’s small, almost rueful. "And then you looked at me like I was finally real. Like I existed."

Your breath hitches.

He shrugs, eyes dropping for a brief second before snapping back up to yours. "So, yeah. Maybe I started trying harder. Maybe I cared about all those stupid tests because it meant I got to see that fire in your eyes, that I got to be the one you were pushing against." He rubs the back of his neck, his biceps flexing in a way that would usually annoy you, but right now, you’re too busy trying to remember how to breathe.

Gojo stares at you for a long moment, gaze unwavering, like he’s daring you to say something—anything.

Your chest feels too tight, your pulse erratic, and you don’t know what to do with the way Gojo is looking at you—like you’re something precious, something worth holding onto.

But he’s wrong. He has to be wrong.

“You can’t like me,” you whisper.

Gojo frowns, expression shifting. “What?”

Your throat clenches, and before you can stop it, heat pricks at your eyes, blurring your vision. “You can’t like me,” you say again, voice cracking. “I can’t even match you.”

Gojo's face slackens, his teasing demeanor completely gone.

"You do everything so effortlessly," you force out, your fists clenching at your sides. "It’s so infuriating." A shaky breath escapes you, and you shake your head, looking down. “So why would you even want this? You make me feel this way, and I—I hate you for it.”

For a second, there’s only silence.

Then, Gojo exhales softly.

“Is that what you think?” His voice is so gentle it makes something inside you ache.

You don’t answer. You can’t.

Gojo shifts, stepping forward slowly, carefully, like you’re something fragile. And then—then he reaches out, his fingers ghosting along your wrist before curling around it, grounding you. “It’s not effortless,” he murmurs. “I try so hard. You just don’t see it because I don’t want you to.”

"You really don’t get it, do you?" His voice is quieter now, something dangerously close to vulnerable. His fingers twitch at his sides. "I care because it’s you."

You shake your head, still not understanding, still unable to believe it.

Gojo watches you for a moment, then exhales, running a hand through his hair. “You act like I just woke up one day and decided to like you.” He huffs a quiet laugh, but there’s no real amusement in it. “Do you know how long I’ve been stuck on you? How infuriating it was, realizing that no matter how much attention I got, the only person I wanted it from was too busy treating me like an obstacle?”

Your breath catches.

“I tried everything,” he continues, voice rougher now. “Teasing you, annoying you, beating you in tests, losing to you in tests. It didn’t matter what I did, because you—” He breaks off, shaking his head. “You only saw me when I gave you a reason to compete.”

Your fingers tremble slightly at your sides. You don’t know what to say, don’t even know what you can say.

And suddenly, everything—the teasing, the constant pestering, the way he always had to be around you—it all clicks into place.

Your heart hammers in your chest, and before you can second-guess it, before you can even think, you surge forward and kiss him.

It’s a mess of a kiss—too rushed, too desperate, all clashing teeth and uneven breaths—but Gojo groans softly against your lips, like he’s been waiting for this. His hands are on you immediately, one slipping around your waist, the other cradling the back of your head as he presses you flush against him.

You’re dizzy. Overwhelmed. But it’s good. It’s him, and you don’t want to stop.

When you finally pull away, breathless and unsteady, Gojo is grinning, his lips slightly swollen.

“Worth the wait,” he murmurs, eyes shining.

You avert your gaze, fully blushing now. “But I—” You take a look at him, then hide your face in your hands. “I’m a stalker.”

“Maybe I’m into that.”

“No,” you bemoan. “I’ve stalked you at the gym, and I—” Your voice drops into a shameful whisper. “You were good. Like, stupidly good. Like, making everyone stare at you good.”

His lips twitch. “You were staring too, huh?”

You glare at him, but he just grins, all teeth, clearly eating this up.

“I hated it,” you insist, heat prickling at the back of your neck. “I hated that you’re already smarter than me, that you already have all these advantages, and then—and then you also have that? Like, it’s just unfair. You’re unfair.”

Gojo is silent for a second, and you think you’ve screwed up, but then exhales a sharp laugh, shaking his head. “You are so cute.”

“Stop it!” you whine, but you don’t protest when he pulls you closer and locks your lips with his another time. You clutch the front of his shirt, drag your hands on his chest, his arms, everywhere. Then, you guide his to firmly clutch your ass, to which he freezes.

“We can stop here. We don’t have to do anymore than this, and—”

But you interrupt him, slamming your lips against his once more. Grabbing him by the shoulder you pull him into your room and slam the door behind you, pushing him against the door. “Fuck no.”

He laughs breathlessly, then continues to switch your position, now you against the door. “Thank god. Now, jump.”

You do, and you almost moan at how easily he grabs you in his arms, your legs straddling him. It’s like you weigh nothing to him as he carries you over to your bed and manhandles you into it, following not long after.

When he gets on top of you, he maintains eye contact as he pulls your shirt over your head, trailing kisses down to your neck, the valley of your breasts (but not before giving each of the girls their own tender kiss), and your stomach. With his eyes boring into you, he slowly, teasingly drags the pants you were wearing down your legs until you’re just in your panties.

You let out a noise, and he coos. “I know, I know, baby.” He gives you a gentle kiss on the top of your mound, and you clench, squirming from the contact. “Let me take my time, though.”

He gently, but firmly, lays a hand on your hip as he starts licking the crotch of your panties. It’s truly maddening—the sensation is there, but you oh so wish his skilled tongue was meeting your skin, bare and electric.

He’s taking his time laving, ravishing your taste, but you’ve had enough. “Gojo, please,” you sob, throwing your head back and grinding further into his tongue, which he welcomes. “Stop teasing.”

“Mmmm,” he pretends to think, all while focused and looking only at your crotch, now rubbing your clit in small, miniscule circles. “I can, but,” and now he’s just mocking you, with the way he adopts a babying tone, “I think you’re going to have to beg for it.”

You groan in frustration as a response, but he only clicks his tongue as his fingers reach and finally rid you of your panties. He spreads your folds with two fingers, his face oh so close to your bare pussy. But instead of finally giving you what you want,  he clicks his tongue, pouting as if you’re the one forcing him to be a bastard. “Yea, I’m sorry, but you’re going to have to earn it.”

Before you can respond, he holds out his tongue and inches his face even closer to your bare folds until you can feel his warm breath over it. “You just have to say please.” Then, he ahhh-s, as if holding his tongue out to a doctor and says, “Look I’m so close—ahhh.”

You can only plead with him. “Please, Gojo.”

“No, it’s Satoru to you now, baby.”

“Satoru, please eat me out.”

He smiles. “Yeaa, that’s my girl.” And proceeds to eat you out in a way that has your toes curling.

He acts like a man eating his last meal on death row. It’s the masterful combination of laving over your folds, kissing your clit, and groaning and making noises that has you inching closer and closer to your orgasm. When you tell him, you’re close, he does exactly what he’s supposed to do—keep doing what he’s doing, same spot, same tempo, same pressure.

With a cry of his name, you come quickly, and he takes your writhing hips and their motion like a champ, easing you through it. When you feel the all-too-familiar feel of over sensitivity, you grab his hair and pull him towards your face, kissing him tenderly. 

He maneuvers his huge frame to lay down next to you, and you fall easily into a gentle embrace. It’s a comfortable silence, as he burrows his face into your chest and you stroke his hair gently.

Gentler than how you’ve ever treated him.

It’s this thought exactly that you voice to him. “You know,” you muse softly. “I was such a bitch to you.” This gets his attention, because he moves from where he was comfortable (your boobs) to look at you in alarm. “Like, I was always mean, and like acting all high and mighty—”

“Whatever you think you did, it was hot,” he interrupts you, grinning boyishly. “Like damn when you insult me I get all fired up—”

“Satoru!” You laugh, shocked, looking down at him. “You’re crazy.”

“Yea,” he winks. “Crazy for you.”

You smile softly at that, biting your lip. “I mean, I get that.” You feel his curious gaze rove over you and heat creeps up your neck as you confess, “Like I was stalking you at the gym. I saw you one time, and um. You definitely have a sleeper build.”

He hums. “I get that a lot.”

“Yea,” you blurt. “you’re really hot. Like you have really big arms, which I definitely didn’t notice in all those sweaters you wear. You could definitely throw me around.”

Silence.

When you look down at him, he’s looking at you mischievously. He sits up, takes off his shirt, and says, “Want to test that theory?”

The both of you test the theory, indeed—it’s a nice nod to your guys’ academic, theoretical physics roots. But instead of some theory involving dark matter or quantum physics debated while in class, this theory takes all night to prove.

general masterlist

a/n special thank you to @purplegemadventures ily pookie <3 we were discussing how a lot of fics so far have made seem nerd gojo really cute and shy but we tried to envision a shit eating sassy diva just like hidden inventory arc <3 like what that one anon said i need my gojo to be a little annoying cocky (but cute) bastard (or, i quote, "your gojo makes me want to oil his scalp and give him an aggressive head massage and mess his hair up"). ANYWAYS props to that one anon that dropped the "nerd gojo with sleeper build" and my beloved @tiramisuandlove i love you forever

comment and reblog to let me know ur thots!

[gojosconsort]

AAAAA OMGGG

Plsss more of feral/freak Nanami and innocent/oblivious wife! I beg you 🙏🙏🙏

“did i gain weight or something?” you muse, voice chipper and light, twisting around to peer at yourself in the reflection of the glass cabinet. you’re holding a pair of jeans—those tight ones he secretly prays you’ll wear every damn day—yanking them up over your hips. they snag, too tight, and you hop, tugging. your ass jiggles, soft and full, straining against the denim and rippling with every bounce, and HUSBAND!KENTO’S coffee mug freezes midair. his jaw locks, teeth grinding so loud he swears you should hear it.

“these used to fit,” you pout, frowning as you shimmy them higher, bending slightly to wrestle the fabric. the jeans inch up, but barely, hugging every curve too tight, and that bounce—fuck, that bounce—sends a jolt straight through him. his eyes lock on it, feral and unblinking and he bites the inside of his cheek, hoping the sting will snap him back but he can only imagine sinking his teeth into that ass, marking you, claiming you, pounding you into the counter ‘til you’re a drooling mess.

“they look fine,” he grits out, voice like gravel, low enough that you don’t catch the edge. you turn to face him, still wrestling the zipper, and the way your tits bounces with the effort makes his slacks tighten painfully and a faint dampness begins to prick at the fabric. he shifts in his seat, the chair groaning under him, and sets the mug down with a hard thud, splintering the handle, and he doesn’t blink.

“fine?” you laugh, oblivious, spinning to give him a view of the back. “kento, they’re literally cutting me in half!” you wiggle again, testing the fit, and he swears he sees every ripple of your ass in slow motion. his control frays, thread by thread, and he’s picturing it: hands sinking into that plump ass, fucking you right there, ramming into you from behind ‘til the cabinets rattle and you’re dripping with his cum.

“you look… good,” he manages, the words clipped, barely civil. suddenly his tie feels like a noose, and he yanks at it, loosening the knot as he fights the urge to tie you up with it, wrap it around your wrists, arms pinned behind you while he knots it into your skin, leaving red marks he’d lick later. he shifts his weight again, thighs flexing, trying to will it down, but the sight of you in those jeans already has heat pooling low, threatening to spill over if he doesn’t get a grip.

you beam at him, all sweet. “good? well, that’s a relief,” you say, finally getting the jeans zipped, though they hug you like a second skin. you smooth your hands over your hips, turning side to side, and he tracks every movement. “i was worried i’d have to toss these. they’re my favorite.” and his too.

“keep them,” he says, too fast, too rough, standing abruptly. the chair scrapes back, loud, and he stalks toward the sink, dumping the rest of his coffee to give his hands something other to do than to pin you down and fuck into you like an animal. he’s losing it—really losing it—and you don’t even notice, chattering on about your day like he’s not two seconds from gagging you with his cock, stuffing you ‘til your throat’s full.

“—and then i’ve got that meeting at noon, but i’ll be home early,” you’re saying, stepping closer to grab an apple from the bowl. you brush past him, hip grazing his thigh, and he exhales hard through his nose, gripping the sink’s edge until his fingers ache. your scent hits him, floral and clean, and he’s feral, imagining fisting your hair, yanking your head back, fucking you hard and fast.

“kento?” you pause, apple halfway to your mouth, tilting your head up at him. “you okay? you’re all… tense.” your eyes are wide, soft, and he wants to ruin you—mark that pretty throat, choke you with his fingers, fuck you ‘til those pretty lips can’t form words anymore.

“just—” he clears his throat, stepping back, forcing distance. “long night.” a lie, weak, but you nod, accepting it like always. he adjusts his glasses, hands shaking slightly, and turns away, pretending to rinse the mug. his slacks cling to him, the wet spot dark against his thigh, precum soaking through the fabric as his cock throbs, painfully hard, leaking with every jiggle of your ass he can’t unsee.

he shifts, trying to hide it, but the friction only makes it worse—his balls ache, tight and heavy, and he bites back a groan, imagining unloading inside you, painting your insides until you’re dripping with him. the sink’s cold edge digs into his palms as he grips it, desperate to keep from yanking his pants down and fucking you right there.

“finish getting ready,” he says, voice tight, controlled by a thread. “i’ll drive you.” he doesn’t trust himself to stay here, not with you prancing around like that, all innocent and ripe for the taking. you smile, oblivious, and bounce off toward the bedroom, ass jiggling one last time as you go. he watches, jaw flexing, and knows—he’s not making it through the day.

————— ୨୧ —————

⁀➷ part one ♡ masterlist

[healmydesires]

⋆˚ ✉︎⋆｡˚ enchanted

❥ pairing: prince!sylus qin x fem!servant reader

❥ summary: “You’ve been in love with the prince for god knows how long. For the longest time you were content with admiring him from afar, knowing your adoration for your favourite prince could never be revealed. Until one day, everything changed.”

❥ genre: fluff + angst + smut

❥ word count: 32k+ (buckle up!)

⟶ warnings: royal!au. childhood best friends to lovers. fools/idiots to lovers. forbidden romance. one bed trope / forced proximity. secret admirer!sylus au. mutual pining that they think is unrequited. reader is shorter than sylus. inexperienced/virgin!reader, sylus is technically also a virgin but yeah, won’t be as noticeable. loss of virginity, unprotected sex, piv sex, soft!dom sylus, ok… just overall soft sylus, sub!reader, vaginal fingering, oral (f!receiving), multiple orgasms, creampie, bit of breeding kink, overstimulation, size kink, praise kink, lots of pet names (kitten, sweetie, angel, my love, my beloved, baby… etc). this is not beta read sorry!

⟶ A/N: man it’s been a long time coming… ever since I got into the lads fandom I wanted to write my own sylus fanfic. took me some time because I had so many scenarios and ideas but it was hard to settle with one. this fic means the world to me! I’ve written the beginning a long while ago for another fandom but never came around to finish it. it was always a wip sitting in my drafts. waiting to be finished and shared. never had the energy or motivation to continue this story but here I am now. and I hope everyone enjoys it as much as I loved writing it 🥹 it’s my biggest fic yet! also english isn’t my first language so I’m sorry for the errors <3 (also I ran out of space so I am sorry for not tagging 🥺)

this goes without saying, but if you don’t like it don’t read it <3

AO3 • masterlist

You had worked at the palace of the kingdom Onychinus for as long as you could remember. You knew every nook and cranny—every secret passage and hidden room in that palace. It was practically your home. You took care of it, making sure that it was clean and pretty every day. Your childhood wish was to work for the royal family, just like your parents did. Your family had served the royal family as maids and whatnot for generations, so it only made sense that you grew up around them, and subsequently, their child.

Sylus Qin.

You don’t regret it. Working for royalty.

In fact, if anything, you’re grateful. Because if not for your position now, how could have you crossed paths with a soul like him?

You still remember the day you met him. Clear as day.

Such a sweet sweet day it was. The memory is still fresh in your mind, like the scent of your childhood room. A scent you never quite forgot. It faded over time, sure. But if you strained your memory even now, you can still smell it. The scent of comfort.

-ˋˏ ༻❁༺ ˎˊ-

Decidedly, there have been many days in your life. Some happy, some sad. Some you remember better than others while others fade away into the back of your mind. Some are ingrained so deep in your mind that when you close your eyes, you can see every detail as if it’s currently happening. None, however, do you remember more clearly than the day you met Sylus. It had been almost two decades ago; when you were five, and he was six.

You remember being nervous — your parents had brought you along to the castle, to introduce you to the royal family — you used to be a very lonely child, not being able to make friends easily. You were in awe as you walked through the luxurious castle with wide eyes, seeing it for the first time, it was truly a beautiful place.

As a reward for your family’s many generations of loyalty, they got the honour of working directly for the royal family. Your parents were close to the royal family despite that they were working for them. When you were very young, your mother was a personal attendant to the young prince.

It had all been incredibly overwhelming back then, and you’d only hidden further behind your mother’s legs. Until, you’d spotted a boy, looking just as lonely and nervous as you, also behind his mothers legs. The prince.

A fond smile curls on your face as you remember Sylus’ little frame. With cute round cheeks, curious crimson eyes, long silver hair, dressed in fine fabrics that were only made for royal people. He had sparked your curiosity, his intriguing eyes looking at you as if he longed for your friendship already.

Your parents pushed you into his direction, you’d approached him hesitantly. Immediately, he’d give you the brightest gummy smile once you were in front of him. And that one action — that one smile — had sealed it between the two of you. Ever since then, Sylus has been your best friend. He’d stick out his hand for you to take and would tug you along with him down the hall, showing you around the palace as you both giggled.

Nostalgia cascades through you as you continue mulling over your relationship with prince Sylus. You’ve lived twenty-five years, and throughout the vast majority of it - he has been your only constant.

And for as long as you could remember, you’ve had an intense and hopeless crush on the prince, Sylus Qin.

-ˋˏ ༻❁༺ ˎˊ-

It was completely unprofessional, of course, your feelings for Prince Sylus, and nothing could ever come to grow from them. You knew that. But you refused to ignore them. Partly because you hadn’t allowed for them to interfere with your work, and if they weren’t hurting anyone, then what was the harm in letting them blossom? But most importantly because they had been a part of you for so long—rooted themselves so deeply in your heart—that you were afraid it would be impossible even if you tried.

So you were trying to be content in admiring him secretly while being his childhood friend. And though you knew he could never be yours, it didn’t stop you from revelling in the sweet swell of your heart whenever he smiled, or from imagining at night what it would be like if he was. You loved Sylus, so deeply and irrevocably, your whole heart and mind was consumed by him at all times.

Of course, you knew that one day, probably sooner than later, he would take a spouse, as was his duty. A noble woman or man, fit to rule by his side. Or perhaps someone from another nation or country, one that would strengthen the bonds between their countries.

Because no matter how badly it may hurt you when the time comes, no matter how much you’d cry, you knew you would try to be happy for him. When he managed to find someone to love, even though that someone would never be you, you would try. Because you wanted nothing but Sylus to experience happiness and true love, even if it wasn’t you.

And you tried to tell yourself you were content, your feelings remaining completely unknown to anyone but yourself.

Or so you thought.

-ˋˏ ༻❁༺ ˎˊ-

You sighed dreamily as you stared at him. Prince Sylus, stood across the room, leaning against the wall of the castle's kitchens as he looked over what he wrote on a sheet of paper, probably something important that had to do with the kingdom.

He was ethereal. The way he concentrated, his crimson eyes focused on the paper, scanning his handwriting over and over again. His beautiful long silver hair constantly fell before his eyes, and he’d run a hand through it in a gesture that made your breath catch every single time. His soft lips mouthed the words he’d written as his brows furrowed from time to time, almost as if he wasn’t satisfied with his own work. And most likely, he wasn’t—he was such a perfectionist.

“Quit staring, he’ll notice,” Tara whispered, snapping you out of your reverie. Your fellow servant and best friend didn’t even look up from her work, but somehow she always knew.

Your cheeks flushed with embarrassment, and you tried to hide it with a glare sent her way.

“I wasn’t staring. I was deep in thought,” you murmured, forcing your eyes back to the strawberries you were supposed to be cutting ages ago. The ones that Caleb, one of the kitchen’s cooks, had assigned you two to prepare for a cake.

“Deep in thoughts about Sylus.” she snickered, and you threw a strawberry at her. It bounced satisfyingly off her shoulder and tumbled to the floor.

She was still laughing, and you frowned at her, throwing a quick nervous glance at Sylus—who was already looking at you. Your heart leapt into your throat. You forced a tight smile as the corner of his lips lifted up before he focused his eyes back on the paper. Sighing, you turned back to Tara.

“Stop it! This isn’t funny. Don’t you have any work to do?” you asked through gritted teeth, hating how observant and sharp she could be.

It didn’t help that she moved right next to you, ostensibly to cut several other fruits, which meant she certainly wouldn’t leave you alone now.

“I wasn’t trying to be funny—I was being honest. And yes, but I love annoying you more,” she teased, sticking her tongue out at you like a child.

“Maybe you should focus on your tasks instead of invading my personal space,” you said as sweetly as you could manage.

Tara rolled her eyes. She leaned closer, her voice dropping to a whisper. “You should really find the courage to confess your feelings to him.”

Your eyes widened almost immediately, your mouth opening and closing like a fish gasping for air. Then you shrugged and turned your attention back to the strawberries in front of you. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you said quietly, your voice barely audible over the kitchen noise.

“Oh please, don’t lie to me. It’s obvious that you do,” she said with a knowing smile that made you want to disappear into the floor.

You were quiet, awfully so, which made Tara’s smile widen with satisfaction. She took your silence as the confession it was.

“See,” she said with that same teasing grin.

You sighed, your shoulders dropping in defeat.

“There’s one thing you seem to forget… he’s a prince and I’m well… me.”

You were ready to steal one last glance at Sylus, but it turned out to be futile—the place where he’d been leaning against the wall was empty, and Sylus was nowhere in sight. Where the hell had he disappeared to?

“What are you two whispering about?”

A low but soft voice sounded beside you, and you nearly jumped out of your skin to find Sylus standing mere centimeters from your table. The scent of vanilla soap and your favourite musky smell filled your nostrils, while a feeling of comfort and familiarity flooded your heart. His silver hair was parted more to his right side, revealing his beautiful, smooth forehead. His crimson-colored eyes twinkled with mischief as he grinned, looking between you two.

You were about to open your mouth to say something—anything—but Tara beat you to it.

“Actually, we were talking about you, silly!” She smiled devilishly as she stared directly at you.

Every ounce of blood in your entire body rushed to your face in a tsunami of total, abject mortification. Your eyes widened at her words. “W-what?” you spluttered, feeling as though your heart might actually beat its way out of your chest. She couldn’t be serious.

“Oh really?” Sylus questioned curiously, his smile growing with amusement that made your stomach flip.

You felt as if the whole world had stopped as you held your breath, waiting for your friend’s next words.

“Yes—about how annoying you are,” she said with a grin before turning back to the fruit in front of her, as casual as if she’d been discussing the weather.

Your whole body instantly relaxed, the tension draining away. You were so relieved she hadn’t told him the truth that you could have kissed her. A small smile formed on your lips as you looked at your two friends. Sylus, on the other hand, looked genuinely offended. His face fell at your friend’s words, and he rolled his eyes as he scoffed. “You can’t be serious.”

“It’s a fact,” she shrugged, continuing to cut pieces of banana after finishing her batch of strawberries.

Sylus then turned to you with the biggest, most exaggerated pout you’d ever seen on his handsome face—a look so ridiculous and endearing that you had to bite your lip to keep from laughing. “Is it true?”

“Is what true?” you said with a small smile, moving back to your task at hand, trying desperately to appear nonchalant.

He huffed dramatically before sneaking a hand between you and Tara to steal a strawberry from right in front of you.

“Hey! Those are for a cake,” you gasped, giving him a playful push as you turned just enough to watch him pop the fruit into his mouth with the biggest, most self-satisfied smirk on his face.

“I’m the prince. I can do whatever I want,” he said cheekily before quickly snatching a piece of banana from Tara’s cutting board.

“Don’t make us kick you out!” Tara warned, jabbing a finger into his ribs with surprising force.

“Ow!” Sylus grumbled under his breath, rubbing his hand against his ribs as he backed away from both of you with an expression of mock betrayal. “And to think I call you both my friends.”

“Be happy that we put up with you, Prince Qin!” Tara shouted after him, using his formal name with exaggerated reverence.

You watched him shake his head from side to side, that small smile still playing on his lips, before he walked out of the kitchen. Even his exit was graceful.

Tara shifted her body, facing you once again as you chuckled at the interaction. She leaned closer, her expression turning serious. “Just because I saved your ass doesn’t mean you get to lie to me.”

You sighed, leaning both of your arms on the table and looking at the ceiling in the most dramatic, depressive way possible.

“Wow, you really do have a crush on him.”

“He’s not my crush! Besides, he’s the prince, which makes it forbidden or something,” you rolled your eyes, took the knife back into your hand, and twirled it around with a frown settling on your lips.

“So? True love always finds its way,” she said with a little smirk, showing her hopelessly romantic side.

You rolled your eyes again before sighing as you continued to cut the strawberries. It was forbidden to feel or show any romantic feelings for a royal when you were a servant. Tara knew this very well, yet she refused to let it go.

“So what if I had feelings? It wouldn’t change anything. He’s a prince, and he’s meant to marry someone from a royal family or someone else important,” you said, looking down at the table as if it were suddenly the most fascinating thing in the world. “We all know I’m not someone important.”

Tara sighed before whispering your name softly. “You might not be someone of royal descent, but you’re one of the most important people in his life.” She looked at you seriously, her usual teasing tone completely gone. “Hell!” She snorted, “I’m pretty sure you’re the most important person he’s ever met.”

You bit your lip nervously as you looked up at her. “You think so?”

“I know so,” Tara said firmly, moving closer. Her eyes softened as she took in your nervous and uncertain expression. “Come here.” She wrapped her arms around you, enveloping you in a hug that smelled like honey and home. You felt yourself melt and relax into her embrace. “I know I shouldn’t be giving you all this hope, but…” she sighed, “I can’t help but tell you the truth.”

“Thank you, Tara. I appreciate it,” you whispered as you pulled away from her.

Tara smiled warmly before turning back to the fruit in front of you both. “Now, let’s continue before Caleb kills us for talking too much,” she nudged you playfully.

You giggled at her words, shaking your head in disbelief. A smile lingered on your face as you continued cutting the berries. She never ceased to amaze you with her ability to uplift your mood and make your days more bearable, even when your heart ached with impossible longing.

-ˋˏ ༻❁༺ ˎˊ-

Later that evening, you were reading one of your favourite comfort books in bed when you heard commotion outside your chamber. The noise persisted relentlessly, making it impossible to concentrate. You found yourself reading the same paragraph over and over, the words blurring together meaninglessly. Your curiosity overwhelmed you. Finally, you placed your bookmark between the pages, closed the book, and slid out of bed.

You stepped out of your room into the main hall of the servant headquarters when someone suddenly bumped into you.

You were about to apologize when the person spoke first.

“Oh my god, here you are! I was looking for you,” Tara exclaimed breathlessly.

You barely had time to turn around and greet your friend before she tugged you along the hall. The place was filled with servants, all chatting loudly, and as you passed through the crowd, you heard some of them whispering while stealing glances at you.

Anxiety crept up your spine. You felt increasingly uncomfortable with the idea that they might be talking about you.

“Tara—” you started.

Your name rang out within the crowd. Both you and Tara came to a halt as you realised the voice belonged to one of the royal guards. Anxiety bubbled inside you even more intensely as you made eye contact with the guard. Multiple possibilities swam through your head as you tried to think of a reason why they would be looking for you.

What if your secret had come out?

“Why are they looking for me?” you whispered to your friend. She shrugged at your words, but you could see she was just as nervous about the situation as you were.

The crowd dispersed as two guards made their way toward you. Luke and Kieran—Sylus’s personal and favourite guards. They were twins who always wore their dark masks while on duty. You’d never once seen them remove them while guarding Sylus. Except for moments like these.

Silence fell over the room as they both stopped right in front of you. They gave you a serious look, scanning you up and down before both of them broke into matching grins.

“We have a delivery for you,” Kieran announced, looking at you before opening his satchel to retrieve something from it.

Your body relaxed slightly at his words, anxiety dissipating slowly. Though the whispering in the room continued, now with renewed vigor.

“A delivery? For me?” you questioned. Normally no one sent you anything. You didn’t have many friends outside the castle, and most of your friends and family lived and worked for the royal family, so there was no reason for you to receive anything.

“Aha, here it is!” one of the twins exclaimed triumphantly. In his hands was a deep magenta-colored velvet book. He dusted off the cover with exaggerated care before turning to face you.

His eyes twinkled as he extended the book toward you. You took the object carefully, inspecting it. The velvet material felt luxurious and soft beneath your fingertips. You flipped the book to its cover, and your eyes widened as you read the golden printed letters embossed there:

“THE SECRET LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS”

Your heart stuttered. This book was one of the things you’d always wanted—had dreamed about for years. You loved flowers, but above everything else, you were a hopeless romantic. People close to you knew you’d always wanted to learn about the language of flowers. You’d first seen this book years ago when running errands in town, displayed in a cute little bookshop’s window, and you’d been dreaming about owning it ever since.

You knew the palace had a vast library with countless books you wished you could read one day. Sylus had shown you the room once, knowing how much you loved reading. Unfortunately, you hadn’t had the chance to go there and lose yourself among the shelves because of your demanding work schedule.

You’d always loved learning and were so eager to educate yourself in every way possible. Everyone knew how desperately you wanted to understand the world and its people and everything that existed on this planet and beyond.

But who would have gotten you this book?

“I think there must be a mistake—” you furrowed your brows, still staring at the book in disbelief.

“No, it was meant to be given to you,” Luke interrupted cheerfully.

“By who?” you whispered, finally looking up at him.

“We don’t know,” he said with an exaggerated shrug. You looked at them suspiciously, trying to decipher whether they were lying.

The men tried to keep their faces as serious as possible, but you caught the corners of their mouths twitching upward.

“Luke, Kieran—” Tara complained, crossing her arms.

“Tara,” the guards mimicked her tone in perfect unison, which would have been funny under different circumstances.

“I know you both know who gave it,” Tara narrowed her eyes, poking a finger into both of their chests simultaneously.

“Hey—”

“You three know each other?” you asked, looking between them in confusion.

“Yeah, we’re friends,” Kieran replied with a big smile.

“In your dreams,” Tara teased.

“Hey! That’s not very nice,” they both pouted in perfect synchronization, looking so ridiculous that you almost laughed despite your confusion.

Your friend laughed. “I’m just messing with you guys.”

“Okay,” you said with a deep sigh, rolling your eyes at their antics. “Still, this doesn’t make any sense.”

“What?” Tara questioned.

“This!” you whisper-yelled, pointing at the book you were clutching in one hand like a lifeline. You felt anxiety creeping back as you focused on the whispers of the other servants, your eyes darting all over the room while you gnawed at your bottom lip.

Luke sighed before turning to address the other people in the room. He cleared his throat authoritatively before speaking. “Please return to your chambers. There’s nothing to see here.”

Reluctantly, the servants dispersed, some returning to their chambers while others occupied themselves far enough away to avoid the guards’ glares.

“What’s so interesting about me getting a delivery?” you exhaled deeply, fatigue evident in your sigh.

“Maybe because the twins here made a whole theatrical entrance and announcement about having a gift for you,” Tara chuckled.

“A gift?” You furrowed your brows, staring at Luke and Kieran.

“Yeah,” the men smiled sheepishly, simultaneously scratching the backs of their necks in an endearing display of awkwardness.

“Who would want to give me a gift?” you asked, mostly to yourself, your voice small and uncertain.

Both of them shrugged in perfect unison, matching smirks spreading across their faces, which only made you groan in frustration. “Come on, I feel like I’m the only one who doesn’t know.”

Tara shook her head. “I don’t know, but I’m sure these two do!” She gestured to the twins before crossing her arms in front of her chest.

Luke let out a grunt of protest. “I do not know! Besides,” he said, an amused smile spreading over his lips as he leaned closer and whispered conspiratorially, “even if I did know, I wouldn’t reveal your secret admirer’s identity.”

“Secret admirer?” you nearly yelled, your voice echoing in the now-quiet hall.

-ˋˏ ༻❁༺ ˎˊ-

A few days had passed, and you still couldn’t get the gift out of your mind. You couldn’t seem to wrap your head around the fact that you had a secret admirer. Let alone the note that had been tucked inside the book.

You called it a note. Tara, on the other hand, called it a love letter—and in her defense, it was far too lengthy and heartfelt to be a mere note. She was right, though you couldn’t quite allow yourself to accept that you could be desired in such a way.

You’d read the words written on the “letter” so many times that you’d memorized them within days, carrying them in your heart like a precious secret:

“My moonlight,

I knew how much you wanted this book, so I thought I’d give it to you. A wonderful person like you deserves everything their heart desires. I cannot believe it has taken me so long to tell you how I feel about you. Unfortunately, I do not have the courage to express my feelings to you in person yet. I hope one day I’ll be able to confess to you who I am, but for now, writing to you will have to suffice. There are no words adequate enough to tell you how I truly feel. When I first met you, I knew immediately that there was something very special about you. You’re truly the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen, though I think your heart is even more beautiful. You are kind and so warm to people, and I can see that you treat everyone around you with respect and genuine care. You’re so intelligent and funny. Your smile lights up any room you walk into, like the sun breaking through clouds. You deserve to know that there is someone out there who thinks you’re the greatest person that exists. I am truly enchanted and enamoured by you.

I hope my words have brought warmth to your heart and a smile to your face.

With all my love,

Your Secret Admirer”

You had no idea who would send you such a beautiful letter. Reading it felt like being wrapped in a warm embrace, like being seen and cherished in a way you’d never experienced before. And though you tried not to hope, tried not to let your heart imagine impossible things, you couldn’t help but wonder, couldn’t help but dream, about who might have written such tender words meant only for you.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

-ˋˏ ༻❁༺ ˎˊ-

It went on for days—this secret correspondence that had become the highlight of your existence. You found yourself rushing to your room multiple times throughout the day, your heart fluttering with anticipation as you checked for a new little note or letter. It had started simply enough, once a day: quotes from your favorite authors carefully transcribed in that now-familiar angular script, or little poems you already knew by heart but somehow meant more when written in his hand.

After a while, your collection of letters grew, tucked carefully into your bedside table drawer like precious treasures. Each one made you smile wider than the last. The letters were always personal, intimate in a way that made your chest ache. You could tell some of the passages were written specifically for you—original words that could only have come from someone who truly saw you, who paid attention to the smallest details of who you were. You would always look around afterward with a grateful smile, hoping that somehow, wherever your secret admirer was hiding, they could see how much these messages meant to you.

One afternoon, you found yourself in the horse stables, tending to the pregnant mare you’d been worrying over for weeks. The moment you’d heard that your favourite horse, Magnolia—a beautiful dark brown mare with soulful eyes and a gentle temperament—was about to give birth to her foal, you’d rushed down to the stables with the biggest surge of excitement you’d experienced in a while. There was something pure about it, something that made you feel like a child again, full of wonder and hope.

You and the veterinarian worked together to care for Magnolia through her labour. While the vet guided the mare with practiced expertise, you took your time to caress her coat, running your hands along her neck and shoulder in long, soothing strokes. You whispered soft words of encouragement to her, your voice low and gentle, telling her she was doing wonderfully, that she was so strong, that it would all be over soon. Magnolia’s dark eyes would find yours occasionally, and you could swear she understood, could feel the love and support you were trying to convey through your touch.

The labor was difficult—longer and more complicated than anyone had anticipated. There were moments when worry knotted tight in your stomach, when the vet’s expression grew tense and focused. You stayed by Magnolia’s side through all of it, never letting go, your hand steady even when your heart raced with concern. You murmured prayers under your breath, bargaining with whatever forces might be listening to keep both mother and baby safe.

After what felt like an eternity but was really only a couple of long, arduous hours, she finally gave birth to her foal. The little baby was just as beautiful as his mother—all long, gangly legs and soft brown coat, still damp and struggling to understand this strange new world. Your breath caught at the sight of him. There was something miraculous about witnessing new life, something that made tears prick at the corners of your eyes.

“He’s perfect,” you whispered, your voice thick with emotion as the foal took his first shaky breaths.

You took your time afterward, moving slowly and carefully as you cleaned the stable. The scent of fresh hay and horse and new life filled your lungs as you worked, occasionally pausing to tend to both Magnolia and her newborn. You were cooing softly as you gently wiped down the little foal with a clean cloth, marveling at how delicate he was, how his tiny ears flicked at every sound. “You’re going to be so strong, just like your mama,” you told him, your voice sing-song and full of affection. “So beautiful and brave.”

Magnolia watched you with those intelligent dark eyes, her head turning to follow your movements as you cared for both her and her baby. There was trust there, deep and unshakeable. She knew you would never hurt them, that your hands were safe. It made your heart swell with tenderness—this simple, profound act of being trusted by another living being.

Little did you know, you weren’t alone in the stables.

Your secret admirer stood in the shadows near the entrance, partially concealed by the wooden beam and the angle of the afternoon light streaming through the cracks in the stable walls. He had followed you here, not for the first time, though he’d never admit to how often he found excuses to be wherever you were.

He watched, transfixed, as you moved around the stable with such gentle purpose. The way you spoke to the animals with genuine affection, your voice soft and melodic. The way your face had lit up with pure, unguarded joy when the foal had been born, tears glistening on your cheeks that you’d quickly brushed away. The way you’d stayed through the entire difficult labor, never once complaining, your dedication absolute.

This was what he loved most about you—this boundless capacity for care, for tenderness, for finding beauty in simple moments. The way you treated every living thing with respect and kindness, whether it was a prince or a horse or a kitchen mouse you’d once refused to let Caleb trap. You had the gentlest heart he’d ever known, and watching you like this, unobserved and completely yourself, made his chest ache with an affection so profound it nearly overwhelmed him.

He should leave. He knew that. It felt like a violation somehow, to watch you in these private moments, even though his intentions were pure. Even though all he wanted was to memorise every detail—the way the fading sunlight caught in your hair, the soft smile on your lips as you stroked the foal’s nose, the smudge of dirt on your cheek that you hadn’t noticed.

But he couldn’t make himself move. Couldn’t tear his eyes away from you.

You were humming now, some old lullaby he vaguely recognized, and the sound drifted through the stable like something sacred. The foal’s eyes were beginning to droop, lulled by your voice and gentle touch. Even Magnolia looked peaceful, her breathing deep and steady now that the ordeal was over.

And you—you looked radiant. Happy in a pure, uncomplicated way that made his heart clench with longing.

Something tightened in his chest, a fierce, aching want that went beyond mere desire. He wanted to be the reason for that smile. Wanted to fill your days with moments like this, simple and pure and beautiful. Wanted to spend a lifetime watching that expression of contentment cross your face, knowing he’d put it there.

But patience was something he’d mastered long ago. So he remained concealed, content to simply watch over you. You were light itself—his moonlight cutting through the perpetual darkness of his carefully constructed world. The heart he’d thought too guarded, too controlled to truly feel had surrendered to you completely, irrevocably. Falling for you hadn’t been a choice—it had been inevitable, unavoidable, like gravity pulling him into your orbit. And now that he’d fallen, there was no going back.

-ˋˏ ༻❁༺ ˎˊ-

The next day, you found another note from your secret admirer in the kitchen.

A single note clung to a small bouquet of gardenias, the ink slightly smudged at the end of the writing:

“My affection and admiration for you grows stronger and fonder every day.”

You stared at it for a second too long. The kitchen bustled around you—pots and pans clanking against each other, the sizzle of food cooking on the stove, the chattering and yelling of cooks at one another—but your ears tuned it all out as you reread the handwriting. Angular and sharp cursive letters. A slight right slant. You couldn’t place it, though something about it tugged at the edges of your memory.

“Someone’s got a secret admirer,” Caleb sang, catching sight of the note as he passed by.

Tara snickered next to him as you glanced up at them both. Warmth spread across your cheeks and throughout your entire body as you grew flustered. “I don’t know what you’re talking about…”

Caleb snorted. “Sure you don’t.”

Rafayel, passing by with a hefty sack of flour tucked under his arm, paused just long enough to lift a perfectly sculpted brow. “Wait—who has a secret admirer?”

Tara and Caleb said your name in perfect unison.

“No way!” Rafayel exclaimed, his eyes lighting up with delight. “Hold on, let me put this sack away. I need to know everything.”

“Raf, it’s nothing!” you groaned, clutching the note a little tighter. “There’s no need to make a big deal out of it.”

The purple-haired man practically tossed the flour bag onto a nearby counter before rushing back to join the three of you by the chopping table, looking far too invested already.

“It is a big deal!” he said, leaning against the table with a cheeky smile that rivaled Tara’s. “It’s about time someone told you what everybody already sees.”

“And what is that?” you questioned, genuinely curious despite yourself.

“How beautiful and wonderful you truly are,” Rafayel said matter-of-factly, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

“Right,” you murmured softly before continuing, “I don’t think this person means anything serious by this.”

“Sure,” Tara hummed, not even trying to hide her knowing grin. “You literally received a love letter a week ago along with a book about ‘the language of flowers’—your favorite, might I add—and you mean to tell me that all of this means nothing?”

You felt heat crawl up your neck. You picked up the note from your secret admirer, turning it over in your hands nervously, when Sylus entered the kitchen.

Your breath caught in your throat as you took him in—hair still slightly damp at the ends from his bath, the strands curling softly against his neck in a way that made your fingers itch to touch them. He wore a loose black button-up shirt with the top few buttons undone, revealing a tantalizing glimpse of his toned chest, paired with loose dark trousers. And for once, he was wearing his glasses, which sat low on the bridge of his nose, giving him an unfairly attractive scholarly look.

He looked so… normal and effortlessly handsome. Like he wasn’t literally royalty. Like he was just a man who’d overslept. He looked like a dream you didn’t dare have in daylight. Like every secret longing you’d ever tucked away in your heart had taken physical form just to torment you.

The moment his crimson eyes locked onto yours, he walked deliberately toward you, and your heart kicked into a gallop. The scent of him reached you first, vanilla soap from his bath and that intoxicating musky undertone that was purely him, familiar and comforting yet somehow making your knees weak.

Your friends somehow—suspiciously—found something else to do, busying themselves with chores around the kitchen and leaving you completely alone with him.

“Morning, sweetie,” he said, his voice warm and a little rough around the edges, like he hadn’t spoken yet today. The intimacy of it made your stomach flip. “What were you all talking about?”

His question sent a burning heat rushing across your face, from your neck to the tip of your nose, prickling just beneath the surface. You looked anywhere but at him, suddenly finding the carrots in front of you fascinating, hoping your newfound interest in vegetables would somehow ease the fire tightening beneath your skin.

Quickly, you tried to regain some semblance of normalcy. You cleared your throat. “You look like you just rolled out of bed,” you said teasingly instead of answering his question, desperately trying to deflect.

Sylus laughed—a rich, genuine sound that made your heart ache. Then slowly, a knowing smirk spread across his face—the kind that made your stomach flip dangerously. “Maybe I did,” he said, leaning one hip against the table beside you, close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating from his body. “I was up late last night. Woke up late because of it too.” He pushed his glasses up with one finger in a gesture that was somehow both casual and devastatingly attractive. “Haven’t eaten yet, so I thought I’d come find you. Come have breakfast with me.”

It wasn’t really a question, more like a statement wrapped in velvet, and the confidence in his tone made your pulse quicken. You didn’t answer right away. Because his eyes had flicked toward the chopping table, specifically toward the little bouquet of gardenias sitting at the edge. And the note attached to its stems.

He froze. Just for a second. A micro-hesitation. One breath caught too long in his chest. It’s nothing, you told yourself.

Except… it wasn’t nothing. You’d known him too long not to notice.

His jaw tensed almost imperceptibly. His fingers twitched at his side. And for just a moment, something flickered behind those crimson eyes—something that looked almost like panic, or maybe longing, or perhaps both tangled together.

Then it was gone, replaced by that easy confidence as he shifted his gaze back to you. But his voice had dropped lower, more intimate. “So what do you say? Want to eat breakfast with me? Or do I have to resort to begging?”

The way he said it, the slight tease layered over something more serious, made your cheeks burn hotter.

“Sy, it’s literally almost noon,” you said with a small giggle, grateful your voice came out steadier than you felt. “It’s a bit late for breakfast, don’t you think?”

He tilted his head, and the movement made a strand of silver hair fall across his forehead. “When have I ever cared about convention?” His smirk deepened. “Besides, remember what we used to say? It’s never too late for breakfast.”

“We were kids back then, Sylus.”

“And?” He leaned in just slightly—not enough to be improper, but enough that you had to tilt your head up to maintain eye contact. “Some things don’t change. Like how much I enjoy and cherish your company.” His voice softened on those last words, and the sincerity beneath the playfulness made your heart stutter.

You tried to compose yourself, pretending to consider his request even though you both knew you’d never refuse him. “Hmmm… I suppose if you ask Caleb nicely to make us a ‘late’ breakfast, I could be persuaded.”

“Persuaded?” Sylus chuckled, a rich, warm sound that seemed to wrap around you. “I’ll take those odds.” He straightened, his hand coming to rest briefly on your shoulder—a touch that was both casual and possessive, his thumb brushing once against your collarbone before he pulled away. “Don’t go anywhere, kitten. I’ll be right back.”

Then he was gone, striding toward your friends and teasing them about something you couldn’t quite hear. But whatever he said made Caleb laugh and shove him playfully, made Tara shake her head with fond exasperation, made Rafayel throw a dish towel at his head. The easy camaraderie between them all made you smile despite the confusion swirling in your chest.

You were left standing there, staring at the flowers. At the note.

You ran your thumb over the last letter again—that elegant, looping y—studying how cursive and pretty it looked. There was something oddly familiar about the penmanship. Almost perfect. Neat and romantic, controlled yet passionate, like whoever wrote it had been very deliberate with every word. Like they’d meant every single syllable. As if the person who wrote it couldn’t stop once they’d started.

Your mind drifted back to that moment, the way Sylus had gone still when he’d seen the flowers. The intensity in his eyes before he’d masked it. The way his voice had dropped lower, more possessive.

You couldn’t help but think about the meanings of the flowers you’d received along with the note.

You thought about gardenias, and what they might mean in the language of flowers.

About how they symbolized love, purity, trust, and refinement. But they also represented secret love or affection, and sometimes signified themes of hope, renewal, and sincerity.

You didn’t say it aloud, not even to yourself, but the truth was whispering at the edge of your consciousness.

It looks like his. It feels like his.

But no. That would be— Sylus Qin was thoughtful, sure. With you mostly. He was the kind of person who remembered how you liked your food and always let you lean on him when you needed to. He held doors and rarely interrupted, and he stayed up late with you when you were still working even though he technically didn’t need to.

He was the kind of person who brought you a jacket during late-night walks without asking. He was the kind of person who made you laugh without trying.

But he couldn’t be the secret admirer.

…Could he?

No, you told yourself firmly. Don’t be ridiculous. He’s a prince. Your childhood best friend. He could never—

You glanced toward the direction where he’d been standing just a minute ago. You couldn’t see him at the moment, but you could still feel him. The way his presence always lingered, somehow warmer to you than everyone else’s. Gentle.

You tucked the note into one of the front pockets of your skirt.

Just in case.

-ˋˏ ༻❁༺ ˎˊ-

Later that evening, Sylus had asked you to meet him in the royal gardens. Specifically, at your favorite spot—the heart of the mini labyrinth tucked away in the garden’s farthest corner, where few others ventured.

The labyrinth itself was a masterpiece of carefully trimmed hedges that twisted and turned in an intricate pattern, creating a sense of delicious isolation from the rest of the world. But it was the center that took your breath away every single time. A small pond sat like a mirror beneath the evening sky, its surface so still it reflected the heavens perfectly. Multiple cherry blossom trees surrounded the water, their branches heavy with delicate pink blooms that drifted down like snow whenever the breeze stirred. Red lanterns were scattered throughout the space—hanging from branches like glowing fruit, nestled between roots, floating on the pond’s surface—bathing everything in a warm, ethereal light that transformed the already beautiful spot into something almost otherworldly.

The air was perfumed with cherry blossoms and night-blooming jasmine, sweet and intoxicating. Petals carpeted the ground in soft pink drifts, muffling your footsteps as you made your way to the wooden bench positioned to face the pond. The lantern light danced across the water’s surface, creating rippling patterns of gold and shadow that seemed alive, magical.

It wasn’t just your own favourite spot—it was yours and Sylus’s collective sanctuary. Your shared spot.

You came here often when your heart raced too fast with feelings you couldn’t name, when thoughts of him consumed you so completely you could barely breathe. Whenever your mind scattered in a thousand directions, you’d find your way here to seek inner peace, to let the tranquil beauty calm the chaos inside you.

As you settled onto the familiar bench, you let yourself sink into the serenity of the moment. The gentle whisper of leaves, the quiet lap of water against stone, the soft glow of lantern light—it all wrapped around you like a comforting embrace. You let your eyes slide shut, tilting your face up slightly to catch the cool evening breeze. Your shoulders dropped, tension melting away as the calm atmosphere worked its magic on your restless body and racing thoughts.

Here, you could almost pretend that loving him wasn’t impossible. That the ache in your chest was something that could be soothed rather than endured.

You didn’t hear his approach—Sylus moved too quietly for that, with that predatory grace he’d always possessed—but you felt him. The way you always felt him, like a shift in the air itself, a change in temperature that made every nerve ending come alive. Your awareness of him was instinctive, immediate, as if your body recognized his presence before your mind did.

The bench dipped slightly as he sat beside you, close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating from him, and could catch that familiar scent of vanilla and musk that made your heart stutter. Close enough to touch, if you were brave enough. If you had the right.

You didn’t know how long you both sat there in comfortable silence, but you cherished every second of it. These quiet moments together had become precious, sacred even—increasingly rare as his duties pulled him in a dozen different directions. But here, in your hidden sanctuary with lantern light painting his features in gold and shadow, with cherry blossoms falling like blessings around you both, it felt like time stopped. Like the world beyond the labyrinth ceased to exist, leaving only the two of you and this perfect, fragile peace.

Your heart ached with how much you loved him. With how badly you wanted to reach out and take his hand, to lean against his shoulder, to turn this friendship into something more. But you held still, held silent, content to simply exist beside him for as long as he’d allow.

Sylus was the first to break the silence. “It’s so magical here during spring,” he murmured, his voice low and soft, almost reverent. He released a breath that sounded relieved, like he’d been holding tension you hadn’t noticed. “I love how this is our spot. How we always come here whenever we need it. How it’s just… ours.”

The way he said that last word—ours—made something flutter dangerously in your chest.

You hummed in response, not trusting your voice, content to listen to him speak. You could listen to his deep voice forever, you thought. Would gladly let him read every book you owned, every poem you’d memorized, just to hear that rich timbre wrap around the words. His voice brought you so much joy, soothed something restless and yearning inside you whenever you were alone together like this. It felt like a gift, these moments when his voice was meant only for your ears.

But it wasn’t just soothing—it also set your entire body aflame. There was something sensual in the way he spoke when it was just the two of you, something intimate in the lower register he used, the careful way he shaped words. It left you flustered and warm.

You talked for a while after that, the conversation flowing easily between comfortable silences. You discussed everything and nothing—his frustrations with a particularly tedious council meeting, your favorite passages from a book in the library he’d given you, childhood memories that made you both laugh, observations about the stars beginning to emerge overhead. Just like old times.

In many ways, nothing had really changed between you, your bond remained strong, your friendship as solid as ever. Except now you were both older, more aware. His duties had multiplied, responsibilities weighing heavier on his shoulders. And your feelings had deepened from childhood affection into something far more dangerous, far more consuming.

And sometimes, in moments like these, you wondered if perhaps you weren’t the only one feeling the shift.

“There’s something I need to discuss with you,” Sylus said suddenly, his tone changing.

Your heartbeat picked up immediately, pulse thrumming in your throat. He sounded so serious, so solemn—so unlike the easy warmth of just moments before. There was a weight to his words that made anxiety spike through your veins, sharp and immediate.

But there was something else too. Unless you were imagining it, he also sounded… nervous? Uncertain? Your eyes snapped to his face, studying him in the flickering lantern light. And unless it was a trick of the golden glow, there was definitely a light dusting of pink across his cheekbones, creeping up to the tips of his ears. His jaw was tight, and he wouldn’t quite meet your gaze.

Your breath caught. Prince Sylus Qin—confident, controlled, unshakeable Sylus—looked genuinely nervous.

That couldn’t be right. You had to be seeing things, reading too much into shadows and wishful thinking.

So you ignored the flutter of hope trying to take wing in your chest. You straightened slightly, folding your hands in your lap to keep them from trembling. “Okay, S-Sylus,” you managed, cursing the little stutter that betrayed your own nerves. “So, um… What is it you wanted to speak with me about?”

You would do anything he asked. Anything at all. Because he was a prince—the future king—and because you loved him with every fiber of your being, even if he could never know it.

A conflicted look crossed his handsome face, emotions flickering too quickly to name. His jaw worked as if he were trying to find the right words, and you watched, transfixed, as he took a deep breath that made his shoulders rise and fall. “I, um—” He paused, cleared his throat, and the pink on his cheeks definitely deepened. His fingers drummed once against his thigh before he caught himself, stilling the nervous gesture. “I wanted to tell you—”

“Your Majesty.”

The voice cut through the moment like a blade, shattering the intimate bubble you’d created. Both of you jumped slightly, heads turning toward the entrance of the clearing where a royal guard stood, looking apologetic but insistent. “Your Majesty, the King is requesting your immediate presence. It’s urgent.”

The disappointment that crashed over you was physical, painful. You felt your shoulders sag, felt something vital deflate in your chest. Another moment stolen. Another conversation interrupted. Another chance lost to his endless, inescapable duties.

You caught the flash of frustration that crossed Sylus’s face—the tightening around his eyes, the way his hands curled into brief fists before he forced them to relax. He looked at you for a long moment, and the longing in his crimson eyes was so raw, so naked, that it made your breath catch. Like he was on the verge of saying something important, something that couldn’t wait. Like he was trying to memorise your face in the lantern light.

But duty called, as it always did. As it always would.

“Right,” Sylus said finally, his voice carefully neutral though you could hear the thread of resignation beneath it. He stood with that fluid grace you’d always admired, and suddenly the bench felt too empty, too cold without him beside you.

He turned to face you fully, and what he did next made your heart stop entirely.

He took a bow—a proper, formal bow that a prince should never give to a servant—and then reached for your hand. His fingers were warm as they enclosed yours, his touch gentle yet somehow possessive. He lifted your hand slowly, deliberately, his eyes never leaving yours, and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to your knuckles.

The touch of his lips against your skin sent fire racing through your veins. You felt branded by it, claimed, like he’d marked you as his even though that was impossible.

“Have a good night, kitten,” he whispered, his voice dropping to that low, intimate register that was meant only for you. The nickname—one he only used for you, one that felt dangerously affectionate—made your stomach erupt with butterflies.

Your entire body burned with heat, skin too tight and too sensitive. Words completely failed you. Your mind went blank except for the feeling of his lips on your skin, the warmth of his breath, the intensity in his eyes as he finally pulled back and straightened.

All you could manage was a jerky nod, your hand still tingling where he’d kissed it.

He regarded you for a second too long, his gaze searching yours as if giving you one final opportunity to speak, to say something, anything. The moment stretched taut between you, filled with unspoken words and swallowed confessions.

The guard cleared his throat pointedly, and the spell broke.

Sylus’s expression shuttered, that careful princely mask sliding back into place. With one last lingering look he turned and walked away, his footsteps muffled by fallen petals. The guard followed, and then you were alone.

Alone with your whirling thoughts and racing heart. Alone with the ghost of his kiss still burning on your skin. Alone in your sanctuary that suddenly felt too empty, too quiet without him.

You lifted your hand slowly, staring at your knuckles as if they held answers. Your fingers trembled slightly as you touched the spot he’d kissed, finding it still warm.

What just happened? What had he been about to tell you before the interruption?

The cherry blossoms continued to fall around you like pink snow, and the lanterns cast their warm glow across the pond’s surface, but the magic of the evening had shifted into something else entirely. Something that felt like possibility. Like hope.

Like maybe—just maybe—you weren’t the only one whose heart ached with impossible longing.

-ˋˏ ༻❁༺ ˎˊ-

The castle was alive with an energy that hummed through every corridor and chamber. Servants rushed through the halls with purpose, their footsteps echoing off stone walls as they prepared for the evening’s unexpected event. The King had invited select staff members and his closest advisors to a private dinner—an unusual occurrence that had set the entire household buzzing with speculation.

It was meant to be something small, intimate even, yet everyone was curious. Whispers followed you throughout the day as you went about your duties. What could this be about? Did the King have an announcement to make? Was it about the prince? The questions multiplied with each passing hour, spreading like wildfire through the servant quarters and into the kitchens.

You’d tried not to think about it, tried to focus on your tasks, but the anxious flutter in your stomach refused to settle.

The preparations had begun at dawn. The dining room—the one reserved for family gatherings and private councils—was transformed throughout the day. You’d glimpsed servants carrying in fresh flowers, polishing silver until it gleamed, pressing linens until they were crisp and perfect. Caleb had been in the kitchens since sunrise, barking orders and tasting dishes, his usual easy demeanor replaced by focused intensity. The menu was refined, elegant: roasted pheasant with herbs from the royal gardens, vegetables glazed in honey and butter, delicate pastries that looked almost too beautiful to eat.

Tara had found you in the afternoon, her eyes bright with nervous excitement. “Have you heard anything? Do you know what this is about?” You’d shaken your head, though the weight in your chest suggested you knew exactly what this might be. You just didn’t want to voice it aloud, as if speaking the words would make them real.

The atmosphere in the castle had shifted as evening approached. The nervous energy transformed into something more formal, more significant. Servants changed into their finest uniforms. Advisors arrived in their formal attire, their expressions serious and speculative. You’d dressed carefully, your hands trembling slightly as you smoothed down your skirts, as if looking presentable could somehow protect you from whatever was coming.

When the doors to the dining room finally opened that evening, your breath caught in your throat.

The space had been transformed into something magical, almost dreamlike. Candles were everywhere—tall tapers in silver candelabras marching down the center of the long table, smaller votives clustered on every surface, their flames dancing and flickering with each breath of air. The grand chandelier overhead had been lit as well, its dozens of crystals catching the candlelight and scattering it across the room in glittering fragments, casting a warm but vibrant glow that made everything seem to shimmer and pulse with life.

Red, black, and golden accents were woven throughout the room—the kingdom’s colors displayed with elegant intentionality. Deep crimson table runners flowed down the center of the table like rivers of wine. Black napkins were folded into perfect shapes at each place setting, each one held by a golden ring embossed with the royal crest. The chairs were upholstered in black velvet with golden embroidery, and crimson curtains framed the tall windows, pulled back to reveal the darkening sky beyond. Even the china bore the kingdom’s emblem in gold leaf—a striking design that reminded everyone present exactly where they were and who they served.

The table itself was a work of art. Crystal glasses sparkled at each setting, catching and refracting the candlelight into tiny rainbows. Polished silver gleamed against the white tablecloth beneath the runners. Arrangements of deep red roses mixed with black calla lilies and gold-painted branches created dramatic centerpieces that somehow managed to be both opulent and tasteful.

It was beautiful. Breathtaking, even.

Soon, the royal family arrived. The door at the far end of the dining room opened, and a hush fell over the gathered guests. The King entered first, his posture straight despite his years, the weight of the crown he’d worn for decades evident in the dignified way he carried himself. The Queen followed at his side, elegant and serene, her hand resting lightly on his arm. And then came Sylus.

Your breath stuttered in your chest.

He was dressed in formal attire—a deep black jacket with red embroidery that caught the candlelight, the kingdom’s crest embroidered over his heart in crimson thread. His silver white hair was mostly styled back from his face, revealing the sharp lines of his features, and those crimson eyes swept across the room with calm authority. He looked every inch the prince he was born to be. Every inch the king he would become.

He looked untouchable.

They entered with such graceful, measured steps—a family born to rule, moving through the world with the quiet confidence of those who’d never questioned their place in it.

“Welcome,” the King said warmly, positioning himself near the head of the table. A small, grateful smile graced his weathered face as he looked around at the assembled guests—advisors who’d served him faithfully, servants who’d become like extended family over the years. “Please, come. Let us all sit together.”

He gestured broadly, an invitation that somehow felt more intimate than formal, and the gathered group began to move toward their designated seats.

Your heart hammered against your ribs as you found your place at the table. The seating arrangement had been carefully planned. You could tell by the small name cards written in elegant script at each setting. You were positioned diagonally across from where Sylus would sit, close enough to see his face clearly but far enough to maintain propriety. Close enough to hurt.

Zayne, the royal doctor and a mutual friend to many in the room, took the seat to your right. He was a handsome man in his own quiet way—tall and lean with dark hair and intelligent green eyes that seemed to notice everything. He’d always been kind, always took the time to speak with everyone regardless of their station, to genuinely care about their wellbeing. As he sat, he offered you a small, polite nod and a gentle smile that you tried to return.

Tara claimed the seat on your left, and you felt an immediate rush of gratitude for her presence. She reached under the table and gave your hand a quick, reassuring squeeze. She knew you were anxious. Of course she knew. She always knew.

Around you, others settled into their places. Luke and Kieran sat further down, their usual playful energy subdued by the formality of the occasion. Caleb was there, looking exhausted but pleased, no doubt already critiquing his own cooking in his mind. Various advisors and senior staff members filled the remaining seats, their expressions ranging from curious to knowing.

Once everyone was seated, the King remained standing, and the nervous energy in the room intensified. You felt your nerves return tenfold, anxiety coiling tight in your stomach like a living thing. The candlelight seemed too bright suddenly, the room too warm, the air too thin.

“Now that everyone is seated,” the King began, his voice carrying easily through the room, “I’d like to express my gratitude—for this wonderful meal, for the care everyone took to make this evening so beautiful, and for your years of loyal service to this kingdom and to my family.”

The atmosphere was strange, caught between celebration and anticipation. Some guests smiled warmly, already raising their glasses in premature toasts. Others looked curious, almost nervous, sensing that something significant was coming. The advisors wore careful, neutral expressions that suggested they already knew what would be announced—they’d probably been part of the discussions. But for the staff, for people like you and Tara and Caleb, this was unknown territory.

You could feel the weight of expectation pressing down on the room like a physical force.

Soon, servants began bringing out the first course, and the dinner officially commenced. Plates were set with quiet efficiency—Caleb’s and the other cooks beautiful creations arranged like works of art. The pheasant was perfectly golden, the vegetables gleaming with their honey glaze, everything plated with meticulous care.

Everyone began to eat, the soft sounds of silverware against china filling the spaces between murmured conversations.

But you felt Sylus’s gaze on you almost immediately. It was like a touch, tangible and warm, impossible to ignore. You didn’t look up—didn’t dare—but you could sense his eyes tracking your movements as you picked up your fork, as you took careful, mechanical bites of food you couldn’t taste.

The King continued to speak as the meal progressed, his voice a steady backdrop to the quiet dining. He talked about the kingdom’s prosperity, about successful harvests and peaceful borders, about alliances strengthened and problems solved. He spoke with pride about his council, about the people who’d helped build and maintain everything they’d achieved.

You mostly tuned it out, focusing instead on the physical act of eating, chewing, swallowing and breathing. Trying to keep your expression pleasant and neutral while your mind raced with dark possibilities. Trying not to let yourself think about why you were all really here.

But then the King’s tone shifted, became more serious, more weighted with meaning.

“I know everyone is probably curious about why I’ve hosted this special dinner,” he said, and the room fell into complete silence. Even the servants along the walls seemed to still, sensing the importance of the moment.

The King stood fully now, setting down his napkin with deliberate care. His expression was solemn but peaceful, resigned in the way of someone who’d made a difficult decision and found peace with it.

“I have an announcement to make.”

The pause felt eternal. You could hear your own heartbeat, could feel Tara’s leg pressed against yours under the table—grounding you, keeping you present.

“I have been feeling the weight of my years more heavily lately,” the King continued, his voice gentle but firm. “I have ruled this kingdom for nearly five decades, and it has been the greatest honor of my life. But I am tired.” He smiled, almost apologetically. “I feel in my bones that it is time to step down, to pass the crown to someone with the strength and vision to lead us into the future. To my son—Sylus Qin.”

The dining room erupted in gasps and sharp intakes of breath. Murmurs rippled through the gathered guests like a wave—some shocked, some clearly having suspected, all affected by the magnitude of what had just been announced.

You felt as if your heart had stopped entirely before lurching back into a frantic, painful rhythm that made your chest ache. Your fingers tightened around your fork until your knuckles went white.

You’d known this was coming. Of course you had. You’d always known that someday Sylus would be king. But someday had always felt distant, theoretical—a problem for a future version of yourself to handle. You’d hoped, foolishly, that you’d have more time. That someday wouldn’t arrive so soon, wouldn’t feel so immediate and inevitable and real.

But here it was. One month. In one month, everything would change.

“It is time, Sylus,” the King said, his voice warm with paternal pride. He lifted his glass, and the candlelight caught in the crystal, sending fractured light dancing across his face. “To my son, who will be an amazing leader to our kingdom. Who will be crowned king in one month’s time.”

The room lifted their glasses in unison, a chorus of “To Prince Sylus” echoing from every throat.

Except yours. You managed to lift your glass, managed to move your lips in some approximation of the words, but no sound came out. Your throat had closed completely, and you felt nauseous, your stomach churning dangerously. The food on your plate that had already been difficult to swallow now seemed impossible, the smells suddenly overwhelming and wrong.

Your eyes found Sylus’s face almost against your will. He was looking at his father, his expression carefully composed—grateful, humble, dutiful. Everything a crown prince should be. But you knew him, had known him your entire life, and you could see the tightness around his eyes, the way his jaw was clenched just slightly, the tension in his shoulders that no one else would notice.

Then Sylus stood, the movement fluid and graceful, commanding every eye in the room. He placed his hand over his heart and bowed—a gesture of respect and acceptance that somehow managed to be both humble and regal.

“It would be my greatest honor to serve as your king,” he said, his deep voice carrying clearly through the room. “I promise to lead with wisdom, justice, and care for all who call this kingdom home. I will do everything in my power to be worthy of the crown my father has worn so well.”

It was a perfect response. Exactly what everyone needed to hear.

The room erupted in applause, genuine and warm, and Sylus straightened, offering a small smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

Then he sat back down, and you thought perhaps the worst was over. Perhaps you could survive this dinner, could escape to somewhere private and let yourself fall apart in peace.

But the King wasn’t finished.

“Of course,” he continued, still standing, still holding his glass, “a king needs a queen to rule beside him.”

The bottom dropped out of your world.

No. No, please, not yet—

“I’ve been in discussions with several noble families over the past months,” the King went on, seemingly oblivious to the way all the air had been sucked from your lungs. “We’ll be hosting potential matches here at the castle in the coming weeks. The Duke of Verlaine has a daughter of marriageable age. The Prince Xavier of the Pagrarus has expressed interest. There are others as well.” He smiled benevolently, as if he were announcing something wonderful rather than driving a knife through your chest. “We want to ensure Sylus has the opportunity to meet suitable candidates, to find a partner worthy of standing beside him.”

Your whole world was collapsing. The walls of the beautiful dining room seemed to be closing in, the candlelight too bright, too hot, suffocating. It took every ounce of strength you possessed not to break down right there in front of everyone—not to let the sob building in your throat escape, not to let the tears burning behind your eyes fall.

It took every shred of willpower you’d ever had to simply sit there and smile. To blink rapidly, forcing back the wetness threatening to spill over. To keep your breathing steady when your chest felt like it was being crushed.

The room erupted again—cheers, applause, excited chatter. Everyone was so happy, so celebratory. Advisors were already discussing which alliance would be most advantageous. Some of the female staff were sighing dreamily about how romantic it would be. Caleb was grinning, already planning what feasts he’d prepare for the visiting nobles.

You tried to paste on the fakest, brightest smile you could muster. You brought your hands together in applause, the sound hollow and distant to your own ears. You watched yourself from somewhere far away as you played the part of the loyal servant, the supportive friend, the person who was thrilled for her prince.

But inside, you were screaming.

All you could feel was numb—a blessed, horrible numbness that spread through your limbs like ice water, dulling the overwhelming pain and sadness threatening to consume you entirely. It was a mercy and a curse, this numbness. It kept you functional, kept you upright and smiling.

But you knew that later, when you were alone, it would melt away. And then you would shatter completely.

Your eyes met Sylus’s across the table—just for a moment, just a heartbeat—and what you saw there made everything so much worse.

Because he wasn’t smiling either. Not really.

And when his eyes locked with yours, the carefully neutral expression he’d maintained for everyone else cracked—just for you, just for a second. The expression on his face nearly undid you completely. His eyes traced over you with intimate familiarity—cataloging the rigidity of your posture, the false brightness of your smile, the way you’d stopped breathing properly. No one else in this room would notice, but he did. He always did. The raw concern in his gaze, layered with his own barely concealed anguish, told you everything: he knew exactly what this announcement was doing to you, and it was killing him to watch.

-ˋˏ ༻❁༺ ˎˊ-

The night had already slipped well past the acceptable hour for a young lady to be awake, but sleep had refused to claim you, fluttering just out of reach like a skittish bird evading capture. The royal family had hosted a dinner that evening to celebrate the announcement that Sylus would be crowned soon—a gathering meant to be warm and celebratory, filled with laughter and music and polite admiration. And while it had been all of those things to everyone else, there had been something else lurking beneath the surface whenever Sylus’s eyes found yours across the table, something that tightened the air between you until your breath caught without warning.

You weren’t just nervous.

It was anxiety and sadness that braided together so tightly you couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began.

You’d known this would be coming for a long while. It was only a matter of time before Sylus would have to find a bride—a princess or prince or someone else of importance and station. You’d told yourself you’d make peace with it once it happened, had practiced acceptance in the quiet hours of night, had built walls around your heart to protect it from the inevitable. But now that the time had actually come, now that it was real and immediate and inescapable, you found you couldn’t be happy for him at all. Your heart broke a little more with every second, shattering further the more you allowed yourself to think about it.

You’d slipped out to the gardens wrapped in a thin shawl, desperate for air that didn’t taste like champagne and false smiles. The cool night breeze brushed over your heated skin like a gentle caress, and you let it wash over you, hoping it might carry away some of the heaviness pressing down on your chest.

The royal garden was one of your favorite places in all the world. It was a sanctuary where you could lose yourself in the beauty of nature and the serene quiet that felt increasingly rare. The scent of roses and cherry blossoms wafted through the air, carried by a gentle breeze that rustled the leaves and made the flowers dance in the darkness. The gravel path crunched softly underfoot as you walked deeper into the garden, your feet carrying you automatically toward the labyrinth, toward the hidden center where you and Sylus had shared so many stolen moments.

You breathed slowly, deliberately, trying to settle your racing thoughts. But they wouldn’t quiet.

It felt impossible that Sylus would be King in only a handful of weeks. Impossible that his life was about to change so completely, so irreversibly. Impossible that Sylus would marry someone soon—some beautiful princess or elegant noble who deserved to stand beside him—and it wouldn’t be you. It would never be you.

Your mind began to spiral downward, consuming your whole soul as the gravity of the situation crashed down on you like a wave. With trembling fingers, you carefully pulled out the first love letter from your front pocket—the one you’d been carrying close to your heart like a talisman. You felt tears well up in your eyes as pain overwhelmed you, wracking your body with silent sobs as you reread the familiar words.

“My moonlight, I knew how much you wanted this book…”

The words blurred as tears spilled over, and you didn’t bother wiping them away.

Soon, you heard footsteps behind you—soft but deliberate on the gravel path—and you turned on the bench, expecting perhaps Tara sent to find you, to drag you back inside before anyone noticed your absence. Quickly, hastily, you tried to fold the letter and tuck it back into your pocket, to hide the evidence of your foolish hopes.

But the moment you saw him, tall and unmistakable in the dim lantern light, your heart leapt into your throat and lodged there, making it impossible to breathe.

Sylus.

He stopped a few feet away, hands clasped behind his back, shoulders straight but not stiff. The formal jacket he’d worn to dinner was gone, leaving him in just his white shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows, the top buttons undone. He looked less like a prince and more like the boy you’d grown up with, the one who used to climb trees with you and steal pastries from the kitchen.

His expression softened the moment he took in your tear-stained face, his brows drawing together with immediate concern.

“Couldn’t sleep?” he asked quietly, his voice a warm rumble in the still night air, gentle and careful like he was afraid of startling you.

“No,” you admitted, trying desperately to sound calm even as your voice wavered. “Too much thinking.”

Sylus stepped closer, slowly, until the soft glow of the nearest lantern touched his face and revealed something achingly tender in his eyes—something raw and vulnerable that he rarely let anyone see. “About what?”

“About everything.” You hesitated, your fingers twisting in your lap, crumpling the letter still clutched in your hand. “I don’t know what to think anymore. I feel… lost.”

Sylus’s eyes softened even further, as though he understood that feeling better than anyone in the world. As though he’d been feeling exactly the same way. “What are you feeling?” he questioned softly, taking another step closer.

You exhaled shakily, your gaze drifting toward the garden—toward the cherry blossoms swaying in the breeze, their petals occasionally falling like pink snow. Anywhere but at him. Instead of answering his question directly, you countered with your own, deflecting. “Aren’t you overwhelmed?”

Sylus moved so quietly, with such fluid grace, that you didn’t realize he’d stepped directly beside you until the warmth of him brushed against your arm. You looked up, startled by his proximity, by how close he was standing—close enough to touch, close enough to see the flecks of deeper crimson in his eyes.

But you weren’t displeased. You could never be displeased by his nearness.

Your breath caught in your chest. “Are you?” you whispered, needing to know, needing to understand if he was suffering too.

“Yes,” he murmured, his voice rough with honesty as he nodded slowly. “I know it was a long time coming, that I’ve always known this day would arrive. But I thought I had more time.” He paused, and something flickered across his face—pain, regret, frustration. “I feel overwhelmed about all the changes that are about to happen, about everything that’s going to be different.”

He took a breath, and when he spoke again, his voice dropped even lower, more intimate. “But I’m more worried about how you’re feeling. About what this is doing to you.”

You lowered your eyes, unable to hold his gaze as the burning sensation behind your eyes intensified, threatening to spill over again. You’d grown accustomed to his charm over the years, to his intelligence and wit, to his occasional bursts of honesty. But when he spoke with this kind of raw sincerity, when his voice softened like silk and honey, when he looked at you like you were the only person in the entire world who mattered—you felt undone in ways you couldn’t name, couldn’t protect yourself against.

As you stayed silent, unable to form words past the lump in your throat, Sylus took a seat beside you on the bench. The wood creaked softly under his weight, and then his hand found yours, found the hands that were wringing anxiously in your lap, still clutching that damned letter.

His touch was warm and gentle as he covered your trembling fingers with his own, his thumb brushing soothingly across your knuckles. He squeezed softly, grounding you, anchoring you to this moment.

“Sweetheart,” he whispered, and the endearment nearly broke you.

You shook your head frantically, and despite your best efforts, tears finally slid down your cheeks in silent streams. You refused to voice how you were feeling, couldn’t bring yourself to share the burden crushing your chest. Not only because you didn’t want to weigh him down with your pain, but also because you knew that speaking it aloud would make it real, would drown you even deeper in the sadness and grief threatening to consume you whole.

Sylus released a soft, pained sigh. Then his other hand lifted, cupping your cheek with infinite tenderness, tilting your face toward his so gently you could have resisted if you’d wanted to.

But you didn’t want to.

“Sweetie…” he breathed as he took in the devastation written across your features, the tears tracking down your face, the way your lips trembled as you tried not to sob. His thumb brushed away your tears with such care it made your chest ache. “I hate seeing you like this. It’s killing me.”

“Sy—” you started, but your voice broke.

He shook his head, cutting off whatever you’d been about to say. “This shouldn’t have happened this way. I should’ve been honest with myself a long time ago,” he said, his voice thick with regret and determination.

You looked at him carefully, your vision blurred by tears, but you could see the intensity burning in his crimson eyes. Curious. Hopeful. Terrified.

“I should’ve been honest with you and my parents a long time ago,” he continued, his hand still cradling your face like you were something precious and fragile.

“What do you mean?” you croaked, your heart hammering so hard you thought it might bruise your ribs.

Sylus took a slow, deliberate breath, searching your face with an intensity that made your pulse race wildly. His hand remained on your cheek, his thumb stroking your skin with such tenderness that fresh tears spilled over. “There’s something I need to tell you. Something I should have said that night in the garden, and every single day since then—”

“Your Majesty, forgive the intrusion.”

The voice cut through the moment like a blade, and you both froze.

Zayne stood at the entrance to your hidden sanctuary, his expression apologetic but serious. “The King has requested your presence. He said—” The doctor’s words died as his eyes landed on you, taking in your tear-stained face, the way Sylus was holding you. “Are you unwell?” His tone shifted immediately to professional concern. “Should I examine—”

“Can you please give us a moment?” Sylus interrupted, his voice tight with barely restrained frustration. His jaw clenched, and though his eyes never left yours, you could feel the tension radiating from him like heat.

“The King insisted that it was urgent, Your Majesty,” Zayne responded respectfully, though his gaze kept drifting to you with obvious concern.

Sylus closed his eyes, and the expression that crossed his face was so painful it made your heart twist. When he opened them again, they were filled with frustration and resignation and something that looked heartbreakingly like desperation.

He sighed—a sound that seemed to come from the depths of his soul—before slowly standing. But before he pulled away completely, he leaned down and pressed a tender kiss to your forehead. His lips lingered there for a moment too long, warm and soft and achingly gentle, as if he were trying to pour everything he couldn’t say into that single touch.

When he finally straightened, you could see the reluctance in every line of his body.

“I want to continue this conversation,” Sylus said, his voice rougher now, edged with gentle determination as he looked down at you. “Tonight. Please…” His voice dropped, became almost pleading in a way you’d never heard from him before. “Wait for me. Please don’t leave. Promise me.”

Your chest tightened at his tone, at the raw need in his voice. He sounded like he was begging, like your answer might determine the course of his entire life.

Sylus waited, his crimson eyes locked on yours, searching, hoping, needing your response.

Words failed you completely, your throat too tight with emotion to form them, so all you could do was nod. A small, jerky movement, but it was enough.

Relief flooded Sylus’s features, and he gave you a small but genuinely hopeful smile—the first real smile you’d seen from him all evening. Then, surprising you completely, he bowed to you. A real bow, deep and respectful, the kind a prince should never give to a servant.

He hesitated for just a moment, his eyes drinking you in as if memorizing this moment, before finally turning away. His footsteps were reluctant as he walked toward the entrance of your beautiful sanctuary, disappearing into the labyrinth’s shadowed paths, the cherry blossoms falling around him like a benediction.

The silence he left behind felt deafening.

After Sylus departed, Zayne lingered, standing a respectful distance away but clearly unwilling to leave you alone in your current state. After a moment, he moved closer and sat down beside you on the bench. Silence fell between you—not uncomfortable, but heavy with unspoken things.

And then the tears you’d been trying so desperately to hold back came more frequently, harder, until you were shaking with the force of suppressed sobs.

The doctor didn’t speak. He simply, silently, offered his handkerchief—a square of soft white linen that you accepted with trembling fingers.

As you cried, as your shoulders shook and your breath came in gasps, Zayne offered quiet comfort. His hand came to rest gently on your back, rubbing soothing circles between your shoulder blades the way one might comfort a distressed child. He didn’t ask questions, didn’t press for explanations. He simply sat with you in your grief, a steady presence in the darkness.

“I apologize for the interruption,” he said quietly once your breathing had evened out slightly. “I wouldn’t have intruded if the King hadn’t been so insistent.”

You shook your head, wiping at your eyes with his handkerchief. “It’s not your fault,” you managed, your voice hoarse. “You were just doing your duty.”

“Perhaps,” Zayne said carefully. “But I know timing when I see it. And mine was spectacularly poor.”

Despite everything, you let out a watery laugh at that.

Zayne waited until you’d calmed down completely, until your tears had slowed to occasional sniffles and your breathing had steadied. Only then, when he was certain you were stable enough, did he speak again.

“Whoever wrote those letters is a fool if they don’t fight for you.”

He said it with such serious determination, such unflinching honesty, that it left you speechless for a long moment. You turned to look at him, finding his expression completely sincere.

“How did you—” you whispered, your eyes widening in shock and embarrassment.

Zayne interrupted gently, “I know because I once saw you reading those letters in the library, and I’ve noticed you carry them with you wherever you go.” He continued with a small, knowing smile. “And also because Tara told me. She’s quite worried about you.”

You groaned, covering your face with your hands. “This is so embarrassing! I feel like almost everyone knows at this point.”

“Not everyone,” he assured you, and there was something kind in his tone. “But either way, I stand by my statement. You deserve someone who will treasure you, who will fight for you. And whoever is writing those letters—” He paused meaningfully. “They would be a fool to let you slip away without trying.”

Silence fell as you absorbed his words. He was so serious, so earnest about it, and there was something in the way he looked at you that made you wonder if he meant more than he was saying.

Then he stood gracefully, brushing off his trousers. “Please allow me to escort you back to the servants’ quarters. I want to ensure you get back safely. It’s late, and you shouldn’t be walking alone.”

You hesitated, glancing back toward the labyrinth where Sylus had disappeared. He’d asked you to wait for him. Had made you promise. But how long would he be? What if he couldn’t get away? What if his father kept him occupied for hours?

What if you waited and he never came?

The fear was almost paralyzing.

“I…” you started, uncertainty thick in your voice.

“You can decide what to do once you’re back in your room,” Zayne said gently, reading your hesitation accurately. “But out here, in the garden at this hour, alone and upset—it’s not safe. Not for your physical wellbeing or your reputation.”

He was right, of course. Reluctantly, you stood, your legs slightly unsteady beneath you.

You walked together in heavy silence through the garden paths, the gravel crunching beneath your feet, the night air cool against your tear-stained cheeks. Zayne kept a respectful distance but stayed close enough that his presence felt protective rather than intrusive.

Once you arrived at the entrance to the servants’ quarters, he turned to face you fully.

“You are someone extraordinary,” he said quietly, his voice carrying the weight of absolute conviction. “And you deserve someone who will fight for you and your love every single day. Someone who won’t let duty or station or fear stand in the way. Remember that.”

Your eyes widened at his words, at the intensity behind them. As you stood there processing what he’d said, trying to understand if there were layers of meaning beneath the surface, silence stretched between you.

Was he talking about Sylus? About himself? About the mysterious letter writer?

Eventually, the doctor spoke again, breaking the spell. “Goodnight,” he said your name with such unexpected gentleness that it made your chest ache all over again.

“Goodnight, Zayne,” you whispered, your voice barely audible.

He gave you a small, respectful bow before turning and walking away with that same quiet grace, his footsteps fading into the night. Soon he was swallowed by shadows, leaving you standing alone at the threshold of your quarters, left to ponder and process everything that had happened.

Sylus’s almost-confession. His desperate plea for you to wait. Zayne’s knowing words and careful comfort.

The letters that suddenly felt heavier in your pocket.

The impossible hope trying to bloom in your chest despite every attempt to crush it down.

You looked back toward the garden one last time, torn between the promise you’d made and the fear of what keeping it might mean.

In the end, fear won.

You slipped inside, closing the door quietly behind you, and didn’t wait for him to return.

-ˋˏ ༻❁༺ ˎˊ-

As the days crawled by, each one blurring into the next in an endless cycle of forced normalcy, you threw yourself into work with desperation. You tried so desperately to keep yourself busy, to fill every waking moment with tasks and duties so there would be no space left to think about Sylus. No room for memories of his hand cupping your cheek, his voice breaking as he’d tried to tell you something important, his lips warm against your forehead.

You also became uncharacteristically social, a shift that didn’t go unnoticed by those who knew you well. You started accepting every invitation, volunteering for extra shifts, participating in activities with other servants that you’d normally decline. You helped in the kitchens even when it wasn’t your assigned duty, joined the laundry maids in their gossip sessions, accompanied the groundskeepers on their rounds. Anything. Everything. As long as it kept you occupied, kept your mind from wandering to places that would break you.

You smiled until your cheeks ached. You laughed at jokes you didn’t find funny. You pretended that everything was fine, that your world hadn’t shattered into a thousand irreparable pieces.

But exhaustion clung to you like a second skin. Dark circles bloomed under your eyes no matter how much sleep you pretended to get. Your appetite had vanished. Your hands trembled when you thought no one was looking, and sometimes you’d find yourself staring at nothing, lost in thoughts you couldn’t escape.

Tara obviously saw right through your carefully constructed facade. She knew you too well, had been your friend for too long to be fooled by false smiles and deflecting conversation. She could see how much pain you were in, could read it in every forced laugh and averted gaze. She tried to be there for you, tried to create opportunities for you to talk, to let it out, to lean on her the way friends should.

But you pushed her away every time, your voice bright and brittle as glass.

“We knew this would happen sooner or later,” you’d say with a shrug that was meant to look casual but came across as defensive. “It’s not a surprise. I’m fine, really.”

Or: “We should be happy for Sylus. This is what he was born for. It’s a good thing.”

The words tasted like ash in your mouth, but you kept saying them. As if repetition could make them true. As if you could convince yourself along with everyone else.

Tara would look at you with such sadness, such frustration, but she didn’t push. Not yet. She just stayed close, a silent presence reminding you that when you were ready to stop pretending, she’d be there to catch you.

Whenever you crossed paths with Zayne, which happened more frequently than you’d like, he would look at you with an expression that combined professional care with deep personal sympathy. His eyes would search your face, cataloging the signs of your suffering with a physician’s attention to detail—the exhaustion and the barely concealed grief.

Somehow you felt as if he knew. Not just that you were struggling, but the specific nature of your pain. He knew about your feelings for the prince, understood the impossible situation you’d found yourself in. And though the knowledge should have embarrassed you, should have made you avoid him out of shame, there was something comforting about being seen. About not having to pretend, at least with him.

Deep down, you knew he would never share your secret with anyone else. Zayne was nothing if not discreet, bound by both professional ethics and personal honor.

Still, you found yourself trying to avoid the doctor as well, because he reminded you too vividly of that night in the heart of the labyrinth. Every time you saw him, you were transported back to those moments—Sylus’s hand on your cheek, his desperate “wait for me,” the promise you’d made and then broken. The hope that had bloomed so brilliantly in your chest before you’d crushed it down out of fear.

You’d had so much hope in that moment, had let yourself believe that maybe, just maybe, the impossible could become possible.

But it was too good to be true. It had to be. Sylus was a prince, soon to be king, and you were just a servant. The love you carried for him—vast and consuming and eternal—could never be reciprocated. Not in any way that mattered. Not in any way that could overcome the insurmountable distance between your worlds.

When you were finally alone at night, though, when all the distractions fell away and there was nothing left but you and the darkness and the truth you couldn’t outrun, your mind wouldn’t let you rest. The thoughts you’d managed to suppress all day would come flooding back with a vengeance, drowning you in what-ifs and if-onlys and the echo of Sylus’s voice saying things you couldn’t let yourself believe.

You’d pull out those letters—those beautiful, devastating letters—and read them until the words blurred, until you’d memorized every loop and curve of the handwriting, until your tears made the ink run.

“My moonlight… I am truly enchanted by you… My affection and admiration for you grow stronger and fonder every day…”

The words that had once filled you with such joy now felt like cruel mockery.

You spiraled in those dark hours, your thoughts turning vicious and self-destructive. And unfortunately, shamefully, you cried yourself to sleep almost every single night, your pillow damp with silent sobs, your chest aching with a grief that had no outlet.

And Sylus?

You avoided him like the plague, like he carried some contagion that would destroy you if you got too close—which, in a way, he did.

You always manufactured excuses when he tried to summon you through official channels or when he sent messages asking for a private moment. “I’m needed in the kitchens.” “I’ve been assigned to help with the guest chambers.” “I’m not feeling well.” The lies came easier each time, though they tasted more bitter.

Whenever he tried to enter spaces or rooms where he knew you’d be—the library where you used to read together, the kitchens during meal preparations, the servants’ dining hall—you would either studiously refuse to look at him, keeping your eyes fixed on your work with desperate intensity, or you’d excuse yourself from the room entirely. Mumbling something about forgotten duties or remembered tasks, fleeing before he could corner you, before he could say whatever it was he’d been trying to say that night.

You just couldn’t face him. Not now. Maybe not ever.

The cowardice of it ate at you, but the alternative—actually talking to him, hearing whatever explanation or gentle rejection he had prepared—felt impossible to survive.

And whenever you did avoid him, whenever you felt his gaze on you and deliberately turned away, whenever you saw him entering a room and immediately found a reason to leave, you couldn’t help but notice the pain that flickered across his face.

It was brief, quickly masked behind princely composure, but it was there. In the tightening around his eyes, the way his jaw would clench, the slump of his shoulders when he thought no one was watching.

You knew Sylus was hurting. Of course you did—you knew him better than anyone, could read him like one of your beloved books.

Except you never once believed it could be for the reasons your traitorous heart wanted to imagine. No, you told yourself firmly, he was hurt because his best friend was pulling away. Because the person he’d relied on for support and companionship since childhood was suddenly unavailable. It was the pain of losing a friend, nothing more.

It couldn’t be anything more.

What you didn’t know—what you couldn’t see because you’d been so careful to avoid him—was the true extent of Sylus’s torment.

You didn’t see how he’d return to his chambers each night and stand at his window, staring out at the gardens, at the labyrinth where he’d almost told you everything, his reflection in the glass looking haunted and hollow.

You didn’t know that he’d stopped writing the letters because what was the point when you wouldn’t even look at him? When you’d promised to wait and then disappeared?

You didn’t see him during his meetings with potential brides and their families, how he’d go through the motions with mechanical politeness while his eyes remained empty, how he’d compare every woman to you and find them all wanting.

You didn’t know that Luke and Kieran had started avoiding him during his darker moods, when his temper would fray and his control would slip, when the mask of the perfect prince would crack to reveal the desperate man underneath.

You didn’t see him clutching the letter he’d written but never sent—the one that explained everything, that laid his heart bare—his knuckles white, his hands shaking.

You didn’t know that he’d asked about you obsessively. “How is she? Is she eating? Is she sleeping? Did she seem well?”

You didn’t know that your absence was slowly destroying him.

One day, unbeknownst to you, Sylus sought out Tara, his desperation finally overcoming his pride.

He found her in one of the many halls of the castle, carrying fresh linens toward the guest wings. His heart hammered in his chest as he called out, his voice rougher than he’d intended, “Tara. A word, please.”

She stopped and turned slowly, and the moment her eyes met his, Sylus felt the full force of her anger like a physical blow.

Tara had never been particularly good at concealing how she truly felt, had never bothered to master the art of courtly composure. And right now, she looked visibly irritated—no, beyond irritated. She looked furious in a way that would have made most people back away.

She glanced around the corridor, noting the other servants passing by, the guards stationed at intervals. She waited, jaw tight, until the last person had rounded the corner and they were as alone as they could be in the castle’s public spaces.

Then she marched toward him with such aggressive intent that Sylus actually took a step back.

“You better fix this,” she hissed, jabbing a finger hard into his chest—hard enough that he felt it through the layers of his formal jacket. Her eyes blazed with protective fury. “I don’t care how you do it, but you need to fix this mess you’ve created. Now.”

The disrespect of it—a servant speaking to a prince this way, touching him without permission, making demands—would have been shocking to anyone else. But Sylus had known Tara almost as long as he’d known you, and he understood that her anger came from a place of love. Love for you. Her best friend who was falling apart.

“She won’t talk to me, Tara,” Sylus said, and he hated how desperate he sounded, how his careful princely facade crumbled in the face of her righteous anger. His hands clenched at his sides. “She won’t even look at me. How am I supposed to fix this if she won’t give me a chance to explain?”

“You’re smart, Sylus. Everyone’s always going on about how brilliant you are, how strategic, how you’re always three steps ahead.” Her voice dripped with sarcasm that cut like a blade. “So use that big brain of yours and figure it out.”

She stepped closer, her voice dropping but losing none of its intensity. “She deserves better than whatever this nightmare is, and you know it. She deserves better than secret letters and almost-confessions and being left in the dark while noble families parade their daughters in front of you like prize horses.”

The prince stood there in heavy silence, each word landing like a physical blow. The inner turmoil that had been building for days—weeks, if he was honest—was becoming unbearable. He felt like he was being torn apart, caught between duty and desire, between what was expected of him and what his heart demanded.

“I know you’re hurting too, Sylus,” Tara said, and her tone shifted slightly, became marginally more sympathetic though still edged with frustration. “I can see it. You look almost as bad as she does.”

For a moment, something vulnerable flickered across his face.

“But she doesn’t deserve someone who whispers the prettiest words in secret but never has the courage to back them up with action,” Tara continued, and the sympathy vanished, replaced by disappointment that somehow hurt worse than the anger. “She doesn’t deserve to be kept in the dark, to be made to hope and then abandoned. She doesn’t deserve to cry herself to sleep every night while you hide behind your duties and your crown.”

At her words, Sylus’s eyes widened, genuine shock breaking through his composure. “She’s been—” He couldn’t finish the sentence. The image of you crying alone, suffering because of him, because of his cowardice, made something crack in his chest. “I didn’t… I thought she was avoiding me because she didn’t—”

“Didn’t what? Didn’t care?” Tara laughed bitterly. “Are you really that clueless?”

“I—” Sylus started, but Tara quickly cut him off.

“Sylus, I’ve known you for years. Since we were children running through these halls together.” Her expression softened just slightly, became almost pitying. “I know how you look at her. I’ve seen it since we were young—the way your eyes follow her across a room, the way you smile differently when she’s around, the way you’ve always made excuses to be near her.”

She crossed her arms, fixing him with a knowing stare. “It was pretty easy to connect the secret admirer letters to you. Who else writes with that specific slant? Who else knows all her favorite things? Who else would use phrases like ‘my moonlight’?”

Sylus felt heat creep up his neck. He’d thought he’d been so careful, so subtle.

“I know you’re in a difficult position,” Tara continued, and now her voice carried genuine understanding alongside the frustration. “I know the pressure you’re under, the expectations, the weight of the crown. I’m not unsympathetic to that.”

She stepped forward one final time, her voice dropping to something fierce and protective and absolutely unyielding.

“But if you truly love her the way you wrote that you do in those beautiful letters, if even half of what you said was real, then you need to fight for her like your life depends on it. Because hers certainly feels like it does.”

The words hung in the air between them, a challenge and a plea all at once.

Sylus stood frozen, his mind racing, his heart hammering. Everything Tara had said was true. Every accusation, every disappointed observation, every demand. He had been a coward. He had let his fear of duty, of disappointing his father, of the complications and scandal override what mattered most.

You.

He’d let you slip away when he should have been holding on with both hands.

“She deserves the best,” Tara said, and her voice cracked slightly with emotion—worry for her friend, frustration with the situation, exhaustion from watching two people she cared about destroy themselves. “And right now? This is a literal nightmare for her. She’s breaking, Sylus. Slowly but surely, she’s breaking apart.”

She turned to leave, but paused, throwing one final look over her shoulder.

“So fix it. I don’t care what it takes, what rules you have to break, what expectations you have to shatter. Just… fix it. Before it’s too late. Before she’s so broken that even your pretty words can’t put her back together.”

And then she was gone, leaving Sylus standing alone in the corridor, her words echoing in his mind like a death knell.

For a long moment, he didn’t move. Couldn’t move.

Then, slowly, determination began to harden in his chest, replacing the despair and helplessness that had been consuming him.

Tara was right. He’d been a coward. He’d been letting circumstance and duty dictate his life when he should have been fighting for what—for who—mattered most.

He thought of you crying yourself to sleep. Of you avoiding him because you thought he didn’t want you. Of you suffering while he suffered, both of you too afraid to bridge the distance between you.

No more.

He was done with secret letters and stolen moments and almost-confessions. He was done letting fear win.

If he had to defy his father, if he had to cause a scandal, if he had to turn the entire kingdom upside down—so be it.

You were worth it. You had always been worth it.

He just had to make you believe that too.

And he knew exactly how to do it.

-ˋˏ ༻❁༺ ˎˊ-

A day after Sylus had his confrontation with Tara, he summoned you.

You’d been in the laundry rooms, mechanically folding linens with the other servants, your mind blissfully blank from the repetitive work, when Luke and Kieran appeared in the doorway. The moment you saw them, your stomach dropped. You knew—instantly, instinctively—why they were there.

“His Majesty requests your presence,” Luke said, his usual playfulness notably absent. His expression was serious, almost apologetic.

“In his private office,” Kieran added. “Immediately.”

You felt panic spike through your veins, sharp and immediate. Your hands stilled on the sheet you’d been folding, gripping the fabric too tightly. “I… I’m in the middle of—”

“It wasn’t a request,” Luke interrupted gently but firmly, cutting off your excuse before you could fully form it.

The words hung heavy in the air. Not a request. An order.

Your mouth went dry. In all the years you’d known Sylus—through childhood games and adolescent adventures and the complicated feelings of adulthood—he had never once used his title or position to command you. Never pulled rank, never treated you as anything less than an equal despite the vast difference in your stations. He would only do so now if it was absolutely necessary, if he’d exhausted every other option.

Which meant you couldn’t refuse. Couldn’t make another excuse. Couldn’t run.

“I see,” you whispered, your voice barely audible. You carefully set down the linen with trembling fingers, smoothing out wrinkles that didn’t exist. “Of course. I’ll… I’ll come now.”

You followed the twins through the castle corridors, your heart hammering against your ribs with each step. Nervous didn’t even begin to cover what you were feeling. Anxious as hell was closer. Terrified was probably most accurate.

Your mind raced with possibilities. What could he possibly want? Was he going to formally ask you to stop avoiding him? Demand an explanation? Tell you that your behavior was inappropriate and you were being reassigned? Or worse—much worse—was he going to gently, kindly, tell you that he knew about your feelings and that while he cared for you as a friend, that was all it could ever be?

The walk felt endless and far too short all at once.

When you finally reached the ornate doors of his private office—a room you’d been in countless times before but which suddenly felt foreign and intimidating—Luke knocked twice.

“She’s here, Your Majesty,” Kieran called through the heavy wood.

There was a pause, a moment of suspended silence, and then you heard his voice. That deep, familiar voice that haunted your dreams.

“Let her in.”

The twins pushed open the doors and stepped aside, gesturing for you to enter. You caught Kieran giving you an encouraging look, something almost pitying in his expression, before the doors closed behind you with a soft, final click.

And then you were alone with him.

Your anxiety and nerves multiplied tenfold, flooding your system until you felt almost lightheaded. Your hands began shaking at your sides, and you clasped them together tightly to hide the tremor.

Sylus stood near the window, backlit by the afternoon sun streaming through the glass, and for a moment he was just a silhouette—tall and broad-shouldered and achingly familiar.

Then he turned to face you fully, and your breath caught in your throat.

When his eyes—the very same piercing red eyes you love—find yours across the room, they ignite with a spark of longing, and you swear your whole world stops spinning.

As you regarded him—truly looked at him for the first time in over a week of careful avoidance—you couldn’t help but notice how utterly exhausted he looked. How truly bad he looked in a way that made your chest constrict painfully.

There were dark circles under his eyes that rivaled your own, deep shadows that spoke of sleepless nights. His silver hair, usually immaculate, looked like he’d been running his hands through it repeatedly. His formal jacket was slightly rumpled, his collar not quite straight.

He looked like a man who’d been suffering. Like a man who’d been slowly coming apart at the seams.

You didn’t know if it was even possible, but somehow seeing him like this made you feel even more heartbroken than you already were. Because he was hurting too, and some terrible part of you had hoped—had needed to believe—that at least he was fine. That your absence hadn’t affected him beyond mild inconvenience.

But clearly, devastatingly, that wasn’t true.

He looked at you with such raw vulnerability, such naked longing, that it did something to you—cracked something open in your chest that you’d been trying desperately to keep sealed shut. His crimson eyes traced over your face like a man dying of thirst finally seeing water, drinking in every detail as if he’d been starved for the sight of you.

You both stood there in heavy silence for a long moment, neither moving, neither speaking. Just staring at each other across the space of his office like there was a chasm between you instead of a few feet of expensive carpet.

The air felt charged, electric with everything unsaid.

“Sy—” you whispered finally, your voice cracking on his name.

“Sweetie,” he breathed at the exact same moment, and the endearment nearly broke you. “I can’t express how sorry I am.” His voice was rough, raw with emotion he wasn’t bothering to hide. “How much I’ve missed you. How empty everything feels without you.”

He took a half-step forward, his hand lifting slightly before falling back to his side, as if he’d stopped himself from reaching for you.

“I’m sorry for how much I’ve hurt you,” he continued, his voice dropping to something more gentle, more tender. “I never wanted that. God, I never wanted that. But I… I handled everything wrong, and you paid the price for my cowardice.”

The sincerity in his voice, the genuine remorse and pain, made your eyes burn with unshed tears. A small voice inside your head—the part of you that loved him desperately and wanted nothing more than to close the distance between you—told you to accept his words. To listen and believe what he was trying to tell you. To let him explain, to give him the chance he was asking for.

But the destructive part of you, the part that had been whispering cruel things in the darkness for weeks, that had convinced you that you weren’t worthy of being loved by someone like him—that part wouldn’t let you. Couldn’t let you.

You felt your hands tremble even more violently as you stood there, frozen between wanting to run toward him and wanting to flee entirely. Your throat tightened, making it hard to breathe, hard to speak.

“I—I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you muttered, the lie tasting bitter on your tongue. You looked away from his intense gaze, unable to hold it, unable to face the vulnerability and honesty you saw there. “I’ve just been busy. That’s all. There’s nothing to apologize for.”

His jaw ticked in response, a muscle jumping beneath the skin. You could see the disappointment flash across his face, the way his shoulders tensed. He’d hoped—desperately hoped—that you would believe him, would listen to him, would meet him halfway.

But you couldn’t. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

The silence that stretched between you then felt suffocating, uncomfortable in a way silence with Sylus had never been before. It left you wanting to squirm, to apologize, to take back your words.

But you stayed still. Stayed quiet.

Finally, Sylus spoke again, and his voice had shifted—still gentle, but with an undercurrent of determination that made you look up despite yourself.

“I asked you to come here for two reasons,” he said carefully, watching your reaction. “One, I needed to tell you everything I wanted to say that night in the garden. Everything I’ve been trying to say for weeks, for months—maybe for years if I’m being honest with myself.”

Your heart stuttered in your chest.

“But I can see that you need more time,” he continued, and something that looked like pain flickered across his face. “That you need more than just words from me. You need proof. Action. Something tangible.”

He paused, his eyes never leaving yours.

“Unfortunately, I don’t have much time to give you. Which brings me to the second reason I summoned you.”

You finally looked up at him fully, meeting his gaze with wide, uncertain eyes. Your pulse thrummed in your throat.

Sylus straightened slightly, and you caught a glimpse of the prince he was—the leader he was about to become. Authoritative. Decisive. But underneath it, you could still see the man you loved, vulnerable and hopeful and desperate.

“I’m being summoned to one of the borders of our kingdom,” he explained, his tone becoming more formal, more official. “The region that borders our neighboring country of Athana. There have been some tensions, some concerns about our alliance. They need me there to strengthen diplomatic relations, to negotiate, to ensure peace.”

He took a breath, and his voice softened again, became more personal.

“It will be several days’ journey, and I’ll need to stay for at least a week, possibly longer depending on how the negotiations proceed.” His eyes searched yours, intense and unwavering. “And there’s no one I trust more than you. No one whose counsel I value more, whose presence I need more.”

Your breath caught as you realized what he was about to say.

“So I want you to come along on this trip. As my personal advisor. My companion.”

The word hung between you, loaded with meaning.

“Surely there’s someone else more qualified—” you started automatically, your mind scrambling for escape, for any excuse that might save you from days of forced proximity, from the torture of being near him while maintaining your walls. “One of your actual advisors, or—”

“No,” Sylus interrupted, and his voice carried such controlled determination, such absolute certainty, that it cut through your protests like a blade. “And it wasn’t a request.”

There it was again. The authority. The command.

You gulped nervously, your throat clicking audibly in the quiet room. You couldn’t look away from him, caught in the gravity of his gaze like a moon trapped in orbit.

For a moment, Sylus’s commanding expression melted into something infinitely more gentle. His hands, which had been clasped behind his back in a formal pose, twitched at his sides as if fighting the urge to reach for you. His eyes roamed over your face with such tender concern it made your chest ache.

You looked so beautiful to him, even exhausted and hurting. Maybe especially then, because at least you were real and present and in front of him instead of a ghost he kept catching glimpses of around corners.

He wanted to cross the room and pull you into his arms. Wanted to hold you until you stopped trembling, until you believed that he would never willingly hurt you. Wanted to pour his heart out in a way that left no room for doubt or fear. Wanted to console you, to take care of you, to prove with actions what his words hadn’t been able to convey.

But he held himself still. Held himself back. Because he could see you weren’t ready for that yet. Could see that you’d bolt if he pushed too hard, too fast.

So instead, he just whispered with aching sincerity, “There’s no one else better. There’s no one else I want by my side. Just you. It’s always been you.”

The words landed between you like a confession, like a promise.

You opened your mouth, then closed it again, unable to form a response. Your mind was spinning, your heart racing so fast you felt dizzy.

Sylus held your gaze for one more long moment, letting the weight of his words settle, before he straightened again and added with quiet finality, “We leave tonight. I’ll have someone sent to your quarters to help you pack. Be ready by sunset.”

It wasn’t a discussion. Wasn’t a negotiation.

And somehow, despite your fear, despite every instinct screaming at you to refuse, to run, to protect yourself—you found yourself nodding.

Because maybe Tara was right. Maybe Sylus was right.

Maybe you did need more than words.

Maybe you needed time. Proximity. A chance to see beyond your own fears and insecurities.

Maybe this trip would break you completely.

Or maybe—just maybe—it would finally put you back together.

-ˋˏ ༻❁༺ ˎˊ-

The journey was long and excruciating in ways that had nothing to do with the rutted roads or the endless miles.

The ride in the carriage felt interminable, each hour stretching into eternity as you sat across from Sylus in a space that was somehow both too small and too vast. You weren’t able to talk to him no matter how hard he tried to draw you out, and the silence between you felt like a living thing—heavy and suffocating and wrong in a way that silence with Sylus had never been before.

It hurt you just as much as it clearly hurt him. You could see it in the way his jaw would tighten when you gave another one-word answer, in the flicker of pain that crossed his face each time you looked away. But you just couldn’t find the words, couldn’t push past the wall you’d built around yourself. You felt numb and hurt and so desperately confused that speaking felt impossible.

Sylus tried, though he was careful not to push too hard. He’d offer gentle conversation starters, then let them fade naturally when you didn’t respond. He never pressed, never demanded engagement—just left the door open for you whenever you might be ready to walk through it.

He’d point out landmarks as they passed, his voice soft and undemanding. “That tree marks the border between regions,” he’d mention quietly, not expecting a response. Or he’d share a brief story about a previous trip, keeping his tone light and easy, giving you the option to listen or let the words wash over you like background noise.

He talked about small things—the beauty of the countryside, a funny incident from his childhood, observations about the changing landscape. Never anything heavy. Never anything that required you to engage beyond your comfort level.

And you? You sat mostly silent across from him, your hands folded in your lap, your eyes fixed on the passing scenery outside the window. Occasionally you’d nod or offer a soft “mm-hmm” of acknowledgment, and each time you did, you’d catch the small, grateful smile that would flicker across his face. As if even that tiny bit of interaction was a gift.

In your defense—not that you were sure you deserved defending—you were honestly exhausted from all the traveling. The constant jostling of the carriage, the lack of proper sleep, the emotional turmoil that had been your constant companion for weeks now. It all weighed on you until even keeping your eyes open felt like a monumental effort.

You stopped occasionally for meals at small roadside inns, and to camp out overnight when no suitable accommodations could be found. During these stops, Sylus was quietly attentive without being overbearing.

He’d make sure food was available for you but never forced you to eat more than you wanted. He’d suggest you sit closer to the fire if the evening was cold, but accepted without comment if you preferred to stay where you were. He’d ask once if you were comfortable, if you needed anything, and then let it be.

It was gentle care—the kind that didn’t demand gratitude or acknowledgment, that didn’t make you feel smothered or pitied. Just… thoughtful. Considerate. The way Sylus had always been with you, even as children.

The sleeping arrangements were decided quietly on the first night. “You should take the carriage,” he’d said simply. “It’s more comfortable and private. I’ll be fine with Luke and Kieran.”

You’d started to protest, feeling guilty, but he’d just given you a small, tired smile. “Please. I’d feel better knowing you were resting properly. That’s all I ask.”

And because it was phrased as a request rather than a command, because he’d looked at you with such quiet hope that you’d accept this one small thing, you’d agreed.

He was respectful in a way that made you feel cared for without feeling obligated. There was no hovering, no constant checking—just quiet consideration that left space for you to breathe.

But the destructive part of you—that terrible, insidious voice that had taken up permanent residence in your head—would whisper that it was just friendship. Just the natural kindness of someone who’d known you forever and felt responsible for you.

*He’s only being considerate because you’ve been friends since childhood. It doesn’t mean anything more.*

Yet whenever you tried to sleep, alone in the dark carriage with only the sound of the horses and the distant murmur of voices around the campfire, you couldn’t stop thinking about him.

About the man who was so respectful of your boundaries that he’d give you space even when you could see it hurt him. About how he’d looked at you in his office with such quiet longing. About the almost-confession in the garden that haunted your dreams. About the letters from your secret admirer, those beautiful letters that spoke of devotion and enchantment.

You felt safe in the carriage, surrounded by his scent and wrapped in blankets he’d quietly arranged before stepping away. But you also felt restless, your mind refusing to quiet, your heart aching with want and fear in equal measure.

You didn’t sleep much during those nights. Couldn’t sleep, really. Just dozed fitfully, waking at every sound, every shift of the carriage, replaying conversations and moments over and over until they lost all meaning.

Sylus noticed, of course he did. He’d always been quietly observant when it came to you, noticing things without making you feel watched or scrutinized.

On the third day of travel, after you’d nearly dozed off during a rest stop, he’d mentioned gently, “There’s an inn about three-quarters of the way to the border. We could stop there tonight if you’d like. Proper beds, a chance to rest.”

He’d phrased it as an option, not a decision he’d made for you. Giving you the choice.

“That… that would be nice,” you’d admitted quietly, and the soft relief in his expression made your chest ache.

As evening approached and the landscape began to shift from open countryside to a small village, you felt your heart rate pick up with nervous anticipation. The thought of a real bed, a proper room, maybe even a bath—it sounded like heaven.

The inn appeared as the sun was setting, bathing everything in warm golden light. It was a large, cozy-looking building with smoke curling from multiple chimneys, warm light glowing in the windows, flower boxes beneath the sills even this late in the season. It looked welcoming. Safe.

As soon as the carriage rolled to a stop in the courtyard, Sylus stepped out first with fluid grace. But instead of walking toward the entrance, he turned back and stood beside the carriage door, his hand outstretched toward you.

Not demanding. Just… offering. His crimson eyes soft in the fading light.

Your breath caught at the gesture—so simple, so gentlemanly, yet somehow intimate in a way that made your pulse quicken. You placed your hand in his, feeling the warmth of his palm against yours, the gentle strength as his fingers closed carefully around yours.

He helped you down from the carriage with such careful attention, his other hand hovering near your waist—not quite touching, just there in case you needed the support. When your feet touched the ground and you wobbled slightly from stiffness, his hand settled lightly at your side to steady you.

The touch was brief, respectful, but it burned through the layers of your traveling clothes, making you acutely aware of every point of contact between you.

For a moment, you were standing close enough that you could see the flecks of deeper crimson in his eyes, could feel the warmth radiating from him in the cooling evening air.

Your eyes met and held.

Time seemed to slow, the sounds of the inn and the village fading into insignificance. His hand was still wrapped gently around yours, not gripping or holding tight—just connected. Present.

You could see everything in his gaze—the longing he couldn’t quite hide, the tenderness, the quiet hope. It was all there, offered freely without demand or expectation.

Your heart thundered in your chest. Heat crept up your neck and into your cheeks, and you knew he could feel your pulse quicken through your hands.

Neither of you moved. Neither of you spoke. You just stood there, hands clasped, lost in a moment that felt fragile and precious.

You were the first to break it, looking away with a flustered and shy expression, your eyes dropping to focus somewhere around his collar. You couldn’t handle the intensity, the vulnerability, the way looking at him made you want things you’d convinced yourself you couldn’t have.

From your peripheral vision, you caught the small, soft smile that curved his lips—not triumphant or possessive, but gentle. Understanding. As if he knew you needed to look away and didn’t hold it against you.

He released your hand slowly, his fingers trailing against yours for just a moment before letting go completely. Then he stepped back slightly, giving you space, before gesturing toward the inn with a quiet, “Shall we?”

His hand settled at the small of your back as you walked—so light you almost couldn’t feel it, just enough to guide without controlling.

Once you both entered the building, you were greeted by warmth and the smell of woodsmoke and cooking food. The interior was cozy and well-maintained, with dark wooden beams, a large fireplace crackling in the main room, and the general atmosphere of a well-loved establishment.

Luke and Kieran were already at the front desk, speaking with the innkeeper—a rotund, friendly-looking man with a welcoming smile. But as you approached, you noticed the twins’ expressions looked… odd. Confused. Almost suspiciously so.

Luke glanced up as Sylus approached, and something flickered across his face. “Ah… Your Majesty, there seems to be an issue with the accommodations.”

Sylus, who looked quietly exhausted from the long journey, simply waited. “What kind of issue?”

Kieran spoke up, his tone sheepish in a way that felt almost… deliberate. “The rooms we reserved ahead of time… well, there was apparently a miscommunication with the courier.” He gestured apologetically at the ledger. “They only have one suite available. The rest of the rooms are occupied by some Duke’s entourage who arrived earlier today.”

Your heart plummeted straight to your stomach.

One room. One suite.

“I can stay in the servants’ quarters,” you said immediately, the words tumbling out in a rush. “Or—or I’m sure there’s a small room somewhere, even a storage room would be fine—”

“I’d rather you didn’t,” Sylus said quietly, and there was something almost hesitant in his voice. Not commanding. Almost… asking. “The suite should have a sitting area, and I can take the couch. Would that… would that be acceptable to you?”

He was giving you the choice. Actually asking rather than deciding for you.

You looked at him—at the exhaustion in his face, the gentle hope in his eyes, the way he was clearly trying not to pressure you while also obviously not wanting to be separated.

“I…” you started, your cheeks burning. “If you’re certain it’s not… I mean, if it’s not improper…”

“I’ll be perfectly respectful,” he said softly. “I promise. I just…” He paused, something vulnerable crossing his face. “I’d sleep better knowing you were safe and comfortable. But only if you’re comfortable with the arrangement.”

The sincerity in his voice, the way he was leaving the decision entirely in your hands, made something loosen in your chest.

“Alright,” you whispered. “We can share the suite.”

The relief that flooded his features was so profound it made your heart ache.

-ˋˏ ༻❁༺ ˎˊ-

As Sylus opened the door to your room, you both stepped inside and took in the view together.

The room was bathed in the warm, flickering glow of candlelight, casting soft shadows on the walls and pooling on the wooden floor. The space was cozy and inviting in its simplicity. Warm wooden furniture gave the room a rustic charm—a sturdy dresser, a small table with two chairs near the window, and a wardrobe in the corner. Fluffy cream-colored rugs were scattered across the floor, soft enough to sink into. A stone fireplace sat ready to be lit when the evening chill set in, with a neat stack of firewood beside it. The balcony doors were slightly ajar, allowing the cool evening breeze to drift in, carrying with it the scent of pine and distant rain. Beyond the balcony was a picture-perfect view of the distant forest and dreamy landscape—rolling hills disappearing into twilight, the first stars beginning to emerge.

The room was beautiful in its simplicity. Intimate. Sweet. And there, dominating the center of the space, was one large bed with a quilted coverlet and an abundance of pillows.

Just one bed.

No couch. No chaise. No secondary sleeping option whatsoever.

You heard Sylus swear quietly under his breath behind you, the curse so soft you almost missed it. When you glanced at him, you saw he’d stopped in the doorway, his expression caught somewhere between resignation and concern as he took in the sleeping arrangements.

“Look, I can always just sleep on the floor,” Sylus said quickly, already moving into problem-solving mode. He grimaced slightly, scrubbing a hand over his face in a gesture of exhaustion before walking toward the plush rug positioned beside the bed. “It’ll be fine. This rug looks comfortable enough.”

You swallowed nervously, your heart suddenly beating too fast, your palms going damp. You tried to steady your breathing the best you could before speaking.

A thousand thoughts overwhelmed your mind as you watched him lower himself to sit on the rug, testing it as if genuinely considering spending the night there. Your chest tightened with a mixture of emotions—guilt that he’d sacrifice his comfort, confusion about what this meant, and something else. Something warm and terrifying that you didn’t want to examine too closely.

This was Sylus. Your Sylus. The man who’d just traveled for days, who looked exhausted, who’d been sleeping on the ground to give you the carriage. And now he was prepared to sleep on the floor again rather than make you uncomfortable.

“Sy, wait,” you whispered, cringing internally at how desperate you sounded. The plea came out softer than you’d intended, more vulnerable. “The bed is clearly big enough for the both of us.”

“I’ll be fine,” he replied, and to demonstrate, he laid back on the rug and stretched his limbs out as if to prove its adequacy. “See? Comfy.”

But you could see the lie in the tension of his shoulders, in the way he shifted almost immediately to find a better position.

“Sylus…” you sighed, crossing your arms loosely in front of your chest—more to give your hands something to do than out of any real frustration. “We both know that’s not true.” You huffed out a nervous laugh, your eyes darting around the room to avoid direct eye contact with him. Your hands trembled slightly as you picked up your bag from where you’d set it down, carrying it carefully to the wooden dresser across from the bed.

“And besides,” you continued, your voice quiet but firm, “you’ll be sore tomorrow and won’t get proper sleep. You need rest too.”

You smiled nervously, timidly, at him as you pushed some stray hair back behind your ear—a nervous gesture you’d had since childhood. Your cheeks felt warm.

Sylus remained sitting on the rug, looking up at you with an expression you couldn’t quite read. Uncertainty? Hope? Fear?

“Please,” you whispered, wrapping your arms around yourself. “We’re both adults. And you’re the future king—you shouldn’t be sleeping on the floor like… like you’re being punished or something.”

There was a long pause. You could hear your own heartbeat in the silence.

“Right,” Sylus finally replied, and his voice was just as nervous as yours, touched with something almost shy. He sat up slowly, running a hand through his silver hair. “Are you sure?” he tried again, and you could see genuine concern in his eyes. “I truly don’t want to make you uncomfortable. That’s the last thing I want.”

“Sy,” you looked at him properly then, your hands fidgeting nervously at your sides as you frowned slightly. All your previous worries came rushing back tenfold, crashing over you like a wave.

Of course he wouldn’t want to share a bed with you. You were sure you looked like a wounded kitten right now, but you couldn’t help it. The thought that sharing a bed with you might terrify him or disgust him made something crack in your chest.

“Am I really that awful to share a bed with—” you started, your voice small and hurt.

“No!” He cut you off immediately, standing up as his eyes went wide with something close to panic. The word came out too quickly, too forcefully, and he seemed to realise it because he cleared his throat, a blush coloring his cheeks and the tips of his ears in obvious embarrassment.

“I mean, no, of course not,” he said more gently, softer. “I just… I truly don’t want to make you uncomfortable. That’s all. I’d never—you could never be awful. That’s not… that’s not what this is about at all.”

Your heart warmed at his words, at the sincerity bleeding through every syllable. Relief flooded through you, loosening the knot of anxiety in your stomach.

“You won’t make me uncomfortable, I promise,” you reassured him with a small but genuine smile that you hoped conveyed your honesty. “As long as you’re fine with it too? I don’t want to force you into anything you’re not comfortable with.”

Sylus’s expression softened into something achingly tender. Slowly, carefully, he reciprocated your smile and nodded. “Of course, sweetie. If you’re certain, then… yes. Thank you.”

They both stood there, smiling at each other across the small room, and for a moment everything else fell away. The awkwardness, the tension, the confusion of the past weeks—it all dimmed in the warmth of that shared smile. In the familiar comfort of just being together.

The moment stretched, gentle and sweet and fragile.

Then you realised you’d been staring at him for too long, and warmth flooded your cheeks and neck, rising up like a tide. You felt flustered and shy and completely exposed under his soft gaze, like he could see every thought racing through your mind, every feeling you’d tried so hard to hide.

“S-sorry,” you stammered, mentally cursing yourself for the stutter. “Let me go find my nightgown.”

You turned quickly, reaching for your pack with slightly trembling hands. When you pulled out your nightgown—a simple, modest thing—reality struck you like cold water.

There was no changing screen. No separate room. No privacy. How were you supposed to change in front of him? You hadn’t thought this through at all.

You stood there frozen, clutching the nightgown, feeling increasingly foolish.

“What are you apologising for?” Sylus questioned gently from behind you, his voice closer than you’d expected but not uncomfortably so. “There’s nothing to apologise for.”

Your back was still turned to him, and you felt vulnerable, exposed in a way that had nothing to do with clothing. But his gentle words worked like a balm, and you felt your stiff shoulders begin to relax despite your nervousness.

You heard the soft sound of Sylus walking from the rug, heard his careful footsteps as he walked slowly toward you. Not rushing. Not demanding. Just… approaching.

At your continued silence, he spoke again, his voice low and achingly soft.

“If anything, I should be the one apologising.”

Your eyes widened. You froze completely, your hands stilling on the fabric you’d been nervously twisting. Your whole body felt like a live wire, every nerve ending aware of his proximity. Slowly, trembling slightly, you turned around to face him.

The breath left your lungs in a rush.

He was so close. Close enough that you could see the exact shade of crimson in his eyes, could count the individual strands of silver in his hair. Close enough that his warmth seemed to wrap around you like an embrace. Your whole body felt like it was burning, heat spreading from your chest outward until even your fingertips tingled.

“Why didn’t you stay that night?” Sylus asked quietly, and there was such raw vulnerability in the question it made your throat tight.

“Sy…” you whispered, looking away from his intense stare because it was too much, too open, too honest.

“I just can’t help but wonder why you didn’t—or wouldn’t—wait for me,” Sylus continued, his voice barely above a whisper now. “I understand that I probably ruined everything with my cowardice, with my inability to just tell you the truth when I had the chance. But I had hoped…” He paused, swallowing hard. “I’d hoped you might give me the chance to explain myself. To make things right.”

You could see his hands twitch at his sides, could see how badly he wanted to reach for you but was holding himself back. Could see the desperate need to comfort you, to close the distance, to touch you—but he remained still, respectful of your space even as it clearly cost him.

“I know I probably don’t deserve you,” he added, even more quietly, and the pain in his voice made your chest ache. “I know I’ve handled everything terribly. But I also know that I want to fight for you. That I need to fight for you. That you’re worth fighting for.”

His eyes found yours again, holding them with gentle intensity.

“I’m tired of being a coward,” he said, and there was steel beneath the softness now. Determination. “It’s time I’m honest with you. Honest with everyone. No more hiding. No more fear.”

Your eyes started to burn with the telltale prickle of tears, and your whole body trembled beneath his gaze—not from fear, but from the overwhelming emotions crashing over you. Slowly, you tilted your head back up to look at him properly.

And what you saw there nearly broke you. He looked vulnerable in a way you’d never seen before. Open and raw and hurting. But also hopeful. So desperately, achingly hopeful.

Sylus took a shaky breath, and when he spoke again, his voice was barely audible.

“I wrote those letters.” The world seemed to stop spinning. “I am your secret admirer.”

Your eyes widened impossibly further as you gasped quietly, the sound catching in your throat. Your mind went blank, then flooded with a thousand thoughts all at once.

“You?” The word came out as barely a breath. “H-how? When? Why didn’t you—”

You couldn’t finish any of the questions tumbling through your mind. Couldn’t process what he’d just said.

Sylus closed his eyes for a moment, as if gathering his courage, drawing on some inner strength. When he opened them again, they were bright with unshed tears and blazing with gentle, intense determination.

“My moonlight, you are everything I desire,” he whispered, and the words landed like a physical touch.

You took in a deep, shuddering breath as Sylus moved closer—slowly, carefully, giving you every opportunity to step back if you wanted to.

You didn’t.

His hands lifted, trembling slightly, and cupped your face with infinite gentleness. His palms were warm against your cheeks, his fingers spreading to cradle more of you, as if you were something infinitely precious that might shatter if held too tightly.

“There’s not a day that goes by that I don’t think of you,” he continued, his voice thick with emotion. “Not a single day where you don’t consume my thoughts. I dream of you every night. When I wake, you’re my first thought. When I sleep, you’re my last.”

His thumbs brushed across your cheekbones with such tender care it made fresh tears spring to your eyes.

“There is no one as mesmerising as you. No one as enchanting. No one who makes me feel the way you do.” He paused, swallowing hard, his eyes never leaving yours. “You consume my very being. Every part of me belongs to you—has always belonged to you.”

He breathed out your name like a prayer, like a confession, like the most important word in any language.

“You’re the love of my life,” he whispered, and his voice cracked slightly on the words. “I love you. I’m so deeply, hopelessly, completely in love with you.”

The tears that had been gathering in your eyes finally spilled over, sliding down your cheeks in warm streams. A sob hiccupped out of you as you looked at him—this man you’d loved for so long, who was looking at you like you hung the moon and stars.

“Y-you love me?” you stammered, needing to hear it again, needing to be sure this wasn’t some beautiful dream you’d wake from. You blinked repeatedly, trying to clear your vision through the tears that kept forming. “You really—”

“Yes, kitten,” he smiled with such profound tenderness it stole what little breath you had left.

The endearment made your heart skip. You’d heard him call you that before, but now it felt different. Weighted with meaning. With love.

His thumbs continued their gentle stroking across your cheeks, catching tears as they fell with such careful devotion.

“I’ve loved you from the moment I met you,” he continued, his voice soft but absolute. “Do you remember? We were children. You’d just arrived at the castle, so small and frightened, and you looked at me with those eyes and I just… knew. Even then, I knew you’d be important to me.”

A watery laugh escaped you at the memory—you, barely seven years old, overwhelmed by the massive castle and all the strangers, and Sylus offering you his hand and a shy smile.

“I’ve always loved you,” he went on, and you could hear the tears in his voice now too. “Always adored you. You were always the only one I wanted. The only one I needed. I am so hopelessly, so deeply, so irrevocably in love with you. There’s never been anyone else. There never could be.”

As you looked into his eyes—those beautiful crimson eyes that had always seen you, truly seen you—all you could see was pure adoration and love written in them. Devotion so complete it took your breath away.

For all those years, you’d been so terrified to tell him how you felt. Had convinced yourself it was impossible, that you were foolish for even hoping. Had spent countless nights crying into your pillow over the love you thought you could never have.

Only to discover he’d felt the same way all along.

You’d always been his. From the very first moment. Just as he’d always been yours.

But fear still lingered, creeping in despite the joy. Reality crashing back.

“B-but what about your parents?” you whispered, confusion and worry threading through your voice. “I mean, the King and Queen? You’re going to be King soon. They’ll never accept—I’m not noble, I’m not—”

Your breathing quickened with anxiety. This felt too good to be true. There had to be some obstacle, some reason why this couldn’t work.

Then Sylus smiled—widely, brilliantly, like the sun breaking through clouds.

“Before I summoned you to my office, I told them the truth,” he said, and relief was evident in every word. “I told my father and mother that I only wanted you. That I refused to marry out of duty alone, that I wouldn’t accept any match made for political gain. That I would only marry for love. That I would only marry you.”

Your breath caught. Your heart felt like it might burst from your chest.

“My father struggled with it initially,” Sylus admitted honestly. “He’s a traditional man, and he wanted to uphold certain expectations. But he was never truly against the idea of me being with you. He’s known how I felt about you for years—I think everyone has except you.”

A soft, slightly watery laugh escaped him.

“And my mother?” His smile grew impossibly softer. “She’s been hoping for this since we were children. She’s always loved you. She told me I was a fool for waiting so long, that she was beginning to think she’d have to orchestrate situations to force me to confess.”

He paused, his eyes searching yours.

“They gave us their blessing. Both of them. Completely. You’re already part of our family—you have been for years. This just… makes it official. Makes it real.”

A sob wrecked through your body as you took in his words, the reality of them sinking in like warmth spreading through frozen limbs.

“You—you truly love me?” you asked again in disbelief, shaking your head because this couldn’t be real, couldn’t be happening. “This isn’t… I’m not dreaming?”

“My kitten,” he whispered with such tenderness and intimacy it made you shiver. “I’ve only ever loved you. I will always only want you, need you, desire you, adore you. In this life and every life after.”

Then he pulled you into his arms—gently, carefully, as if you might break. He wrapped his arms around you securely but not tightly, holding you close against his chest.

“You’re the love of my life,” he murmured into your hair. “My soulmate. My everything.”

You felt like you were floating, like this had to be one of your dreams. The beautiful, impossible dreams you’d had countless times before, only to wake up alone and heartbroken.

“Am I dreaming?” you hiccupped against his chest, your hands clutching at his shirt. “Please tell me I’m not dreaming. I don’t think I could bear waking up from this.”

“No, my beloved,” he cooed softly, one hand coming up to cradle the back of your head while the other rubbed soothing circles on your back. “It’s real. I’m real. This is real. I promise you.”

You nuzzled your head against his chest, feeling his heartbeat—strong and steady and real—as more sobs wracked through you. These weren’t tears of sadness anymore. They were tears of relief, of joy, of overwhelming emotion you didn’t have words for.

“I’ve been in love with you since the first time we met,” you confessed, your voice soft and muffled against him but steady with truth. “I don’t think I’ve ever felt anything for anyone else besides you. Ever. It’s always been you.”

You felt him tense slightly, felt his breath catch, and then he was pulling back just enough to look at you. His eyes were bright with unshed tears, his smile trembling with emotion.

You were still trembling against him, crying with the weight of all these overwhelming feelings—years of longing and fear and hope finally finding release.

“You’re my everything,” Sylus whispered, cupping your cheeks again with such reverence, such tenderness.

Then slowly, giving you every chance to pull away, he leaned down and pressed the softest, most gentle kiss against your forehead. His lips lingered there, warm and tender, and you felt more tears slide down your cheeks.

When he pulled back just enough to look at you again, his thumbs brushed away your tears with such loving care.

His grin was contagious, warmer than the fire that’s crackling in the fireplace, brighter than the sun on a warm summer day and you swear that in that moment you felt as if it’s just the two of you in this universe.

You leaned your face closer to his to then graze your nose against Sylus’.

“My kitten,” He smiled, blinding and it only widened when you looked at him timidly. His nose then moved down to press against your cheek, lips just brushing yours.

“My Sylus.” You whispered as you bit your bottom lip bashfully.

Slowly he brushed his lips against yours before pulling away just slightly. His tongue poked out to wet his lips, and you had to hold back a moan at the delicious, inviting sight. “Kitten,” he whispered lowly, sending shivers down your spine, as his gaze shifted from your lips to your eyes repeatedly. “Can I…?”

Your heart stopped, then started again at triple speed.

“Please,” you breathed.

And then his lips were on yours, soft and gentle and perfect. The kiss was tender, almost chaste—a question and an answer all at once. You felt his hands trembling slightly as they cradled your face, felt your own hands come up to grip his shirt, anchoring yourself to him.

You whimpered as he gave your bottom lip a little nip, swiping his tongue against it afterwards to soothe the sting. You gasped, and Sylus took the opportunity to access the inside of your mouth with his tongue. You moaned, feeling lightheaded and dizzy as the kiss turned more heated.

You always knew that he’d be an amazing kisser, but this was something else. His hands gripped you and crushed your body to his with fervour as he licked and sucked at your tongue. All you could do was melt into him, your arms hanging loosely around his shoulders. You let out more little moans and sighs into his lips as he continued to massage the inside of your mouth with his tongue just right.

When you finally parted, both of you were breathing hard, foreheads resting together.

“I love you,” he whispered against your lips.

“I love you too,” you whispered back. “So much. For so long.”

And standing there in the quiet inn room, wrapped in each other’s arms with tears drying on your cheeks and the taste of your first kiss still lingering, you finally let yourself believe it.

This was real. He loved you. And everything was going to be okay.

-ˋˏ ༻❁༺ ˎˊ-

Throughout the evening, neither of you could stop touching, holding, or kissing each other—like two souls trying to memorise every second. You eventually moved to the bed, both curled up on the bed, nestled in his lap, lips moving languidly together in an unhurried rhythm that spoke of longing and tenderness. Every kiss deepened with time, slow and reverent, before turning more fervent—more hungry—as his hands began to explore your body through the barrier of your clothes.

The air was thick with anticipation, a heady mix of desire and nervousness that seemed to cling to every surface. Sylus sat underneath you, his tall frame commanding yet gentle, his crimson eyes locked onto yours with an intensity that made your heart flutter. His lips, full and inviting, found yours once more, the kiss deepening as his hands slid down to your waist, pulling you tighter against him. You could feel the heat of his body through the fabric of your dress and little panties, his heart racing against your chest, his breath mingling with yours, hot and much deeper.

“I love you… my Sylus,” you whispered breathlessly, as he leaned he reconnected your mouths together and kissed you passionately on the mouth, his blunt nails digging into your plush hips. “I love you so much.”

“Please, will you say it again baby? I need to hear you say it once more.” He pleaded as his eyes fluttered.

“I love you.” You whimpered as his mouth connected with yours again.

He groaned into you, tilting his head to kiss you deeper, and you opened your mouth for him when you felt his tongue tracing your lower lip and licking into your mouth. His hand raised to cup your cheek, the other wrapping tighter around you as he kept your body pressed to his.

His mouth then moved from your lips to your cheeks as he whispered his love for you again and again. He started to trail long, hot kisses down your jaw and neck. You whimpered pitifully as he suckled lightly on the side of your neck, tilting your head back instinctively to bare more of your soft skin to him.

As he continued to move lower down your skin, Sylus his tongue would poke out every now and then to lavish your skin with it. Lapping, kissing and sucking at your body. His kisses became longer, hotter and more fervent as he continued on. You whined, squeezing your eyes shut as you pulled him closer against you.

Sylus groaned and bit down gently on the junction of your neck and shoulder. You cried out, impulsively grinding your hips against his in a desperate search for some much-needed friction against your aching core.

You gasped, your eyes flew open at the hard bulge you felt against your pussy. You whined as your core instinctively started clenching around nothing, begging for attention, his attention.

Instinctively you started moving your hips against his making him groan against your skin. The feeling of his desire pressed against your heated skin is heavenly, and you roll your hips down into his to feel some friction against your throbbing clit.

“Need you so bad baby,” he groaned against your skin. You shuddered against him and felt a heated and wet sensation pool down low between your thighs. You were certain that your tiny underwear was ruined by now.

A high pitched whimper slipped past your lips as he started to move along with you, grinding against your clothed cunt.

“My kitten,” he murmured against your mouth, his voice a low, husky whisper that sent shivers down your spine. His hands were trembling slightly, his fingers brushing the hem of your dress as he spoke. “Can I… can I undress you? Let me help you into your nightgown.”

You hesitated for only a moment, your breath catching in your throat as you considered the weight of his words. This was it—the moment you had both been wanting and needing to happen for so long, the moment that would change everything. Your voice was barely above a whisper, trembling with a mix of excitement and nervousity. “Yes,” you replied, “please.”

With hands that were both gentle and reverent, Sylus began to unlace your dress. His fingers moved slowly, deliberately, each movement a tender caress as he exposed your skin inch by inch. The room was silent except for the soft rustle of fabric and the sound of his soft kisses against your skin and your shared breaths, heavy and anticipatory. As the dress slowly fell away from your shoulders, pooling at your waist, you sat before him in your shift, your body eager and flushed with heat.

You trembled beneath his warm, intimate, and intense gaze, waiting for what he would do next. You felt yourself grow nervous under his watchful, hungry eyes. As much as you wanted him, anxiety bubbled up in the pit of your stomach.

“You okay, sweetheart?” he asked, worry threading through his voice. “You’re trembling.”

“Y-yeah,” you stuttered before exhaling shakily. “Are you sure you want me?”

“Yes, of course,” he replied gently, pressing a tender kiss to your lips. “There’s no one I want more than you.”

You took a shuddering breath, bracing yourself for what you were about to confess. “I want you too… so badly. I just— I’ve never done this before. I’m afraid you might be disappointed.”

You nibbled your bottom lip as his eyes widened in realization. He understood what you were admitting. You were a virgin.

You wanted Sylus so much, you had dreamed of this for so long, but you would have been lying if you said your nerves weren’t fraying.

“Baby,” Sylus murmured softly, leaning in to press a gentle kiss to your temple as he wrapped you in his arms. Your body relaxed instantly beneath his affectionate touch. “I’m certain you could never disappoint me. It doesn’t matter whether you’re experienced or not—you’ll always be the best lover I could ever ask for. Because you’re perfect for me.”

Then, in a quieter voice, he added, “Besides, my sweet girl… this would be my first time as well.” He looked at you with so much tenderness that you melted against him all over again. “Please don’t worry about that,” he whispered, nudging his nose against yours with a warm smile. “I’ll take good care of you.”

He gazed at you with such adoration and love that it stole the breath from your lungs. “I trust you, Sy,” you whispered with a timid nod—just before he leaned down to claim your lips in a slow, deep kiss.

Warmth spread through your body as his hands began to wander. You whimpered into his mouth when his palms traced the length of your thighs, his touch both grounding and electrifying. Your head grew hazy with desire, with the overwhelming love you felt for him. Your thoughts dissolved into soft, sweet nothingness as your lips moved together in hungry, passionate kisses.

Slowly, his hands traced your naked skin, gliding toward your lower back as his fingertips followed the soft contours there. You began to move your hips desperately against his, moaning into his mouth, hoping Sylus would understand your silent plea soon enough.

The kiss deepened with an intensity that had you gasping for breath. You rolled your hips into his, rubbing your throbbing clit against him just to gain a bit of friction against your aching core. You moaned into his mouth as you pressed harder, and the front of his dress pants strained as he ground against you in return.

Suddenly everything felt overwhelming—the rising heat in the room, the wandering warmth of his touch sliding over your skin, and the head-spinning truth that you were crossing into unfamiliar yet deeply intimate territory with your best friend. You felt hot all over, your body thrumming with need.

He groaned when you kept grinding against him, his hands tightening around your hips to still your movements. You whined in protest, and in one fluid motion he rolled you both over, hovering above you as he gently pinned your arms against the mattress. You were so desperate to feel him again.

“So impatient,” he chuckled, a devious smile curving his lips as he pulled back just long enough to catch his breath. “Such a needy kitten, begging for my touch.”

“Please,” you whined, your voice soft and desperate as you squirmed beneath him.

Moments later his mouth claimed yours again. The kiss grew hotter, deeper, each pass of your lips stoking the fire between you. His hands moved down your body once more while yours slid to the back of his head, your fingers tangling in his hair. When you gave a soft tug, he moaned into your mouth. One of his hands trailed slowly up your stomach while the other held firmly at your hip. His touch made you weak, heat pooling between your thighs as you kissed and touched each other with unrestrained hunger.

His fingers brushed delicately along the sides of your ribs, moving up and down in slow, reverent sweeps, his fingertips tracing every dip and curve as if memorizing your body.

“You’re so soft,” he whispered against your lips. A moment later, his hands slipped away from your ribs only to settle at the hem of your little dress. “Can I take this off, sweetie?”

You bit your lip and nodded frantically, unable to find your voice in that moment. His smile deepened as his hands slipped beneath your dress for just a second before he hooked his fingers into the fabric and slowly drew it upward. You raised your arms to help him remove it, the air brushing your newly exposed skin.

Heat bloomed across your body under the way his eyes roamed over you, drinking in every detail. The way Sylus looked at you—eyes filled with nothing but love, awe, and adoration—made you feel so alive.

You didn’t know what to do with your hands. They trembled helplessly, and your core trembled just as much, while he tossed the discarded clothing aside and lowered his mouth to your collarbone. His lips moved there with such affection that it sent a sweet shiver down your spine.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispered, letting his mouth wander over every inch of exposed skin. “So divine… ethereal.”

Your bare chests pressed together, skin against skin, every point of contact setting you ablaze. You stared up at him with wide, overwhelmed eyes as he continued kissing his way across your body.

His large hands slid to the curve of your waist where it met your hips, gripping you firmly as he scattered damp kisses and gentle nips over your shoulders and down the path to your breasts. You whimpered softly when he traced the tip of his nose over the swell of your breast, savoring the moment before his lips followed.

He leaned down and pressed the softest, sweetest kiss to the side of your breast before lifting his gaze to yours. “Are you okay?” he murmured. His forearms rested on either side of your body, caging you in gently. When you nodded, he brought one hand up to stroke your cheek, his thumb warm and tender against your skin. “Kitten… if we’re gonna go any further, I need you to talk to me. I need verbal communication. Think you can do that?”

You stared at him for a moment, breath catching, then nodded again. He raised a brow and gave you that knowing look that sent warmth spreading through your chest. “Sorry,” you whispered. “Y-yes, Sy. Yes… I think I can do that.”

“Good girl,” he praised softly, a gentle smile curving his lips. “And if you want me to stop—” His mouth pressed back to your heated skin, trailing barely-there kisses down the valley of your breasts. Your eyes fluttered shut as your fingers twisted in the sheets. “—you tell me right away. Okay?” he muttered, his voice raw and strained with want.

“Y-yes, Sylus… I understand,” you whimpered.

“Good.”

He breathed in through his nose, inhaling your scent, and you shivered when he exhaled warm breath directly over your nipple. “Fuck, angel… you’re so beautiful.”

Then he wrapped his lips around your nipple, teeth skimming lightly over sensitive skin as he sucked and licked with slow, hungry passion.

“Sy…” you mewled, hips lifting helplessly as your cunt sought any kind of friction.

Sylus looked up at you, his mouth curling into a soft, adoring smile. Heat crawled up your skin under his gaze. He could see everything on your face—want, need, desperation—and he welcomed it. His lips returned to you, long, slow, lavish licks from the flat of his tongue over your pebbled nipple while his other hand rose to squeeze your other breast, kneading gently.

Impatient, trembling, you guided the hand on your breast downward—down your stomach, down to the heat between your thighs. His breath hitched. As his fingers slipped beneath the band of your underwear and down to where you needed him most, his mouth fell open with a loud, helpless groan right against your nipple. His fingers slid between your slick folds, tracing your pussy softly, savoring.

He worshipped you there for a moment—just his fingers teasing, learning every response—before he suddenly pulled back. Completely away from you.

You whimpered as he sat up, watching through hazy eyes as he took his time removing his clothes. Every button, every movement felt agonizingly slow. You shut your eyes briefly, whining, desperate to feel him again, desperate for his heat on your skin.

When he stripped down to just his underwear, you felt the bed dip as he moved back over you. He leaned down, his lips immediately finding your neck, licking and sucking softly as his hands cupped your sensitive breasts and massaged them with tender, reverent fingers. Heat flooded your body as Sylus kissed down your shoulders, then your chest, his mouth leaving warm, fluttering trails.

Your trembling hands slid into his silver hair, threading through the strands as he continued to kiss and taste every inch of exposed skin. Sylus’ lips moved slowly down your body, worshipping you with unhurried kisses, while his hands traced the lines of your shaking form—mapping every curve, every soft place, every breath you took beneath him.

He leaned forward, breathing in the heat of your core as he ran his nose slowly along the patch of dampness clinging to your panties. You tugged at his hair when he inhaled your scent, his breath catching. “Fuck, kitten,” he hummed, looking up at you with an intense, hungry gaze. His hands left your skin to curl into the waistband of your panties. “You smell so good… I can’t wait to taste you.”

A shuddering breath slipped past your lips as you lifted your hips instinctively, silently begging him to take them off. He slid the fabric down your legs, and once he pushed your thighs open for him, you whimpered as the cool air kissed your wet slit. Sylus stilled for a moment, his eyes devouring the sight of you—your glistening center clenching around nothing as he watched your pussy pulse with need.

He licked his lips slowly before leaning down, placing lingering kisses along your inner thighs. His tongue dragged warm, teasing strokes over your soft skin, sucking gently, worshipping. His mouth was so close to where you needed him most, but each kiss felt like sweet torture, keeping him just out of reach.

“So pretty,” he murmured as he guided your legs up and over his shoulders, settling you perfectly beneath him.

You were about to beg—about to plead for him—when his lips left your thigh… only for him to nuzzle directly against your pussy a moment later. He smeared your slick across his lips, savoring the taste as he opened you for his tongue.

You gasped, your body arching as his wet tongue finally met your throbbing heat.

He pulled back again briefly, only long enough for his fingers to slide in and spread your outer lips for him. Sylus smirked as he eased a single finger inside you, watching your body react—the way your hips twitched, the way your walls fluttered around the intrusion, how greedily your wet hole swallowed his digit. You moaned into the pillow beside you, trying to muffle the desperate sounds.

Those little whines—soft, needy, helpless—only drove Sylus to chase more of those heavenly noises from your lips.

“Fuck… such a tight little pussy,” he moaned as your cunt clenched repeatedly around his finger.

Your whines grew louder as the pleasure washed over you. His fingers were so much bigger than yours—just one of his was more overwhelming, more delicious, than anything you had ever done to yourself.

You whimpered as your core kept fluttering and gripping around him, silently begging for more. He pumped his finger in and out of you at a slow, unhurried pace, savoring every reaction. Instinctively, your hips began to move with it, grinding into his hand. Sylus groaned at the sight, his gaze burning into you as he continued to finger-fuck you. His eyes couldn’t stay still—they drifted over your face, down your trembling body, drinking in the way you writhed beneath him.

You panted heavily, thoughts dissolving, barely able to think as he slid two more fingers inside you. Sylus worked them slowly at first, giving your tight pussy time to adjust to the stretch. It was overwhelming, but the kind that felt so unbelievably good. Little whimpers spilled from your lips as he fucked you with his fingers, curling them deep, then spreading them apart. He leaned down and kissed you, swallowing every mewl as your hands tangled in his hair, pulling at the strands, your body moving helplessly with the rhythm he set.

You gasped when his tongue slipped into your mouth, kissing you with desperate devotion. “That feels good, doesn’t it, baby girl? You like it when I touch you like this?” Sylus groaned—right as his thumb found your clit. You bucked into him, nodding frantically.

“Use your words, kitten,” he teased darkly.

“Yes—please, Sy, please… feels so good,” you whimpered, voice breaking.

He kissed his way down your body again, making you whine and beg in soft, breathless sounds—even as his fingers kept thrusting inside you.

Sylus inhaled your scent as soon as he settled between your thighs, but he didn’t keep you waiting. He wet his lips, then dipped his head to drag his tongue in a slow stripe from your dripping folds to your clit.

“Fuck, Sylus!” you shrieked, hips lifting off the mattress.

Senseless, needy noises poured from your throat. Your hips stuttered against him, and he simply sighed—like there was nothing in this world he wanted more than to eat you out right here, right now.

His name tumbled from your lips again and again, chanted like a prayer. Tears pricked your eyes as pleasure overwhelmed you. His mouth wrapped around your clit, his fingers still pumping inside you while his other hand held your hip down, pinning you to the sheets as you bucked, urging him to give you even more.

He worked your arousal expertly—his fingers curling to hit that spongy spot inside you while his tongue flicked and suckled at your clit. The familiar coil in your belly wound tighter and tighter. Your abdomen clenched as he quickened his pace, fingers stroking that sweet spot with perfect precision. Your toes curled, thighs shaking as they squeezed around his head.

“Aah—too much!” you squeaked, voice strangled as you teetered on the edge. “T-too— I-I—fuck!”

“Easy, kitten,” he whispered, pressing a soft kiss to your thigh as his fingers stilled for a moment.

“Sylus…” you mumbled, face buried in the pillow.

“It’s okay, baby. I know. I’ve got you,” he cooed, his voice teasing but tender. “It’s a lot. Will you let me continue?”

“Y-yeah… just—just wait a second,” you whined.

“Anything for you.”

But waiting became unbearable—your body aching, throbbing, desperate. And he felt it too. Sylus leaned down, tongue sliding between your folds before licking upward to your clit.

You sighed at the same moment he did—yours high and breathy, his deep and dreamy. He lapped at you with clear intention, fucking you with slow, careful strokes of his fingers this time, keeping you just where you needed to be.

“Oh—my god,” you whimpered, trembling hands gripping his silver hair with one hand while the other clamped over your mouth to silence yourself. “F-Fuck… Sy, f-fuck…”

He moaned into your pussy, lips sealing around your clit. You jerked at the sensation. “Fucking hell— you taste so good. You feel so good. You’re everything,” he groaned against you.

“Fuck, baby—oh my fucking god,” you cried out. He sucked lazily on your clit while curling his fingers inside you, then sucked harder as he circled your little bud with his tongue. His fingers moved faster, deeper, hitting your sweet spot over and over. You moaned his name between breathless mewls, now gripping his hair with both hands.

Your whole body trembled violently, heat spreading everywhere, your hips grinding helplessly into his face and hand.

“A-Ah! I’m coming—please, please—”

“Cum for me, kitten,” he murmured before sucking your clit again.

Your body snapped tight as your orgasm tore through you. Your mind exploded into blinding stars, pleasure crashing through your nerves so sharply you cried out his name. You trembled uncontrollably as you came against his mouth, your soul unwinding in his hands.

“You’re doing so well for me, sweetie,” he whispered proudly as his fingers slowed, sliding out to softly rub your swollen slit while he kept licking your clit—guiding you gently through every last wave.

You were a sputtering, helpless mess, trembling as he pushed you right to the edge of overstimulation.

As your senses returned in shaky pieces, you felt his fingers slip away from your heat. Your pussy clenched around nothing, desperate and empty. You felt like a fevered storm, soaked from the waist down, dripping onto the sheets, whimpering helplessly.

You needed him. Badly. Your pussy pulsed insistently—begging to be filled again. Begging for his cock.

Your eyes were still closed when you felt your legs being spread open even wider by his strong hands. A loud, broken moan spilled from your lips as Sylus dove between your thighs again, licking a slow stripe up through your folds and teasingly dipping his tongue into your needy hole before traveling up to your clit, spreading you with his wet muscle and sucking the sensitive bud into his mouth.

You practically cried at the sensation, your back arching slightly off the bed. Your whole body trembled, desperate and overwhelmed. You needed more—so much more. Instinctively, you tried to grind your wetness against his lips, chasing any friction as your body shook uncontrollably.

But his arms locked around your thighs, biceps caging your hips in place, holding you still despite your attempts to ride his mouth.

“Taste so good, kitten… could eat this pussy all day,” he growled against you.

The man you loved more than anyone in the universe was between your legs, sliding his tongue up and down your soaked slit. Every soft mewl, every helpless noise escaping your lips only urged him on. His mouth returned to your clit, sucking the nub softly between his lips, savouring every reaction you gave him.

Eventually he leaned in deeper, slipping his tongue into your entrance. He curled it upward, brushing your walls, and the way your fingers bunched the sheets in a tight, trembling grip made him repeat the motion with even more intent.

You were a mess—his mess—a whimpering, needy ruin beneath him. Your hips kept trying to move against his face as breathless moans tumbled out of you uncontrollably. Writhing beneath him, you felt him lick up again, pressing his tongue against a sensitive spot inside that made your vision blur, your hips bucking hard against his mouth. Your thighs clamped around his head as another orgasm drew frighteningly close.

Greed and desperation overtook you. Your fingers dove into his silver hair, tugging harder than before, your hips pushing against his face to force his tongue deeper into your aching cunt.

“Ahh—Sylus…” you moaned, voice breaking. You were so close—you just needed one more push.

You moved your hips against him helplessly, fucking yourself on his tongue as he pressed firmly into that sensitive spot inside you. His thumb circled your clit in slow, perfect circles that made stars dance behind your eyes.

“Be a good girl and come for me,” Sylus moaned against your pussy before plunging his tongue back inside you.

That did it. With the added pressure on your clit and the sound of his deep, commanding voice, you came with a loud, shattered whine. Your vision went white, your ears rang, and your movements against his face turned sloppy and uncoordinated.

Your hips stuttered until the final waves of aftershocks rolled through you. He stayed with you gently, lapping at your release until the overstimulation made you twitch away.

“You did so well, angel… so good to me. So beautiful. And you taste so good. So sweet,” he murmured against your inner thigh, voice thick with praise.

You whimpered softly at his words, gently trying to pull your hips away from his mouth. He grinned up at you, eyes locked with yours as he brought his glistening fingers to his lips.

Your whimpers shifted into embarrassed giggles as he licked his fingers clean, and you brought your hands up to hide your heated cheeks. But Sylus wasn’t having it. He caught your hands and kissed them all over—soft, slow kisses—before pulling them gently down. Then he leaned in, peppering kisses across your nose, your forehead, your cheeks, until finally his mouth landed on your lips with a smile, both of you laughing softly between each kiss.

He pulled back with a satisfied sigh, his expression warm and tender as he reached to touch the side of your neck, tracing his fingertips up and down.

You melted at the gentle contact and pressed a kiss to his thumb when it brushed your lips. Your still-shaky legs wrapped around his hips as you gazed into his eyes, breathless and utterly in love.

“I think I’m ready.”

His breath stilled. “Sure?” he asked softly, as though he was afraid to sway you either way.

“Yes.” You nodded, voice small but sure, and reached between your bodies to cradle his cheek. Your thumb brushed his skin in a tender little stroke that made his eyes soften instantly.

“We can stop at any moment if it becomes too much,” he reminded you in that gentle tone he saved only for you. “I need you to know that.”

You pouted up at him, letting your fingers trace his soft skin. “I know I’m nervous,” you admitted, voice fragile. “But I… I don’t want to stop.”

His expression melted. “My sweet girl,” he breathed, brushing his nose against yours. “I only want you comfortable. If you changed your mind, I would hold you just the same. I would adore you just as much.”

Your chest tightened. Tears welled helplessly at the tenderness in his voice. No one had ever loved you like this. No one made you feel so treasured, so safe, so seen. You wanted him with every trembling beat of your heart, and somehow—and impossibly—his gentleness and reassurance only made you want him more.

You inhaled shakily and lifted both hands to cup his face. He held your wrists lightly, reverently, as if your touch alone steadied him.

“I want to experience this with you,” you whispered, eyes locked with his. “I trust you. I love you with everything that I am.”

The look he gave you then nearly undid you—pure adoration, awe, a devotion that made you feel like you were something sacred placed into his hands. Your cheeks warmed, your heart fluttered, but your nerves eased beneath the warmth of his gaze.

He lowered his head, kissing you deeply—slowly first, then with a growing hunger—as he cupped your face. Your legs tightened around his hips, drawing him closer. You felt his hard cock pressing against your soaked core through the thin barrier of his underwear, and the slow drag of heat made your breath catch.

Letting instinct guide you, you let your hands glide from his jaw down the sculpted lines of his torso, pausing when your fingers dipped beneath the waistband of his boxers. He inhaled sharply, watching you with parted lips, his entire body attuned to your touch. When your hands stilled on the band, he exhaled softly and sat back just enough to slip them off.

He dragged the fabric down his legs, tossing it aside. And suddenly he was bare to you—completely, beautifully bare.

Your breath hitched as your gaze roamed over him. He was… breathtaking. And also massive. Thick and long, heavy, flushed with desire, precum leaking from the tip, catching in the low light. Heat surged straight to your still-clenching core as you imagined him filling you—stretching you—yet the sight also sent a tremor of nerves through your belly.

Sylus moved back over you, brushing a soft kiss to your lips, then another. It felt like he was trying to soothe every tremor inside you. “What is this beautiful mind of yours thinking?” he murmured against your mouth.

“H-how…?” you whispered, wide-eyed, cheeks burning.

A quiet laugh escaped him—warm and fond and impossibly gentle. “I promise, angel, I’ll fit,” he whispered, cupping your cheek with his big, warm hand. “I’ll go slow. I’ll take such good care of you.”

You melted into his touch.

He aligned himself with you, the warm tip of his cock brushing your entrance, and the contact made you shiver. Sylus rested his forehead against yours, eyes locked with yours as if grounding you.

You rolled your hips up in a shy, needy motion, wanting to feel him. Slick heat spread as your wetness coated him. A deep, strained moan vibrated through his chest as he moved with you, letting the head of his cock glide through your folds.

“I love you,” you breathed, nudging your nose against his before kissing him softly.

His eyes glowed with a warmth that wrapped around your heart like a promise. “And I love you,” he whispered, sealing your mouth with another slow kiss. “More than anything.”

Your lips moved lazily together, savoring each stolen breath. But soon the kisses deepened, slow turning hungry, your fingers curling against his back while his hands held your hips. Every moment burned sweeter than the last.

Holding his length in one hand, he dragged the head of his cock from your entrance up over your clit—slowly, teasingly. You gasped softly at the sensation, your body arching into him. He circled your sensitive bud with the slick tip, spreading his precum and your arousal together until you were trembling beneath him.

He groaned as he watched you writhe. “You’re so wet for me,” he whispered, voice low and reverent. “So perfect.”

And he kept teasing you, dragging back down to your entrance, then up again—drawing out every soft whimper you gave him like it was a gift.

The thought of Sylus finally entering you — really having him inside you — made your body grow impossibly wetter, a molten ache blooming deep in your core. Sylus swallowed every trembling whine you gave him, kissing you with a hunger that made your head spin, rolling his hips slowly with yours as if he could soothe the anticipation building inside your entire body.

You trembled beneath him, every inch of you alive with need. His body covered yours completely, warm and solid, grounding and overwhelming all at once. You writhed softly, helplessly, yearning for him to fill you, to be inside you so deeply that the world blurred into white.

“I’ll try to go slow, okay, kitty?” he murmured in that low velvet tone, brushing a brief kiss to your parted lips. His hand slid down between you both, curling around the base of his cock as he lined himself up. The head of him pressed gently between your slick folds, rubbing slow, deliberate strokes that sent sparks across your skin.

“P-please, Sylus,” you stuttered, voice breaking beautifully. Your body trembled even harder beneath him. “P-put it in, please…”

He exhaled shakily, clearly as affected as you were, and kept teasing himself up and down your slit — spreading your wetness, feeling you. You arched your back in desperation, a broken whine ripping free of your throat.

“Relax, little kitten,” he whispered against your lips, brushing them again as if he could calm your trembling through touch alone.

His forehead rested against yours. His breath warmed your cheek. And then — finally — he nudged the tip of his cock against your entrance. Your legs quivered around his hips, nerves and need tangling together.

The moment he notched himself inside you, both of you gasped. It was only the tip, but the stretch already stole your breath. Sylus moved so carefully it almost broke you — inching forward as though he was afraid to hurt you, his muscles trembling with the effort of restraint.

A long, fragile whine spilled from your lips as he slowly pushed deeper, and deeper still. He was so big. So impossibly thick.

“Too big, Sy…” you mewled, voice broken and trembling.

Slowly—carefully—he pushed just a little further inside you, his breath warm against your cheek as he whispered, “You can take it, my kitten. You’re doing so so good for me. Such a good little kitten.”

You tangled your fingers into the hair at the nape of his neck, pulling gently, clinging to him as he breathed heavily above you. His forehead pressed to yours, his warm breath fanning your lips as he inched forward. The sting of the stretch made your eyes squeeze shut, but his slow, deliberate pace kept it from ever tipping into too much.

He pressed another centimeter into you — then another — until your nails dug into his scalp and a sharp gasp tore from you. He stilled instantly.

His hands framed your face, kissing your cheeks, your temple, your lips. “Doing so good for me, kitten,” he whispered between each kiss. “So, so good.”

“Please…” you whimpered, eyes fluttering shut as tears prickled.

He kept moving with excruciating patience, letting you adjust to every bit of him. After a moment, your body began to relax around him, slowly easing into the stretch. You clutched his shoulders, your walls fluttering around him helplessly as pleasure began to unfurl in the pit of your stomach.

“Such a good girl,” he breathed — and your body clenched around him, growing even wetter at the praise.

At last, with a deep, shuddering breath, he bottomed out. A soft, startled gasp escaped you as the head of his cock kissed your cervix. You could feel his precum mixing with your slick, hot inside you, and tears finally spilled freely down your cheeks — a mix of the overwhelming fullness, the relief, the trust, the love, all of it tangled together.

He held you tenderly, lips brushing your forehead as he whispered encouragement, soft as prayer.

When you finally opened your eyes, he was already watching you with deep concern, thumb brushing away your tears. “I’m fine,” you whispered with a shaky smile, nodding. “It’s just… a lot.”

And it was. You felt stretched perfectly around him, filled in a way that made your entire body buzz. As you adjusted, the fullness began to bloom into something sweeter — deeper.

You clenched around him without meaning to, and Sylus groaned low in his chest, his face tightening with restraint.

“Sy…” you breathed, lifting one shaking hand to brush the hair away from his eyes. “You can move.”

His eyes softened into something tender, grateful, undone. When your hips tilted up, inviting him, he let out a deep moan and lowered his forehead to yours again. His lips grazed your cheek as he pulled back just slightly—

Then he rolled his hips forward in one slow, deep stroke.

You gasped, back arching at the sensation. His thrusts were careful, controlled, slow enough that you felt every inch of him dragging through you. He didn’t pull out far — only enough to rock inside you, the movement gentle and intimate and achingly deep.

The sting faded quickly, replaced by a warmth that curled into your bones. Every slow glide had your breath hitching, your fingers digging into his shoulders, your walls fluttering around him with every tender, deliberate thrust.

He kissed your lips, your cheek, your jaw. “You’re perfect,” he whispered against your mouth. “So warm… so tight… so good for me.”

And he kept moving — slow, deep, worshipful — as if savoring every second inside you.

Slowly, you were getting used to his girth, anticipating it every time he pulled out of you before sliding forward again. Your legs were splayed open on either side of his hips as he ground his cock into you. The angle was perfect—so deep, so consuming—that Sylus gradually picked up his pace, leaving you a whimpering, breathless mess beneath him. As he fucked into you with long, languid strokes, the room filled with the wet, desperate sound of slick skin meeting slick skin.

Every time he sank into you, his pelvic bone dragged against your throbbing clit, making you cry out his name in pure, helpless ecstasy.

“You’re taking me so well, sweetie… doing so, so good for me,” he whispered against your skin, his voice warm and adoring as he nuzzled into the crook of your neck.

Soft grunts fell from Sylus’ lips whenever he hit that specific deep spot inside you. You whimpered as his mouth returned to yours, capturing your lips in a heated, dizzying kiss. One of his hands slipped down between your bodies, finding your clit with practiced ease as he rubbed two slow, deliberate circles over your sensitive nub.

When he slid into a hidden pressure point deep in your core—paired with the relentless way his fingers circled your clit—you clenched around him like a vise. Your eyes rolled back as pleasure surged violently through you, overwhelming and new. Your whimpers climbed higher in pitch as he picked up his pace, fucking you deeper, the sound of his breath growing ragged as he watched you unravel.

“Feeling good, baby?” Sylus moaned, lips curling into a soft, tender smile as he admired the way your face contorted in pleasure—so overwhelmed, so beautifully undone just for him. Filth and praise slipped from his mouth like honey. “This pussy was made for me.”

His mouth covered yours again, swallowing all your little noises, smothering your trembling breaths. The tightness in your belly returned, coiling and pulling tighter with every thrust, every touch, every kiss he gave you.

Your whimpers and gasps grew louder as ecstasy and warmth flooded your senses.

His hands couldn’t get enough of you—sliding over your hips, your waist, your back—touching every part of you like he wanted to memorize it. You whimpered at the speed of his thrusts, feeling another orgasm build rapidly, your legs locking tightly around his hips. He felt it too—the way you squeezed around him with every thrust—so he drove harder into your heat, shifting his hips, searching for the exact spot he knew would shatter you.

Your arms trembled as they wrapped around him, nails digging into his back, earning a deep, helpless groan from him. The coil in your belly tightened, tingling down to your legs—ready to snap at any moment.

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispered, voice strained, cursing softly when you purposefully tightened your walls around him. “Bet you’d look even prettier with my cum inside you… all full and messy.”

“Please…” you moaned, your mind hazy with want. “Please, Sy… baby… fill this pussy up.”

He groaned into your neck, fucking you harder, the bed rattling beneath both of you with every desperate thrust.

“You want to cum, sweetheart?”

You nodded frantically, your eyes squeezing shut as you bit your lip, your body trembling beneath him. You bucked up instinctively, nails sinking into his skin as his hand moved back to your clit. His other hand found yours, intertwining your fingers before pinning them gently to the bed. He rubbed your clit with firm, perfect pressure—just enough to push you over.

“Cum for me, kitten,” Sylus demanded softly, his voice a warm breath against your cheek.

And when he nudged that one perfect spot inside you—paired with his deep, commanding voice—you exploded.

You shattered, coming undone so violently it ripped a cry of his name from your throat. Blood rushed wildly in your ears, drowning out the sound of your own sobbing breaths as Sylus crashed his lips onto yours, swallowing every broken noise. Your head fell back, your back arching sharply as your body twisted under the force of your release.

Sylus groaned into your ear as your walls spasmed around him, clenching desperately, begging for him—needing him to fill you.

“Fuck…” he moaned, pushing himself up as he thrust harder, deeper, the head of his cock hitting your spot repeatedly. “You want me to fill this pussy up? Make it all messy?”

You were dazed, trembling, but still able to nod vigorously, whining as overstimulation mixed with need. Your pussy squeezed around him with greedy pulses. “Please…”

His hips stuttered, thrusts turning sloppy as the pleasure overtook him. Then—

with a raw, broken moan—he spilled inside you.

Warmth flooded your core, spreading thickly through your walls as he kept himself buried deep. You whimpered when he finally pulled out, his cum dripping out of you and down your thighs.

Everything was a soft, blurred haze when you came back to yourself. Your body ached, but in the sweetest way—completely relaxed, thoroughly ruined, and glowing with the kind of exhaustion that felt like bliss.

Once both of you had caught your breaths, Sylus leaned his forehead against yours and kissed you tenderly.

“That was…” he breathed, smiling in awe at the beautiful mess beneath him—your hair tousled, your skin flushed, your lips swollen from his kisses.

“Oh yeah… that was amazing.” Your voice came out hoarse, softened by pleasure. You cleared your throat gently and smiled up at him.

Your skin was sweaty and sticky, but he didn’t seem to care at all. He pulled you closer, hands roaming lovingly over every inch of skin he could reach, still dazed by how breathtaking you looked coming apart for him—because of him.

Overwhelmed with affection, you cupped his cheeks in both hands and pulled him down into another slow, tender kiss—soft, deep, and full of emotion.

And that’s how the rest of the night went, tender kisses and soft and intimate touches shared between you two as you enjoyed each other’s company. Feeling so loved and at home as you melted in his embrace.

You’d once thought Sylus was forever out of reach—close enough to touch but impossibly far from claiming. But as his arms tightened around you and his lips pressed another gentle kiss to your forehead, as he whispered your name like a prayer in the darkness, you understood the truth: he’d never been out of reach at all. He’d been yours from the very beginning, just as you’d always been his. You’d just both needed time to find the courage to bridge the distance. And now, finally, gloriously, there was no distance left at all. In the quiet hours before dawn, with moonlight spilling through the balcony doors and Sylus’s heartbeat steady beneath your ear, you finally understood what the poets meant when they wrote about love—this overwhelming sense of rightness, of completeness, of coming home to a place you’d been searching for your entire life.

And as his fingers traced lazy patterns on your back and he murmured sleepy words of devotion against your hair, you knew with absolute certainty that this was only the beginning. That every day forward would be filled with moments like these—tender, true, and entirely yours.

[fatuismooches]

The eight-year-old Segment was unlike any child you had ever met.

When you were in the Akademiya with Zandik, you had gathered bits and pieces from what he told you about his childhood to somewhat imagine what a little Zandik would look like. It was… difficult to envision, not because you couldn’t form a picture, but because the thought of him being hurt so deeply as a child hurt you too. But when you finally saw the slice of his child self in front of you, you quickly realized the reality was far more cruel than you could ever think of on your own.

His eyes were… empty. For someone so young, not even a glimmer of light could be seen within the redness. It would have comforted you more to see even anger or sadness, but there seemed to be nothing of the sort. And yet, it did not deter you from attempting to befriend him, despite Eight’s initial lack of interest.

He was the child, and yet you were the one wandering after him like a lost kid. The Segment would just stare at you before excusing himself. Perhaps he was confused about why you were speaking to him in such an excited tone. Perhaps he did not know how to deal with it. All he knew was that the others had told him to treat you respectfully but not to bother you, and Eighteen specifically gave him a look every time you tried to usher him closer.

But in the end, a child was a child. A child would think and behave like one no matter how much they buried themselves, and that was also true for little Eight. You had noticed Eight frequently spent his spare time writing and doodling in his notebook, although he would always shut it if you got too close, obviously still guarded around you. At least he had gotten comfortable enough to let you stay in his room. Still, it was easy to piece together what he was doing in there. So, one day you slipped him a drawing of an Aranara you had drawn yourself. 

Eight recognized the creature immediately, and you witnessed more emotion than you had seen before, with his eyes widening and mouth parting. He closed his notebook shut and tentatively reached to brush his small fingers against the drawing, and you pushed it closer to him encouragingly. 

“Have you ever seen one like this? You know, there are the round ones and-”

“The ones that are skinny with long hats.” Before you could finish your sentence, Eight interrupted you. It was like a switch had been turned on.

“And then there are some with flowers on their heads-”

“And the ones with leaves on top.” It looked like he really was an expert on Aranara facts.

“You know a lot, don’t you?” You beamed at him with interest, and suddenly the child felt a bit shy. It was rare anyone took interest in him or anything he liked, but at the same time, knowing a lot had once gotten him in trouble a long time ago.

“I didn’t expect you could… be so detailed,” Eight said, changing the topic as he brought your doodle close to his face, examining the detail as his nose almost brushed it, in true childlike wonder that he always kept hidden.

“Well, in the Akademiya, you’re usually asked to sketch out your observations like wildlife or architecture, even potential machines and inventions, so I know a bit.” He only continued gazing at the messy Aranara. “You can keep it, if you like.” Eight glanced at you, slowly nodding as he finally set the paper down. He looked a bit more relaxed now.

“Now… would you mind if I see your drawings?” You pressed the tips of your fingers together, brightening with hope. Eight already guessed you had been itching to ask him that for a while. At first, he would have rejected you, but now he felt a bit more… comfortable.

The child Segment didn’t need to answer, only opening his notebook to the first page and leaving it there for you. You clasped your hands together with a resonant ‘thank you’ as you pulled a chair to sit next to him at his desk. 

“Some Aranara have hats of different shapes and colors. Some of their hats cover their faces. Others have leaves drooping down instead of hats,” you read aloud from the journal. Each description was accompanied by a drawing. “Some also have bowties or carry around weapons. They’ve also picked up habits from humans, such as cooking or living in houses.”

For someone who didn’t seem to feel much, Eight watched you intently as you examined his notes. Maybe he subconsciously looked for approval. At the very least, you looked to be absorbed in his words, allowing him to feel a bit proud of himself.

“This is some really good research. Thank you for trusting me with it,” you said softly, hand reaching out to hold his, until you stopped midway and drew back. Perhaps it was best not to push things so quickly. “Though… I do think some of these sketches could use some color.”

“I would,” the boy nodded in agreement, “but I don’t have anything to color them with.” A spark of sadness flickered in your heart, knowing that he was chained to the mindset of a child and was not even allowed to indulge in it.

“Well, why don’t I get us some colored pencils and we can fill them in together? Adding a bit of color is sure to add some life, hmm?” 

And so a few days later, you were once again sitting near Eight with his notebook open. You had made sure to order the most high-quality coloring supplies for little Eight. Even he could not hold back his excitement, observing them up close one by one and picking out the ones he’d use for the Aranaras. In all honesty, he was more focused on coloring than you, and seemed very intent on making sure everything was accurate… But you didn’t mind. You only gave some pointers here and there and answered his questions on whether the color he chose was good or not.

“Thank you,” Eight said eventually. He couldn’t remember the last time he expressed gratitude for something, because the only thing other people ever did was hurt him.

“Anything for you, sweet one.” He didn’t respond to the pet name, and you quickly worried you had overstepped, before Eight nodded and went back to coloring.

Perhaps if he had just had someone who supported him when he was young and took interest in him, things could have turned out differently.

—

One day, you had called Eight to the kitchen, and he was immediately greeted with a delicious smell.

“Oh, you’re right on time!” You called for him and ushered him closer. He took in the mess of the kitchen before he noticed what was making his mouth water. A tray of baklava sat there, sliced and ready to be served.

“You all still like to eat, don’t you? I thought I’d make something for all of your hard work.” You were busy cleaning with your back turned. “I invited you to have the first bite. Help yourself.”

He and the other Segments would go to the Fatui’s cafeteria, and although it was nice, it didn’t really have food from Sumeru. They would never bring up their dissatisfaction, however. But now, one of his favorite treats from his homeland sat in front of him. The older Segments might have lingered around you some more, but him? The child couldn’t help but want to dig in as soon as possible.

“Thank you.” Those words were starting to become familiar to him again. Eight’s fingers pinched a piece of the dessert and took a small bite before immediately devouring the whole thing. It was probably the best thing he’d ever tasted. He glanced at you before taking another piece, and another…

“Do you like them?” You finished cleaning the area and washing the tools as you made your way to the table. “It’s been a while since I made any so-” You paused when you noticed at least a third of the tray was gone, and the child had stuffed cheeks.

Eight blinked at you. You blinked back. You were at a loss for words before you burst out laughing at the sight.

“Y-You don’t need to eat that fast, you know. I can always make some more.” You grabbed a tissue and began wiping around his mouth. You remembered Zandik being a fast eater back in the Akademiya, but you didn’t know he could gobble stuff down this quick. Eight stiffened as you tenderly wiped off the crumbs and fussed over him, and though it felt weird, it wasn’t weird enough for him to push you away.

“Hmm… I guess I’ll portion the rest for the others. We can give Eighteen the least for being a big meanie. Hehe, don’t tell the others, alright?” Your little accomplice nodded, chewing the dessert slower, not only savoring the flavor but… your kindness too.

Eight had started to open himself up to you, slowly but surely.

—

Little Eight had begun to seek you out on his own, cling to your side, to grab onto your sleeve and look up at you with expectant eyes. With that, the boy had become oddly observant of you.

“You don’t look well,” he pointed out.

“Hm? Oh. I’m… I’m fine. Just a bit tired but-” Before you could finish, Eight grasped your clothes and led you over to sit down. Of course, you couldn’t refuse him. “Really, I don’t-” Eight pressed his small hand against your forehead.

“Your face is warm, and you’re sweating a bit. You should stay here. I’ll get one of the others and the medical record.” It was almost jarring to see a kid assess the situation with such calmness. Perhaps he already had experience with this from Regrator, though. Or maybe he just had to grow up quicker than other children.

“But… you don’t need to do all this. I can take care of myself…” He should just be allowed to be a child, you wanted to say. He shouldn’t have to be in this dreary lab with experiments of this nature.

“I want to.” Eight was surprised those words left his lips as easily as they did. He had thought he had become numb to the suffering of others. He knew something was wrong with him for that. But when he looked at you, it made him upset that you were in pain.

“… You’re very sweet. Thank you.” The others had told you that the child Segment had already lost his compassion, but every day, you learned that clearly wasn’t true. 

—

The eight-year-old carried around his notebook like it was a lifeline, clutching it to his chest. If he had to put it down, he’d always make sure it was within his line of sight. You knew that his notes were important to him, but you couldn’t help but feel that there was something else to this behavior.

You found out the answer one day, when you were in Eight’s room. He was searching for his notebook in front of you when he opened his drawer to reveal a few copies of the same black notebook, before grabbing one of them.

All of the notebooks looked the same, so you had no idea he had multiple. But it didn’t strike you as unusual at first. You just assumed he had filled up that many notebooks with his ideas, and naturally, you wanted to see.

“Do you mind if I read these?” You pawed at the covers.

“You can, if you want. But you probably already read most of them.” That made you pause.

“What do you mean?”

“Those notebooks all contain the same content. I just wrote most of the important stuff in all of them.” So… he was making duplicates of the same thing? 

“But why?”

“Sometimes I misplace them. And then sometimes one of the others throws it out.”

“Throw… throw them out?” You repeated, as if you were in disbelief, but Eight seemed to be unaffected.

“It’s mostly Eighteen that does that. But I don’t want to lose my ideas, so I just write them down in multiple places just in case.” Your jaw was left slack as Eight calmly flipped through his current notebook.

“A-And what does he say?”

“That it’s childish. Or a waste of time. Things like that.” He didn’t think about it when you didn’t respond, but before he knew it, you were up and pacing around the room. “What’s wrong?”

“He can’t do that to you!” You had never spoken to him this loudly, which took him off guard, and you recognized that and took a deep breath. “That… is just wrong. I will not let him do it again. I’m- I’m going to speak to him right now!” Eight realized that this was the first time he saw you truly frustrated, and it was on his behalf, too. You almost burst out the door before he called for you.

“Wait,” the child requested. Never one to ignore Eight, you listened. “You don’t need to do that.”

“Yes, I do. If I’m here, no one is doing that to you. Why, I might as well go and throw out his property and see how he likes it!” Eight felt a bit of warmth prick his face at your outspokenness. But he really didn’t want to start a fight with Eighteen, which would probably escalate to the others, with Thirty-Five telling them not to hinder his work, Forty-Five laughing, Sixty-Five being tired, and the original Zandik… what would he do? 

“I’d prefer it if you stayed with me.” You opened your mouth and closed it again, expression softening.

“Well then… I guess me and Forty-Five will do something to get back at him in secret instead then.” You couldn’t help but give in to Eight, especially when he was learning to be so genuine with you. You sat on the edge of the bed with him and rubbed your hand on his back. However, you still looked troubled.

You thought back to the days you spent with the original Zandik back at the Akademiya. Eighteen was the only Segment you had a concrete understanding of, considering he was a replica of the one you knew so deeply when you were young. You had seen his bitterness firsthand, the desire for himself and his ideas to be acknowledged, only for it to never happen, sending him deeper into his resentment for the world. He would grip you, stubborn tears rolling down his face that he silently asked you to ignore. Perhaps if you had remained in the waking world, you could have done something, but…

“You know, um, Eight,” you began, and the Segment gave you his attention. “About Eighteen… I wouldn’t say he hates you. He just…” The child’s eyes bore into you as he watched you fumble for words. “I guess… He might be a little jealous of you.” That seemed to surprise the little boy.

“I don’t understand. There is nothing I have that he doesn’t.” Eight furrowed his brows, carefully thinking, and a part of you was flattered he was taking your opinion so seriously. “Eighteen has his own lab, office, equipment, proposals, funding, experiments… I don’t really have any of that.” Well, there had been proposals he had been drafting for Pantalone, some with your assistance, but he had yet to present any of them… Most of his duties included assisting the others with their tasks instead.

“Well, all of that is true but… Eighteen doesn’t have your mind.” Perhaps deep down, Eighteen wished he too could be a bit “childish.” Although Eight had clearly gone through something rough, he managed to retain something Eighteen could not. Could Eighteen ever find something and pursue it with pure wonder and excitement as a child could? He couldn’t. Instead, the older Segment was only trapped within the harsh reality of this world’s cruel rules and laws. But how could you explain that to a little boy?

“By which I mean, he doesn’t have the proper mind to appreciate your dear Aranara. And it’s a shame, because he wants to, but… can’t.” You tried to word it as best you could. “Of course, what he did is still wrong, but…” You trailed off, really not knowing what to say, but Eight only leaned into your embrace. He could understand that this was your attempt to make him feel better. Honestly, you had already done more than you knew, because Eighteen always seemed to be in a far better mood whenever you were around. And whether he liked it or not, the older Segment still stayed with him for a lot of things.

The original Zandik, the one who was fascinated with you more than any sort of research, had once told him that your warmth could fill an entire room. Obviously, that didn’t make sense in the literal way, so it was metaphorical. But only now did Eight understand what the older man had meant by that. Actually, now he understood why all the other Segments trailed after you, looking for attention.

You were truly a warm person.

His eyes flickered from you to the floor, and back to you again, as if he was making an important choice. Within the span of a few moments, the tiny Segment turned to fully embrace you, arms wrapping around your body, making you softly gasp. Without hesitation, you gently reciprocated and held his smaller body. Eight always did like when you patted the top of his head.

The child really liked you a lot. Maybe you could convince the others to let him take a trip to Sumeru? Or at least get one of his proposals approved? But for some reason, those things didn’t seem as much of a priority now, when compared to spending time with you.

He hoped you’d stay with him forever…

Masterlist.

[yizholic]

cw: lowk red flag caleb lol, virginity loss

Caleb is pissed when you get asked out for the first time. He had deliberately warned everyone in both of your social circles to stay away from you. Not without threats of violence or death, either. So yeah, he’s pissed as fuck when you tell him. Did he have to burn the whole world down merely to keep you all to himself? To protect you from perverts and creeps?

But, unfortunate and naive, you were so damn excited for this date. He couldn’t spoil your mood. Not when you asked him which dress to wear—both of them too short for his liking—and certainly not when you asked him to zip up the back for you.

There was just something about how you looked, all dolled up and cute to see someone who wasn’t him. He can already barely control himself around you; even the thought of another man having access to you like this makes him utterly sick. “It’s just not a good idea. All guys want the same thing.”

“You’re a guy aren’t you, Caleb? So what, are you telling me you’re like that too? Hmm?” He wants to wipe the playful smile off your face. You just think everything’s some fucking game.

“He’s gonna want to kiss you. Touch you. Fuck you. Have you ever been fucked? Huh, pipsqueak?”

He thinks he went too far then, notes the way your eyes widen and lips slightly part. You shake your head, but he already knows. He knows everything about you. So when you ask if he can help you, give you some advice, he knows exactly how he will.

“So naive, let me just show you.” He smashes his lips against yours. The force would’ve sent you falling backwards had he not steadied you with his hand on the small of your back.

“This is how to kiss…” he mutters it into your mouth, not caring that your teeth are hitting each other.

“And this…” he lifts your skirt just enough so that he can pull your panties to the side and slide his fingers along your puffy folds. “This is how it feels to be fingered.”

“Ah—Caleb!” You squeal when he fully plunges his finger in deeper than your own fingers ever could. He adds another, and soon the room is filled with your moans and the lewd squelch of his fingers thrusting in and out of your soaked pussy.

His lips are back on yours, and this time his tongue is shoved inside your mouth, claiming it. He goes faster when he feels your walls clench around him, and lets you grip his biceps while you come around his fingers and leave behind crescent shaped indents on his arms.

He nearly throws you on the bed, eager to yank off your underwear and free himself from his own boxers, wasting no time in aligning his tip to your still sensitive cunt.

“This is how to take it like a good fucking girl.” You try your best to relax, to be so good for him as he buries himself into you. He lets you get used to his size, going slow. Not moving until you practically beg him to, then there’s no going back. He’s brutally snapping his hips against yours and watching your tits bounce through your dress.

“Already gonna come on my cock? You really are inexperienced. Can’t even control yourself. Go on then. Fucking. Come.” With two last jerks of his hips, your climax washes over you and he tries so fucking hard to delay his own orgasm. He begins to pull out but your legs lock him in place. He cums on the spot—still inside you.

“Don’t care that I ruined your dress? How you gonna go on your date now, baby?”

“Hm. Guess I have to cancel,” you say, faux disappointment coating your words.

He pauses. “There was no date.”

“There was no date.” You confirm, wearing that same stupid grin from before. Luckily your schedule is free, because he has a hell of a punishment waiting for you after that.

[sahkuna]

NOT SO INVISIBLE STRING — GOJO SATORU

synopsis: the universe has a funny way of working. gojo always knew he was destined to be with you and so did others. it just took some time for you to figure that out as well.

content warning(s): FLUFF! eventual smut so 18+ mdni, fem! reader, pining gojo (sooo cute), mutual pining, friends to lovers, unproetected sex, gojo calling you baby multiple times while going innn.

word count: 6.8k zoo wee mama... pls read anyway or i'll d— EDIT: do not feed my work into c.ai. cough grimmjowshitheart cough

SPRING 2008

“So, you’re not gonna miss me? Not even a little?” 

An arm was suddenly thrown across your shoulders, leaving you to bear its weight. The press of his uniform stuck to your nape, making his presence all the more difficult to ignore.

Fellow students bustled and sidestepped their way around you two, some even falter in their steps to ogle briefly at the scene unfolding before them.

“Satoru, move!” Shoko— your saviour— jabs Gojo’s side, urging him to budge, but to no avail.

He’s still tethered to your side, twirling around his diploma in his unoccupied hand despite your best efforts to create space between you two. “You’re literally blocking people’s way toward the gates,” she says.

It’s graduation day and the last day of school for the spring semester, bringing the school year to yet another successful end. It also meant that today would be the last time your upperclassmen would walk on school grounds as students.

The sun was beginning to dip behind the many trees surrounding the school, and its marvellous glow cast warm hues of pink and orange that stretched across the sky. Its rays descend onto the school’s campus; setting for a brilliant, comforting atmosphere. 

Answering Gojo’s initial question about whether you’d miss him, you avert eye contact with your persistent senior. “I never said that,” your voice teeters between a grumble and a groan riddled with exasperation. 

Your eyes sweep the courtyard and you spot a few familiar faces in the crowd. Some are gathered along the steps leading up to the school taking photos to commemorate today. Others linger on campus chatting amongst themselves, and some whack each other with their diploma scrolls while others treat theirs delicately.

And not too far off from where Satoru holds you hostage stood a small crowd of his classmates—specifically, his female classmates— waiting for their chance to bid their goodbyes...

Or stumble out an unprepared confession thrown out in the heat of the moment before they may never see Gojo Satoru again.

Who knows. 

All you’re sure of is that they are most definitely throwing you shady death glares from your peripheral.

“Y’know, I’m gonna miss you,” Gojo says, his arm still looped around your shoulders. He has half a mind to drag you away from standing right front and centre in the entranceway and shuffles you off to the side. “All the years we’ve spent together—”

“Two years, by force.” 

“— and now we’re being split apart,” he finishes, paying no mind to your sardonic comment. The infliction in his voice prompts you to turn to look at him, only to wind up and see a slight pout tugging at his soft, pink lips. “How ever will we manage?”

You smother down the urge to heave a loud and heavy sigh at the clingy characteristics he’s displaying today and decide to play nice.

Gojo’s always been one to be playful, perhaps even a bit pushy at times but it was all in good nature. However, for some reason, his antics have reached a whole new level today. 

Emotions were running high among staff and students alike. Some are more potent and… persistent than others.

“You’ll be fine,” you assure, patting his arm half-heartedly, “and I will certainly be fine. Everything will be just fine.”

In the middle of your sentence from the corner of your eye, you spot another one of your seniors— Geto Suguru. You watch him step out from a conversation with two classmates of yours (Haibara and Nanami) and is now trekking his way over to where you and Gojo occupy the front steps.

“Geto-senpai!” 

Geto greets you warmly by placing a comforting hand on your head and gives you a reassuring pat once, then twice. The action leaves your hairstyle a little dishevelled, nonetheless, there’s a small smile tugging at your lips.

You’ve only interacted with Geto a sparse number of times outside of class or at the end of the school day. Whenever you both would cross paths you appreciated how he would regard your presence with temperance. It always left you feeling at ease. You’ll miss him. 

You’ll especially miss how he was so quick to offer you and Haibara snacks from the vending machines on campus.

Gojo emits a pathetic squawk at the special name drop.

Pale, white brows are pinched tightly together with faux betrayal. “How come he gets honorifics but I don’t?!” he complains once Geto’s within earshot. 

“I see that Satoru's already started…”

Though Geto was talking to no one in particular, Shoko chips in given that she bore witness to Gojo’s incessant pestering toward you ever since the home bell rang. “You missed the part where he blocked her from getting to the lockers for a good several minutes.” Unzipping her bag, she carelessly shoves her diploma into it. 

“But anyway, I’m gonna head out for a smoke. I’ll catch you guys later.” Before departing, Shoko stretches her hand towards you and gives your arm an affectionate squeeze. “Get home safe, ‘kay? Don’t let these guys keep you out too long.”

Which reminded you…

“Gojo, this has been fun and all…” Being rag-dolled around by your upperclassman across campus has been anything but fun. “But I really should start heading home now.”

You wanted to beat the rush hour of students and working-class alike trying to go home on a late Thursday afternoon. Looking for empty seats on the 4:25 PM train was brutal and you did not have the energy to stand the entire ride home.

Sensing your air of urgency, he eventually relents. Heaving a dramatic sigh, Gojo steps back a few and gives you some space.  

“Gimme a second, yeah?” He rummages around in his uniform pocket, searching for something. It only lasts about a second before he pulls out his flip phone.

“Suguru!” A curt upward nod of Gojo’s head is the only warning Geto gets before he tosses his cell toward his best friend to catch. You’re appalled that he catches it so easily with the little to no notice that was given. “Take a picture of us.”

…Huh?

Your brows drew close-knit together with confusion. “What are y—?!” Before you can even finish your question, you’re pulled tightly into Gojo’s side. 

His arms circle your neck once more, but this time, he uses the opportunity of your close proximity to tip his head to the side and knock it against your own. 

“Smile,” Gojo murmurs into your ear, his slender fingers pinching at your cheek prodding for you to plaster on a sugary smile for the picture.

You don’t have enough time to register, let alone recover from how his lips faintly brushed against your skin, Gojo’s already obnoxiously yelling “Cheese!” towards the awaiting camera.  

Snapping the photo Geto sports a lazy grin admiring his work. “Looks good,” he says before he tosses the phone back to its owner. 

You’re still reeling over the gentle graze of Gojo’s lips against your cheek, too dazed to digest what’s going on around you. What. In. The hell. Just happened??? 

Sputtering out a laugh, Gojo grins down at the image on his phone. “What’s with that face you’re making, huh?”

Eyebrows furrowing, you look up at Gojo curiously. Whatever was in that picture that made him smile that wide couldn’t have been good. “What do you mean?” You question, stepping closer to see what he was referring to on his screen.

Gojo tips his cell over and shows you the photo Geto took. There you both are in grain, Gojo looking the most lively out of you two. Despite the quality of the camera, you can see the proud and happy smile he wears compared to your frazzled and confused expression.

If anything, it looked like you were the one who was graduating and he so happened to snag a photo with you before your big send-off.

“I wasn’t ready…” you grumbled, looking away from his phone.

There’s a faint smile lingering on his face, blue eyes still trained on the screen. His voice's cadence grows warm and carries a small hint of affection.

“That face of yours is what I’m gonna miss the most.”

SUMMER 2009 

To no one’s surprise, you and Gojo kept in close contact, even after graduating high school. 

Well… More so Gojo kept in contact with you. Consistently. 

Whenever he can.

He was there during your spring graduation (shocker), much to the elation of the entire female population from your graduating class. Looking back, the number of times he stopped to pose with random students around the school when he came to greet you was absurd.

You’ll also never forget how loud he cheered when your name was called despite Principal Yaga telling the audience to hold their applause and hollers until after the ceremony.

Fast forward to the summer of ‘09 where Gojo consistently seeks your presence to go and hang out with him now that you have a freed-up schedule. Whether it's with him alone or with Geto and Shoko, you can always rely on him to shoot you a ‘u busy?’ text an hour before dragging you out for the rest of the day.

“Sooo,” you start slowly.

Your eyes skim across the playground, watching the few children who were there amble and climb on the jungle gym before you. The sun was beginning to descend below the skyline, and hues of warm orange press onto your features casting you and your surroundings in a soft glow. 

“You’re a… guardian now,” you state, eyeing how Gojo stretches his legs out beside you. 

You both sit at a park bench, the chorus of laughter and playful shrieks surround you as you watch Megumi— a kid Gojo now supposedly looks after— poke mindlessly at something buried beneath the playground’s sand.

“Yup!” he chirps, but then it’s swiftly followed by a hesitant, “Well, sorta kinda…”

There’s a mental warfare going on in his mind as he combs through the various explanations he can give you, searching for one that would be both concise and easy for you to digest.

“To put it simply, from here on out I’m going to be a constant in Megumi and Tsumiki’s life.”

You think of the step-sibling duo. They’re the sweetest pair of children you’ve had the delight of coming across, and now…

“They’re doomed,” you say with pity, your gaze still focused on the youngest Fushiguro. 

Gojo gasps in disbelief at your bold accusation with his hand flying to his chest, clearly having taken offence. “What’s that supposed to mean?!” he asks.

But before you could give him a smart alec answer, the cheerful exclamation of your name pulls your attention elsewhere. The soft thump of Tsumiki’s shoes approaching prompts you to smile brightly. With open arms, the girl practically throws herself at you and giggles.

You give her cheek an affectionate squeeze. Despite her being in the second grade, you couldn’t help but coddle her. “Why hello, Tsumiki!” 

It takes her a few moments to finally release you from the hug, backing up a bit she glances up at you. “Where were you? I missed you on Tuesday, the swings weren’t fun without you!” she says, pouting.

“I wasn’t feeling the best, so I had to turn down Gojo’s invite to meet you guys at the park that day.”

Upon hearing all the commotion, Megumi spots Tsumiki talking to you a few steps from the play area. It prompts the young boy to walk over and join you three at the bench. He nods his head over at his step-sister and says, “She thought you guys broke up.”

Huh?

You blink rapidly. “Broke— Broke up!?” You squawk, the inflection of your voice rising at the ‘up’ part.

Where could she have possibly gotten that idea from? You and Gojo weren’t even dating!

Gathering your composure you plaster on a sweet smile, ready to explain to the young pair that you and Gojo weren’t together like that before a heavy arm comes hunkering down onto your shoulders. “Even if she tried, she can’t get rid of me that easily,” Gojo comments.

Christ.

Tsumiki claps her hands together in glee at this revelation. “Yay! ‘Cause I like you!” she confesses. “I thought I’d have to deal with Gojo and his friend with the big ears pushing me on the swings forever.” And with that, the girl’s already off running to the big yellow slide, pulling Megumi along in her wake.

The sweet smile you wear grows more and more strained the longer you two sit there on that damned bench with Gojo’s arm still lodged around you like it belonged there. 

Long delicate fingers drum themselves along your bare shoulder which leaves a tingling sensation that lingers against your skin.

“Gojo Satoru…” you hiss between clenched teeth.

Your hand creeps up to give his knee a mean pinch, but as always, Gojo reads your movements like a damn book and catches your hand in his before that could happen. “Hm?”

“What do you mean ‘Hm’?” You gesture in the general direction of where the kids are playing. You feel your brows start to pinch together. “Why would you tell them that?!”

“It’s true though, no?” Snowy white wisps of hair fall in front of his eyes shaded by his signature round sunglasses. “We haven’t ‘broken up’ and we’re still together. Just not in their understanding of it.”

“You—! That’s not—” You flounder for words, trying to spit out why he can’t go around inadvertently feeding into the imagination of whatever relationship Tsumiki and Megumi thought you two had. But you come up blank.

“You’re irritating, you know that?” you say, as you try (and fail) at removing his arm which still rests comfortably around your shoulders, pressing you tight against him. “You’ll wind up confusing them.”

An easy smile slips onto his lips as he observes Tsumiki and Megumi scramble up the slides. “Relax,” he responds. “They’re smart kids.”

And until it was time for the Fushiguros to go home, there you two sat underneath the thinning ochre sky. Stuck under the guise of an unspoken relationship.

WINTER 2011

Being the “middleman” between two people who are so obviously into each other but cannot figure out how to hang around each other normally was all too common for Shoko.

It’s a shame that Geto wasn’t available to come down and hang out with the three of you tonight, he would’ve revelled in getting a kick out of this expected yet unexpected… turn of events.

Brought in as a buffer between you two, with an unlit cigarette dangling loosely from her lips Shoko leaned back in her chair and watched the buzzing scene before her unfold with bemused eyes. 

Underneath the comforting golden glow of the restaurant’s hanging table light, Gojo picks at the cookie dough chunks that litter your plate to which you turn a blind eye. Now, Shoko could’ve easily brushed this occurrence off, seeing that friends often eat from each other's share of food all the time.

But something was... different.

With Gojo seated to your left inside the booth, he neatly cuts up a piece of his soft, creamy cheesecake and leverages the small serving on his spoon. “Here, try some of mine,” he says.

Harmless, right? 

So, you reach for your own spoon to retrieve the sample of dessert that he was offering you. But without any hesitation, Gojo lifts his cutlery to your lips and prods the food toward your mouth.

There was no way that he intended on doing this right here, right now. In front of Shoko especially.

“Say, ‘Ahhh’!”

Concern creases your brow when Gojo continues to press the spoon against your lips, idly humming as he waits for you to open your mouth so he can spoon feed you as if he were your mother. A delicate, yet sure hand cupping your chin and everything.

He was being serious.

From your peripheral, you catch the slow spread of a Cheshire-like grin creeping onto Shoko’s face.

You press your fingers onto Gojo’s wrist and frown. Trying to retreat from his hand, a peal of nervous laughter bubbles out from you at his display of reckless affection at the table. “Give me a br—”

Gojo uses the opportunity of your uncertain state to slip his sharing of the  Japanese cheesecake into your mouth in the middle of your sentence. Your eyes widen a small fraction at its creamy taste, prompting him to comment, “It’s good, right?”

The cigarette threatens to slip from Shoko’s mouth, as her lips slightly gape at what just happened before they curve into a soft smile. Her brown eyes are warm with… something. It’s as if she knew something that you didn’t.  

“Ehhh…” Is all she says before you’re already jumping down her throat to clear up any misunderstandings.

“It’s nothing!” you supply in a rushed manner. Your main objective was to simply imply that this was nothing for her to lose her head over. Hell, even the friendliest of friends feed each other all the time! Right?

But at your remark, Gojo’s mouth downturns into a cute little pout. “What do you mean, ‘nothing’?” From the corner of your eye you glance at how he’s fixed another spoonful of the dessert, and it's hovering in your direction.

“Sato—” Fuck.

You quickly correct yourself on your mistake, and school your voice to have a bit more edge to it. Despite that, you don’t overlook how hard Gojo’s beaming at you. “Gojo, not now.”

“Ehhh?” Shoko exclaims once again, but this time the cadence of her voice has changed. It’s gained an amused note to its tune. “You call him Satoru now? Since when?”

“I’ve been begging her to use it for the longest time ever,” Gojo answers on your behalf, and he ignores your mutter for him to please stop talking in favour of jabbing an accusatory finger at you. “You know how painful it was to see you be all chummy and on a first-name basis with everyone but me?”

Lord. You’ve forgotten how dramatic he could be. 

There’s a teasing glint in Shoko’s eye that you quite don’t like, and her lips purse heavy with consideration at his comment. “You make him beg?”

Groaning, you cross your arms against the table and bury your face. You can’t with them. Your two former upperclassmen were the bane of your existence right about now. 

“I’ll kill you both,” you mutter, your speech muffled by the fabric of your sweater.

A FEW YEARS LATER

A calming blue nightly glow ripples through your curtains, casting your room in nothing but moonlight. Amidst the serene silence, you idly stare at your screen and read the text Satoru sent you right as the clock struck midnight.

Satoru: Are you home?

What an ominous question. Your eyes skim over his message again. And then again. 

…And again.

Thumbing through your phone, you glance at the time displayed on the top of your screen. It’s been five minutes since you’ve opened his text. You should probably send something back soon before he quintuple texts you.

As you’re about to respond right when Satoru immediately shoots you another.

Satoru: I KNOW you see this!!! ( `ε´ )

Satoru: Hurry hurry hurry

You: yes... why?

Now it’s his turn to take a while to respond. First, it takes a couple of minutes for you to receive that pinging chime; indicating that he’s texted you back— which isn’t too bad because you like to consider yourself a pretty patient person. 

But then five minutes slowly turn into ten, and that ten becomes a whopping fifteen until finally he answers.

Satoru: Open your door.

What the fuck.

Satoru: Pleasepleasepleasepleasepleasepl

So that’s why he took so long to reply. The man was coming all the way down from his place to come and visit you!

You: you're actually insane.

You: hold on!

Rising from your seated position on your bed, you stalk over to your bedroom door and are about to exit when you spot yourself in a nearby mirror.

“Oh!” you exclaim to no one in particular. You can’t open the door for him looking like… this.

Wait, why do you care about what Satoru thinks of your clothes?!

 He’s seen you wearing much worse. Like that one instance in first-year, when you had to borrow Geto’s spare parachute pants because Haibara accidentally spilt his soda all over your lap during an informal outing with everyone.

Yeesh.

Shaking your head, you slip out of your room and pad down your apartment hallway wearing your discoloured oversized band tee and shorts. Upon reaching your door, your hand hesitates on the doorknob. 

It stays like that for a few seconds until the doorknob is rattled in a fashion that’s all too persistent, annoying, and all from—

“Satoru!” you hiss, swinging the door open. You’re ready to chew him out on how much of a nuisance he may be for your sleeping neighbours a few doors down. But your looming reprimand falls short on your tongue once your eyes take in the man facing you.

“Happy birthday!” 

In the darkness, the soft glow of sparklers illuminates your features and highlights the exquisite details of a beautifully decorated cake held in Satoru’s hands.

Wordlessly, your hand aimlessly searches for the light switch to brighten up your hallway so that you may get a better look at what’s on the cake. 

Something trembles in your chest and it hurts a little to breathe. But not in the way that you detest.

He’s cute.

Gojo Satoru is so heartbreakingly cute.

On the cake, you see that damn grainy photo you two took on his graduation day back in ‘08. The photo you love to hate.

Wetness springs to your eyes from the entire gesture, from the fact that he ensured he was the first one through text and physically to wish you a happy birthday, and from the fact that he’s here right now.

“Hey…” There’s concern creasing Satoru’s expression as he pokes his head down a little to get a better read on you. “Are you crying?”

You sniff back your tears and grunt out a watery, “No… Shut up and come in already.”

Ushering him inside, Satoru hands you your cake, toes off his shoes and heads straight to your living room. Good to see that he’s already making himself at home.

Plopping himself down onto your couch you hesitantly follow behind him, suddenly feeling like a stranger in your own home. “Come, come!” He waves a welcoming hand at you and pats the seat beside him, insinuating that you should sit.

With immediate interest, you do as he says and take a seat beside him after you position your cake in the middle of your coffee table. The couch feels so small now, with him spread out like that.

Pulling out something from his pocket with one hand and tugging off the party hat from his head with the other— had he been wearing that the whole time?— Satoru clears his throat. “Before you cry again, I gotta make sure you’re able to see your present first.”

He takes your head in his hands, and you realize his fingertips are a little cold as they press on your warm cheeks. Stretching the string down from the party hat a bit, he places it under your chin and snaps the cardboard cone into place on your head.

Breathing a noise of satisfaction seemingly content with how you look, a cheeky grin dances across Satoru’s face. “Perfect. You can now go ahead and open your gift,” he says, handing you a small black velvet box with the company logo HW scrawled across it.

“Wait, what,” you deadpan.

This can’t be what you think it is.

“It’s not a ring!” Satoru blurts. But composes himself seconds later with a quip of, “Unless you want it to be?”

Har. Har. Very funny.

You disregard what he’s said and peel open the box with caring hands.

Inside was the most extravagant necklace you’ve ever laid eyes on. A diamond pendant laid bare inside the box in the shape of a forget-me-not with your birthstone at the flower's centre. 

That could’ve easily cost him a little over one million yen if you think about it deeply.

“Satoru!” you squeal.

Without thinking, you throw your arms around his neck and squeeze your longtime friend into your loving embrace. Satoru’s gift to you almost topples and sinks into the crevice of your couch had it not been for his quick hand to catch the necklace.

Your heart’s racing, and initially, his body goes rigid until he gradually relaxes under your hold. “You’re crazy, ’s too expensive!” you sparingly chastise him. 

Satoru swallows hard and brings a careful arm up to reciprocate the hug. You feel the warm press of his arm against the thin material of your shirt. 

“Nothing’s too expensive if you’re involved,” you hear him murmur into your ear. “So, don’t worry ‘bout it.”

You give him one last bone-crushing squeeze, hoping that your rare show of physical touch does not go unnoticed and exemplifies how grateful you are. Pulling away from him you look him dead in the eyes. “Thank you, seriously.”

Shrugging you off like it was no big deal as if he didn’t blow double, maybe even triple the money the average Japanese businessman earns on a singular paycheque toward your necklace, Satoru casts you a gentle smile and changes the subject. 

There would be no need to dwell on it any longer with what’s to come.

“Now…” He gives your lower back a soft pat. Once, and twice. “A birthday kiss from the birthday girl.” Satoru puckers out his lips and shuts his eyes real tight, making a huge show out of it.

For extra effect, he even hums a prolonged Mmm-ing sound to emphasize him waiting for you to initiate it.

It’s a joke; you know he’s joking. He has a ridiculously long history of being overly affectionate with his teasings and whatnot. 

But this time, you really do lean in and take said kiss from him.

There’s something incredibly adorable about this kiss that has your heart surging in your chest. Partly because it’s the first time that you’re kissing each other, but mostly because of how frigid and careful it is. It made you feel as if you were in high school all over again, trying a plethora of new things for kicks and giggles.

The tension was almost palpable, thick enough to suffocate the air he breathed. Even when you pulled away creating space between you both, Satoru still felt a lingering lump in his throat.

Cracking your eyes open, you see that Satoru’s own are blown wide. Piercing cerulean eyes stare unblinking at you. Normally, you would’ve found that to be off putting as hell, had it not been for the slow rise of a blooming pink crawling up his neck.

“Sorry,” you offer weakly. Sensing that you may have gone too far, you make an effort to scoot off his lap. But a determined arm holds you in place.

“Again.” He swallows thickly, and your eyes follow that mesmerizing movement in his throat. “I… I didn’t do it right. Please.”

And who are you to make him beg? So, you do as he says.

Leaning in, your lips press against Satoru’s once more. And this time, he has the sense to close his eyes and bask in it, not daring to let his nerves get the best of him (though he’d never admit it). 

Slotting yourself to be more flushed against him, the tips of your noses brush and you feel Satoru’s hand smooth down your spine. The pads of his fingertips press onto your exposed skin peeking out from underneath the hem of your shirt bunched around your hips.

God, you wanted him bad.

It’s abrupt, the way you push yourself off him and force yourself to stand on your feet, breaking the kiss. The rise and fall of your chest is a bit staggered and Satoru’s is too. He’s all red-faced and his snow-white hair is a bit dishevelled, considering how many times you’ve combed your fingers through it.

“Did I do something wrong?”

Cute. 

That alone made you want to jump his bones even more.

You shake your head and get one good look at him before you leave him to head down your hallway. He looked perpetually enraptured by you, eyes hyper-focused on your every movement.  “Come to my bedroom.”

Satoru’s stunned, the implications of your remark not lost on him.

And like a keen lost puppy, of course he follows. He joins you in your bedroom seconds after you and stands in the doorway, just kind of hovering there. Not sure of what to do.

Wait. Did he come here too fast? Did that make him look overly desperate? A million and one questions rush through Satoru’s mind as his neck grows red, stained with embarrassment, want… arousal. 

Seeing how he seems to be short-wiring at your doorway, you beckon him to join you on the bed with your hand. Once he does, he sits extremely close next to you. His clothed thigh brushes against your bare one, which sends a jolt of electricity through you.

Your fingers find his nape once again and they stroke up on his fresh undercut, prompting him to shiver a bit. “Why’re you so shy all of a sudden?” you question, your voice going gentle with a provoking edge to it.

Gaining some of his personality back, Satoru pinches your cheek. “‘Cause I didn’t think you’d want to kiss me!” But his mean hand then turns soft and slides along your jaw, his thumb rubbing smooth circles into the skin just below your ear. 

“Well, I’m here,” you say, scooting impossibly closer to the man beside you, “and wanting.”

Message received.

Hauling you onto his lap, Satoru cradles your face in both hands and kisses you deeply. It’s full of emotion, expressing all the things he’s been wanting to say for the longest time. A trembled exhale escapes you, and it’s through that that Satoru uses the opportunity to slide his tongue alongside yours. 

The kiss is frenzied, but so filled with love.

“So you like me?” he asks, his breathing laboured.

“Yes,” you bite, pushing him away from you and onto the mattress. “As if swapping spit with you wasn’t enough.” You guess you’ll have to show him how much you undoubtedly like him, love him even, through other means. 

He huffs a breath of laughter and drops his back onto your bed. Underneath you, you see Satoru’s eyes sparkle as he watches you have your way with him. 

But something’s up.

His eyes climb up a little higher and this time, he barks out a real laugh.

You still have that piece of fuck sitting on your head. You probably look stupid as hell right now.

Discerning that you’re about to raise your hand to your head, Satoru holds your wrist in his palm. There’s something bright that gleams behind those alluring pools of blue, warm and tender. He bites back a smile. “The birthday hat stays on during sex.”

You scrunch your nose at him. “You’re so dumb,” you growl with artificial frustration and tear off the cone-shaped hat from your head, tossing it into the depths of your room. He whines at its loss, but you’re quick to placate him with a slow roll of your hips into his lap.

Satoru’s jaw clenches and his hands fly to your waist, gripping you tightly as you continue to grind yourself down onto his erection. Your ministrations pull a wanton whimper from his lips, one that has you grinding with more purpose— the purpose of hearing that sound again.

“Do you like that?” you ask.

He nods, not trusting himself to speak, else he’ll let out a pathetic string of moans.

“I know, me too.” Satoru’s dick lurches in the confines of his pants as he watches you dry-hump him into the mattress slowly, your eyes shining with lust. Fuck, he could get hard just off your expression alone. “It feels reeeally nice being up on you like this,” you continue.

You have a fucking dirty mouth. One that Satoru’s growing more and more addicted to the more you speak.

There’s an incessant throbbing between your legs that you can’t quite alleviate. While rolling your hips into Satoru’s lap— with his occasional thrust to match your movements— felt good, it can only do so much. You wanted and needed more.

And so did Satoru, because he’s already pulling at the waistband of his pants. His thumb loops two layers and tugs both his pants and boxers down, revealing his toned V-line. 

Fuck.

You fall victim to Satoru’s enamoured gaze from below, which makes you squirm hot with arousal. “Take it off,” he commands.

He wants you to strip him of his clothes. 

Caught taking a startled breath, you ignore the wicked, handsome smile that slinks onto his face as you slip off his lap so you may curl your fingers around his waistband and pull. Your pussy clenches when his erect dick springs into view, and the heat pumping through your veins runs a little hotter.

You shiver at how pretty and filling his dick looks. After a few seconds of openly ogling at his lap, Satoru clears his throat which successfully gets you to drag your eyes back up to his face.

“While that was nice,” he starts, leveraging himself up onto his elbows and grins at your cute error, “I meant you, baby. Take it off.”

“Oh.” 

Seriously? Just ‘Oh’?

Mentally facepalming, you shimmy your shorts down your legs along with your panties. They pool down at your ankles and you step out of them to stand between his legs.

Fully sitting up, Satoru pats his lap; encouraging you to sit on him again. “C’mere.”

You crawl onto his lap, but you don’t sit down fully. Hovering a few inches away from his cock, your knees press on each side of his thighs, trapping him in. 

There’s no way in hell you were gonna sit down right now, knowing that if you do, you’d be pressing your bare pussy onto his naked thigh and he’d feel everything. Exposing how wet you are.

Humming, Satoru lifts the hem of your oversized top to your breasts and sighs. “Pretty,” he murmurs before he leans forward and captures your nipple into his mouth.

You gasp harshly at the titillating feeling. Your hands balance on his shoulders for support, as he rolls your nipple on his tongue.

“Sa— Ah!” You cry out. The hand between your legs startles you and has you whimpering in the open air.

“You’re wet,” he comments, slipping a finger against your slick pussy.

“Shut up about it…”

But he doesn’t. Another finger joins the first and delves down between your lips, gradually easing them inside you. They push against your walls, curling in a way that has you gasping into his neck. “You got wet from grinding alone, huh?” 

A breath stutters out of your mouth and you rock yourself against his hand. You can’t take this anymore. You want more. “Do you have a condom?” you ask.

“I—” he groans when your hand slides between you two, your fingers curl around his dick and stroke his tip along your leaking slit. “I didn’t bring one, because I didn’t think we’d—”

Oh.

Biting your bottom lip, you sling a heavy arm across Satoru’s shoulders. You meet his hungry gaze with one of your own and inch closer toward his dick that rests against his stomach. What you’re about to do could be risky, but at this given moment you couldn’t find it in you to be overly stressed about it.

“No worries,” you reply, your voice barely above a whisper, “I trust you enough to pull out in time.” And like that, you push down on him and ease Satoru’s cock into your aching cunt, making him bottom out inside you completely.

You’re so wet and slippery that it took little to no effort for him to slide inside. The noise of your slick sticking to where you two meet at the hips has you two moaning softly in unison.

The harsh mutter of your name echoes off your bedroom walls and goes straight to your cunt. “So tight,” he grits out behind clenched, white teeth.

Each time you slide up and down on his cock, Satoru grows more unrestrained with his vocal appreciation of how well you take him. Desperate little moans escape him each time your sweet cunt squeezes him of all he’s worth.

You were no better. Choppy, broken whimpers can be heard from you, loving how he stretches your walks with your length. He fits perfectly inside you like your cunt was destined for this moment, for him alone. 

“Let me fuck you,” Satoru blurts out. He was losing it, and he could feel him tipping closer and closer to the edge of release.

“You are— Ugn!” you say weakly when his hands grab your ass and he stands, lifting you with him as if it were nothing. Kicking off his bottoms, Satoru props you on your back against your mattress.

 Crawling between your legs, he positions the crown of his cock to press against your opening. “No,” he drawls, with one hand on the base of his shaft and the other propped beside your head. “Let me fuck you.”

He pushes in and you swear you see stars. 

Satoru pistons himself faster and faster inside of you, rocking your bodies against the mattress which makes your wooden headboard tap noisily against your drywall.

You fear your neighbours may have some… less than pleasant words to share with you about the noise tomorrow morning. 

“Ah! Fuuucking— shit!” You wail. Euphoric tears start prickling at the corner of your eyes. “Don’t stop, please!”

The pleasure melts through you when Satoru presses down harder into you, his hand finding the back of your right knee and hikes your leg around his waist so that he can fill you at a new angle.

“Baby,” he murmurs into your neck. He says it like you’ve been his for years. “Say my name.”

“S—Satoru!”

Laughing a little, probably too fucked out of his mind, Satoru removes his face from your neck and presses a hot, searing kiss onto your lips.

You yelp when he drives his cock more harshly into you, growing more desperate with the urgency to come inside you.

Riding his high, Satoru says the first thing that comes to mind, which is a long drawn-out, “Haaa…”

What Satoru meant to accomplish was to wish you another ‘Happy Birthday’, but of course, it all gets garbled up in his throat due to his approaching orgasm and comes out sounding fucking obscene.

That’s what gets you.

You come hard, your back bowing off the bed. Satoru, remembering your initial statement about how you trust him to pull out, does exactly that. Albeit, he did it at the very last second, but you avoided a pregnancy scare. So you can’t be mad.

Thick ropes of his cum splash across your bare belly and some get on your top. You’re hyperaware of how it trickles down your abdomen, some dipping into your belly button.

Wow.

Breathing hard and heavy, both coated in sweat among… other sensual fluids, Satoru rolls onto his back.

“Stuck with me for life, huh?” he asks, delicate fingers intertwined with yours. 

You hum. “Seems so…” you agree quietly. 

Now that you think about it, there hasn’t ever been a moment where Gojo Satoru hadn’t been present in your life, ever since meeting him during your high school days.

You two lay like that for some time, soaking in each other’s company until the early traces of morning light ripple through your curtains.

You’re about ready to shut your eyes until your thoughts are accosted by something you offhandedly forgot. 

“Satoru?” you begin, tone nice and sweet.

“Hm?”

You sit up slowly so you can peer down at his blissed-out face. “By chance, was the cake you got for me made out of ice cream?”

You know how deep his love for sweets goes. You just pray and hope to whatever higher power that he chose the safe route and chose a normal ca—

“…Yeah, why?”

Jumping out of bed, you rush to the living room where the cake is probably spilling its guts out all over your expensive, mahogany coffee table. “You IDIOT!” 

A string of curses follows you out into the hallway, as Satoru sits on your bed confused.

“What’d I do?!”

Whether you liked it or not, you were stuck with this bumbling idiot if he had any say in the matter, an invisible string keeping you two bound.

And maybe it wasn’t that bad.

Even if it’s at the cost of your ¥20,000 table.

if you read to the end we're making out.

© do not copy/plagiarize/translate/use ai on my work.

[mooningningg]

愛 │"YOU THE REAL MVP, MY LOVE."

about. Satoru Gojo, Japan’s biggest player, decides he wants the team’s hot reporter— Amid the media circus, she’s the real fucking MVP for taking that dick.

pairing. basketball player!satoru x reporter!reader

word. 12.77k

content. filthy sex with Satoru, spitting, multiple positions, degradation, praise kink, size kink, edging, shameless teasing, public/interview humiliation, exhibitionism, and a ton of filthy banter. Heavy cursing, intense power play, and unapologetic domination included. Reader discretion absolutely advised.

notes. i absolutely love the idea of whipped satoru...

The arena was still vibrating from the last buzzer. Confetti rained down from the rafters like glittering snow, painting the hardwood in a storm of gold and silver. The crowd was deafening—roaring, stomping, chanting “MVP! MVP!”—a chant reserved for only one man tonight.

Satoru Gojo stood at center court, jersey clinging to his tall frame, his pale hair sticking to his forehead with sweat, a grin plastered across his face that was cocky and boyish all at once. His teammates swarmed him, arms slung around shoulders, shoving him, laughing, pouring water bottles over his head until his jersey darkened and clung to every line of muscle.

He was the star, but he wasn’t alone—behind him, Toji grinned sharp and wolfish, towering with his arms crossed like nothing about this game had winded him. Suguru had already pulled his hair out of its tie, pushing it back with one hand as he caught Choso in a headlock, both of them laughing hoarsely. And Sukuna? He wasn’t celebrating so much as snarling through a smile, tattoos gleaming under the stadium lights as he pointed two fingers at the scoreboard like “You see that? That’s us.”

But the cameras weren’t just on them. They were on him.

Gojo Gojo Gojo. Another championship. Another MVP. Another perfect stat line.

The big screens flashed his face, slow-motion highlights replaying above the crowd—the fadeaway three, the impossible no-look pass, the final slam dunk that sealed the win. His name echoed off the walls, until the announcer’s voice cut through:

“Ladies and gentlemen, your Finals MVP… Satoru Gojo!”

He bowed dramatically, dripping sweat, holding up the shiny gold trophy as though it weighed nothing at all. Cameras popped, flashes blinding, and he basked in it, smug as a god under the lights.

Then, someone tapped him on the shoulder. A staffer with a headset shouted over the chaos,

“Gojo! Courtside postgame interview! Now!”

Satoru’s grin widened, if that was even possible. He ruffled his wet hair back, leaned into Suguru with a lazy slap to his chest, and muttered, “Try not to miss me too much, yeah?” before swaggering toward the baseline where the broadcast team waited. His long strides carried him across the confetti-slick court, every eye following him—because Gojo never just walked. He prowled like he owned the whole damn place.

And that’s when he saw you.

Standing under the glaring lights, microphone in hand, hair perfectly styled despite the chaos, press badge gleaming against your fitted blazer. You had the poise of someone used to live TV, posture sharp, voice rehearsed—but the moment his gaze landed on you, Satoru swore the whole stadium dulled around the edges. You weren’t just another sideline reporter. You were pretty. And not just in the neat, polished way reporters usually were. There was something soft in your features, something magnetic in the way your eyes lifted to meet his as he approached.

Gojo slowed down, smirk tugging at his lips. He was supposed to be answering questions about the game, the championship, his career-defining night. But all he could think was—

Well damn. Guess I just won twice tonight.

The courtside was chaos, but controlled chaos. Crew members hustled back and forth, sound checks crackling through headsets, a cameraman already angling for the best shot. You stood in the middle of it all, calm against the storm, glancing down at your notes with the kind of focus that made it clear—this wasn’t your first finals, and you weren’t here to be distracted.

A powder brush dabbed against your cheek once more, and you thanked the makeup tech quickly before she rushed off. You adjusted your earpiece, straightened the lapel of your blazer, and let out a steadying breath. Three minutes live with Gojo. Just basketball questions. Keep it sharp.

And not once—not once—did you spare him a glance as he ambled toward you, even though the heat of his presence was unmistakable. Six-foot-six of sweat-slick muscle, his jersey clinging to broad shoulders, that trophy still in one hand like it was part of his anatomy. He smirked when he noticed you deliberately ignoring him, leaning a little closer than necessary while a sound tech clipped a mic to his collar.

The camera light flipped red. Live.

Your smile bloomed instantly, professional and practiced, your voice smooth as velvet through the mic. “Congratulations to the Tokyo Kaisen on their championship win tonight, and of course, Finals MVP—Satoru Gojo is with me now. Satoru, another incredible performance, thirty-eight points, twelve assists, eight rebounds—what’s going through your mind right now?”

Satoru didn’t answer right away. Instead, his tongue darted out, slow and careless, licking his lips before he gave you that lazy grin. He tilted the trophy in his hand like he might hand it to you, then thought better of it.

“Mm, what’s going through my mind?” he drawled, pretending to think while his eyes roamed—lingering a little too long on your mouth, the way the gloss caught the stadium lights. “Honestly, I could give you the boring answer—team effort, hard work, yadda yadda…” He leaned a little closer, blue eyes flicking back to yours. “But truthfully? I’m just glad you’re the one asking me.”

The camera didn’t catch your quick inhale, but it caught the way his grin widened, shameless.

You held steady, professionalism locking your spine. “Well, it was a team effort,” you said firmly, ignoring the way his gaze burned into you. “But you’ve been consistently strong all season. What was your mindset going into a game of this magnitude?”

Gojo finally tore his eyes off your mouth—just to trail them down your figure instead. That fitted blazer hugged your waist perfectly, the pencil skirt skimming your hips, heels giving your posture an elegance that made his throat dry. God, you were gorgeous. Too gorgeous to be stuck courtside with a mic. He couldn’t stop licking his lips, couldn’t stop shifting like he needed to bite down on something.

“My mindset?” he repeated, smirking when you glanced up at him again, all business. “To win. Always. I don’t like losing—never have, never will.” He paused, smirk deepening. “But if I’m being honest… looking like that in front of me? You’re making it real hard to concentrate on basketball right now.”

The director waved frantically off-camera, mouthing Keep it about the game! But Gojo only chuckled, eyes glued to you like the crowd, the cameras, the whole world had vanished.

And that was the dangerous part—he wasn’t trying to flirt like his usual cocky self. His voice dropped lower, his grin softened when he looked at you, his attention sharpened like you were the only one who mattered. Gojo Satoru, star of the court, MVP of the season, was whipped. And he wasn’t even trying to hide it.

You didn’t break. Not even when his eyes dipped down to your mouth again. Your grip on the mic was steady, your smile easy, your voice unwavering as you shifted to the next question.

“You’ve spoken all season about trust between teammates,” you said, glancing at your notes before meeting his gaze again. “How important was that trust in pulling off tonight’s win?”

Gojo exhaled through his nose, jaw flexing as he forced himself to focus. Basketball. Game. Not her mouth. Not her legs. Not the way that blouse hugged her just right under the blazer. He shoved his tongue against his teeth, swallowed, then finally dragged his eyes back up where they belonged.

“Trust’s everything,” he said, voice softer now, less of that cocky lilt. “You can’t drop forty by yourself. I know if I dish it to Suguru, he’s draining it. Toji’s gonna muscle through anyone in the paint. Sukuna—he’ll kill me if I don’t pass when he’s open.” His grin flashed, boyish and bright for the cameras. “We’re a unit. They trust me, I trust them. That’s how you win championships.”

It was a perfect answer, clean and sharp, and yet even then his gaze lingered—just a second too long. His grin softened when he looked at you, like the cameras and crowd didn’t exist. Like you were the only one he was really talking to.

You kept rolling. “Well, it certainly showed. Last question—this is your third championship, second MVP. What’s next for you, Satoru Gojo?”

He tilted his head, lips parting as if he had something smooth to say—something that would get the director screaming in your earpiece—but before he could answer, a shadow loomed behind him.

“Don’t even think about it—”

Too late.

A bucket of freezing water cascaded straight down over his head. Gojo flinched, shouting, his hair plastering instantly to his forehead, jersey clinging even tighter. He whipped around to see Choso and Suguru cracking up behind him, Toji smirking like the devil himself with an empty cooler still in hand. Sukuna just crossed his tattooed arms and barked a laugh.

You gasped and stepped back, but not fast enough. The spray caught your blouse, soaking through just enough to make the fabric cling to your skin. Your eyes widened, but your professional smile stayed glued in place as you let out a light laugh into the mic.

“Well—looks like the celebration isn’t quite over down here!” you said brightly, as the cameraman fought to keep the shot steady through his own laughter. “Satoru Gojo, congratulations again on the win and the MVP. Back to you guys at the desk.”

The red camera light blinked off.

Gojo blinked water out of his lashes, standing there like a drenched cat, his grin breaking wider by the second. He shook his head like a dog, droplets flying everywhere, and leaned just close enough that only you could hear him murmur, voice low and rough with laughter,

“…Guess I’m not the only one who got wet tonight.”

The interview wrapped, the camera light dimming as crew swarmed in to reset. You exhaled, shoulders relaxing the moment the director’s voice left your ear. Already, one of the staff was guiding you toward the tunnel, a spare jacket draped over their arm in case you wanted to cover the damp patch on your blouse. You offered a polite smile, thanking them, already thinking about getting back to the media room, maybe even changing before the next segment.

Behind you, the team’s celebrations rolled on like thunder. Whoops and hollers echoed through the arena—Suguru tossing his head back in laughter, Toji dragging Sukuna into a rare half-embrace that looked more like a wrestling match, Choso already half-drenched in beer someone had cracked open too early. Gojo was right in the middle of it, arms around two teammates, flashing that blinding grin for every camera shoved in his face.

And then—he pulled away.

“Hold on a sec, boys.” He peeled his arm off Suguru’s shoulder, ignoring the jeers, the “Ohhh, where you going, MVP?” that followed him. The trophy was shoved into someone else’s hands as he slipped free of the crowd, water still dripping from the ends of his white hair, jersey clinging to every hard line of muscle. He didn’t care. His eyes were on you.

You’d just tucked your notes back into your folder when his shadow loomed.

“I didn’t catch your name,” he said, low enough that only you could hear it over the chaos.

You blinked up at him, momentarily caught off guard by the closeness, the way his pale lashes were still wet, the mischievous grin softened into something far more intent.

“Oh,” you said, recovering with that same gentle composure you always had. Your smile was warm, professional but undeniably sweet. You offered your name softly, like a secret shared between the two of you in the noisy arena.

Satoru rolled it around on his tongue immediately, savoring it like the finest wine. His grin widened, wolfish at the edges. “Pretty,” he murmured, just loud enough for you. “Suits you.”

You gave a little laugh, ducking your head as you adjusted the jacket staff had draped over your shoulders. “You should be celebrating with your teammates, not bothering me.”

“Celebrating’s better when I know who to toast to,” he shot back without missing a beat, tilting his head so he could keep your gaze locked with his. His lips quirked, eyes glinting with something that wasn’t just postgame adrenaline. “Besides… think I deserve more than one win tonight.”

The staffer tugged at your elbow gently, reminding you of the schedule, but Satoru lingered, leaning down just enough that his damp hair nearly brushed your forehead, voice dropping to a husky whisper only you could catch—

“Don’t run off too quick, sweetheart. I’ll come find you.”

You slipped into the tunnel with the staff, your heels clicking against concrete, a jacket draped around your shoulders. The scent of champagne and sweat faded behind you, swallowed by the busy shuffle of crew and media staff prepping the next segment.

Satoru stood where you’d left him, hands shoved into the waistband of his shorts, watching until you disappeared. A rare thing—him silent, grin tugging but softer, almost dazed.

Suguru noticed.

“Holy shit,” Suguru drawled, sliding up beside him with his hair dripping, towel slung lazily around his neck. He bumped his shoulder against Satoru’s, smirking when the MVP didn’t even flinch. “Don’t tell me the great Gojo Satoru just got fucking starstruck.”

That broke the trance. Satoru scoffed, running a hand through his soaked hair, but his ears burned red. “Shut the fuck up, Suguru.”

“Shut the fuck up, he says,” Toji chimed in, sauntering over with a beer already half-empty in his fist. His grin was wicked, eyes sharp like he’d just sniffed blood in the water. “Never seen you look at anyone like that before, kid. You were about two seconds from dropping on one knee right there on the court.”

Choso barked a laugh, towel still draped over his head. “No way. Gojo? Whipped?”

“Whipped,” Suguru confirmed, eyes glinting as he leaned forward, elbow digging into Satoru’s ribs. “Did you see the way he was looking at her? Bro, if the cameras weren’t on, you’d have been down bad enough to beg for her number right there.”

Satoru rolled his eyes, tugging the towel Suguru had around his neck and smacking him with it. “You’re all full of shit. I was just answering questions. Doing my job.”

“Answering questions?” Sukuna finally cut in, his grin sharp, tattoos flexing as he crossed his arms. “You weren’t answering questions, you were eye-fucking her so hard I thought the broadcast was about to go NSFW.”

The group howled with laughter, and Satoru swore, shoving at Sukuna’s shoulder while trying to hide the flush creeping down his neck.

“Fuck off. All of you,” he muttered, but it only made them laugh harder.

“Just admit it,” Suguru said, smirk smug as hell. “Gojo Satoru, MVP, finals hero, biggest flirt in the league… caught his match. You’re fucked, man. Absolutely fucked.”

And for once, Gojo didn’t have a comeback. He just grinned, crooked and a little sheepish, rubbing the back of his neck as he thought of you again.

“...Yeah,” he admitted under his breath, not quite meeting their eyes. “Maybe I am.”

The boys erupted again, jeers and curses echoing through the tunnel, but Satoru didn’t care. He was still thinking about the way your name had sounded on his tongue.

The hotel suite was chaos in the way only a championship night could be. Jerseys were peeled off, showers were running in rotation, room service trays already littering the coffee table—half-eaten burgers, fries dumped out of cartons, empty champagne bottles from the team’s celebratory stash. Music was blaring from Toji’s speaker, bass rattling the floor.

Satoru lay sprawled across one of the couches in nothing but black sweats, a towel still slung over his shoulders, phone held above his face as he scrolled. His wet hair stuck up in every direction, but he didn’t care—he was too busy cackling.

“Holy shit, you guys gotta see this,” he wheezed, rolling over to shove his phone in Suguru’s face.

Suguru, sitting cross-legged on the other end of the couch braiding his hair back, took one look and groaned. “Oh my god.”

On the screen was a TikTok edit already racking up views—slow-motion shots of the interview, zoomed in on the way Gojo kept licking his lips, then your smile, then back to his stare. Someone had slapped text over it: ‘he wants that cookie soooo bad’ followed by crying emojis.

Suguru snorted, biting down a laugh. “They’re eating you alive, man.”

Satoru only grinned wider. “Can’t even blame them. Cookie looked good as hell.”

“Cookie looked unbothered as hell,” Toji cut in from the armchair, towel draped over his head as he scrolled his own phone. “You were drooling and she didn’t even blink. That’s cold.”

“Cold-blooded,” Sukuna agreed, leaning against the window with a beer in his hand. He held his phone up, smirk devilish. “Yo, check this—someone made a compilation already. ‘Gojo Satoru trying not to flirt on live TV challenge (impossible).’”

The room erupted in laughter.

Choso, sprawled belly-down on the carpet with his feet kicked up, waved his phone. “This one says, ‘bro, the game wasn’t the only thing he was trying to score tonight.’”

“HA!” Suguru doubled over, braid half-finished, practically crying.

“‘She’s asking about rebounds, he’s thinking about bending her over,’” Toji read aloud, wheezing.

Even Sukuna cracked, laughing dark and loud, slapping his knee.

Satoru groaned, dragging a hand down his face but still grinning like a fool. “You’re all assholes. Every single one of you.”

“Assholes telling the truth,” Suguru teased, smirk tugging at his lips. He tossed a hair tie at Satoru’s chest. “Admit it—you’re fucking whipped.”

The MVP just sprawled back again, arms behind his head, grin crooked but shameless. “Maybe I am,” he said, drawl lazy, “and she’s worth it.”

That earned a round of groans and catcalls, Toji throwing a fry at him, Sukuna muttering, “Jesus, get a room already.”

But then Choso shoved his phone closer to Satoru, wide-eyed. “Look—someone captioned the clip, ‘Gojo’s not hearing shit, he’s just thinking about eating her alive.’”

Satoru barked out a laugh, rolling onto his side, hair still damp and sticking to his face. “Fuck yeah I was.”

They all burst out laughing again, the suite practically shaking with the noise.

Suguru finally stood, smoothing his hair back and heading toward the bedroom. “Alright, love-struck MVP, put your pants on. We’ve got an afterparty to get to.”

Satoru stretched, popping his shoulders, still grinning like a man who’d just won more than a championship. “Don’t worry, I’ll look good enough to catch her eye again.” He glanced at the mirror, flashing himself a wink. “Third time’s the charm.”

The rest of the team groaned, but there was no hiding it—Gojo Satoru was on cloud nine, and nothing, not even their relentless teasing, was bringing him down.

The afterparty was nothing short of decadent. The ballroom was packed wall to wall—teammates, staff, media, sponsors, even celebrities who hadn’t watched a single game but wanted to ride the championship buzz. Chandeliers glittered above, glasses clinked, and bass from the DJ thrummed through the floorboards.

“TO THREE FUCKING RINGS!” Toji roared, slamming back a shot with Sukuna beside him, both of them already half-drunk, shoulders heavy with sweat and celebration.

“Three rings, two MVPs, and one dumbass who can’t stop licking his lips on live TV,” Suguru quipped, clinking his glass with Choso as they all burst into laughter again.

Gojo rolled his eyes but grinned anyway, nursing a glass of champagne. He stood a little apart, gaze drifting over the crowd, restless. People were congratulating him left and right—slaps on the back, women slipping hands down his arm, sponsors trying to catch his attention—but he kept brushing them off with polite smiles.

He was looking for you.

And his teammates knew it.

“You’re not slick, man,” Choso muttered, bumping his shoulder as he leaned in to grab a drink from the bar. “The way your head keeps spinning like you’re waiting for her to walk in—pathetic.”

“Pathetic,” Sukuna echoed with a nasty grin, though his eyes were sharp as he scanned the crowd too. “Where’s your princess, Gojo?”

Suguru chuckled, sipping his drink. “Relax, he’s just trying to make sure the cookie shows up. Can’t blame him.”

Gojo groaned, running a hand through his perfectly styled white hair. “You fuckers are worse than the internet.”

And then—there you were.

You slipped into the room like you belonged there, satin catching the light with every step. The dress hugged every curve, the kind of elegant cut that was just as modest as it was devastating, gliding over your hips before spilling down your legs. The color made your skin glow, your smile dazzling as you laughed softly at something one of the execs said. You weren’t holding a mic anymore, but you still carried yourself like you were the center of the spotlight.

Gojo froze.

“Oh, fuck me,” he muttered under his breath, heart lurching into his throat. The champagne in his hand suddenly felt useless, his mouth dry. The confidence he’d oozed in front of the cameras, in front of the whole arena, evaporated the second he saw you smile like that.

Suguru caught it instantly. He smirked, clapping a hand to Satoru’s back. “Aaand there it is. He’s gone. Absolutely gone.”

Toji leaned in, smirk cruel. “MVP’s scared of a girl in a dress."

“Scared?” Sukuna sneered, eyes glinting with amusement. “Look at him. Motherfucker’s about to choke on his own tongue.”

Gojo didn’t even argue. He couldn’t. His eyes were locked on you, the way the higher-ups leaned in too close when they spoke, the way you tipped your head politely, satin dress shimmering with each shift of your body.

“Don’t just stand there like a pussy,” Toji barked, smacking the back of his head. “Go fucking talk to her.”

“Yeah,” Suguru added, grinning ear to ear. “Before someone else does.”

Satoru swallowed hard, tugged at his collar, and muttered under his breath, “…Shit. Why am I nervous?”

Because for once in his life, it wasn’t a game, and you weren’t just anyone.

The bass from the DJ thrummed through the ballroom floor, champagne glasses clinking in celebration. Everyone was drunk on victory—managers, execs, players from other teams. Satoru sat with his teammates at a low-lit lounge area, sprawled out in a chair with his long legs spread, but his eyes weren’t on the bottles or the people cheering them on. They were glued to you across the room.

You were in satin—soft, glossy, hugging every curve like it was made for you. The way you tilted your head back when you laughed with those higher-ups? It made his stomach twist in a way he wasn’t used to. He had dealt with interviews, pressure, finals, shit-talking crowds—but this? This was different. This was nerve-wracking.

“Man, he’s fucking cooked,” Suguru snickered, swirling his drink, leaning back like he’d been waiting for this moment. “Look at him. He’s not even hearing us.”

Toji let out a low chuckle. “He’s eye-fucking her so hard, I’m starting to feel shy, and she’s across the damn room.”

Even Choso cracked a smirk, raising his brows. “Go talk to her, bro. Sitting here drooling isn’t a strategy.”

Satoru dragged his fingers through his damp hair, already messy from the night. “You guys sound real confident for people who aren’t about to go crash a conversation with three higher-ups breathing down her neck.”

“Yeah,” Suguru clapped him on the shoulder with a shit-eating grin. “But you’re Satoru Gojo. Golden boy. MVP. They’re already kissing your ass. You think they’re gonna get mad if you steal five minutes of their staff’s time?”

The boys started hyping him up—clapping his back, whistling, tossing out “Go get her”s like they were at practice again.

Finally, with a long exhale, Satoru stood. “Fuck it.” He adjusted his jacket, ignoring every hand that reached out to shake his, every congratulation shouted as he passed. People tried to stop him—execs, reporters, random women wanting pictures—but he brushed by them all, focused on you.

The higher-ups you’d been talking to noticed him first. Their faces lit up, hands already extended.

“Gojo! Hell of a game tonight!”

“Outstanding performance, really. You pulled through for the team in a way only you could.”

He gave them one of his trademark grins—sharp, cocky, charming as hell—but it didn’t linger on them. His head tilted slightly, blue eyes locking on you like no one else in the room existed.

Then he dropped his voice just for you.

“Hey…”

The word was simple, almost too casual, but the weight of it, the way it slipped from him like he’d been dying to say it all night, made your heart skip.

“Well then—we’ll leave you two. Staff always works hard behind the scenes. Gojo, take good care.”

And just like that, they melted away, leaving you standing in your satin dress with a half-empty champagne flute, and him, nervous energy rolling off his tall frame like static.

“Hey,” he repeated, softer this time.

You smiled, professional, the same way you’d been with everyone else tonight. “Congratulations again, Gojo. That was… an incredible game.”

He shoved his hands into his pockets, rocking a little on his heels, like he didn’t quite know where to put all that restless energy. “You keep saying my name like that, I might actually start thinking you’re a fan.”

You blinked, caught off guard by the teasing lilt in his voice. “Well, I am staff. I’m supposed to root for the team.”

“That’s not what I meant.” He tilted his head, grinning but his ears a little pink. “You saying it like you mean it.”

You laughed softly, brushing it off like it was nothing. “You’re reading into it.”

“Am I?” he shot back, trying to sound smooth, but his thumb rubbed anxiously over the edge of his pocket.

You tilted your champagne glass slightly, lips curved politely, playing oblivious to the way his gaze dragged over you like he was memorizing every inch. “I think you’re still a little high off that win. Maybe all that adrenaline’s making you mishear things.”

His grin faltered for half a second—like he didn’t expect you to parry so easily—but then he leaned in just enough for only you to hear, voice low, teasing again though nervous at the edges.

“Or maybe I just know exactly what I’m hearing.”

Your laugh came light, practiced, the kind you’d given countless players over the years to smooth things over. You lifted your glass, angling it toward him.

“Well,” you said gently, “whether or not you’re hearing things, I’m sure you’ll be answering that same compliment from every reporter in this room tonight. It was a record-breaking performance. You should be proud.”

Satoru blinked, like he hadn’t expected you to pivot so neatly. “...Proud, huh?” He scratched the back of his neck, lips quirking. “Kinda hard to focus on stats when there’s something else worth celebrating standing right in front of me.”

You shook your head with a polite little smile, refusing to let his words rattle you. “Your teammates are probably waiting on you. Don’t let me be the reason you miss out on your own party.”

He huffed out a laugh, dramatic, like you’d wounded him. “Damn. Cold. I’m tryna flirt, and you’re giving me the ‘go be with your friends’ line?”

“I’m not sure that was flirting,” you replied evenly, though your eyes sparkled just slightly. “Sounded more like deflecting from your own hard work.”

“Deflecting?” He leaned down a bit closer, grin turning sharper, as if daring you to break character. “I don’t need to deflect. I know I’m good. What I don’t know is why you keep dodging me like I’m some rookie trying his luck.”

You steadied yourself, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, voice calm and firm even though the way his gaze pinned you made your skin prickle. “Because I’m working. And you’re celebrating. Two very different things.”

He chuckled under his breath, tilting his head like you’d just confirmed what he suspected. “See? You keep saying that, but I don’t buy it. You’re enjoying this just as much as I am.”

“Or maybe,” you countered softly, sipping from your glass, “I’m just good at my job.”

That made him bite his lip, eyes glittering, like he was half-amused, half-exasperated. He stood there for a moment, trying to decide if he should push harder or play it cool, before muttering—low, just for you— “You make it real hard to keep it professional, y’know that?”

Your smile didn’t falter, though the warmth in your tone sharpened just enough to cut.

“Whatever you’re doing, Gojo… I’m not buying it.”

His brows shot up. “What?”

“You’ve got a reputation,” you said plainly, lowering your glass to your side. “I’ve heard the stories. The girls, the flirting, the late-night photos. I don’t doubt you’re charming, but I don’t have the time—or the patience—for a playboy.”

For once, Satoru looked… stunned. His mouth actually opened, like he was scrambling for words. “Wait—hold on, that’s not—”

“I’ve been doing this job long enough to know when someone’s trying to run game,” you continued, calm but firm, satin catching in the light as you shifted. “And I’m too busy to be dealing with all that.”

His usual grin slipped, something more genuine flickering underneath. “I’m not—look, yeah, okay, I used to mess around, but that’s not what this is. I’m not just… running some line on you.”

You tilted your head, the polite professional smile sliding back into place. “Then maybe you’ll prove me wrong. Until then… enjoy your night, champ.”

And just like that, you turned, satin brushing over your curves as you walked away, leaving him standing there with his defense hanging in the air.

Satoru Gojo. The MVP. The man who never missed a shot, never heard no, never walked off the court without a crowd screaming his name.

Rejected.

His teammates were still hyping each other up across the room, but Satoru just stood there, blinking like you’d knocked the wind out of him more than any game ever could.

Satoru made his way back to their section, shoulders slouched in a way that didn’t fit the guy who’d just won the championship MVP. The others noticed instantly.

Toji smirked, leaning back with a whiskey glass dangling from his fingers. “The fuck happened to you? You look like somebody dunked on your ass.”

Suguru narrowed his eyes, lips twitching. “Wait. Don’t tell me. You shot your shot and she—” He didn’t even finish before his laugh spilled out.

Choso, of all people, cracked the faintest grin, shaking his head. “Pathetic.”

Sukuna barked out a low, cruel laugh, tattoos flexing with the way his shoulders shook. “No way. The golden boy actually got curved? Out here thinkin’ he’s untouchable.” He clapped his hands once, loud, just to punctuate it. “That’s fucking rich.”

The whole table started in, layering jokes, cackling, calling him out. Satoru just stood there, blank. Didn’t even try to bite back. He sank into the couch, grabbed a beer off the table, and stared at the label like it had the answers to the universe.

The laughter slowed as they caught on to how quiet he was.

Then, out of nowhere, he blurted:

“…Am I a playboy?”

The silence hit like a brick wall. Suguru blinked hard, then dragged a hand over his face. Toji nearly spat out his drink. Choso muttered, deadpan, “Seriously?”

Sukuna leaned forward, grinning sharp and mean. “You’re really asking us that? After all the shit you’ve pulled? After all the times you couldn’t even remember half their names the next morning?” He tilted his head, smirking. “Yeah, Gojo. You’re a fucking playboy.”

Toji barked a laugh, slapping the table. “Un-fucking-believable. He’s actually hurt over this. Goddamn.”

Suguru sighed, though his smirk lingered. “She must’ve read you like a book if you’re sitting here questioning yourself. Never thought I’d see the day.”

Satoru dragged his hand down his face with a groan, slumping deeper into the couch. For once, there was no comeback, no grin—just that stung look, like he didn’t know what the hell to do with himself.

Satoru sat there sulking, staring into his beer like it might give him divine wisdom.

Toji leaned over, snorting. “This is rich. The man with the biggest ego in the league just got fucking humbled by a pretty face in satin. Beautiful. Absolutely beautiful.”

Sukuna howled, slamming his fist against the table. “He’s still processing it! Look at him—man’s in denial. Probably replaying it in his head like it was game tape.” He leaned closer, mocking. “‘Uh, coach, where did I go wrong? She hit me with the cold shoulder, what’s the play?’”

Choso’s voice cut through, flat as ever. “You’re pathetic. All that talent, all those rings, and you fold over one reporter.”

That got Sukuna roaring again, tears at the corner of his eyes. Toji couldn’t stop grinning, shaking his head like he’d just won a bet he never placed.

Satoru groaned, tipping his head back against the couch. “You assholes are enjoying this way too much.”

“Damn right,” Sukuna shot back. “You’ve been coasting your whole career, never heard the word ‘no’ in your life. Bout time someone put you in your place.”

“Fuck off,” Satoru muttered, running his hands through his damp hair.

Suguru, who’d been lounging with his drink, finally spoke up. His tone was smooth, lazy, but his smirk cut deep. “You know, Satoru… maybe it’s not that she doesn’t like you. Maybe she just doesn’t like the version of you she thinks she knows.”

Satoru lifted his head a fraction, narrowing his eyes. “…The hell does that mean?”

Suguru swirled his glass, eyes glinting. “Means your reputation caught up to you. You’ve been fucking around for so long people assume that’s all you are. And she’s not the type to waste time. So either you prove her wrong… or you keep sitting here pouting like a jackass.”

Toji whistled low, impressed. “Damn. He actually gave you something useful instead of roasting your ass.”

“Don’t get used to it,” Suguru replied smoothly, clinking his glass against Toji’s.

Satoru muttered under his breath, half to himself, “Prove her wrong, huh?”

Sukuna rolled his eyes, leaning back. “Good luck with that, lover boy. Can’t wait to watch you crash and burn again.”

The others burst into laughter while Satoru sat there, jaw clenched, already scheming.

You weren’t the type who got swept up in charm. Not in college, not when you clawed your way into the industry, and definitely not now. You’d built a reputation on being sharp, polished, untouchable. The kind of reporter who asked the hard questions without flinching, who didn’t linger at afterparties hoping for selfies, who never once slipped her professionalism for the sake of a pretty face in a jersey.

You had deadlines, early mornings, a career to protect. You didn’t have time for distractions—especially not the six-foot-six, blue-eyed kind with a history of breaking records and hearts.

Which is exactly why, when you stepped out of your rideshare the next morning, coffee in hand, your stomach flipped.

Because leaning against a sleek, black imported car parked right in front of your apartment building—like he owned the whole damn street—was none other than Satoru fucking Gojo.

The same man you’d turned down less than twelve hours ago.

He was in sweats and a fitted long-sleeve that clung to his broad chest, hair still damp like he hadn’t bothered to dry it properly after a shower. Dark sunglasses hid his eyes, but his grin was clear as day. That cocky, shit-eating grin that told you he was way too comfortable standing there like some scene out of a bad rom-com.

Your first thought: No way. Absolutely not.

Your second thought, one you tried to squash instantly: God, he looks good.

Satoru pushed off the car casually, hands tucked in his pockets as he strolled toward you. “Morning, sweetheart.”

You froze mid-step, keys in hand, staring at him like he’d lost his mind. “Gojo. What the hell are you doing here?”

“Waiting for you,” he said simply, like it was the most normal thing in the world.

You blinked. “Outside my apartment?”

He shrugged, smile widening. “Where else am I supposed to wait? Thought about sending flowers but, you know… this felt more personal.”

For a moment, all you could do was gape, your brain scrambling. Reporters didn’t end up on the front page for dating players. Reporters ended up fired for dating players. And yet here he was, the biggest playboy in the league, standing in front of your building like he had all the time in the world.

And worse—like he wasn’t planning to leave until you gave him something.

Your grip tightened around your coffee cup, voice sharp. “How did you even know I lived here?”

Satoru’s smirk didn’t falter, but there was something sheepish behind it. He scratched the back of his neck. “Pulled a few strings with the media team. Wasn’t easy, by the way. You’re like Fort Knox with your info.”

Your jaw dropped. “You what?” The repulsion in your tone was instant, your stomach twisting. “Gojo, that’s—no. I said already, no. So please—just leave.”

You moved past him, heels clicking against the pavement, but before you could reach the door he stepped smoothly into your path, blocking you.

This time, though, the cocky grin slipped. He held his hands up like he was surrendering, his voice quieter, stripped of all the teasing. “Wait. Just—hear me out, okay?”

You glared at him, ready to snap, but something in his face stopped you. He wasn’t smirking anymore. No sunglasses, no swagger. Just those ridiculously blue eyes searching yours with a sincerity you hadn’t expected.

“I know what people say about me,” he started, voice low. “And yeah… a lot of it’s true. I’ve been reckless. I’ve been stupid. But when I saw you out there—on the court, doing your job like you were the only one in control—I couldn’t look away. And last night? When you shut me down?” He gave a short laugh, but it was self-deprecating, almost nervous. “It didn’t piss me off. It just… made me want to prove you wrong.”

You folded your arms, trying not to let the words get to you. “You think one speech erases years of—”

“I don’t expect it to,” he cut in quickly. “But I’m not here to bullshit you. Not this time. I just want a chance. One chance. To show you I’m not the guy you think I am anymore.”

Silence hung between you, heavy, the morning air sharp against your skin. You should’ve walked away. You should’ve kept your wall up. But the sincerity in his voice—how raw it sounded without the joke coating—made your chest tighten.

You sighed, finally breaking the tension. “You’re really not going to leave unless I give in, are you?”

Satoru’s grin flickered back, softer this time. “Not a chance.”

You closed your eyes, shaking your head at yourself. “Fine. One chance. That’s it. You blow it, and we’re done. Understand?”

He lit up like you’d just handed him another championship trophy, grin so wide it made your stomach flip. “Crystal clear.”

When you moved past him again, this time he didn’t block your way—just fell into step beside you, hands in his pockets, humming like he’d already won something far more important than MVP.

You slid into the passenger seat, the leather still warm from the sun, and gave him a look that could cut glass. “Where are you even planning on taking me, Gojo? It’s nine in the morning.”

He slid behind the wheel like he owned the world, buckling his seatbelt with an infuriatingly casual grin. “Patience, princess. Not every date’s candlelight and champagne.”

You huffed, sinking back against the seat. “This isn’t a date.”

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he reached behind him, fumbling in the backseat. When he straightened again, there it was in his hand: a bouquet. Real flowers, not gas-station cheap, but an actual wrapped bouquet of deep red tulips and baby’s breath, tied with ribbon.

He set it on your lap like it belonged there. “Okay, maybe it’s a little bit of a date.”

You froze, staring at the bouquet like it had personally offended you. The scent drifted up, subtle and sweet, making your chest tighten. Your fingers twitched, not sure whether to shove it back at him or cradle it like it was too fragile.

“Gojo…” you finally muttered, voice lower than you meant it to be. “I don’t… know what to do with this.”

He leaned one elbow on the steering wheel, tilting his head to watch you. The cocky smirk wasn’t gone, but it was tempered with something softer. “Usually people just say thank you.”

You shot him a look, cheeks warming despite yourself. “That’s not what I meant.”

“I know,” he admitted quietly, grin easing into something less practiced. “That’s the point. You don’t have to know. Just… take it. Let me figure out the rest.”

The flowers rested against your thighs, vivid and alive, and for the first time since you’d met him, you didn’t have an immediate comeback.

You were still reeling when he slid into the driver’s seat, like you’d accidentally stepped into an alternate universe. Gojo Satoru—Mr. Headlines, Mr. Every-Girl’s-Dream, Mr. Can’t-Keep-His-Shirt-On-At-Afterparties—had just pulled flowers out of his backseat like some corny romance drama lead. You’d almost laughed, except the way he held them out was… different. Not smug. Not taunting. Just… sincere. And that was the part that disarmed you most.

The ride was quiet—suspiciously quiet for him. No jokes, no half-cooked innuendo. Just his hands gripping the wheel like he wasn’t sure if he was doing this right. When he finally pulled into the lot, you blinked in surprise. No valet. No five-star entrance. Just a hole-in-the-wall café tucked between a laundromat and a bookstore, the kind of place you came to when you wanted to vanish from the world for an hour.

He turned off the engine, then rounded the car to open your door. It was automatic, effortless—but you were caught off guard anyway. You stepped out slowly, clutching the flowers like you didn’t know what to do with them.

Inside, the café was warm, quiet, filled with the smell of coffee beans and fresh bread. Definitely not what you expected from him. You slipped into the booth, still watching him with suspicion.

“You don’t have to do all this,” you said finally, tone sharper than you intended. “The flowers, the car, the breakfast—whatever this is. It’s… unnecessary.”

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table, and for once there wasn’t even a trace of that signature smirk. “Maybe it is. But I wanted to.”

You rolled your eyes, but your pulse betrayed you, thudding too loud in your ears. “Gojo—”

“Satoru.” He cut in, soft but firm. His blue eyes met yours, unguarded in a way that unsettled you more than all his games put together. “Call me Satoru. I’m not trying to sell you some flashy version of me. I’m not trying to make you another story for the tabloids. I just—” He hesitated, swallowing like the words were heavier than he expected. “I just think you’re… beautiful. And not the way people call everyone beautiful. You’re the kind of beautiful that makes me want to slow down for once.”

Your mouth went dry. You opened it, closed it again. The café’s hum of quiet chatter filled the silence you couldn’t.

He gave a short, almost nervous laugh. “And yeah, I know my reputation. I know what you think of me. But for once, I’m not playing.”

You stared at him, unsure if you should be pissed, flattered, or terrified of how close his words came to slipping under your skin.

And that’s how this whole fiasco started—with you, of all people, dating the biggest player in Japan.

You weren’t proud of it at first. In fact, every time you caught yourself smiling at a text from him, you’d roll your eyes so hard you’d give yourself a headache. This was Gojo Satoru. The man who could flirt with a lamppost and make it blush. The man whose name was basically synonymous with “scandal.” And yet, somehow, he had wormed his way into your mornings, your late nights, and—worst of all—your thoughts.

It started small. He showed up at your office one day with takeout from that one ramen place you’d raved about in passing. “I pulled some strings,” he’d said smugly, until you found out the ‘strings’ were just him begging the owner to open early. Then there were the random coffee runs, him standing in your doorway with two cups like he hadn’t already been waiting twenty minutes just to catch you between meetings.

The dates, though—that was where you realized he wasn’t just throwing money at you. Sure, he could’ve whisked you off to the flashiest rooftop bars and private clubs, but instead he took you to places so… normal it disarmed you. A mom-and-pop bakery where the owner knew his order by heart. An aquarium at night where he walked you through every exhibit like a tour guide, making dumb fish puns until you laughed so hard you cried. A tiny vinyl shop where he insisted you pick out records together, claiming you couldn’t really know a person until you knew their taste in music.

But then came the bigger surprises, the kind that made your chest ache in ways you didn’t want to admit. Once, he dragged you out of bed at dawn just to drive to the coast so you could watch the sunrise. You grumbled the whole ride there, only to find him setting out a blanket and thermos of coffee like he’d planned it for weeks. Another time, after you’d had a rough day, he showed up with your favorite snacks and put on a cheesy rom-com, dramatically reenacting half the lines until you were snorting into your pillow.

Slowly, against your better judgment, the walls you’d built against him started to crack.

Because he wasn’t just showing up. He was showing up in the ways that mattered. Remembering details. Listening. Making space for you without trying to overshadow you.

And maybe that was the biggest surprise of all—that Gojo Satoru, the man you once swore was nothing but a cocky, spoiled playboy, was patient. With you. With your doubts. With every time you tried to push him away, he simply leaned closer, steady and unshaken, like he had all the time in the world to wait for you to believe him.

So yes, it was messy. Yes, it was unexpected. Yes, it made absolutely no sense. But slowly, surely, it made you certain of him.

It hit you on a random Tuesday.

Satoru had texted you at some ungodly hour—something about, “Day off, yeah? Come watch me cook these losers in practice 😎”—and against every ounce of logic, you went.

You told yourself it was just curiosity. That you’d never actually seen him in his element outside of the big games, the lights, the cameras. But when you stepped into that echoing gym, the squeak of sneakers on polished wood, the sharp slap of the ball against the floor, the way his voice carried above everyone else’s—you froze.

He looked… happy.

Not cocky, not smug, not the showman he always was for the press. Just happy. Laughing with Suguru after sinking a three. Cussing Sukuna out when he elbowed too hard. Pointing at Toji like he was calling his own shot before weaving through and dunking anyway.

And then he saw you.

In the middle of drills, sweat dripping down his temples, hair tied back haphazardly—he grinned at you like you were the only person in that cavernous gym. And in that split second, you weren’t the reporter, you weren’t someone he was trying to impress. You were just… his.

He jogged over during a water break, panting, still buzzing with energy. “You came,” he said, like it wasn’t obvious, like it wasn’t written all over your face that you’d been caught staring.

Before you could answer, he pressed the ball into your hands. “C’mon. Take a shot.”

You laughed nervously. “Satoru, no. I’ll embarrass myself.”

“That’s impossible.” His voice was softer now, low enough that only you could hear. “You could trip over your own feet and I’d still think you were perfect.”

And god, you hated him for saying it like that—so earnestly, with none of the usual teasing lilt.

The boys started chanting from the court, egging you on. You rolled your eyes, muttered a curse, and stepped up to the line. You tossed the ball—not graceful, not skilled—and it bounced off the rim. Groans erupted from the peanut gallery.

But before you could retreat in shame, Satoru caught the rebound and, without hesitation, jumped up and slammed it through the hoop. Then he landed, arms out wide, announcing to everyone like he’d just won another championship:

“That’s an assist, baby!”

The gym roared with laughter, Toji yelling that he was whipped, Choso mumbling about secondhand embarrassment—but you? You just stood there, clutching your face because for the first time, you felt it.

That tight, terrifying squeeze in your chest.

Oh shit. I’m in love with him.

A new season meant new headlines, new pressure, new fire in every game. The arena buzzed like it always did, every seat packed, fans screaming themselves hoarse. You should’ve been locked in—ready to take notes, draft sharp questions for the postgame, keep your mind where it belonged: on your job.

But instead, your eyes strayed to him.

Gojo Satoru. Star of the team. Your… whatever he was now.

Earlier that afternoon, before tip-off, he’d shown up at your apartment with a cocky grin and his team jersey draped over his arm. “For you,” he’d said, pressing it against your chest like it was a gift of the highest order. His name sprawled across the back, his number shining bold. “So everyone knows who you’re with.”

You’d sighed, trying not to melt. “Satoru, I can’t. I have to look professional for work.”

“Professional, shmofessional,” he’d whined, slouching dramatically on your couch. “They already know you’re smarter than everyone in the room. Can’t you at least let them know you’re mine, too?”

You’d laughed, kissed his cheek, and slipped into your blazer instead. And though he sulked all the way to the arena, you didn’t think much of it.

Until now.

Something was wrong.

On the court, he wasn’t himself. His movements were sluggish, his shots rimmed out, his passes missed the mark. This was the same man who could practically close his eyes and still sink a three, but tonight? He was losing.

The crowd noticed. The commentators noticed. Hell, even his teammates were shooting him looks.

And you… you sat there in your pressed blouse and neat slacks, clutching your reporter’s notebook with a sinking feeling in your gut.

Because you didn’t know why—but for the first time since you’d met him, Satoru Gojo didn’t look unstoppable. He looked distracted. And every time his eyes flicked up into the stands, finding you not in his jersey but in neutral colors instead… it was like watching his light flicker.

Was he seriously—seriously—being like this just because you didn’t wear his damn jersey?

You sat there for another two minutes, notebook limp in your lap, watching him miss another free throw, and that was it. You were done.

You sucked in a deep breath, muttered under your breath about how absolutely ridiculous this man was, and stood up. Making your way to the staff room, you tossed your blazer over a chair, tugged your blouse free from your skirt, and pulled the jersey over your head.

Gojo Satoru’s jersey. His name sprawled bold across your back, his number gleaming like it was the only one that mattered.

Thankfully, the skirt you’d chosen for work was loose and flowy, just brushing your knees, and somehow—infuriatingly—it matched the blue trim on the jersey. You caught your reflection in the mirror and groaned.

“This man, I swear to god…” you muttered, but your cheeks were warm anyway.

By the time you stepped back out into the stands, the arena was alive with restless energy, the fans buzzing with confusion at Gojo’s off-game. His teammates were starting to pick up his slack, but it was obvious—they needed him.

And then he looked up.

His gaze swept the seats, searching, distracted, until it landed on you.

You. In his jersey.

And just like that, the switch flipped. His grin cracked wide across his face, cocky and sharp, like the man you knew. He smacked the ball back from Suguru, dribbled once, twice, and sank a clean, effortless three-pointer that sent the arena roaring.

“Unbelievable,” you breathed, pressing a hand over your face as the crowd around you went wild. “He’s actually insane.”

But when he jogged backward down the court, pointing right at you in front of everyone—crowd, cameras, his teammates—you felt it down to your bones.

Gojo Satoru wasn’t just playing for the championship. He was playing for you.

The shift was immediate.

The moment Satoru spotted you in that jersey, he went from sluggish to electric. It was like someone flipped a damn breaker inside him—the swagger came back, the confidence, the way he moved like the court was built for him.

Suguru gave him a look the next play down, catching his pass clean before sending it back. “Oh, so you’re awake now?”

“Shut up and watch,” Satoru smirked, pivoting hard and cutting through two defenders like they weren’t even there. The dunk that followed rattled the rim so loud it echoed through the entire arena.

The crowd exploded.

“THAT’S the Gojo I know!” Sukuna barked from the bench, clapping once, his grin sharp and feral. “Don’t think I didn’t see what turned you on.”

Toji snorted, wiping his face with a towel. “Man really needs his girl wearing his name before he remembers how to play ball. Jesus Christ.”

Choso, deadpan as ever, added, “Down bad.”

Suguru couldn’t help but laugh, jogging back on defense. “He’s not even denying it.”

And he wasn’t.

Because the next possession, Satoru hit another three. Then another. And another. Every time the ball left his hands, the net barely even whispered on the way down. It was poetry, pure muscle memory and instinct—but his eyes kept flicking back to you.

You, standing there in his jersey, skirt swishing when you cheered despite yourself.

The commentators were losing it, the fans on their feet, the entire stadium chanting his name like he’d been reborn. But for him? The game had narrowed into something stupidly, selfishly simple.

He was going to win this for you.

By the final buzzer, the scoreboard read like a miracle comeback. Gojo: thirty points. Ten rebounds. Seven assists. A highlight reel crammed into one game.

The crowd was thunderous, chanting his name, papers flying in the air, the arena shaking like the roof would rip right off. His teammates surrounded him, clapping his back, tugging at his jersey, yelling in his ear.

But Suguru just leaned close enough to mutter, “You realize everyone knows now, right?”

Satoru grinned, breathless, sweat slick on his temples. “Good.”

Toji barked a laugh, shaking his head. “Whipped, Gojo. Absolutely fucking whipped.”

And Sukuna—never one to pass on salt—pointed right at you in the stands. “Hope she knows she’s basically the sixth man now. Put her in the stat sheet.”

Choso only added, “Should’ve worn it from the start. We’d have blown them out by forty.”

Their voices were drowned out by the roar of the crowd, the celebration, the storm of confetti canons firing overhead. But Satoru’s gaze? His grin? His little two-fingered salute from the middle of the court?

All of it was aimed straight at you.

You were still catching your breath from screaming like a lunatic in the stands when a staffer tapped your shoulder, clipboard in hand and panic in their eyes.

“Reporter, you’re up. Post-game interview. We’re live in two.”

Your stomach dropped.

You glanced down at yourself—still in Satoru’s oversized jersey, your professional blouse balled up and forgotten in the staff room. The hem nearly swallowed your skirt, and your press badge looked completely ridiculous clipped to the neckline.

“Okay, um—just let me get changed real quick—”

“No time,” the staffer cut in, already steering you toward the tunnel where cameras were setting up. “We go live in less than two minutes.”

You swore your entire career flashed before your eyes. Getting fired, blacklisted, replaced by some fresh intern who would never let this happen. You were practically hyperventilating as they shoved a mic into your hand.

And then—because the universe hated you—a second voice rang out.

“Gojo! Interview, let’s go!” another crew member shouted, waving him over.

Satoru jogged up, hair damp, jersey sticking to his skin, still buzzing from victory. The moment his eyes landed on you in his number, professionalism officially went off the rails.

“Holy shit,” he grinned, and before you could sidestep him, he scooped you right into his arms again, hugging you like the cameras weren’t already being adjusted. “You look so good in my name, sweetheart.”

You hissed, trying to shove him off, your mic dangerously close to picking up every word. “Satoru! This is live television—”

“Then everyone’s about to see how happy I am,” he shot back, annoyingly smug, one arm still draped heavy across your shoulders.

The director’s voice blared from somewhere behind the cameras: “Positions, people! And… we’re live in five, four—”

You wanted to scream. Instead, you plastered on the brightest professional smile you could muster, standing straight despite Satoru being right there, radiating heat, his arm snug over you like he was claiming real estate.

“—three, two, one!”

The red light blinked on.

And there he was. Gojo Satoru. Fresh MVP, dripping sweat, grinning wide at the camera with his arm slung over you like you were his prize, not the one supposed to be running this damn interview.

You managed, through clenched teeth and a dazzling smile, “Ladies and gentlemen, we are here with tonight’s MVP, Gojo Satoru—fresh off a stunning comeback performance. Satoru, congratulations on the win.”

He leaned into the mic, eyes glinting. “Thanks, baby. Couldn’t have done it without you.”

The crowd behind the camera lost their minds.

The red light on the camera burned bright, and your smile was glued in place like your entire career depended on it—because it did.

“Gojo Satoru,” you began smoothly, voice steady even though his arm was still heavy across your shoulders, “another MVP performance tonight, and quite the comeback in the second half. What changed for you out there?”

He didn’t even glance at the camera. His ice-blue eyes slid straight to you, lips curving into that lazy grin that made you want to strangle him and kiss him all at once.

“What changed?” he echoed, pretending to think as he licked his lips. Then, without missing a beat: “Well, I looked up and saw my girl in my jersey. And suddenly, I couldn’t let her down, y’know?”

You almost dropped the mic. Almost.

Behind the camera, the director slapped his headset, mouthing WHAT THE HELL while Suguru and Sukuna were visible over his shoulder, doubled over in silent laughter.

Your laugh was professional, airy, definitely fake. “Right. Uh, motivation comes in many forms, I suppose.” You tried steering it back, fast. “Can you walk us through that final quarter? You put up fifteen points alone—”

“Mmhm.” He nodded, but his gaze didn’t waver from you. “But you’re not gonna mention that assist? The one where you bricked the shot and I turned it into a dunk?”

The arena crowd erupted in laughter—they were eating this up.

You ground your teeth behind another smile. “I’m pretty sure you were the one holding the ball, Satoru.”

He leaned closer to the mic, eyes still locked on you. “Doesn’t matter. You gave me the reason to score.”

The staff nearly fainted. The director yelled, “CUT TO CROWD, CUT TO CROWD!” but it was too late. The damage was done.

You pressed forward, desperate to salvage any professionalism. “So, looking ahead to the next game, what do you think this team needs to—”

“Oh, that’s easy.” He interrupted again, smirk curling. “I just need her in the stands. Preferably in my bed after—”

“Satoru!” you snapped under your breath, jabbing your elbow into his ribs hard enough to make him grunt. Your mic stayed trained on the camera like nothing had happened. “Next game, fans can expect more energy from Gojo Satoru. Back to you.”

The second the director yelled cut, you spun on him, whisper-shouting, “What is wrong with you!?”

But he just leaned down, sweat-slick hair falling in his eyes, and murmured low so only you could hear, “Everything’s right when you’re wearing my name, sweetheart.”

-

-

-

What happened didn’t help you at all. God should’ve had mercy on you, because Satoru Gojo clearly had none.

One second you’re still replaying how you almost lost your career on live TV, his arm draped over your shoulders like you were his trophy, the director screaming, “We’re live!” while you prayed to combust. The next, you’re in his hotel room, bent over the edge of the mattress, his oversized jersey swallowing your frame while he’s absolutely drilling into you from behind.

“Still in my jersey, huh?” his voice is smug as hell, laughter rasping out between sharp thrusts that make your knees knock. “—‘We’re live in two minutes, there’s no time for that!’” he mimics the staff in a high-pitched whine, then smacks your ass so hard you jolt. “Guess they were right, weren’t they? No time for you to change.”

“Shut—shut up, Gojo—!” you manage to gasp, palms clawing at the sheets as his hips slam against yours.

But he doesn’t. Of course he doesn’t.

“Oh, don’t get shy now. You looked so professional on camera, all serious, trying to steer the interview back like you weren’t dripping under my arm the whole time.” He leans forward, chest flush to your back, grinding his cock so deep into you that you choke. “Bet every viewer at home knew exactly what I was doing to you later.”

You want to tell him no one knew, that it was still salvageable, that your boss didn’t text you yet. But then he grabs a fistful of your hair, yanks your head back, and murmurs, “Smile for the camera, sweetheart. Oh wait—no camera this time, just me.”

The bastard laughs so hard at his own joke you almost scream in frustration. Almost. But then he angles his thrusts different and suddenly your voice comes out broken, needy, humiliating.

“Yeah, that’s the sound,” he groans, snapping his hips faster. “Fuck, you sound better than when you were trying to hold it together on stage. All polite, all professional.” His teeth graze your ear, and you nearly collapse when he mutters: “Let me interview you now—question one: how good does my dick feel?”

You shove back against him out of pure defiance, but it only makes him groan and laugh harder.

“God, you’re a menace,” you pant.

“And you’re still wearing my number across your back.” Another smack to your ass, another sharp thrust that rattles you. “You think you’re ever gonna live this down at work? Nah. Every time you go on camera, every time you interview someone else—they’re gonna remember this. That jersey. Me.”

It’s humiliating how much his taunting makes your walls squeeze around him, how much it fuels him to fuck you harder, rougher, laughing into your neck like this is the best entertainment of his life.

Your arms were trembling, cheek pressed against the sheets, breaths ragged as his thrusts kept knocking your body forward. You tried to form words—anything—but all that left your mouth was a strangled, “Oh my god—”

He barked out a laugh, the kind that made your stomach twist, cock slamming into you so deep you saw stars. His voice dropped low and wicked against your ear:

“God isn’t here, baby. You say my name.” Another brutal thrust. “Gojo. Satoru. Say it like you did when the mics weren’t hot.”

You shook your head, more a whimper than a protest, and his hand slid around your throat—not choking, just holding, forcing your back to arch, forcing your voice out.

“C’mon, sweetheart,” he drawled, the playful arrogance from the interview dripping into something filthier, hungrier. “You think I waited this long just to fuck you quiet? No, no. I’ve been waiting for this moment—” he punctuated each word with sharp, merciless thrusts that had you clutching the sheets— “since the second you walked into that stadium looking all buttoned-up and professional. And now look at you.”

Your skirt was rucked up to your waist, his jersey swallowing your frame, your hair a mess from his grip. He was pounding you so hard the headboard rattled against the wall, the sound obscene in the otherwise sleek hotel room.

“Wearing my name on your back while I fuck you stupid,” he groaned, voice cracking just slightly as he drove in deep, his hips relentless. “Shit, you don’t even get it—you think this was about a game? Nah. You were the game. And I’m winning.”

“Satoru—” you gasped finally, voice breaking.

“There we go,” he smirked, loosening his hold just enough to press a sloppy kiss to your temple. Then he leaned back, both hands gripping your hips like handles, slamming you back onto his cock harder, faster, until your knees nearly gave out.

“Yeah, say it again. Louder. Don’t make me remind you who you belong to, jersey or not.”

You tried to bite your tongue, but the pace he set was ruthless, your body betraying you with every sound that spilled out. He chuckled darkly every time you moaned his name, every time your voice cracked, feeding off it like it was better than any victory on the court.

“Fuck, look at you. Can’t keep it professional now, can you?” he teased between heavy breaths. “All it took was me in your guts and suddenly my good little interviewer’s falling apart.”

And still—he didn’t let you come. He’d edge you close, dragging your body into bliss, then slowing just enough to keep you on the brink, laughing under his breath when you whined.

He didn’t let you catch your breath. One hard pull and you were flat on your back, legs splayed, the mattress dipping under the raw force of him as he pinned you—mating press style—chest to chest, hips marauding with no mercy. The room shrank to the press of his body and the relentless slap of skin on skin.

“Look at you,” he rasped, voice thick, leaning so close you could feel the heat of his breath on your lips. He smirked, eyes hooded and dangerous. “Taking it like a champ, baby. You gonna make me proud?”

Your hands went instinctively to his shoulders, then snarled into his hair as he drove into you again and again. Each thrust was harder than the last, tailing that delicious ache from your core right up into your ribs. The headboard thudded—rhythm and percussion to his relentless tempo.

He laughed—short, sharp, delighted—at the way you trembled. “God, you look so stupidly good under me.” His fingers splayed at your hips, thumb digging into the meat of your thigh like he wanted you marked. “Say it. Say you’re mine. Say my name.”

You pushed and pushed for breath, for words that came out in a broken, wet whisper between gasps. “Satoru—” it slipped from you with more heat than you’d planned and he groaned, a sound that vibrated straight through you.

Then he did something that made your stomach flip and a ridiculous, feral part of you melt: he leaned down and spat—right into your open mouth. Not a gentle, romantic press of lips, but a rough, possessive spit that mixed with your saliva. He held your gaze in the mirror as you swallowed, watching the reflection of your own surrender.

“Good girl,” he snarled, voice thick with approval. He used that spit like it was his private lubricant, slicking between your lips with his tongue before capturing your mouth in a bruising, possessive kiss—half praise, half claim. The taste of him was metallic and hot; you tasted the salt of sweat and the tang of victory all at once.

You could only shake your head against the bed, throat bobbing with every ragged inhale. He slammed harder, a punishing, rhythmic fuck that had your nails white on his shoulders and the room echoing with your sounds.

He eased momentarily only to slide his hand up to your mouth, fingers warm and slick, and pry it open. Another spit—this time slower, deliberate—dropped into your mouth and he watched you swallow it with a savage, delighted grin. “Keep that down,” he instructed, rough and ridiculously pleased at your compliance. “That’s mine. Don’t be shy.”

Your vision blurred. The mirror reflected two figures: you, exposed and trembling, and him—all predatory grace—dominating you with a grin that said he meant to savor every second. He rotated his hips, angling his cock so each plunge hit a spot that made your toes curl. The pleasure built like a storm; you rose toward some sharp, dizzy edge, and he dragged you back with a laugh that sounded equal parts triumph and mischief.

“You’re not allowed to come yet,” he said, voice steady and absolute. “Not until I say so. Not until I hear you beg to wear this jersey every damn game. Not until I hear you promise to tell the camera about your favorite parts of me.”

It was ridiculous. It was obscene. It pushed every professional instinct, every sensible barricade you’d built, to shreds. And it—infuriatingly, embarrassingly—worked. Your body rode the brink, tethered to his will, every nerve screaming for release while his hands and hips orchestrated that delicious denial.

He set a new pace—faster, meaner, more intimate—driving into you with a cadence that left no room for thought, only sensation. Between hard kisses and harsher thrusts he whispered filthy little plays on the interview banter you’d shared—inside jokes, mock compliments, that ridiculous, private swagger that made the room both a stage and a confession booth.

You were drowning in the press of him, in the taste and the spit and the shameless possessiveness, in the mirror’s unblinking witness. The world outside the hotel—cameras, fans, headlines—felt as distant as a different life. All that existed was the rhythm of his hips, the command of his voice, and the way he kept you teetering, not yet undone, waiting to pull the final cord.

He slowed just enough to let you gasp, let your legs quiver beneath him, then hauled you up to the edge of the cliff again, eyes bright and merciless.

“Beg for it,” he demanded, the grin a razor. “Tell me you want me to finish you off, tell me you’ll wear my name and mean it.”

Your reply cracked out—a broken, desperate whisper—full of surrender and need and the metallic aftertaste of his spit as it lingered on your tongue.

You crawl back toward the edge of the cliff, breath ragged and scraping, words tumbling out of you raw and urgent—nothing polished, nothing rehearsed. “Please—please, Toru—” you beg, voice breaking, the nickname slipping out hot and desperate in a way that makes your skin prickle.

It lands like a punch.

He goes still for a heartbeat, pupils blown wide, that feral grin softening into something that looks dangerously like worship. “Toru?” he rasps, voice thick and hungry. He’s always liked his name said a certain way; hearing you shorten it, make it intimate, strips whatever control he’d been playing with down to bone. He answers with motion—hands like anchors at your hips, hauling you up so your ribs press into his chest, changing the angle, claiming you harder.

“Say it again,” he breathes, low and rough. “Say it like you mean it.”

“Satoru—no—Toru—please—” you choke, the syllables tearing out of you with heat and surrender.

That’s all he needs. It’s the word that flips something locked and deadly serious inside him; the grin that follows is less teasing now and utterly victorious. He drives into you with a force that knocks the air from your lungs—each thrust harder, faster, closer—until all the world narrows to the burn at your core and the press of his body over yours.

Your moans become the only punctuation. You’re helpless to do anything but ride the waves he’s making, nails scoring his back, breath stuttering in your throat. He hushes you with a brutal, claiming kiss, and the mirror catches every flash of the hunger on his face—the way his jaw works, the slick of sweat at his temple, the bright, sharp look in his eyes that says he’s finally crossed his own line.

“Fuck,” he growls, voice a thunderclap. “Say it louder. Make me remember you like this.”

“Toru—Toru—” you cry, the name a prayer and a dare, spilling from you over and over until you’re shaking, raw with want. Each time you say it, his strokes get faster, more ruthless, as if the sound feeds him oxygen. He buries himself harder, nails digging into your hips, breath ragged and fast.

The world fractures into a white-hot rope of sensation that starts low and climbs, and you feel it—an impossible tightening, an unspooling heat that swallows the rest of your thoughts. Your muscles clamp, and the first wave rips through you with a force that makes your vision white at the edges. You come around him—hard, everything collapsing and then reassembling as your body convulses in delicious, humiliating spasms.

He doesn’t let up. If anything, he speeds up, meeting you thrust for thrust, riding your orgasm like a champion until you’re left breathless and shaking beneath him. Your name is a ragged stream of sound; his only answer is a guttural, raw noise that’s half-roar, half-pleasure.

Then he folds, too—sudden and total. His hips stutter, a deep, hot pulse, and you feel him flood you, whole and fierce and claiming. He keeps moving, fucking you through his release as if to make sure the world will remember this moment, until his muscles quake and he collapses forward, forehead pressed to the back of your neck, breath hot and heavy across your skin.

For a long second the two of you are simply that—pressed together, chest to chest, sweat cooling between your bodies. You taste him on your lips when you pull away enough to blink; his grin is softer now, almost tender, a look that’s equal parts smug and stunned.

“You were perfect,” he whispers into your hair, thumb rubbing light circles on your lower back. “God, you were perfect.”

You laugh, shaky, molten and relieved, and it turns into a small, breathless sound that feels like the only right thing in the room. You bury your face against his shoulder and whisper, half teasing, half sincere, “Don’t tell Suguru I let you win.”

He huffs a laugh, kissing the crown of your head. “Not a chance. I’ll make sure they all know.”

And for once, wrapped in the aftermath—messy, loud, utterly yours—you let yourself believe it.

The media frenzy was insane. Memes of the “jersey incident” interview were everywhere, fans started calling you #TheRealMVP, and management? They panicked. You half-expected to be fired, until Satoru waltzed into that meeting, flashed his grin, and promised, “We won’t be too public about it whenever she interviews me.”

Of course, he left out the part where he’d crash your interviews with opposing players just to sling an arm around you on camera. But management’s hands were tied—ratings were through the roof, sponsors were drooling, and honestly? You were bringing in more clicks than some of the players.

So they let it slide. His teammates roasted you both constantly, fans shipped it like a rom-com, and Satoru made no effort to keep things subtle. And despite the chaos, despite the memes, despite him being an absolute menace… everyone knew the truth.

You weren’t just dating Gojo Satoru. You were the real MVP.