synopsis ✿ you never think you will know anything outside of your small life in qingce village until a funeral consultant steps on your precious chili plants. somewhere, in between funerals and shared meals, you fall in love with the god of contracts, and he decides he would like to spend eternity keeping you company
✿ BEFORE YOU READ ── female reader ; canon compliant ; strangers to lovers ; falling in love ; immortal x immortal - reader is half adepti so she has a long life span ; reader is abandoned by her parents as a child and is unofficially adopted by an npc in qingce village ; themes of grief and death (the npc dies) ; semi public sex - you do not get caught ; vaginal sex ; unprotected sex ; creampie ; fingering ; cunnilingus ; nipple play ; hand jobs ; zhongli has two dicks ; zhongli carries reader ; reader is NOT traveler/lumine and is slightly jealous of her at one point ; references to chi of yore lore ; takes place during osial's attack on liyue ; confessions ; getting together ; NOT proof read and tbh there might be an inconsistency or two (pls lmk if there is)
꒰ word count ꒱ 20.2k words — PLEASE PLEASE GIVE IT A CHANCE IM BEGGING YOU ON MY HANDS & KNEES
꒰ commentary ꒱ replaying genshin impact on an alt and now i have the zhongli bug in the year 2026
Morax has walked many mountains in his lifetime.
He has shaped them, too—raised stone from the earth, carved cliffs from bedrock, and split the land itself in wars long since forgotten. He has walked along battlefields where gods fell and along cities that crumbled into dust beneath divine wrath. And yet, somehow, it is a small patch of farmland in Qingce Village that finally brings him trouble.
Specifically, a neat row of freshly sprouting jueyun chili plants.
He does not notice them at first. The path is narrow, the terraces crowded with green growth, and his attention is momentarily occupied with locating the correct house of the elderly widow he has come to visit on behalf of the Wangsheng Funeral Parlor. He steps forward—there is a soft, devastating crunch beneath his shoe—and he stops. Slowly, he looks down. A small green sprout lies bent sideways in the dirt. He moves his foot, and there is another crushed stem.
He blinks once. Then twice. “…Oh dear.”
“You have got to be kidding me.”
There is a voice that comes from behind him, and Morax turns. You stand just a few steps away, staring at him in horror as though you have just witnessed a murder in its cold-blooded glory. (Perhaps murder is not far from the truth, of course—the plants are surely dead now.)
Your gaze drops to the ground. Then back up to him. Then back to the ground again. “You stepped on my jueyun chilis,” you say flatly.
Morax follows your gaze again, taking in the small row of plants he has apparently trampled with great efficiency.
“Ah, yes,” he says after a moment, looking only slightly apologetic. “It would appear that I have—my apologies for my carelessness.”
“These were only just sprouting,” you cry, crouching down to inspect the damage. “Now I’ll have to restart these sprouts,” you look up at him, utterly unimpressed.
“My apologies,” Morax says sincerely. “That was not my intention.”
You stand, brushing dirt off your hands, and look him up and down. Morax watches your eyes as they assess him properly—he can practically see the way you pick apart his appearance right before his eyes as you make your deductions. (He is dressed far too nicely to be a farmer or a villager. Too clean. Too proper. He can see it written plainly all over your face that you have already figured he is from the more urban parts of Liyue.)
“You’re not from here,” you say. “Liyue Harbor?”
“That is correct.”
“I can tell.”
He inclines his head slightly. “I am here on behalf of the Wangsheng Funeral Parlor.”
Your expression shifts immediately. “Oh.” The irritation does not disappear entirely, but it softens. Dare he say, your expression even saddens some. “You’re here for Madam Lu, then. For her late husband,” you say.
“Yes.”
“She’s been expecting someone.”
Morax nods as he explains, “I’ve come to discuss the funeral services she seeks. However,” he adds, glancing down at the damaged plants again, “I appear to have caused some trouble before arriving.”
You cross your arms at that. “Yes. You did.”
“I will compensate you for the loss,” Morax offers.
Your brows lift slightly, unimpressed—you are deeply, wholly, entirely unimpressed by him. It is a fascinating change of pace. Morax (or, perhaps sooner or later, he will have to grow more used to Zhongli) is not someone people look at so disdainfully. So dismissively. So irritably. The only individuals who have ever cast a look at him in such a manner are foes long fallen, long since taught the power of the Geo Archon and slain for daring to stand against him in battle.
“Do you think you can simply just pay for the damages you have caused to my agriculture?” you huff at him.
He hums, nodding as he says, “If that is what is required of me, I certainly can.”
You study him for a long moment, then snort softly. “You really are from the Harbor.”
“I take it that is obvious.”
“Painfully.” Then, you look down at the plants again and sigh. “Well, they’re not all dead,” you say. “You only destroyed…several. Not everything.”
“I am relieved to hear the damage is not total.”
You give him yet another look. “You’re very calm for someone who just committed agricultural sabotage to a small, humble villager’s plants.”
“I find panic rarely improves a situation,” he says honestly.
You stare at him for a second longer. Then, much to his surprise, you laugh. He blinks, slightly taken aback. (Where goes all your agitation from just a few moments prior, he wonders.)
“You’re rather strange,” you tell him.
“Am I?” he asks, slightly amused.
You crouch again and gently press some soil back around one of the bent sprouts, trying to prop them upright. “Yes—quite strange indeed. You said you’re from the funeral parlor?” you ask.
“Yes. I am here to help Madam Lu arrange her husband’s funeral.”
Your hands slow slightly at that. “Right,” you say quietly. That sad look is back on your expression. You must have known him, Morax surmises—though, of course, that would not be all too surprising. Qingce Village is a small place, after all. “Master Lu was a good man. He passed last week. His wife is not taking the news well.”
“Yes, so I’ve heard,” Morax replies evenly. “That is why I have come in person. Aside from the fact that she is grieving, it would be difficult for her to travel to Liyue Harbor at such an old age.”
Your gaze softens at his words—something…rather grateful seems to replace the earlier traces of resentment as you look up at him. “That was kind of you.”
“It is only part of my duties at the parlor. Nothing worthy of praise.”
You stand again and wipe your hands on your skirt. For a moment, Morax locks his eyes with yours—they are rather easy to get lost in, he thinks to himself. Time is preserved so simply when he is looking into them, so effortlessly that he almost feels the eroded fragments of his soul settle down and rest. (This is all he has ever hoped to have for quite some time—just the chance to simply rest his old, eroding soul and enjoy something outside of the divine. How frightening that it is as simple as looking into the eyes of a village girl.)
“Well,” you say, gesturing up the path, “whether you can complete your duties to be worthy of praise or not, we will never know if you insist on going the wrong way, Mister…”
Morax, he itches to say. Instead, he smiles politely, says “Zhongli,” and introduces himself before continuing, “and I had suspected as much.”
You answer him by murmuring your name. It’s a beautiful name, he decides as he tests it on his tongue—as is everything else about you. Your smile, and the simple way you are dressed under the gold cast of light the sun coats you in, are easily the most breathtaking parts of Qingce village. Despite the lush patches of grass and the soft petals of glaze lilies in the distance, Morax finds he cares little for the sights of the village when you are in his line of vision.
“You’re heading toward the terraces,” you tell him. “Madam Lu’s house is in the other direction.”
“I see.”
You start walking off, and he stands there, partly stunned and partly not. Something about you makes it so that he is not entirely shocked by the abrupt way you saunter away, but he finds that being kept on his toes is not all that terrible. Especially not if he gets to watch you walk away, either—you are not a poor sight from behind, that is for certain. Then, just a moment later, you glance back at him.
“Come on, you fancy old harbor man. I’ll take you there before you destroy anything else.”
Morax huffs a small, amused laugh. Harbor man. When was the last time someone addressed him so casually? So carefree? His memory fades to long, distant times. Times he does not forget, of course, but times that are long enough into the past that he cannot help but lose his grasp on what it feels like to enjoy his days the way he once did.
“I appreciate your assistance.”
“You can repay me by not stepping on any more plants,” you wave a hand off dismissively.
“I will make every effort.”
He walks in silence alongside you for a few moments through the village. He eyes the terraces and takes in the breathtaking view of such simplistic beauty. The waters are clear, and the petals of the blooming flowers are wide as they face the sun like open arms. It has been a long time since Morax has come to this village—a long, long time, indeed. The last he remembers of this place is the great battle he’d fought before that wretched serpent god had fallen. They seem to be doing fine, he notes in satisfaction. Of course, that is not a surprise to him—he would surely hear about it, perhaps even make an appearance himself, had they not.
But the villagers of this small, peaceful patch of land are doing well. And Morax is faced with the haunting proof that he has done his duties once again. Quite exceptionally, too—exceptionally enough that he wonders if he truly has any duties left for much longer.
It’s not long before you glance sideways at him. “So…do you do this often?”
“Do what?” He hums.
“Travel all the way out here to help people arrange funerals,” you say as you lead him over a small, wooden bridge. He is mindful not to trample a stem of jueyun chilis that grow along a patch of grass on his way.
“Yes,” he nods, “if the director asks it of me, I tend to travel to clients.”
“That sounds…like a rather depressing job. It must suck the excitement out of the travels when you are working so closely with the dead.”
“On the contrary,” Morax says calmly, “I work with those still living. Funerals are for the living, not the dead.”
You glance at him with a slight scoff. “That is a very funeral-parlor thing to say.”
“I imagine it is,” he chuckles, “but it is true nonetheless.”
You walk a little farther before suddenly saying, “You know, you talk like an old man.”
Morax does not react immediately. He’s certainly heard that phrase before—how many times has he been called old? It’s…not exactly false, if he were to be technical about his age. “…Do I?” he asks.
“Yes,” you snort, eyeing him in amusement. “Very philosophical. You sound like you’ve been alive far longer than you look.”
“I assure you that is not the case,” is all he says. If only you knew.
“Mm,” you say skeptically. “I don’t believe you.”
He almost smiles.
Morax, as he follows you, reaches a small house near the edge of the village. Smoke curls faintly from the chimney, and the grass is perfectly trimmed with glaze lilies neatly sprouting along a line beneath the front window of the house. You eye them for a moment before sighing as you murmur, “The old woman hasn’t been watering them again—it can only be expected.”
Morax says nothing. He’s an observant person at his core—he has not reigned over Liyue for a short period of time, and that reign of power did not come to him overnight. Such is his nature as a god, as an adepti, as a warrior, to be observant. It’s easy to see that this old couple—this old widow, now—means something to you. That alone would not be a shock. Qingce village is a small place, and it would not be hard to piece together that a small village and its people are well-connected.
But the grief on your face, coupled still with that familiar, fond expression as you sigh over the neglected flowers, suggests that there is more to your relationship with Madam Lu (and by extension, her late husband) than the average villager. Morax almost wants to pry, but if there is anything that being a funeral parlor associate—and, of course, a god who has seen many battles—has taught him, it’s to never pry when the grieving grieve.
“That’s Madam Lu’s house,” you gesture at the door, “she’s home, so you should be able to take care of business rather swiftly.”
“Thank you,” he says. He pauses, then adds, “And again, I apologize for your plants.”
You roll your eyes as you wave a hand dismissively. “You should be. But, I suppose they’ll survive. Well—probably.”
“I am most hopeful that they do,” he nods.
Morax watches as you start to turn away, walk to the flowers and inspect the slightly dry soil beneath them, and reach for the watering can abandoned at the side with a sigh.
“You know,” you say, glancing back at him, “you’re not what I expected for someone from a funeral parlor.”
“In what way?” he raises a brow.
“I don’t know,” you shrug. “I thought you would be gloomy. Or cold. Maybe a little creepy.”
“I see,” he smiles in amusement, “I would hope I am none of those things, lest director Hu receives complaints.”
“Hurt no more of my chilis, and I will allow you to leave Qingce village with no complaints, harbor man.” You grab the watering can and start walking away towards a well in the distance. Then, you pause and call over your shoulder: “Do try not to get lost on your way out—I cannot escort you every time.”
“I will try my hardest,” Morax hums. He watches you go for a moment before turning toward the house.
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You end up seeing plenty of the harbor man for the next few weeks to come as you help plan Master Lu’s parting.
Master Lu was a well-respected man in the village, and his doting wife strives for nothing less than a proper tribute for his send-off. Qingce village is a simple place. The people here lead plain, straightforward lives—most are those who seek something quiet and easy after retiring. They are people who have aged and feel the tug and pops of their aching muscles and bones. They are people who know that life is something to cherish before it is easily taken from you, before you are ready.
As such, funerals are done properly. There are traditions to honor, respect to pay, and well wishes to part the dead with before they are off to the afterlife.
You don’t know what is waiting for you in the afterlife—nor do you even really know if you believe in one at all, but you do know you cherished Master Lu. He took you in, after all, when you were nothing but a young child—too much of a responsibility for your adepti father, who had enough as is to do, evidently. And too much of a burden for your mortal mother, who could not bear the so-called injustice of having a non-human lover and child.
So, following the abandonment of your parents—two different reasons for the same betrayal—you end up dumped in Qingce village because that is where it is safest to abandon young children, apparently. And that is where Master Lu, alongside many others in the village, finds you, at your tender age of ten, with your helpless, bitter distrust of adults around you. Slowly, but surely, he is but one of the many who rebuilds your image of the world you are surrounded by, much like he rebuilds practically anything with those adept, carpenter hands of his.
Your first bed, and the swingset in the grass that you played on, and that little bench where you’d sit and watch Madam Lu water her crops in the distance. He had built them all for you with his own callused hands, much like he’d built that easy trust that mended your wounded child-heart.
And now Master Lu is gone. But he has helped build you a stable enough, sturdy enough foundation that even without his cunning smile and his crinkled eyes, you trust the world around you despite it all. And you trust that funeral consultant, too—clumsy as he may be around your precious plants.
“Madam Lu tells me you have arranged for a florist to bring flowers from Liyue Harbor,” you hum, walking with him through the terraces.
He nods, inspecting a glaze lily. “Yes, but there will be glaze lilies supplied by the village itself—we do not often see glaze lilies bloom like this in Liyue Harbor. Not so naturally, that is. They are artificially sprouted by modifications, but they lack the same fragrance.”
“Qingce village didn’t always have glaze lilies as full as these,” you say proudly, “it was only after I came to the village that they grew so fresh and full—it brought Madam Lu lots of business, you know. No one seems to be able to tend to them the same way as I, no matter the effort.”
“I see,” Zhongli says thoughtfully. Almost like he sees through you.
You quickly change the subject—you wouldn’t want him to realize you aren’t human quite yet. (Not that it’s a dark secret that you keep, of course. But you find mortals tend to feel more at ease around you when they believe you, too, are yet another mortal.)
“Have you trampled any more chilis on your way here?” you huff, “don’t even consider lying because I will find out in due time. I will be deducting the damages from our final bill, you know.”
“I assure you all of your chilis are fine,” he chuckles, “and I have already informed director Hu of the discount you will be afforded for my mistake.”
“I hope your position is still intact,” you tease. “I’d hate for your livelihood to be at stake for such a simple mistake.”
“Well,” he smiles with what you can only describe as a bit of a devious grin, even despite how proper and polite he holds himself, “it wouldn’t be the first time I’ve cost the funeral parlor a mora or two. Such is the risk of running a business—some losses are to be expected.”
At the start, Zhongli left immediately after his weekly visits with Madam Lu to plan the funeral services. Master Lu has already been buried, of course, but the funeral itself won’t be held until the following month to ensure that all the proper traditions are seen through. But, well…Madam Lu is a lonely woman, and Zhongli is good at conversing with the elderly. Almost too good. She has grown rather fond of his presence, and you think that Zhongli is equally as fond of her cooking as he is shirking off his duties for a bit, so he puts up little argument when she asks him to stay for lunch.
And that is how you end up entertaining him for the time it takes for her to cook her meals.
Couldn’t you cook your meals ahead of time, you’d asked the old, nagging woman, it’s not as though you don’t have the time to spare.
And how often do you see such a handsome, young face in this village, she’d tutted, giving you a disapproving look, I have to stall for time somehow, so you can charm him. He is a fine man, you stubborn child—make sure you waste no opportunities. I want grandchildren.
You’re already an old granny, you’d huffed, fighting back the flustered look that threatened to make itself apparent on your face.
That damned old lady and her damned need to meddle where she didn’t have any place meddling. But you suppose that is why you grew up the way you had—so loved and well looked after, despite being practically an orphan in function. And you suppose that Zhongli of the Wangsheng Funeral Parlor is not…the worst candidate for a man, should you choose to settle down.
Not that you would choose.
Your life span is too long for that of a mortal lover, and adepti are difficult enough to come by as it is. Never mind the fact that they are likely all too old to settle for someone like you—you are still a young lady in mortal years. Surely, if a strong, capable adepti man were looking to settle down, he would spare little time with someone like you who does nothing more than tend to crops with your days.
You have never dreamed of settling down and loving a man—not when mortals such as your mother can see the true curse that it is to fall in love with a long-lived being such as yourself. Mortal men, especially gentlemanly, smooth-talking, and granny-pleasing funeral consultant mortal men from Liyue Harbor of all places, would waste little time with you.
But you shake the thought off as you turn to look at the old lady’s house in the distance, and see her waving by her front door to indicate that lunch is ready. You nod before turning to Zhongli to bring him along with you—
—and the world is suddenly shifting. Why is it shifting? Why does it feel like gravity is no longer keeping you firmly cemented in an upright position on the ground, and why does it feel like air is rushing past you all too fast? Surely…surely you couldn’t be falling?
Except you are. If your poor luck as a half-mortal, half-immortal being wasn’t enough to deter you from charming a man, your clumsiness sure is. And you had the gall to call him clumsy, you think. Not…not that you care to charm him of all people anyway because…well, because why would you? You do not.
But if you were to care, well then. This would be your sign to swiftly put those dreams behind you. It’s a good thing you never cared for such silly fantasies anyway.
But, just as quickly as you are falling over the edge of a terrace and onto the ground a hefty distance away, the earth beneath you is shifting. It shakes and rumbles, and then it lifts so that soft soil reaches your back faster than heavy impact can. It isn't long before you are carefully raised to the terrace once more, where Zhongli is waiting for you with a polite, respectful hand outstretched just close enough that you don’t have to stretch to reach it, but just far enough that it doesn’t impose on your personal space, giving you the option to decline it.
You take it. Because you are shaken, and not because you would like to hold his hand, of course. And he gently pulls you, where he steadies you easily as you shake on your wobbly legs when they take your weight.
“What…” You furrow your brows, confused. Dazed. Still a little shaken.
“You slipped on some of the wet soil,” he says calmly, “and lost your balance over the edge. I caught you using Geo.”
“Geo?” You furrow your brows deeper.
“My vision,” he explains simply, “I made a construct to catch you.”
“Well, thank you,” you nod slowly.
Geo…you think to yourself. Undoubtedly, his power certainly was Geo. But…but you have felt the sensation of Geo around you before from a vision wielder, and…this power is different. More powerful? No—more concentrated. Like it is the source of Geo itself. Like it is where it all stems from, with how fierce and deep the energy runs through it. You know little of your lineage or of how the elements work, but you know that for a vision wielder, he seems abnormally strong. Almost…almost like his power is not that of a vision at all. Almost like he is the power—he and he alone.
And then you blink, eyeing him suspiciously.
“When did you get your vision?” you ask, hoping to sound casual.
He hums, looking at you. And there it is again—that look. Like he sees right through you. “Perhaps I will tell you in due time,” he chuckles, still holding your hand as he pulls you alongside his steps forward. “Come, Madam Lu is waiting.”
He is not human, you think—no, you know. And for a short, brittle, fleeting moment, you dare to hope that perhaps Zhongli of the Wangsheng Funeral Parlor is not a mortal, and that he might have enough time to spare in this life to waste it with you.
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Morax values those who follow traditions closely. It is sacred and ancient, the culture of Liyue. And Liyue is a richly cultured nation, indeed. Qingce Village, he is pleasantly surprised to find, pays its respect to the dead properly and does the culture of this nation justice.
You are standing in front of Master Lu’s grave, holding your offering with trembling fingers as he watches in the distance.
“You don’t have to worry about the old lady,” you mumble, voice oddly shaky. Morax never hears your voice shake—you are always so sure of yourself and what you say, so at peace with your existence and the way that your life is. But you are so different now, faced with grief.
For a while, you almost didn’t seem to be grieving at all. You spoke so easily to him—so casual and at times, playful with banter. All that really hinted that this passing was a tragedy to you was just a small, sad smile when you’d think about or mention the late Master Lu and his lonely, widowed wife. Just a tiny, long look like you’d been parted from an old friend rather than lost a dear loved one.
Morax has seen loss and the many different shades it comes in. It’s a devastating color—it washes out all of the other colors that paint life. But you seemed almost like this passing was just any other passing in the everyday world. Just a natural occurrence that you couldn’t help. You’d been strong when Madam Lu couldn’t—spoke with a strong, steady voice as you continued the discussion on the services when the poor old lady broke down in sobs or simply couldn’t bring herself to speak at all.
For a while, Morax almost wondered if you were grieving at all. If you were simply at peace with an inevitable goodbye.
But he sees your grief now—here, as you are kneeling on soft yet cold soil, clinging to your offering like it’s the last piece of Master Lu you will ever have.
“I’ll watch over her. Her and those flowers she doesn’t water anymore—that old granny. Always insisting she isn’t aging,” you scoff—fond, exasperated, sad. “It’s like she doesn’t look in a mirror at all. Doesn’t see the way her skin is sagging more and more. It's like she thinks she’s immortal or something—can you believe it? You’d think losing her… her husband would make her take a look at herself for a second and worry about her own health, but she’s still… still that same old meddling old woman. But I’m going to… t-to take care of her—the stubborn old thing. Don’t you worry.”
Your voice breaks off into a quiet sob as you press a small wooden box into the soil before covering it carefully with dirt to keep it buried in place. It’s worn—Morax had only gotten a small glimpse of it as he’d walked with you to the grave. As the overseer of this funeral, it’s his duty to make sure the offerings made to the deceased are appropriate and respectful, to keep the dignity of those who have passed on intact.
He hadn’t asked you what the box meant to you, nor what was in it, but the way you clutched onto it so tightly, so desperately, could only mean that it was important.
“That old lady keeps talking about joining you soon,” you sniffle, rubbing your chin free of the tears that have collected there. “Says you’ll get lonely over there, dead all by yourself. She’s not alone, even if you’re not here—she has me. And Madam Yundan. And Master Hanfeng is still eyeing her, too—too bad you’ve gone ahead and died and can’t keep an eye out for his advances anymore, you fool. He’d still try to match me with that son of his at Liyue Harbor if he could, I bet. But the old lady needs me here, yeah? So I have to stay. And I need her, so you’ll just have to wait over there for a while before anyone joins you. You…you’re the one who left after all, so that’s on you. You old man.”
You sniff again, quieter this time, and brush some loose dirt from the top of the grave, patting it flat with absent care, like you’re smoothing down a blanket.
“Don’t go wandering off too far, alright?” you mutter. “If there’s an afterlife, you'd better stay where she can find you when she gets there. Don’t go gambling, or go drinking, and don’t go getting into trouble like you always did. You always did say she kept you in line, so you’d better behave until she gets there to do it properly again.”
You let out a small, shaky laugh that turns into something breathier, something that almost sounds like another sob before you swallow it down.
“She keeps pretending she’s not lonely,” you continue quietly. “Says the house is only quieter now, that’s all, without all your hammering and sawing and nonsense. Says she sleeps better without you snoring. But she sits by your chair, you know. Still sets out two cups when she makes tea sometimes. Then she gets mad at herself and puts one back.” You wipe roughly at your eyes, like you’re frustrated with the tears that won’t stop. “So you’d better be waiting for her. I doubt it’ll be too long before…before she comes and finds you. Maybe a few years. Maybe a decade, if she’s stubborn. She always is, so who’d be surprised? I’ll probably take some more time,” you say—it almost sounds bitter. Resigned in a way Morax almost…almost understands. You’ll probably take plenty more time.
“I only have the people of this village, you know,” you say after a long silence. “So that old lady is stuck with me. And I’m stuck with her. So you don’t have to worry about her being alone. I won’t let her be. I’ll fix the roof before the rainy season, as you showed me. I’ll carry the buckets of water so she doesn’t try to do it herself and hurt her back again. I’ll make sure she actually waters those flowers she keeps talking to like they’re people. I’ll listen to her complain about the heat every morning like she always does. So you don’t have to worry. I’ll handle everything here. So just…rest, alright? You worked enough already—worked until the day you died, you stubborn old man. What’s all that you said about retiring? And to think, you live where people come just to retire, you old fool. But anyway…don’t rush her to come find you. Let her stay here a while longer.”
Your hand lingers on the soil for a moment longer before you finally pull it away.
“…Goodbye, Master Lu,” you murmur, all too quietly. “Don’t be lonely over there. We’ll come visit you—I know you love to hear that old woman babble, anyway.”
You stand slowly after that, brushing the dirt from your hands, but you don’t leave right away. You stay there for just a little longer, staring at the grave like you’re trying to memorize it, like you’re trying to make sure he knows you really did come.
“You must see this plenty,” you mumble finally, looking over your shoulder to Morax. He stays silent, so you continue. “Still, sorry you had to see such a sorry display.”
Morax does not answer immediately. He stands with his hands folded behind his back, gaze resting not on you, but on the grave, the disturbed soil where you’d buried your offering. Only after a long moment does he speak.
“There is nothing sorry about grief,” he says at last, “a funeral is not a display of composure. It is a contract between the living and the dead.” You blink at him, a little confused and a little exhausted, too. “The living bring offerings, words, remembrance. The dead leave behind their names, their stories, perhaps a legacy, even. Both sides fulfill their duty. That is what gives a life a fair and just ending. Grief is proof that the departed were loved. Tears are an offering no less valuable than incense or mora. There is no shame in them.”
You let out a small breath through your nose, something halfway between a laugh and a sigh. “You really do talk like a funeral consultant.”
He inclines his head slightly, smiling just a little. “It is my profession, after all.”
“Do you ever hear people say the wrong things?” you murmur. “At funerals.”
“All the time,” Morax replies without hesitation. “Well, I suppose wrong and right are subjective—but there is always a time and place, most would agree. But thankfully, the dead never show they are offended.”
That pulls a small, real laugh out of you, quiet and brief as it is.
“That’s good, at least,” you murmur. “I called him an old fool at least three times.”
Morax looks at the grave, then back at you. “Then I am certain he departed this world feeling accurately remembered.” You snort softly at that, wiping under your eye again. After a moment, Morax speaks once more, voice softer now, less like a consultant and more like the old man that he is (not that you would know, of course). “It is the belief of the Wangsheng Funeral Parlor, and many, I’m sure, that farewells do not end at the funeral. The living always continue to speak to and of the dead. In this way, the dead are not yet forgotten, nor are they truly gone—they are simply living somewhere else, where we cannot yet follow.”
You stare at the grave for a long moment after that. And he wonders if you perhaps do know that he isn’t the young mortal that he appears, as you say, “You sound especially like an old man now…but I’ll come visit and complain to him a lot,” you huff. “He always liked to gossip.”
“A good plan,” Morax agrees.
You nod once, satisfied with that answer, then brush the last of the dirt from your palms.
“Alright,” you mutter. “Let’s go, harbor man. The old lady will knock me with a watering can if I’m late for dinner.”
Morax turns to walk with you, but before you leave, you glance back at the grave one last time. As if to make sure the old man knows you really did come.
-- — --
Dinner with you and Madam Lu is as pleasant as it is heavy. Both of your eyes are red and slightly swollen from the crying that comes with a funeral service (as to be expected), but there is also the silent, but oh so obvious reality that this is Morax’s last meal with you and the elderly woman.
He will have no reason to return to Qingce village again after this, and as a result, this is the final time he will eat (such lovely) cooking by Madam Lu and converse with you over his food.
He takes his time eating.
The goodbye comes all too quickly, and your face is mortified as Madam Lu brings Zhongli down to her height by his cheeks as she says, “Young man, do come and visit! Such a handsome face like yours is rarely a sight we get, you know! You’d keep my stubborn child good company. Think about it, alright?”
“M-madam Lu!” you hiss, quickly intervening as you pry her hands off of him and give her a withering look. “Mister Zhongli is here for business—you mustn’t make him uncomfortable!”
“I assure you,” he grins, just a little too amused, he’s sure, for your comfort, “it is quite all right. I’m flattered you think so highly of my presence, miss.”
Your glare extends to him, then, too.
And then you are both leaving the old lady’s residence, you on your way to your own home, and he on his way to leave the village and return to the harbor as always after a hearty meal from the woman.
It just so happens to be the same direction, so you both walk together.
“You could always stay the night, you know,” you murmur.
“Is this your way of offering your residence?” he raises a brow.
You sputter, giving him another heated look before you hiss, “No, you sneaky little schemer! I meant there are inns for passing travelers in this village, and the journey to the harbor is surely more risky at night as opposed to during the day. That’s all.”
He chuckles. “I appreciate the thought, but I assure you, this isn’t my first time making a journey at this time of day.”
“Yes, well, it only felt right to offer, that’s all,” you shrug petulantly, still flustered by his earlier comment.
Morax keeps his chuckle at bay for your sake, but you seem to know he is holding back a laugh anyway, so you send him a sulky-looking warning glance before continuing to look ahead as you walk to your home.
You reach it in no time. And now…now Morax must say goodbye to you properly. For the last time, likely. Unless there is yet another death in Qingce village that requires his travels, but he doesn’t think that is an appropriate circumstance to hope for in order to be in your presence some more.
Your presence—what a fascinating reality it is, now, that he wishes for it more and more. He has taken to thinking of you when he is back at the parlor, and he often finds he leaves earlier than necessary when it is finally time to come make his journey to the village. Almost as often as he pushes back his time to leave.
Morax turns to you as you stand by your door, unwilling to look into his eyes.
“Well,” you mumble, “I suppose this is the last time you will have to come to his boring old village, isn’t it, harbor man?”
“Yes, for now,” he nods, “but boring is perhaps not the word I would use for this village.”
“Is that so?” You finally look up, raising a brow as you afford him a smile, “Do tell, what is so interesting about a small farmland?”
“For starters, those who tend to the crops are exceptionally skilled at creating difficult walking paths,” he murmurs, “therefore, I must always be alert when wandering this village. It’s as though they are trying to make it difficult—perhaps for a discount or two from wandering businessmen.”
You laugh, bright and free, and back to that steady version of yourself he is so used to. The grief is gone, even if only for a moment. That is how grief works, he supposes—it comes and goes as it pleases. Chokes and releases when it is feeling particularly punishing or merciful, depending on its mood. But grief is not all bad, he has learned. Both from experience as a warrior and a funeral consultant.
It is grief that tethers people to the memories of loved ones. Grief that makes it so that life is not just a constant forward-moving force. There are still old, stubborn rocks that stay still, refusing to rush along with the current. That isn’t so bad—sure, the pain is there, but so is the preciousness of old memories. Memories that have no business being forgotten, no matter how much time passes. Memories that make it so that a life is not merely just a life, and an existence is not merely just an existence.
He wonders then, if he died, how long his memory will go on. How long he will be grieved for, and how long the grieving will keep his memory sitting stubbornly in that stream that pushes forward, so willing to move on with or without him.
You look at Morax with a soft, delicate look. You are fond of him; he is not a fool. He has lived thousands of years, and he has learned what a look of fondness looks like, even if he has never quite understood what it feels like to be so fond of someone, or to be the object of it himself.
But you look at him like that, and he finds he enjoys the simplicity that comes with the way life is when you live like a mortal. When you live like you do not have enough time to leisurely be in the same place for hundreds of thousands of years. When you live as if you may pass on to the next life, and must move on from one thing to another, so that you may experience enough.
Morax has been alive for so, so long. And yet, he wonders if the mortals have lived more than he has.
So, when you fiddle with your fingers as you murmur, “Perhaps I made it difficult to walk along this village so it would take wandering businessmen longer to leave. It’s not often that they make their company known in a place like this,” he steps closer.
“Is that so?” Morax asks.
You don’t meet his eyes as you nod. You’re a funny being, he thinks—so sure of your existence, yet so unwilling to step beyond what you have deemed yourself worthy of. You are confident with your life. Happy with your place and sure that you belong where you are. So certain that you are deserving of what you have and what has been given to you, but you never dare ask for more or take beyond the scope of what you allow yourself.
Even if you want it.
But perhaps you are starting to change, he thinks. Because you step closer as you nod, looking at him as you say, “I have never wished for a businessman to stay until now. But there is always a first time for everything.”
He laughs. Low and amused as he says, “I have never felt compelled to stay the night anywhere on my journeys—but there is indeed a first time for everything, you are correct.”
And that is how Morax is kissing you.
He has yearned for it for some time, he thinks. He has yearned for you for some time, and there is no point in denying it. You and your chilis and your flowers and your simple ways of life. You and your soft smile to the villagers and the gentle way you play with the few children that reside here in this far, distant, yet peaceful land that he saved so long ago. He is glad he saved it—of course, he would never regret this deed, whether or not you existed here. But he is especially glad for it now.
He has done his duty—hasn’t he? Then isn’t it only fair that he rewards himself with the luxury of enjoying his accomplishments?
Morax is kissing you, and you are kissing him back, and he thinks you have wanted this for just as long. Your lips are soft, and the lip balm you use is sweet and sticky against his own mouth. He swallows down the taste with a low hum, fingers grasping at your hips as yours latch onto his coat. You are so small against him—he towers over you even in his human form, and you have to crane your neck up just as much as he needs to bend his down to end the gap between you for your lips to touch.
Your breath is hot against his as you exchange it between every kiss, and he tastes you on his tongue with every time they swipe against each other. He has never felt desire like this—never felt his cock twitch like this between his legs or press so tightly against his pants. (Oh, how he aches, he thinks, to take you in his proper form, and satisfy…both of his endowments. But for now, he must settle for this much, in this form, and that is if you even allow him to take it that far. He is not a scoundrel, after all.)
He is grateful that the front of your home is angled so that there are no nearby houses to see you both this way. The path that people walk along faces the back of your home, and that gives him all the encouragement he needs to shamelessly press you against your own door and kiss along your neck, sinking his teeth into your skin and sucking as you let out a soft cry.
The sound shoots straight to his growing member—and he is reminded just how lonely he is from these duties as a god. Just how lonely it is at the top.
He is hard between his legs, and you are aware of it, too, because you boldly move your thigh to slot between his. The first brush of you against his clothed cock, and he lets out a low, satisfied groan that makes you shiver. You are encouraged, it seems, by the sound to keep going, rubbing against his bulge and creating that sweet drag from the friction.
It’s so good, he thinks deliriously—so, so good. He feels the way blood rushes to his cock, the way it makes him ache with how he swells, and then there is a jolt of something so pleasant and mind-numbing when there is pressure against his girth.
Morax has been alive a long, long time. Longer than some of the mountains and trees shape Liyue, and longer than some of the villages that make up the nation for what it is. He is no stranger to pleasure, and he is no stranger to what it feels like to grind against something when he is fully hard and aroused.
But he is a stranger to carrying affection for the person responsible—at least, affection of this kind. So he groans, loud and uncaring in a way only someone inexperienced might, and you seem to find pleasure in that with the way you smile against his lips as you tilt his jaw and bring him back to your mouth and away from your neck.
“My, my, harbor man,” you tease, “it’s as though you wish for the old lady to hear us from here. Are you trying to get her attention or mine?”
“A fine one, you are to talk,” he bites at your bottom lip, smiling smugly when you whimper, “you are touching me so freely out here in the open, where anyone may wander by and hear closely. Tell me, do you wish that they do? Perhaps you are even, dare I say, excited by the prospect.”
You stiffen under his arms before you give him a (weak) glare as you huff. “Alright then, you loathsome man,” you say indigantly, reaching behind you to open your door as you fiddle with the lock, “if you insist on doing this properly, then so be it.”
Morax pushes you into your home as soon as that door opens. It shuts behind him, and he pushes you and pushes you and pushes you—keeps on going until there is a hard wall behind you, and something to keep you in place as he quickly closes the gap and kisses you again.
You’re not mortal—he has known that as soon as he met you. How could he be considered the prime of adepti if he did not recognize his own kind? But here, under him, pinned and dripping and so pliant for him, he can smell it. The sweet, lingering scent of adeptal blood in your veins and the way it radiates off of you between your thighs.
(How kind the greater divine has been to him, if they are in charge of destiny, to grant him the luxury of developing these affections for a non-mortal. For someone who will not die in what is considered a small fraction of his time. He will have proper time with you—to explore you and this world that he will now live in as his new self if he allows it to be. And oh, how he wants it to be.)
“You smell sweet,” he grunts, “so ridiculously sweet, I wonder how I’ve held myself back all this time.”
“So you’ve been lusting for me for some time now, is that it?” you hum, and edge of cockiness to your voice. He smiles despite himself, exasperated. “What a shallow businessman you are, indeed. What, the meals didn’t satisfy your fill?”
“Is it so wrong to hope for seconds?” he chuckles.
Then he is crouching down, and your eyes widen as you register the loss of him against your upper half, pressing his heat against you. When you blink, looking down, he is already hooking a leg over his shoulder as he kneels between your legs, lifting your skirt and pulling your panties aside.
Wet—you are, for lack of better words, fucking dripping down your thighs, and Morax is having simply a ball. He grins, trailing his nose along the wet trail along your inner thigh, inhaling the scent of you before pressing his tongue to get a taste of your essence. You let out a mortified, choked sound, squirming, and he tightens his grip along the plush of your leg.
“Don’t move too much,” he says lowly, “that is the agreement we are to have, if you want this.”
Evidently, you do want this—and badly, with the way you still immediately. He chuckles before pressing his lips to your clit, kissing it sweetly once, twice, a third time just to tease and swipe his tongue against the sensitive nub while you whimper. Your walls clench around nothing, and he hums in amusement at the sight.
“You are a foul businessman,” you huff, “loathsome. You ought to hold your end of the deal, seeing as I am.”
“My apologies,” he grins wickedly.
And then Morax latches onto you, hungry and thirsty and unwilling to be satisfied until he’s turned an inch into a mile, a drop into a stream. He sinks his tongue into you, tasting your sweetness and exploring between your folds. You whine, throwing your head back against the wall, gripping onto his shoulder tightly as your one knee, not thrown over his shoulder, buckles from weakness.
He hums, pausing only for a moment as he says, “Put your full weight against me. I can take it.”
“But—” you try to protest, but he cuts you off.
“I said,” he all but growls, “put your full weight against me. I can take it.”
Morax—Rex Lapis—the warrior, the god, who shaped mountains and slayed more gods than you could ever imagine existed. The strong, fierce divine being who could not be crushed by even the largest of boulders, and you are worried by the weight of your body. How laughable—how ridiculous. You hesitantly lean some of yourself on him, and he grips your thigh, digging his fingers into the meat of it as he pulls the rest of you in.
You squeal—it cuts off into a high-pitched moan when his mouth latches onto your clit, sucking while he rolls it back and forth along the swollen bundle of nerves. It’s a nice sound—the way you wail. He likes the way it makes him feel powerful. He almost wonders if there is more power now, when you are crying for the mercy of his tongue, than there is when opponents are crying for the mercy of his stone spears.
His fingers sink into your cunt, feeling your walls close around his digits as he stretches you open—you are so tight. So impossibly tight, he feels his cock twitch between his thighs at the thought alone of sinking past them. He thinks for a moment about how warm it would be when you clench around his fucking aching cock instead of his fingers, and then he is groaning against your heat as he feels a wave of desire burn at the pit of his stomach.
You seem to like that—you shiver at the vibrations he makes against you from the sound, and he hums in appreciation at that. His fingers sink deeper into you, pressing against the back of your walls until he feels you tense before humping into his hand and letting out a desperate cry when he hits a particular spot.
So you like him there, he thinks. He can certainly do that. After all, a skilled fighter such as Morax is adept at pinpointing exactly where his blows will land. Striking his fingers is infinitely easier than striking large spears of stone or giant boulders, so his fingertips bully mercilessly into that sensitive spot over and over again as his tongue flicks back and forth along your swollen clit.
Once, twice—and then you are rolling your hips into his face, completely abandoning your worries about him holding your weight (which he is taking exceedingly easily, thank you very much) while you come undone on his tongue, on his fingers, on his face.
There is the wet essence of you smeared around his lips, partially on his cheek and his chin, sweet and sticky and delicious. Like a sweet sunsettia that he has devoured without care for having an ounce of shame. There is no shame in tasting you, he would argue—only a fool would savor his taste of this nectar instead of devouring it.
He works you through the entirety of your orgasm, until you are quivering from the aftershocks and whimpering, squeezing your legs to get away from his hungry lips that stay latched to your cunt.
“S’too much,” you whine, “s-stop.”
(It’s a cute plea. He’ll entertain it for now.)
Morax is fucking throbbing between his legs. His cock is hard enough that he knows there is a wet patch on his pants against his crotch—he can feel the dribble of precum even before he has freed himself from the confines of the tight fabric. When he stands, keeping your steady with an arm around your waist, he is burying his face into your neck as he groans deliriously into your neck.
“I have little patience, if not, little sanity left,” he says, voice gruff and low. “Tell me now if this is what you want because it won’t be long before I will be in no position to stop what you are starting.”
“You are starting this,” you have the gall to argue, even after he has fucked you so thoroughly with his fingers alone, “and I will finish it, so don’t even consider the idea of stopping—not unless you intend to be a coward.”
A coward. Oh? What a fierce, stupid little thing you are. He wonders if allowing yourself to have what you have always denied yourself the possibility of has made you bolder than ever. Maybe now, you consider the possibility that you may take as you please if what you wish for is right there in your reach.
Morax, the god of Geo, has never been known for being a coward, and he will not start today. So he grabs you easily, bringing your legs to wrap around his waist as his hands dig into the plush roundness of your ass.
“Which way to your bedroom, then?”
“Down the hall, first door to the left,” is all you can say before his lips are immediately on yours. That lip balm you use—the taste of it will drive him to madness. You will drive him to madness.
When you are tossed onto your mattress, there is only a second’s interval he bothers to allow you to catch your breath before Morax is impatiently hovering over you. He is raking his eyes over your form hungrily. You, and that skin that he has committed to memory under the sun, and those delicate fingers that tend to plants and pull weeds that are now fisting the sheets. He is going to take you, sink into you inch by inch, and mold you onto his cock, and you are going to look beautiful as he does it.
And when he is done, he will ask you if there is anyone else better suited to fuck you like that. (The answer, he is confident, will be no. No one could hope to fit you better than Morax himself—and you are only seeing one of his cocks tonight.)
Stripping you fully is easy enough—you are eager, very eager to shed your clothes, and even more eager to pull his own off of him. You marvel at the size of him—first his torso and the sheer broadness of him and his muscled physique, and then his cock and the thickness of him at full mast. His hands toy with your breasts, squeezing and groping as his thumbs roll over your nipples, and you impatiently gasp while trying to roll your hips lower to rub against his hard cock.
You succeed for a short second—and that short second is enough to make him pause as the wet friction brushes against him. He shivers, lets out a low groan—and then whatever patience he had left snaps.
“I’m going to fuck you now,” he says bluntly, “and you are going to take me fully. Here.”
His finger draws a line against your belly where his cock lies flat against you, long and thick and fucking swollen with desire. Your breath hitches as his fingertip trails over his tip, right along your skin, and then you whimper as you breathe, “P-please.”
“Say it again,” he grunts. “Say please—I want to hear you want me.”
“Please, Zhongli,” you sob.
Morax, he wants to correct—for a tense, fleeting second, he almost does. He debates it, decides against it, and grits his jaw in frustration. Frustration that he can only be rid of if he sinks into those tight walls of yours, he’s sure.
So he does.
He grips your jaw, pulls you into a hot, searing kiss, and presses his tip to your entrance, rubbing along your folds, coating you in his precum while coating himself in your own arousal, and when—and only when—you are sobbing out an incoherent plea of how badly you need him, how hard you want him to fuck you, how deep you need him to be, does he sink into you.
Because Morax is still Morax. And a god is still a god. He is to be worshipped before he will answer.
“Zh-zhong—li,” you whine the latter syllable of his name when he sinks fully into you, fully bottomed-out and pressed into your wet, hot folds. You take him well, he thinks—so good and pliant and obediently accommodating for the less than humble size of him.
(He did take his time preparing you, of course, but he isn’t one to skip out on giving credit where credit is due. You are good—so good. Good to him and good for him. He will reward you accordingly for it.)
“Yes, yes,” he chuckles, “worry not, I will answer your little prayers.”
“You loathesome, arrogant man,” you hiss, still filled to the brim with him. And yet, that does not stop you from speaking so freely. He’s amused, really.
“You certainly are not one to sweet-talk those whom you bed,” he notes.
“And you’re not one to be humble with those whom you bed,” you argue back.
“No, I suppose not,” he laughs.
And he will prove it to you, he is certain, that he deserves to be at least a little arrogant when he starts to fuck you. His hips pull back, almost fully slipping out of you, before he snaps them forward and buries himself all the way again, rolling and thrusting with a steady rhythm that angles the blunt head of his cock exactly against that same spot he found earlier. The stretch this time, of course, hits harder, hits spots his fingers couldn’t reach, drags along areas that he didn’t press into then. But he does so now, and you clench around him in response, welcoming him in, gripping him hard and tight and so fucking hot, his mind blanks for a second.
“Fuck,” he hisses, “fuck you’re tight.”
“Yeah, and full, too,” you whisper into his ear as his face buries into your neck, “feel that? I’m full of you—all of you.”
Oh. He’ll get you for that. Get you for the way you make him moan so shamelessly at your words, for the way he loses his rhythm a little and fucks into you a little more desperately, for the way you giggle as he twitches inside of you.
He’ll get you, so he brings his lips lower, to your breast, and latches onto a nipple, rolling his tongue over it and sucking harshly so that your back arches into his touch when you feel it.
“Indeed, I do feel it,” he murmurs, switching over to the other breast, not leaving one nipple neglected in favor of the other, “I feel how needy you are around me, squeezing. I can hardly move, you know—are you really that desperate to be fucked?”
“B-be quiet, you awful thing,” you hiss.
He laughs. Chuckles as he finally lets go of your breast with a pop, before his lips are on yours. Kissing you, he finds, is the only thing that makes it even a little bit possible to lose consciousness of that tight, pleasant sensation of you around him. Kissing you is the only thing that could hope to distract his mind a little bit from you. Kissing you is the only thing that could be more important than this—than you, taking him, fitting him, and making yourself his just as much as he is yours right now.
He snaps his hips faster, and you drink in the low groans he lets out just as much as he drinks in the high mewls you feed him.
And when you cum again, erratically clenching around him as your walls spasm with the force of your second orgasm, he can hardly breathe as he feels his own high approaching. He tries—Morax tries, to his credit, to pull away and spill elsewhere, but you insist as your legs wrap tightly around his hips and pull him in closer, deeper.
“Inside,” you babble, “p-please inside!”
“Are you…” He pants, head spinning and vision blurring as you squeeze around him yet again. He’s so close—and it aches so good. “Are you sure?’
“Yes, yes, yes,” you cry, still babbling away as you ride out the final waves of your pleasure.
You finish, and Morax starts—the end of your orgasm triggers the beginning of his, like the ebb and flow of the tide, one wave retreating only for another to roll in and take its place.
Hot, thick ropes of his seed spill into you, and he tenses as the force of his pleasure crashes over him, hard and brutal and dragging him into the depths of some hazy, incoherent place in his mind where he can hardly breathe. Your hands are on him—distantly, he’s aware of that. One is in his hair, and the other is shakily gliding over his back, like you’re trying to soothe him while he’s gone—so far gone into the throes of pleasure.
“Fuck,” he barely registers his own voice, “fuck—th-that’s…good.”
When he’s done—when his hips are finally finished rolling and give you a break from the extra stimulation, he collapses beside your body, and you instantly shuffle closer to cling to him, resting against his chest.
He lets you—happily, he lets you. His arms are tight and wrapped around your body, and you are so close that he can feel your erratic heart right against his.
“I don’t think this is what the old lady meant,” you mumble into his chest as you curl into his side, “when she said to keep me company.”
“I don’t believe she specified that this was what she didn’t mean,” he grins tiredly, and oh, you are so beautiful. So breathtaking when you are so small and vulnerable against him, and only him. “So we have not breached any agreements.”
“You are a bothersome businessman,” you yawn.
He chuckles, and then you sleep.
────────────────────────
When dawn comes, he awakens you with a kiss to your temple, and a soft promise of, “I will return when time allows it of me, this I promise if you will be waiting.”
“I’ll be waiting, harbor man,” you mumble sleepily.
He hums, presses yet another kiss to your temple, before he says, “Then we have an agreement.”
He is gone by the time you are properly awake, his clothes gone, and his scent lingering. The only proof that he truly was there, and that your mind is not playing tricks on you, is the simple qingxin he leaves on your bedside table and a note that reads, a flower that is not from your own fields, from a wandering businessman who hopes to evade incurring any further losses.
Perhaps time is not wasted, you think with a smile, if time is well spent. And perhaps Zhongli would not mind spending some of his abundant time with you.
-- — --
Zhongli keeps his word and returns not long after that.
And then he leaves, and then he comes back again. It goes on like that for some time. He never stays for long, but he comes and goes at least once or twice a month. For now, that is enough—you have a long life ahead of you, after all. What’s a few weeks to you? You can wait.
The more he visits, the more thrilled Madam Lu gets, much to your dismay—and worse, the more he visits, the more attached the two seem to be with each other. You cannot spare yourself from her horrifyingly embarrassing words now and then, nor can you save yourself from his thoroughly amused looks as she says them.
Zhongli, you think, could cut your long life span into a quarter of what it is at this rate. He starts every trip he makes, first, with a visit to Madam Lu—who, without fail, insists he stay for breakfast every time (and, of course, she does not have to insist for long because he agrees to her meals so easily), before sending you both off afterwards. Not without giving you a pleased, knowing smile as you leave, of course.
You shoot her a glare before tugging Zhongli along by the wrist, hissing something like, come—before that old lady says any nonsense that will fry your brain. He chuckles every time, eyeing you with mirth, before following you without much argument.
In the time that you wait for his next return, there is news that the god of Geo has fallen. Rex Lapis is dead, they say.
You are shocked to hear it—you are part adepti, after all. The Geo Archon is of your kind, and though you were never a devout worshipper, you have heard of the deeds he has done for your village, your people. You glance at Madam Lu as she sighs heavily, shaky and bony fingers watering her plants.
You grab the watering can from her hand, and she lets you.
“So much loss as of late,” she murmurs sadly, “how will people deal with so much grief, I wonder. At the very least, I hope they honor the lord well with a proper funeral.”
“I’m sure they will,” you hum, “after all, a funeral is for the living, not the dead—and the living cherish the Geo archon well, wouldn’t you say?”
“You’ve spent an awful long time with that funeral consultant,” she grins, eyes gleaming with excitement—with a certain glint that tells you she knows more than you’d like. “When is he next returning, then?”
“I’ve not a clue,” you huff, “he’s a busy man. He’s no reason to come spend all his free time here.”
You walk off, swiftly crossing over to another side of her garden to water flowers a distance away, but Madam Lu already has heard what she wants to—what she needs to.
“Not a clue, hm? So you do expect him?”
“Leave me alone, you nagging old lady!” you hiss over your shoulder. She only laughs, and even if it’s at your own expense, you are glad to finally hear the sound from her.
-- — --
There is much to catch up on with Zhongli the next time he comes—the most current update of the Geo Archon’s passing at the harbor, the investigation and the controversy surrounding it, the rite of parting he is handling on behalf of the Wangsheng Funeral Parlor with the aid of some wandering traveler passing by and her odd, floating companion.
You listen closely, feeling an unfamiliar, unsettling weight on your chest as he tells you about all the progress she has helped him make with the many, many ceremonies. And by contrast, there is little to tell him—nothing more than the idle gossip the older women conjure up in all their free time in the village, or the disagreements there have happening between merchants who purchase and transport the crops you grow and sell here.
He tells you of all the knowledge he has on Liyue and its history, on its late Archon, on all of the duties he is so graciously carrying out, and you listen with interest—you do. But there is still an acrid taste lingering on your tongue as you swallow down his stories.
“This traveler friend of yours,” you mutter, “she seems very capable—what a stroke of luck it is that she’s helping you.”
“Yes,” he agrees easily. You are self-aware enough to know that there is a pout on your face—you cannot help it. And he chuckles as soon as it curls onto your lips. “Why the long face?”
“I’ve no long face, you bothersome man,” you huff, “this is my everyday face. You don’t like it?”
“I like your face enough to tell it apart from your everyday one and your sulky one,” he teases with an amused smirk.
He enjoys this, you realize—enjoys the way you are…well, what are you, exactly? Jealous? Insecure? Bitter? Or simply scared? Or are you everything all at once? You don’t know.
When the shift occurs on your face, the one where you are deep in thought, he gently pulls you by the hand and laces his fingers with yours as he walks up to your home. You are pressed against the door—and suddenly, you are getting deja vu from very different yet similar times where you were pressed against this very door by this very body.
“There is no need to sulk,” he murmurs.
“I am not sulking,” you huff.
“Well, in that case, if you were,” he laughs, “then there would be no reason to. I’ve come to keep you company—it was an agreement I made, after all. I am a businessman of my word, you see.”
Your chest is lighter as you look up at him with a small grin, and when he kisses you, you let him back in past your doors again, and into your bed. And you afford him some of your abundant time, just as he affords you some of his.
You’ll tell him, you think to yourself as you free his cock from his underwear—he groans when your hand wraps around him, and you watch the way his lips tug between his teeth as you stroke him slowly. You’ll tell him that you’re not just a mortal, just like he isn’t either, and that you have plenty of time to spend with him if he’ll spend it with you, too. Time that won’t be a waste.
“You can go faster, you know,” he says tensely, chest falling and rising rapidly as he tries to keep his breathing steady.
You smile, pressing a kiss to his forehead as you shift on his lap, looking down at the way his girth makes your hand look so small. You marvel at the weight of him in your hold, giving him a small squeeze, teasing your thumb along his slit as he leaks pre cum, and he throws his head back with a choked gasp.
“Where’s the fun in that?” you quip, “then this will all be over before we’ve begun. Surely, you have better patience than that.”
“I don’t see you enough to have much patience,” Zhongli says flatly, unimpressed by your teasing. Still, he lets you have your fun, as much as it seems to pain him, sitting patiently under you while he waits for you to get him off.
You kiss his jaw, his chin, his Adam’s apple as he swallows thickly, before finally moving your hand again, gently squeezing around the tip with every upward tick of your hand. Zhongli likes it that way—you’ve learned that when you touch him with the intention of making him cum, he likes it when you squeeze at the tip and when you slow down when he’s close and drag it out a bit longer, even if he might complain. He likes showing off his stamina—for such a polite and polished man, he can be a bit of a show off when he wants to be.
You watch as his face slackens, as it morphs beautifully into that look of raw and pure pleasure. You admire the way he bites his lip and parts his mouth and says your name when he feels particularly good. You admire the way he looks when his abs clench, his hips buck, and his brows crease when he’s getting close.
“You came to spend time with me,” you murmur against his cheek as you nuzzle your nose into it, kissing it softly. “Right?”
“Yes,” he pants, giving you a flat look even despite the way he is teetering so close to the edge, so worked up. “Of course I did, or do you think I let just anyone touch me so freely?”
“Just making sure,” you giggle. “Businessmen are known for being greedy.”
“I think the real greedy one is you,” he breathes.
You kiss him softly, quickening the pace of your hand, and with a twitch of his cock, he spills into it. You drink in the low moans and gasps he lets out as he cums, smiling when he croaks your name in between ragged breaths. It tastes so lovely when you drink in the sound of your name from his tongue. So sweet and decadent and rich.
“I’m the only one who waits so patiently for you, you know,” you peck his lips as he catches his breath when he’s finished coating your hand with his seed, “so you should only keep me company.”
He chuckles, shaking his head as he wipes the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. “Is that the new term of our agreement?”
“Yes,” you huff.
“Well, as I said, I am a businessman of my word.”
“Good.”
You’ll tell him, you think resolutely. Soon, you’ll tell him the truth of who, of what, you are, and perhaps he will tell you the truth of his in return. And you can continue to spend more time in abundance together, you can finally stop wasting your days and simply passing them by—they’ll have meaning soon.
────────────────────────
“Qingce village was ruled by a terrible god once,” you murmur to him one day, “or so the legends say.”
Morax feels your fingers trace aimlessly along his bare chest. He breathes steadily under your wandering little digits. For a moment, he tries to decipher what pattern it is you are tracing into his skin. He comes up with nothing. Another intricate design on the cloth that is mortality, he thinks—such seemingly frivolous acts of touch. Shapes drawn without thought, wandering lines with no meaning in mind, and yet they are not meaningless at all. There is something tender in it, regardless. Affectionate, perhaps, and expressed by the small comfort of touch alone.
He wonders if such things will become natural to him if he tries his hand at this life for long enough. They are natural to you—and you are far from mortal. He knows you are, even if you don’t tell him. Surely, if it were possible to become natural for you, then there is no such thing as impossibility for him.
“Ah, so you are familiar with the legend of Chi,” he murmurs, “though I suppose it’s to be expected of someone who was raised in this village.”
You pout, gaping at him in shock. He smiles at the sight. “Is there anything of Liyue’s history you don’t know?” you huff. “Just when I think I can teach you something.”
He chuckles at that—you feel it rumble under your cheek against his chest where you lie. The deep, fond sound alone washes away any lingering trace of irritation you had just a moment prior. “Very well,” he hums. “Teach me.”
“You already know the legend,” you point out flatly.
“Teach me anyway,” he insists. “Hearing the same story told by numerous people is advantageous still. One comes across many different viewpoints, you see.”
“You still talk like an old man, huh?” You snort. “Imparting life lessons one after the other—I suppose working at a funeral home and seeing so many losses has all but turned you into one.”
“A terrible fate,” he says mildly.
You huff again, though there is little heat left in it. Your fingers continue their idle wandering over the warm expanse of his chest as you begin.
“Well,” you say, “the people of Qingce say there was once a great demon called Chi. Some sort of dragon-like creature that forcefully took over this place. They say he was powerful enough to challenge the gods themselves.”
Morax listens silently beneath you.
“But he was defeated,” you continue. “Slain by the Geo Archon long ago. Afterward, his body was broken apart so he could never rise again. Each of the parts was sealed away in different places—hidden in the mountains and fields around Qingce so that none might gather them. Rex Lapis even taught the people of Qingce Village to make Geo statues to crush the Chi’s remaining power.”
Your fingertip traces a slow circle over his sternum as you think.
“Oh—and the villagers say those ruins scattered around Wuwang Hill? Those are the seals. Old mechanisms the Archon left behind to keep Chi’s remains locked away. If they were ever undone…” You pause, wrinkling your nose faintly. “Well. I imagine that would be rather bad.”
“That would be a reasonable conclusion,” he murmurs.
“And the old stories say the people of Qingce protected those seals for generations,” you go on. You tilt your head, glancing up at him. “That’s why the village values its stories so much. They’re not just stories. They’re warnings told through traditions, you could say.”
His gaze lowers to you.
“An admirable tradition,” he says quietly. “I did not realize the people of this village looked at it that way.”
Your finger pauses against his chest as you beam. “Ah, so I did teach you something.”
He smiles faintly—fondly. Yet there is something hollow in his eyes as he says, “Yes. You did. You’ve taught me quite a lot more than you realize, you know.”
“How so?” You raise a brow, reaching over to poke the tip of his nose. “I taught you the joys of bedding an easy woman, is that it?”
He laughs at that, bright and warm as his arms tighten around you. There is something akin to affectionate exasperation in his expression as he leans down and presses a kiss to your forehead.
Your breath hitches at that. He notices it so easily. Morax notices so much about you. He cannot afford to give you such physical affection as often as he’d like, given how little you see of him. He holds these small, fractional moments close to his heart the same way you do, as well, whenever they come—they are few and far between, after all.
“You have taught me the joys of sharing a bed,” he agrees, pinching your hip teasingly (and he makes sure that he is rather careful to remain gentle, too), “the joy extends elsewhere, too, however. Not just the bed.”
“Mister Zhongli,” you gasp, “dare I say a businessman such as yourself has turned sentimental on me?”
“Ah, yes. A most strange development indeed,” he plays along, shaking his head in amusement.
────────────────────────
When you awaken in the morning, your bed is empty. Zhongli has already made his departure for Liyue Harbor. Before disappointment can claw its way to your chest and make you bleed, however, you pause as you sit up and look to your bedside table.
A single qingxin is laid carefully there, waiting for you, along with a single coin of mora.
You smile to yourself—time is not wasted. Zhongli will afford you more time.
-- — --
The next time you are visited by Zhongli—or rather, this time you suppose it would be more accurate to say he hunts you down—he is desperate to touch you. You have never seen him this way.
You are tending to the crops when you notice him striding toward you across the fields, his pace unusually hurried. You straighten, brushing dirt from your hands as a smile pulls at your lips.
“Back so soon?” you call lightly. “Don’t tell me your bed was so lonely you had to come all this way just to see—oh!”
He catches your wrist before you can finish, his grip firm but not painful, and immediately begins pulling you along behind him.
“Zhongli—?” you protest, stumbling once before matching his pace. “Where are we—?”
He does not answer. Instead, he guides you away from the fields, away from the paths the villagers usually take, toward the rocky edges of the mountains that loom behind Qingce village. The ground grows uneven beneath your feet, tall grass giving way to weathered stone and uneven ground. There is a small opening for what seems to be a cave of sorts at the base of the mountains, and he leads you inside.
You recognize the place soon enough. And then your eyes widen.
“Zhongli,” you hiss, tugging slightly at his hand as he finally stops inside the cave. Moss-covered stone walls and old mechanisms greet you, and you shiver just from looking at them.
The ruins. The seals. This is one of the places, you are certain—one of the places where, according to the stories, remnants of Chi still lie, dormant and fragile.
“What are you doing?” you whisper sharply. “We cannot—” Your protest cuts off when he pulls you close. The movement is sudden enough to steal the breath from your lungs as his hand finds your waist, and his other settles against the back of your neck. “Zhongli—!”
Your words dissolve the moment his mouth finds yours. It is not the slow, measured affection he usually affords you. This kiss is urgent—desperate, almost. He pulls you flush against him like he fears you might disappear if he loosens his hold even slightly.
For a moment, you are too startled to respond. Then you melt and kiss him back. Then, when your senses return, your hands brace instinctively against his chest as you pull back just enough to stare at him.
“Have you lost your mind?” you whisper, scandalized. “We cannot do such…such indecent things here!” You gesture vaguely toward the ruins around you. Of all places. “Do you not see all this around us? This has to be where the seals are, Zhongli!”
He does not release you. If anything, his hold tightens slightly, amber eyes searching your face with an intensity that makes your irritation falter.
“I am aware,” he says quietly.
You sputter at how calm he seems to be. “That does not make it better!”
But he is already kissing you again, slower this time, though no less needy. His fingers curl into the fabric at your waist as if grounding himself. The mountains around Qingce stand silent, but it feels strangely like the ancient stone is watching over the two of you.
You are weak to Zhongli, however. Not even ancient deities and the thought of awakening them to wreak havoc on your home is enough to change that. He presses you against the hard wall of stone, and you let him, angling your head so he can kiss your neck.
He hums in appreciation. “Allow me to make it better then,” he tells you. And your resolve crumbles instantly.
────────────────────────
Morax knows exactly what sleeps beneath this place. After all, he is the one who sealed the parts of Chi away all those years ago. And his memory is exceedingly good—he does not forget such things so easily. In fact, he does not forget them at all.
He also knows what is coming to Liyue.
Soon, the sea will rise, and soon, an old god will stir. Morax knows what such god lies beneath the seas, pinned by his own stone spears. Osial has never been anything short of a tyrant—he remembers those days well. How tall and unforgiving the tsunamis were, and how easily Osial tormented the mortals of this land with such harsh waves, all for the sake of his own gain. The people of Liyue will not suffer at the hands of such shameful deities. Whether it is because they have fended off this threat alone or because of Morax himself, he will have to see soon enough.
But oh, how Morax longs for the day that he will step away from this role he has carried for millennia. How he longs for a time when he is nothing more than a wandering man in the streets, living peacefully among his people in bliss. And how he longs for the simplistic joys indulged in by the lifestyle of mortals—of affection and delicate touches and fond smiles.
So he kisses you again—because in this moment, with your hands fisted in his coat and your breath catching against his lips, he needs to know that choosing this life will be enough. That stepping away from being a deity, should his people succeed, is a proper choice and not a foolish mistake. Morax is not known for being a fool. He is a wise god and a capable fighter. He has led his people to prosperity, and in return, he is worshipped sacredly by the people of Liyue.
Morax does not make mistakes. Not when his decisions involve Liyue.
But then he wonders—what god leaves his people to fend for themselves during an oncoming disaster? A disaster that they are unaware of is on the horizon, no less. What god would step in only when his people are at the brink of defeat, and not simply from the beginning to ensure they are always guarded? That is his role, is it not? And such roles surely do not expire, do they?
But erosion has chipped away at his heart of hard stone—until the unyielding bedrock of it has worn thin, leaving something far more fragile beneath.
Morax, after so, so long, yearns for a life outside of what he has always known. What he has fought and slain countless divine beings for. What he has always thought to be his fate forever.
You break his kiss once more, breathless. And he, when you gently cup his cheeks with those tender hands, feels weak to his knees in a way he has never felt. The Geo Archon called Morax has never felt weak. (What a laughable choice in word, in fact. And yet…that is the unbearable truth. You have weakened Morax—far more than any erosion is capable of doing.)
“I still think this is a terrible place to do this,” you mutter weakly.
His quiet laugh brushes your lips. “Noted.”
And yet he does not move away. If anything, he makes sure to settle his hands more firmly at your waist, drawing you closer until there is scarcely a breath of space between you.
“You are impossible,” you murmur, though, he notes, your protest lacks conviction now. Your fingers remain curled loosely in the front of his coat, as though you have forgotten to let go.
“Am I?” he hums.
You open your mouth to retort, but the words falter when he leans in again—not quite kissing you this time, but close enough that your breath mingles with his. His gaze drops briefly to your lips before lifting back to your eyes, searching your expression with intensity. He finds exactly what he is looking for—want, need, desire. Love, dare he say.
Do you love him? Morax knows he has grown to love you. You have taught him what it means to be human, after all—or at least live like one, and he has never wanted to live like a human more than he does now in all of his long, endless life.
“I know you are aware how dangerous this place is,” you scold him softly.
“Mm.”
“That should concern you.”
“Perhaps.”
You huff faintly, glaring. “You are not taking this very seriously.”
Something warm flickers in his eyes at that—at the way you so easily make his heart squeeze with something as simple as an expression on your face. Everything he has sought you out for has fallen into place. You are the clarity he has searched for. His people will prosper, he thinks—a new age of Liyue has grown for years now. The age of the mortals. No longer do they need him to guide their way of life, and perhaps…perhaps Morax can take his place alongside them. As an equal and not a deity.
And perhaps he can take his place alongside you, as well.
His hand slides from your waist to the small of your back, guiding you a fraction closer, until your body presses fully against his. Your breath catches.
“Zhongli—”
Your warning dissolves when his lips find the curve of your jaw instead, slower now, lingering in a way that sends a shiver down your spine. The sensation steals the rest of your protest before it can form.
“You said this was a dangerous place,” he murmurs softly against your skin.
“Yes,” you manage.
“And yet you have not left.”
Your fingers tighten slightly in his coat. Your heart pounds traitorously in your chest.
“Well,” you say, attempting dignity and failing somewhat, “that is because you have not given me the opportunity to.”
A quiet chuckle rumbles against your throat.
“Ah,” Morax says gently. Then his hand slides higher along your back, and the rest of your protest fades into another kiss. “Alright then.”
He steps away. Your fingers tighten their clutch along his coat for a moment before letting go, and you stare at him incredulously. Like you cannot fathom that he has pulled away.
“What—”
“Go on then,” he challenges. Rather smugly, too—Morax is a god, sure, but he is not without his own flaws. He remembers his less-than-humble days during the era when he was a much younger deity. “You may leave if you so desire. I won’t stop you.”
“You are a loathesome man, you know,” you grumble. And then you pull him back in, and he hums in satisfaction against your mouth. You kiss him—just as desperately as he does, and this is how Morax knows that his place has changed.
His place is no longer on the throne of the divine, watching and guiding a nation that has evolved to survive without him. No, his place is here. With you. Where you will make his old, aging heart feel young and new again, learning and experiencing the joys of a life he has never thought possible for himself.
“So you’ve said,” he murmurs in between kisses.
His hands work at the bottom of your skirt, gently lifting it to trail his fingers at the thin hem of your panties. He slowly pulls them down along your thighs, just midway, and enough to expose your heat to allow his fingers to sink in. And sink in they do, feeling the warmth of your walls squeeze around his digits.
That familiar scent of yours invades his nostrils—that scent that he finds he can no longer ignore.
“...You are not human,” he says thoughtfully.
You freeze. For a moment, you simply stare at him, utterly incredulous, breath still uneven and labored from his fingers working your folds apart, pressing into your deepest, most sensitive parts.
“Y-you…you cannot possibly be bringing that up right now.”
Morax’s expression remains maddeningly calm. “I felt it best to confirm.”
“Confirm?” you repeat, aghast. “You choose now to confirm?”
You gesture vaguely between the two of you, clearly referencing the rather compromising position he has put you in. His thumb brushes idly along your hip as though he does not find the timing nearly as outrageous as you do. You glare at him for that, and Morax is all too pleased by your expression.
He only smiles in amusement.
“I have known since the beginning,” he says.
Your eyes narrow. “…You have?”
“Yes.”
“And you are only saying something now?”
“It seemed the appropriate moment.”
Your mouth opens. Closes. Then opens again. “This is the least appropriate moment imaginable!”
You are just adorable, he thinks as a chuckle escapes him. “I happen to disagree.”
And then, because Morax cannot help himself, and because he has decided that leaving his divine duties behind means that he can allow himself a moment or two to be utterly distasteful, he thrusts his fingers into you faster, his thumb brushing over your clit in slow circles. He watches as your mouth falls open, a soft, ragged moan tearing from your lips as you breathe his name.
“U-unbelievable,” you stutter, “have—oh, fuck—have you no sense of shame?”
“You are half adepti,” he continues calmly, with his fingers still inside of you. “It is not difficult for one such as myself to recognize.”
“Oh, is it not?” You glare at him between your panting.
“No.”
You squint up at him. His fingers hit a particularly sensitive spot in the back of your walls, and your eyes flutter shut as you let out a long, wanton moan. Then, slowly, your eyes blink open. A faint, unimpressed smile curls at the corner of your mouth.
“Well,” you say breathlessly, “that makes two of us.” His brow lifts a fraction. “You think I h-haven't figured it out by now? You—ngh—are n-not…human either, Zhongli.”
For the first time since this conversation began, he actually pauses. The pace of his fingers in your cunt does too, and for that, you give him a hard glare as you whine in protest. But he cannot bring himself to care.
“…Oh?”
You snort softly. “Please. Your eyes glow when you use elemental energy. Humans do not do that—I had my suspicions you were also some sort of adepti.”
A quiet laugh escapes him then—low, warm, and thoroughly entertained. “How perceptive,” he murmurs, “I did not realize you noticed me so closely.”
You huff, flustered. “And for the record,” you add dryly, “most people would have this conversation before putting their hands where yours currently are.”
Morax hums thoughtfully at that, resuming his earlier movements along your folds. “…Duly noted.”
You cum on his fingers not long after, and once you have just barely caught your breath, he pulls you into a deep kiss.
Morax, despite all the growth and wisdom he has accumulated in his…well, thousands of years' worth of growth and wisdom to accumulate, still has his moments where he is nothing but an arrogant, cocky bastard.
And that is exactly why he is going to fuck you here, in these ruins, where there is a god laid to rest. A god that could easily awaken if these ruins were to be tampered with too carelessly. He needs to see it for himself—as fucking pompous as it is—that he has done an undeniably good job at his duties. That he can disrespect a god by fucking the woman of his affections in their ruins, and still risk nothing. Still worry not one bit about the safety of his people. Still exist and live his life exactly as he wants it now—with you and only you, and not deal with the headache of a threat.
“You always take me rather well,” he murmurs, groaning as he pulls his fingers from your cunt, as your pussy flutters around the digits while he unburies them from your heat.
He means it when he says that—you always do. You take him in so easily, so effortlessly, so readily. Of course, he’d like it if he could take you properly here—and if he could have it his way, he’d strip you completely, pin you against this wall, fuck you from behind as he glares smugly right at the vault that holds Chi’s spirit, and make you cum before he fills you to the brim with his seed so you can walk out of here with the evidence of his accomplishments.
But he doesn’t have that time nor patience, and something tells him that being that zealous would perhaps break you from your own need-filled trance and force you to draw the line.
He doesn’t want that.
He wants to feel you—he wants to watch you fall apart on his cock, feel himself fall apart as he kisses you senseless, and then leave knowing that he’s making the right decision for the right reasons.
You are his reason. And you could never be a mistake.
And now, with the fact that neither of you is a mortal acknowledged and out of the way, he can fuck you how he really wants—with both of his cocks. He pulls his own slacks down just enough to free two hard, aching cocks, giving one of them a few slow strokes and gritting his jaw as his breath grows labored, before staring down between you both as he brings the tip to your entrance. He watches as his tip sinks into you, disappearing with the slow press of his hips forward. This much, you’re familiar with, of course.
What you’re not familiar with is the second hard, curved length that mirrors the one buried inside of you. Your eyes widen, and you stare at it in awe—maybe, dare he even say, a little bit of fear that shoots right to his crotch and makes his second length twitch.
“Two…?” You breathe out, “what—”
“Surely this much is not hard to believe if you know I am not a mortal,” he chuckles lowly, pressing a kiss to your cheek as you quiver beneath him, itching for him to move already as he stays perfectly still while buried to the hilt inside of you.
“But…th-they won’t…they can’t both fit,” you breathe out in alarm.
Morax laughs—low and smug and amused enough that you fix him with a sharp glare as you flush under his slightly egotistical gaze.
“Maybe not today,” he agrees, “but I know you’re good—good for me, good at taking me. With a little patience, I think you’ll handle them just fine, don’t you think?”
You shiver, swallowing thickly as you stare at his second, well-endowed arousal before slowly nodding in a trance. Morax grins—because of course, of course, you would be so perfect for him. So pliant and easy to agree to his whims and requests, with how plainly good you are to him. And he is, as he always has been, a generous, giving deity, so he will reward you well for it, as he always does.
For now, though, he focuses on gently grabbing your hand, bringing it to the cock that isn’t pressed deep into your dripping cunt, and watches as you instantly, obediently make a fist and wrap your hand around him, slowly stroking just the way you know he likes. You’ve done this plenty of times before, but he never gets used to how well you know him—how easy it is for you to do all the right things and touch all the right places in all of the right ways and make him feel so fucking good.
“Fuck,” he curses, “you have always known too easily how to drive me mad, you twisted woman.”
You huff, using your free hand to tug him close by his jacket, pressing his forehead to yours, “And you have always known too easily how to do the same, you loathesome man.”
That’s all it takes for him to decide that he wants you now. Needs to feel you good and proper. Needs to watch you as he sinks in and out of you, and watch as you struggle to concentrate as you pump the cock in your hand while the one in your cunt drags along your sensitive folds and presses deep into all the right places.
The first roll of his hips, you hiss. The second, your jaw slackens, and you whimper his name. The third, you squeeze your fist around him without realizing it, and he feels his mind fucking blank for a moment as he feels the tightness of you around him—whether that’s your hand or your cunt—not once, but twice.
Morax groans, leaning forward and pressing his forehead against your shoulder as he snaps his hips and fucks you, and you mewl when his thumb finds your clit, rubbing circles mercilessly against the delicate, swollen bundle of nerves.
“You—your company was a dangerous agreement to make,” he breathes against your shoulder, “do you realize that? How easily you have taken over my head. Every thought I have, every agreement I make, every contract I sign—it all reminds me of you. You, your smile, your annoying chilis, your stubborn words.”
“I’m not stubborn,” you argue.
He chuckles, disbelieving and out of breath. You drag your hand up along his cock, squeezing around the tip before quickly dragging it down and twisting at the base—he moans. Loud and uncaring, giving that damn vault (the one with Chi’s defeated spirit, he likes to haughtily remind himself) a smug look because, well fuck—he can simply just do that if he pleases. And he does. And he will continue to.
“No,” he hums—it comes out more like a low rasp. “No, I suppose not. I suppose I only think you are stubborn because you will not leave my thoughts, and perhaps that blame is on me to bear, not you.”
He snaps his hips once, twice, a third time—by the fourth, you’re already clenching around him as you come undone, letting out a soft cry of, Zhong…li!, while he chokes on the feeling of you squeezing so tight and so fast around him like that.
Morax wants this life. You. The easy, simple knowledge that he can step down, spend his days freely with you, beside you, (and yes, perhaps in you, too), all without breaching the contract he has with his nation, with his people. He wants to tiptoe around your chilis, and leave qingxins on your nightstand, and tell you stories of Liyue’s history, and laugh when you are flustered by that old woman whom you love so much.
He wants this easy, simple, mortal existence after so long. The one where affection and endearment are so simply woven into his being, where power is not the reason he is here, where wisdom is not the burden he must bear. He wants you and the life you make him fantasize about. And he wants it badly.
As badly as he wants to cum and fill you up right now—and one final thrust of his hips, sloppier in pace now that he’s so close, and he spills into you. You pull him into a kiss, and he thinks about what it would be like to kiss you like this every day, and he feels himself spill onto your hand at the thought as you continue to pump him through his high.
“You—” he gasps, cutting himself off with a low, needy moan, “you are the one I want to keep me c-company. Always.”
You smile against his jaw at that, leaving soft, open-mouthed kisses as he finishes riding out the last few waves of his orgasm before murmuring into his skin, “I’ll keep you company if you keep me company, too. Deal?”
“Deal,” he breathes, cradling your cheeks like you are gold as he brings your lips to his.
And Morax, if his people pass this final test, he decides, will have his answer for good this time.
-- — --
The crisis of Osial’s summoning ends not with the drowning of Liyue, but with its salvation.
The sea recedes. The waves calm. And the people—his people—stand victorious. From afar, Morax watches the harbor where mortals and Adepti come to a truce. He watches proudly. Watches in relief. Watches with a quiet ache, despite it all, as the end of his era as the Geo Archon is finally, after so long, solidified.
And almost immediately after he takes care of the loose ends, he leads his feet away from the harbor and up the narrow paths toward Qingce village.
Toward you.
────────────────────────
You find him near the edge of the fields just as the sun begins to sink behind the mountains. The sky burns amber, turning the terraces gold. Zhongli stands where the path curves, hands folded neatly behind his back as though he has been waiting for some time.
You slow down when you see him.
“…You’re okay,” you say gently.
Zhongli tilts his head faintly. “I was not aware my well-being had been in question.”
You cross your arms. “Oh, forgive me for worrying,” you mutter. “There was only a sea god trying to drown the entire harbor.”
At the mention of the event, his gaze shifts briefly toward the distant horizon.
“Yes,” he says quietly. “So there was.”
You study him for a moment. Something is…different. Not in his appearance. Zhongli still stands as composed and elegant as ever—still in such fine silk, even with little mora to his name. (How he has such poor finances, you will never understand.) But there is a strange ease to him tonight, as though some invisible weight has finally been set down from his chest.
“You didn’t come all this way just to stare at the sunset,” you say eventually.
“No.”
“Then?”
He is quiet for a moment. Long enough that you begin to wonder if he may not answer at all.
Then he says, “There is something I have not told you.”
You snort at that. “Well, that’s not unusual,” you reply flatly. “You are a very secretive man.”
“This matter,” he says carefully, “is somewhat…larger than most. And not one I could evade in good conscience if…I would continue to pursue you in this way.”
That gets your attention.
Pursue you.
You have not discussed the details of this…arrangement between you and Zhongli. Not outside of when you might next see him, or if either of you will be particularly busy in the coming weeks to meet at all. Hearing him say so candidly that he considers himself to be in pursuit of you brings a delicate ache to your heart—an ache of longing.
You want him. All of him. And you have avoided asking him all this time if that might be a possibility for fear of losing him altogether—but he has handed you your desires so easily with one sentence—confirmed he wants it just the same as you do, even. That he has been seeking you out all this time and not just the familiar convenience of your body.
You smile at the idea and look at him with bright eyes.
“Alright. Pursue me properly then, Mister Zhongli of the Wangsheng Funeral Parlor.” He winces at that title a little. Your brows furrow.
“You are aware,” Zhongli begins slowly, “that I am not human.”
You blink at him like he has grown two heads. “…Yes. We have established that, or did you forget? And neither am I, so there is no need to be concerned that I would worry over something as meaningless as that.”
“That is not the issue,” he sighs.
“…Okay,” you say slowly, a bit more cautiously now. “Then what exactly are we talking about here?”
Zhongli exhales slowly. “I…am Rex Lapis,” he says bluntly.
You stare at him. Blink once. Then twice. And then you break out into a fit of giggles as you look at him incredulously.
“No, you are not. What a silly thing to say—now tell me really what this is all about.”
“I am,” he insists, almost mildly offended.
“You absolutely are not.”
“I assure you—”
“Rex Lapis is the Geo Archon,” you interrupt, pointing vaguely toward the harbor far in the distance. “The god of Liyue. The one who—”
Your voice falters as you take a look at his face.
You know that face. You have studied it over the course of weeks. How it looks when it is sleeping and peaceful, how it looks when it is tired and glum, how it looks when it is bright and joyed, how it looks when it is lax with pleasure and need, and how it looks when it is painfully serious and honest.
You know him. You know how to read him inside and out. How to tell when he is telling the truth or evading it altogether. You know him because he is yours—he has been for quite a while. And you know that he is being truthful.
Your stomach drops.
“…Oh. I see. You are not lying, then,” is all you say.
Zhongli inclines his head slightly. “No, I am not.”
“Fascinating.” You nod slowly.
“You are taking this rather well.”
“Let’s not be so hasty to assume—I am still deciding if I should throw something at you.”
“That would be understandable.”
You run a hand over your face. “Let me get this straight,” you say slowly. “You are telling me that the man I have been—” you pause and clear your throat, “—um…spending time with is actually the god of Liyue?”
“Yes,” he says easily. His eyes flash with a momentary fit of amusement.
“Well, disregarding the matter of why the Geo Archon would be parading around as a representative of a funeral parlor—you thought it would be appropriate to mention this only now?”
“There were…complications.”
You stare at him. “Complications,” you repeat.
“Yes.”
You let out a long breath. Then you gesture vaguely at him.
“Well, go on then, Your Divinity. Explain.”
Zhongli does not react to the sarcasm. Instead, he looks out toward the distance. “For thousands of years,” he says quietly, “I have ruled Liyue as its Archon.”
You huff, “Yes, I am aware of the history.”
“But Liyue is no longer the nation it once was. Mortals have grown. They have built their own institutions, their own systems of governance. Trade flourishes without divine intervention. Contracts are honored by people who no longer require a god to enforce them.”
Your expression softens slightly. “Your people still have reason to need you,” you say, stepping closer, “there is no need to doubt your purpose as their god—”
“It is not about what they need,” he shakes his head, staring down at the grass as he sighs. “It’s about what…what I need. What I want. I have longed for ages now to know that I have done my duty. And perhaps rest this old, eroding soul of mine. Osial’s defeat has given me the reassurance that I may step down without worry.”
“So the sea god…”
“Was a test.”
You stare at him again. “…You let a sea god attack Liyue as a test?”
“Well, I was not the one to summon it,” he defends, smiling faintly with mirth at your bewildered look, “I was simply aware it would happen. But I was prepared to intervene if necessary.”
“Well, did you intervene?” You ask.
“No. I was pleasantly impressed to see the Qixing and the adepti handled it swiftly.”
Silence settles between you again. Then you let out a soft, delicate sigh. “Well,” you mutter, “that explains things, I suppose.”
“Does it?”
“Only a little.”
A faint smile touches his lips. “Erosion is not the only reason,” Zhongli says quietly.
You look back at him. “Oh?”
His gaze returns to you. “I have carried the role of Archon for millennia,” he says. “Longer than most living beings can even comprehend. And yet, in recent years, I have begun to wonder whether there is more out there to experience than simply being a powerful deity.”
“Being a powerful deity is no simple matter,” you scoff in disbelief.
“No, it isn’t, I suppose,” he chuckles. “But, still, there are more things to experience in life—I learned that when I met you.”
You blink. Your chest tightens slightly. “Meeting me hardly seems that relevant.”
“But it is. You…” he says quietly, “your chilis and your flowers. Your laughter. Your skin under the sun. Your voice. Your stubbornness. You have altered my perception of what it means to be alive as opposed to simply be living. Even your scolding,” he hums with a pointed look, and an endeared smile.
You pause as it sinks in properly who he really is, and how you’ve been engaging with him—and then, your breath hitches before you gasp in horror. “Oh—I insulted the Geo Archon.”
“Yes, it would appear you have. Repeatedly.” He gives you a slightly cheeky look as he says, “Some would consider that an unforgivable sin, you know.”
You cover your face. “I am never showing my face around you again.”
“That would be unfortunate.”
You peek at him through your fingers. “…Why?”
“Because I would miss you.”
The words are spoken so simply that it takes you a moment to process them. Your hands slowly lower. “What do you wish to gain from such easy flattery?”
Zhongli—or perhaps Morax, you should call him, maybe even Rex Lapis—meets your gaze, laughing softly. “I stepped down because Liyue no longer needs its Archon,” he says. Then, more softly: “And because I wish to live as a normal man. To walk among the people I once ruled. To learn their customs not as a distant observer, but as one of them.” His voice grows quieter. “To experience the small joys of mortal life.”
“You will not be mortal,” you scoff, “even if you step down.”
“But I can live like one,” he says easily. “There are many joys to the mortal way of life.”
Your throat tightens. “Is that so?”
“Yes. And I find,” he says gently, “that many of those joys seem to involve you.”
You stare at him. “Me?”
“Yes.”
You look at him a little longer—cautious, careful. You think back on all the little moments that led you here—that first damn day he came to your quiet, small village, stepping on your sprouting chili plants as he walked confidently in the complete opposite direction of where he needed to be. That easy, effortless way he’d helped your grieving heart fill the empty place left behind by Master Lu’s passing before you’d even realized something was missing at all. The kind, thoughtful way he spoke to Madam Lu and ate her cooking, talking with her like an old friend, like someone who understood her loneliness without her ever having to say it aloud. And that soft, delicate way he slowly made you realize that your existence, outside of this small, gentle village, could belong beside other people. That you, with your half-adeptal blood and that quiet, lingering sense of abandonment you had buried down all those years ago, could still be worth something to someone beyond the only place you had ever believed you were allowed to belong.
You love him—oh, you think, how you love him so easily and desperately and hard and deep and fierce. You love him with that mixed blood in your veins and that broken part of you that has always wondered, somewhere in the back of your mind, if you truly, really belonged anywhere at all. You love him because he keeps you company, and you love him because keeping him company is the easiest thing you have ever known how to do.
You want to keep loving him. When years and years and more years pass—ten, then twenty, then fifty, then one hundred—you want to love him still. And you want him to love you, too. You want to spend your long, endless days with him and watch time pass slowly and steadily at your side. He has so much of it to spare, and so do you, and you want to spend that time believing that not one day is a waste if you spend it together.
You love him, and you want to dare to believe that he could, after all this time, grow to love you the same way.
“This sounds like a confession,” you whisper.
He looks at you with a small glint in his eyes. “I believe you could call it that, yes.”
“You are the former god of Liyue.”
“Yes.”
“And you are confessing to me.”
“Yes.”
You let out a long breath. It’s relieved. It’s joyed. It’s fucking exasperated and annoyed. “Well,” you mutter, “be that as it may, you have deceived me, deity or not. And any man who deceives a lady must make up for such egregious wrongdoings.”
A quiet laugh escapes him. “Then I will do that. I hope it will be satisfactory. Do offer me some leniency, if you will—I have only been living as a mortal for so long.”
You study him for a long moment. Then you sigh, stepping closer. “…You are still a loathsome man.”
“I have been told.”
“But,” you add reluctantly, stepping closer, “you are the loathsome man I have grown fond of, nonetheless.”
He steps closer, too, invading your space so freely and easily, as if he exists simply to do that. Like it is his right to do so, no questions asked. He grabs you by your wrists, pulling closer and flush against him, pressing his forehead to yours as he studies your eyes. You love him, you think, oh, you love him so much, it could kill you—it could rob you of all the endless time that you have.
And if he knows that, then he decides to spare your poor heart and your poor life span, too, as he murmurs, “I have fallen in love with you. Won’t you let this old, eroding man settle down in your company and pass his days in peace?”
You laugh (and it’s a watery little thing) as you shake your head in disbelief. “Say that again—and then I will believe you.”
“I love you,” he chuckles, raising a brow, “must I write it in a contract before you believe me?”
“I love you too, you loathesome, bothersome man,” you sob, “I’ll keep you company too if you stop deceiving me like the shady, untrustworthy businessman you are.”
He brings you into a deep, desperate kiss, cradling your face like it is the precious remainder of his long, endless lifespan pressed into his palms. You kiss back. It’s familiar. It’s new. It’s weird and odd and frightening, all at once—and yet, somehow, it is the most effortless, and correct thing that you do.
“It’s a deal,” he murmurs, “yes?”
“Yes.”
-- — --
“Does that traveler girl know that you are Morax?” you ask against his bare chest, tracing your fingers along his skin. He is still catching his breath as he pulls your naked body against his, sighing as he gives you a look. Like he already knows where this is going.
“Yes,” he says, warily.
“So she knew before me, then,” you narrow your eyes.
“Technically, that is the case, yes. But that is only because—”
“Perhaps you should seek her company, then,” you say petulantly, huffing as you dramatically roll away from him.
Zhongli—after much questioning from you over whether he should be Morax now, or perhaps Rex Lapis, he has firmly insisted that this is the name you are to call him by—sighs as he takes your wrist and tugs you back against him. He gives you an exasperated look (and yet, despite it all, there is unmistakable fondness beneath it) before leaning down to press a kiss to your forehead.
“Do not sulk.”
“I am not sulking.”
“And don’t be so stubborn all the time.”
“I’m not stubborn,” you say defiantly.
He gives you a flat look. “Seeking out your company is not for the weak, is it?”
You give him a smug, bright grin at that—and you almost think you watch him fall in love with you all over again. “Get used to it, then, old man—you have a long, long time of my company ahead. And it certainly is not for the weak, you’re right.”
He laughs—low and warm and quietly endeared, but above all, certain. “Good,” he hums. “That is fine by me. I have always been known to be rather strong, you see.”
You curl into his chest, and he holds you close, and you and Zhongli have all the time in the world.
(And no—none of it is a waste.)
shoutout to my family sized doritos pack that kept me company as i wrote the last 14k words of this fic in one setting (my eyes and wrists are dead)
When Marquis Gojo Satoru goes missing after the bloody fight, the entire empire is in uproar! Until his loyal soldiers accidentally discover him living in a small village working as a... noodle seller? And he has a wife?!
pairings: Gojo Satoru x Reader
content/warnings: fluff, fluff, fluff, tooth-rotting fluff, inspired by drama, Gojo yearns to have a family, domestic life he deserves, pregnancy, marriage
WC: 5.5k
a/n: loosely inspired by Chinese drama Pursuit of Jade 逐玉！
idk who the artist is, pls help!
Two men walked through plains and meadows under the scorching, merciless sun. Their full armour weighed heavily on tired shoulders, and horses were getting more tired each day. They barely had any water, and milky buns long gone stale, with their usual soft dough crumpling under their touch.
They've been looking for their general for six months already, with the hunt being fruitless from the very start. Marquis Gojo Satoru fell on the battlefield alone, with all his other soldiers getting bowled like wild deer. Since that cursed night – no one has seen him. The most powerful general in the entire empire, with the emperor himself paying in pure silver just to find his most precious warrior.
That's why Suguru – his strategist – and Nanami – most devoted general – decided to walk the vast plains of the empire, just to find their Marquis. He wasn't dead, surely, as not many things could hurt his almost divine body. As if created by the Jade Emperor himself.
Built like a boar, with the strength of a thousand men, Gojo Satoru was the strongest one in the whole empire. Surely he must've been kept hidden, with hundreds of men trying to conceal the Marquis from the world and use him as a future leverage.
Could someone from a traitorous clan kidnap him?
Maybe his wounds after the fight were truly too severe, and he just wasn't strong enough to break free?
Whatever the reason was, Suguru and Nanami were dead-set on finishing their mission.
After a half day of walking, they stepped down the mountain, following a gentle brook that let their horses drink to the brim. Both men cleaned themselves up a bit and ate last, stale buns, dreaming of having even a simple bowl of noodles.
Thus, imagine how joyous they were upon seeing a little village, hidden deep between the mountains with nothing but tall trees and a wide river spinning through it. If Suguru didn't lift his head up while drinking from the brook, surely he wouldn't notice it. Low, wooden roofs were almost fully obscured by lush forest, and nothing but a gentle, white smoke curled around some dirty chimneys.
Food!
Both men almost run that way, with stomachs squirming in hunger and sweat dripping down their backs. Nanami dreamed of sitting down with a drink and meat, while Suguru foolishly wished that the villagers would know something about their Marquis.
After all, the battle was not that far away from here, and there was a chance that someone might've seen a wounded soldier wandering around the meadows.
When their horses passed the small, wooden gate, the little child immediately ran up to them.
"Can I pet, can I pet?" his small hand reached out towards the raven horse, brushing its massive leg gently before Suguru could even nod.
He got off the mare, squatting down to be on the same level as a kid.
"Tell me, boy, do you have any nice restaurants here in the village?" he asked, and the child hummed.
"Of course we have! The best noodles in the whole region, pretty lady!" he chirped, oogling Suguru's long hair smooching his cheeks.
Nanami scoffed, while Suguru only smiled gently. "Well, could you maybe take us there? You see, these two soldiers are very, very hungry."
The boy didn't seem to care about Suguru's pressure on the soldiers and simply nodded. He left the horse and pointed a finger at the small, two-level house, with multiple people sitting outside on little stools and grey smoke twisting around its roof.
"Thank you, dearest," Suguru said warmly, placing a sliver coin in the boy's hand.
Well, it should help his family last for at least a month.
"Do you think someone may've seen him?" Nanami asked while tying the horses to the fence outside the small restaurant.
"I hope so. But firstly, let's eat. I'm ready to collapse any second," Suguru mumbled, passing the wide-open doors.
The inside was rather simple but homely, with multiple families chirping joyfully over their noodles. The delicious smell of spices immediately hit Suguru's stomach, and long-withheld hunger suddenly became even worse.
They sat at the small table near the open window, enjoying the serene view of the slowly running river, with a few children playing at its crystalline water. Their laughter filled the stuffy air, and the gentle wind brushed Suguru's tired cheeks, bringing him a slight comfort. Birds chirped sweetly, and passing girls giggled under their noses, seeing two handsome, strange soldiers sitting politely in the restaurant.
And while they were waiting, with minds enjoying the peacefulness of this place, someone's voice suddenly brought them back.
"What can I get for you, gentlemen?"
Suguru turned his head, ready to order a bowl of spicy noodles and–
Oh.
Oh!
His knees went weak, and if not for the stool, he would surely fall miserably on the wooden floor. Blood immediately rushed to his head, fingers started to tremble, and if Nanami didn't grab his hand, it would surely curl around Gojo Satoru's neck.
Because why, dear heavens, the Marquis himself was standing before him perfectly fit and cheeky, with healthy rosiness blooming on his face and muscular body dressed in simple, commoner robes?
"M-Mar–" he stood up, but Satoru quickly pushed him back down.
The smile wasn't coming off his face, but his voice rolled out low and irritated. "Why are you here?"
"Why are we here?" Suguru almost burst. "Marquis, what do you mean by why are we here?!"
He couldn't quite believe it – the Marquis, man announced by the ministers themselves as surely dead, was, in fact, looking as if resurrected. His eyes, usually hued in deep ocean colour, looked rather... alive. Light and shiny, resembling the cyan paint spread over the canvas, soft and wet, glimmering under the warm beams of sunshine. His always so pale skin brimmed with healthy rosiness, usually suitable for most dearest birdies. Wet forehead was tied with milky cloth, keeping the snowy hair away from the brazen eyes.
Creamy robes hugged him loosely, with a few chilli oil stains bussing its grainy material.
He looked so... not noble. Not Marquis-like.
But much happier.
"Marquis, if we could talk–" Nanami started, but before he managed to finish, another voice chipped in.
Loud and angry, with a tired sigh and in the company of a fat finger knocking on the wooden table. "Hey, pretty boy! I ordered seconds a while ago!"
Suguru straightened up, jaw visibly tensed. He was ready to pull out his long sword and cut the man on the spot. "How dare you to talk to Ma–"
But before it, Satoru quickly smacked the back of his head.
"Sure thing, just give me a minute," he chirped politely, and Suguru almost fainted.
Never in the thirty years of his life has he ever heard the Marquis being polite to... anyone. Truly.
And so obedient at that, with a gentle smile curving his lips and a little nod of his head. The man, however, didn't seem to be satisfied, rambling under his breath and throwing a few curses every few seconds.
Six months ago, Suguru would see his head rolling on the wooden floor, with a Marquis slashing it off in a single, clean cut.
But now? Now his massive hand was keeping Suguru in place, not allowing him to stir up any trouble.
"You both eat first. I'm sure you must be hungry," he said warmly, patting the shoulders of his most reliable commanders. "We'll discuss it later."
"Marquis, but–" and, once again, before Nanami could finish, the rude customer decided to strike again.
"Pretty boy, I don't see you walking back to the kitchen for my seconds!"
Satoru sighed. His palms squeezed their shoulders, long fingers digging deep into the armour. Suguru, for a fleet moment, saw this familiar frown and blue veins popping on the Marquis's forehead, as if ready to burst with a merciless fury.
He's going to strike, Suguru thought. He won't let that bastard trash his good name.
Satoru rolled up the wide sleeves of his creamy robes, tying them with a thin rope around the elbows. Bulging muscles of his forearms glistened in sweat, with the sun cruelly smooching his pale skin.
And when he thought that Marquis, finally, finally, will deal with a man, another voice filled the heavy restaurant's air.
"Hey! Stop being rude to my husband unless you want to deal with me!"
It drove Suguru into the wooden stool, with its honeyed sweetness marked by an authoritative tone. Not many people were able to put someone into their place solely with a voice, but a fragile woman who came out from the kitchen, with a heavy chopper in her hand – could.
Husband?
Suguru's head started to spin. He looked up, seeing Marquis's lips curving in a gentle smile. Eyes cheeky, like two pale moons, while glancing back at the woman storming through the small restaurant.
"Think you can bully my husband while I'm here?"
Man's cheeks washed in embarrassment before he coughed. "My apologies, miss. If I knew he was your husband–"
"Even if he wasn't, you shouldn't be rude! He's too polite and won't harm a soul, but me?" she took a step, but Satoru quickly grabbed her. "Try me!"
She surrounded herself with an imposing aura, although standing next to Satoru, her head barely brushed his chest. Hair curled around the hearty face, with a light robe and dirty aproan hugging warmly plush hips.
"What a menace," she scoffed loudly, cleaning the chopper with a cloth, before glancing up at the Marquis. "And you should get more assertive. Must you always be so obedient?"
Obedient?
"Stop acting like a pushover, what if someone attacks you, hm? We have lots of bandits these days, and I won't always be there to protect you."
Pushover?
Protect Marquis?
Suguru sighed, grabbing his head. It pulsed with a malicious headache, and the more you talked, the more he felt like fainting.
"My dearest," Satoru smiled, looking down at your fuming cheeks. "Have I ever told you how beautiful you look with this little crease on your forehead?" he lifted up a thumb, placing it right between your eyebrows.
He started massaging it in gentle circles, rolling a sweet giggle out of your lips and finally getting rid of the frown.
"There she is," he whispered, cupping your cheeks stained in reddish oil. "My beautiful, ferocious wife. You need to stop threatening everyone with a chopper. What if one day you come upon imperial soldiers?"
You tsked, nuzzling into his warm hands. "I'll chop them too, if they try to bully you."
Suguru just couldn't listen to it anymore. Not only the intimate tension between Marquis and... you... was unbearable, but he also simply couldn't comprehend the sudden change that bloomed inside the most ruthless, powerful general of the empire.
He coughed quietly, finally getting your attention.
"Oh," rolled politely, before you quickly hid the chopper behind. "I'm sorry, gentlemen, too many people like to bully my husband and, well, you know how it is..." your hand unconsciously waved with a chopper again, and Suguru barely dodged its sharp steel. "Sometimes the wife needs to step in. You see, my husband is a scholar, so he's, hm, the more compliant one in this marriage."
Nanami laughed, but Suguru quickly threw him a cold stare.
He brought back a polite smile to his face, still slowly massaging the buzzing temple. "Miss, my friend and I have travelled a long way to meet with Mar– your husband. I hope you don't mind, we'll take him away just for a moment."
Your eyes bulged in surprise, looking up at Satoru's warm gaze.
"I didn't know Satoru had... friends," you giggled, hearing a soft scoff coming from your husband. "Of course you can, but eat first, please. You sure must be tired. If you wish, you can stay a few nights in our house too. Right, darling?"
Satoru grimaced when you looked back at Suguru, and his eyes narrowed. "Sure, baby. If that's what you want. But aren't you rather busy, my dear friends?"
It sounded like he was giving Suguru a choice, but the coldness of his gaze and slowly shaking head were enough to convey that both of them were forbidden from agreeing with his wife's idea.
Suguru, however, was furious as it was, and if staying a day or two meant taking Marquis down to size – he would be more than happy to do it.
Before Nanami murmured that they are, in fact, rather busy, the strategist quickly chirped in.
"My precious friend, I would be more than happy to stay under your roof," he said, standing up and bending down politely your way. "Miss, we're grateful for your priceless hospitality."
You giggled, waving gently with a chopper. "There's no need for courtesy. Stay as long as you want," your eyes moved back to Satoru, his arm curling around your waist. "Darling, just remember to pick up the vegetables from Fang's restaurant. Oh, and Miss Hua needs to write a letter to the magistrate, help her with that too, hm?"
You chirped while Satoru was looking down at your rosy face with a bizarre caress behind his serene eyes. As if gazing on the most precious, loveliest little nymph. In fact, he looked as though he wasn't listening at all, with fingers climbing up to your plush cheek, and a thumb brushing over the red, oil stain.
"Right, and come back before supper. You know that at that time I usually–"
"I know, the little brat makes her mommy nauseous," he smiled softly, and Suguru suddenly lost his appetite.
Wait a moment.
"Little brat?" Nanami chipped in first, with brows almost brushing his hairline. "Mar– Satoru, do you mean that your wife is..."
You looked at them, then at Satoru, then back at them, with a little tsk and hand patting his shoulder. "Truly! You didn't even tell them that you're going to be a father? What a good friend you are."
There was a second of silence, with Satoru trying to coo you sweetly and Nanami standing there like a log. With a slightly hazy gaze and mind trying to comprehend how a Marquis – the strongest man in the whole empire – got himself entangled not solely in a marriage with a commoner, but also in parenthood. His bloodline was precious, and his family would surely not accept the child whose mother was a simple noodle shop owner.
But then the three of them heard a loud thud, and a dark shadow of a man slowly hit the wooden floor.
Suguru, finally, fainted.
❀ ❀ ❀
He woke up a mere hour later, with a wet compress on his forehead and skull buzzing from the heat. The air felt sticky, like honey, sliding down his coarse throat and cumulating somewhere deep in chest. His head felt heavy, and warm beams of sun slipped through an open window, brushing his slightly wet forehead.
He noticed that heavy armour was removed from his body and replaced with thin, navy robes, with wide sleeves and a narrow, open collar.
The smell of boiled meat went straight to his stomach, although he wasn't in a restaurant anymore.
No, this room was neat and brimming with warmth, although rather small. The soft bed dipped under his weight as he slowly stood up. The wooden floor was cold against his feet, and he noticed a small table right in front of him, with a bowl of cold noodles and a cup. His knees hit the floor, and when eyes looked inside, he noticed a weird, lush mixture of herbs – probably something to help with overheating.
He inhaled noodles in a few seconds, with salty soy sauce dripping gently down his throat and into stomach, finally filling it with a delicious, homemade meal.
Suguru felt like crying, tasting something carried as if straight from the heavens. Something worthy of an emperor himself, with a perfect seasoning and spongy texture bouncing under his teeth.
The herbal mixture followed next, and he saw a small milky candy wrapped in paper, right next to the cup. When the bitterness of a drink struck his mind, he immediately took the candy and chewed on its creamy sweetness.
Although the meal made him a bit lazy and he wanted nothing more than to return to bed and sleep like a baby – the case of Marquis still hasn't been closed.
So he stood up, dusting off his knees and quietly went outside, covering eyes from the sun. It seemed that the restaurant was right below, with a few customers pottering around and your sweet laughter once again filling his mind. Going down the wooden stairs, he noticed your small figure through the window – with half-pinned-up hair brushing your cheeks and a warm smile, when another customer hummed deliciously over your noodles.
Your eyes met his lavender gaze, and you gasped, quickly going outside to meet his pale face. "Are you alright–"
"Suguru."
"Right," your hand landed on his cheeks, squeezing it softly as if kneading a bun. "You look much better now. The travel must've been tiring."
You took him by surprise, but something warm spread in his chest, feeling your gentle caress and thumb brushing over the rosy skin. Not many people treated him kindly, with care, and he tried to suppress an urge to nuzzle into your hand.
"If you're looking for Satoru, he went with your friend that way," you pointed a finger towards the small hut on the other side of the river. "This village is not big, so surely you'll find him somewhere."
Suguru nodded, still tracing the softness of your hearty face, with the kindest eyes he had ever seen. Truly, no noblewoman could be compared to the loveliness you carried like a second skin.
He strolled around the sandy paths, kicking the little stones that rolled under his feet. Curious villagers oogled him shyly, and each time he nodded politely, sending humble smiles and greeting a few children on the way. They followed him around the village, with little heads sweating under the sun and chubby hands reaching out for long, raven hair brushing his hips.
The smell of jasmine flowers filled the air when he crossed the small bridge, and a few petals slipped away from the fragile branches. A young girl laughed cheerfully in the house next door, and two old men sat calmly near the river's bank, trying to catch the splashing fish.
The village truly was... calm. Serene, almost idyllic, as if painted by the gods themselves, with the peaceful faces of the villagers and their cooing voices greeting Suguru on every corner.
He finally noticed a flash of snowy hair and quickly moved its way.
Satoru sat in the garden with a young woman and a little boy snuggling on her lap, while Nanami... dearest. Nanami was fixing the roof.
Never in his life would he have thought of seeing the first army general nailing the wooden planks with such a focus.
"I also want at least two taels of silver," the woman sighed, and Satoru politely wrote down her request. "But one is also enough. If that bastard decided to leave me, then let him pay."
"Two taels may be too much, but I'll try to bargain for you. Let's see," Satoru muttered, placing neat characters one under another. Little brush scrubbed slowly against the delicate surface, and only Suguru knew how skilled a calligrapher the Marquis was.
Truly taught by the best masters in the whole empire!
But the woman couldn't care less, for she never learnt how to read, and small characters reminded her of nothing but cute little bushes. Bending and curving under Satoru's steady hand, before he finished the letter and left it to dry under the sun.
His light eyes noticed Suguru's figure, and their cheerfulness was immediately replaced by a stroke of irritation.
What a bastard!
"Thank you, Satoru, I truly don't know how to repay you," the woman said shyly, gripping the letter in her hands.
The boy wriggled on her thighs, tugging on his mother's loose hair. Satoru lifted up a hand and pinched his chubby cheek, rolling a little giggle out of his lips.
"No worries, it's nothing. Just come to me when they reply, and I'll read it for you."
Nanami finished his little job too, and all three of them strolled outside through the wooden gate. Suguru didn't say anything for a while, taking in the rosy cheeks of his Marquis and oogling with curiosity all his exchanges with the villagers. They strolled around, picking up side jobs Satoru supposedly did every day – placing an order for vegetables and getting freshly delivered ones, checking the assortment for a little pharmacy, or giving short reading lessons to the local children.
People greeted him with this kind glimmer in their eyes, and kids hugged his legs, placing little stones, flowers and candies in his hands. He thanked them each time, ruffing silky hair, pinching their chubby faces and hiding every little, dirty stone in the sleeves of his robes.
On their way back to Satoru's house, Suguru finally managed to ask.
"Marquis, are we going to discuss it or just ignore the fact that you faked your death for six months?"
Satoru slowed his pace before finally stopping. Three men stood near the bridge, with light petals of the jasmine tree falling down on Satoru's milky hair. With no villagers around, he finally sighed.
"I didn't fake my death," he murmured, sitting near the riverbank.
The sun was slowly setting over the tall mountains surrounding the village, with tender hues of purple and pink and orange brushing the evening sky. Birds were slowly preparing for sleep, and villagers coming back from work in the fields. Big ox strolled behind them, tugging a little cart loaded with fresh fruits.
Satoru's eyes glanced up, reflecting the last rays of tangerine beams.
"After that battle, I fell into the river. The water must have thrown my body on the bank, because she saved me and took me back to her house. When I woke up, she was already there – tending my wounds and trying to stuff me full with noodles," he laughed warmly, as if remembering the first days spent in your presence. "I really wanted to heal up a bit and go back, but..."
Nanami and Suguru sat next to him, looking up at the fragrant jasmine branches hanging over the river.
"But I couldn't. You both know I never wanted to marry and have a family, but back there, after hearing her laugh the first time, something panged in my chest."
"Maybe your wound has opened," Nanami mumbled, and Suguru pinched his arm.
Satoru laughed, eyes still tracing the changing sky. "After meeting her, I finally understood what it truly means to be happy. To seek the next day and live in peacefulness, with nothing but her touch waking me every single morning."
Suguru hummed, remembering how warm you felt when your hand pinched his cheek. So kind and lovely, as if you honestly cared about this stranger you've met just an hour ago.
"She was constantly worried about people gossiping about her marriage, so I decided to use this chance and marry her. She wanted a husband, and I wished for nothing but to stay with her as long as I could," he continued, taking a white jasmine petal off his head. "But she was constantly afraid I would leave her one day, so to prove my devotion..."
Oh dearest god.
Suguru almost fainted again. "You decided to trap her with a baby? Are you crazy?"
He was crazy. So, so miserably crazy, and Suguru could see it in his eyes. In his hands, grabbing your waist in an almost possessive manner, and his always oh so gentle gaze, as if nothing else but his dear wife mattered in this world.
"I didn't trap her... well. At least she doesn't feel that way," he coughed, smiling like a fool. "She always wanted to have a family, so I decided to give it to her. What's wrong with it?"
"Marquis, are you hearing yourself?" Suguru almost hissed. "Just a year ago, you declined the most beautiful women offered to you by an emperor himself. And now you're telling me you decided to marry a simple commoner after knowing her for a month?"
"Well, he never offered me her," Satoru giggled. "And it was a week. She asked me to marry her after a week."
"She asked you?"
"Yes."
"And you agreed? Just like that?"
"Of course, it was love at first sight."
Suguru looked at Nanami, as if trying to make sure he wasn't the crazy one here. That Marquis truly went mad, and he lost all his senses.
Maybe while falling down, he hit his head? Maybe you bewitched him and forced a marriage?
But no one in this world could possibly force a tyrannical Marquis to do anything. Well, at least that's what Suguru have thought.
"Marquis, does it mean that... she doesn't know who you are?" Nanami asked, and everyone suddenly held their breath.
Including Satoru, who scratched his head sheepishly.
Oh.
Oh!
"She doesn't. You didn't tell her?!" Suguru once again almost shouted, and Satoru quickly shushed him.
"How could I? She thinks I'm a simple scholar who can do nothing but sweet-talk and read," he brushed another jasmine petal, and Suguru noticed a bit of worry behind his ocean eyes. "If she knew my real rank... There's a chance she would leave me. She's alone in this world – no parents, no family. If revealing my situation would mean losing her, I'd rather live as a commoner."
Suguru couldn't simply comprehend the weight of his words. For living as a commoner was everything people of their sort feared. To lose a status that could save your head in turmoil times such as this one was almost like a death sentence.
And Marquis was ready to do it solely for a fleeting tenderness.
"Does it mean you're not planning to go back?" Nanami asked quietly. "Do you want to stay announced as dead?"
Satoru was silent for a few minutes, with rays of sunshine slowly leaving his face. The moon lurked shyly from between jasmine branches, reflecting his wandering gaze. Suguru has never seen Marquis so quiet, so calm. As if his soul truly healed up from all the bestiality he needed to suffer just to float above anyone else.
The cold, sharp Marquis was no longer here, replaced by a man who tasted love for the first time. He was like a child learning how to walk, but at the same time, constantly looking over his shoulder to make sure his mother was watching over him.
And for Satoru – it was you.
You showed him the kindness of this world, and life deprived of the wrath he has felt for such a long time.
Marquis didn't say anything, but stood up instead and laughed under his breath. "It's almost supper time, let's go back. My wife always gets nauseous around this time, so I'll be the one cooking."
Suguru and Nanami simply nodded, following the Marquis back to the warm house.
They found you in a kitchen, humming softly and cutting the vegetables. The restaurant was already closed, and nothing but a soft beam of candles and a little buzz of crickets filled the small room.
Suguru has only now noticed your little bump, and he smiled when Satoru hugged you from behind.
"Sorry we took so long," he murmured, placing a wet kiss on your cheek. "There was simply too much to talk about."
You hummed, nodding head softly, till a few strands slipped away from your pinup. "It's okay, Satoru. Spend as much time as you need," you said, before looking up towards two men standing in the doors. "The room for you is ready. The supper will be, as soon as Satoru starts cutting the meat."
Marquis laughed, taking a heavy chopper and a fat piece of flesh. Suguru has never seen him in the kitchen, so he looked with pure curiosity at the way the iron blade slashed the tender meat.
What a bizzare sight, truly!
The supper wasn't anything special, but sitting together, talking and drinking – well, aside from you, of course – was the first time Suguru saw Marquis so relaxed.
Cheerful, free, with his head lying softly on your thighs and smooth locks caressed by your fingers. He was getting drunk faster than usual, babbling carelessly under his breath and peppering your little swell with kisses, till you flushed like the sweetest cherry and pushed him away. He joked and laughed, reminiscent of the days spent in royal academia with Suguru and Nanami (apparently, all of them met there, absolutely not on the battlefield) and delighted himself in stories about your first meeting.
About the moment he opened his eyes and saw an angel itself, to which you flushed feverishly and mumbled oh stop. Drunk Satoru was like a teenage boy boasting about his first love, and Suguru couldn't help but feel warmth spreading all over his chest every time Marquis peeked up at your lovely face.
When the night came, and it was time to part your ways, Suguru...
Dear heavens.
Suguru wished for nothing more than to be anywhere but right next to your room. For he heard everything.
Every sloppy kiss, every giggle, every shuddered breath of yours and silent Satoru, we can't, they're going to hear us. But Marquis, who was nothing if not madly in love, promised that don't worry baby, they won't, it will be fine, just let me taste you.
Fortunately, it seemed that you slapped his nosy hands away, because for the rest of the night, Marquis stayed silent.
Suguru and Nanami decided to stay for a few more nights, enjoying the idyllic charm of the village. Nanami would help in fixing the houses after the recent flood, and Suguru devoted his time to helping Satoru teach local kids. Marquis was the only person in the whole village who could read and write, thus local folks gladly attended his short, daily classes.
When Suguru came, the kids took a deep breath as if charmed by the gentleness and vigilance of his face. Satoru liked to fool around with little brats, but Suguru immediately put them in place, imposing a harsh, hour-long lesson as worthy of the most prominent strategist in the whole empire.
They sat with focused foreheads and beams of sweat glistening on their temples, while chubby fingers tried to draw clean, straight strokes.
Later that evening, Satoru told him that children liked the new pretty lady teacher, and you burst out in the most melodic laughter he's ever heard.
During the days, they fooled around, helped at the restaurant and did odd jobs for villagers, but the nights...
The nights were always reserved for you and Satoru.
And Suguru never dared to impose this gentle time between the two spouses, closing himself and Nanami off in the bedroom.
But he heard every little word rolled intimately between the two tender souls.
He heard the soft creak of the mattress as Satoru shifted closer to you, as if even sleep demanded less distance between your bodies.
He heard your quiet laughter, muffled into pillows, as though you didn't wish to disturb your guests.
He heard of your simple dreams and plans and all the worries you seemed to always have at the back of your mind.
He heard your quiet I love you and his trust me I love you more, followed by a silent kiss.
He heard the gentle splash of water shifting in the tub, followed by your quiet hum, almost absent-minded, while Satoru moved around you with careful hands.
He heard the faint press of lips against your temple.
The whispered goodnights that always sounded like promises.
And sometimes, he heard nothing at all.
Just silence.
But he knew that even during the most hushed nights, Satoru was always keeping you close – to his heart and soul and eyes. For he has never seen anything more precious than the peacefulness haunting his wife's forehead. And if a little, worried crease would appear between your brows, his thumb would gently massage it away. Lips would kiss it off, and you would snuggle up even closer, as if your body unconsciously yearned for your husband's touch.
There was a special kind of intimacy between the two lovers, whose odd fates and minds mixed in one lifeline. A bond most could be jealous of – in the way Satoru seemed to have you at his fingertips and you somehow always curled around them, floating near like a little goddess.
If Satoru was a believer, he would pray to nothing but the giggling eyes of his wife.
A few days later, when they were getting ready for the road, Suguru would look back at the young couple with a swelling heart.
For Marquis, who suffered enough in his short life, deserved nothing more than to gleam under the warm sun like a fair child, with his bright laughter forever carried through the mountains and meadows of the great empire.
your sweetheart of a boyfriend seems like he can't do dirty talk no matter how much he tries, but how can he deny his filthy thoughts when you ask him to be real with you? — nerd!jo x fem!reader. smau. new established relationship. slightly suggestive texts. smut under the cut. kissing, cunnilingus, fingering, slight dirty talk, usage of names like 'baby', 'sweet girl', 'babe', etc. the texts are general, tbh, but the last slide is more relevant to this fic. masterlist. wc: 2.5k minors and ageless blogs dni.
"s-shit," satoru's voice comes out in a quiet, breathless moan. "this is exactly what i meant— when.. when i told you about the thing.."
the air in your room is warm. maybe it's just his feverish skin from how hard he's been blushing all afternoon. making out wasn't new to him any more, not after you taught him the first time you both kissed, but it didn't make him blush any less— in fact, it was a permanent sign of his affection and the effect you have on him. you raise an eyebrow, slowly pulling away from him as you look into his half lidded, icy blue eyes, your hand gently brushing over his soft cheek as you smile. "oh? yeah, what 'thing' was it again?"
you're on top, of course, because satoru said he likes it, and to be fair, it feels way more satisfying to feel his thighs tense up under you with each kiss you exchange. his snowy hair is easy to reach like this, and the way his big, careful hands settle on the softness of your hips makes you feel lightheaded.
his fingertips unknowingly play with the belt loops on the waistband of your denim shorts, his glasses still seated on the bridge of his sharp nose even though they've been sliding down too easily— he had mentioned taking them off during your little kissing sessions, but you'd denied, murmuring something about how the sight of those frames getting all foggy and crooked on his pretty face got you going.
"earth to my pretty boy?" you murmur, leaning in to kiss the corner of his mouth gently, leaving that sticky, shiny print of your lip gloss on the already shimmering area.
he hums, blinking out of his dreamy state. "mmh? yeah, i meant.. when you.."
you smile softly— that signature smile of yours that makes him whimper again, because only he knows that it's not all innocent as it looks. "...i can't say it."
he shudders at the feel of your warm breath as you sigh against his jaw, your sweet but teasing words drifting through the loud pounding of his heart. "you have to."
"but it sounds so mean— i dunno... don't wanna... mmh, sound like a weirdo." he whines out between the kisses you press into his jawline, his ear, the sound going breathless once you sink your teeth into the pale skin of his neck.
he's stubborn. he knows whatever he just thought (and had been thinking for a long time) is not at all polite. hell, he's sure that he has never said such a thing to anyone, and he always thought he would never do it even with his future girlfriend.
but you are his girlfriend now. you have been for a few months. judging from the way you tease him and poke at him to say it, you wouldn't be mad or offended.
still...
"i can't, babe," he sighs, shifting his head and burying his face in your neck, hiding the way his cheeks burn when your arms wrap around his neck tighter and you lean into him with a soft giggle.
his back presses into the headboard, and he shifts slightly so his spine isn't uncomfortable but it's also because holy fuck—
"'toru," you whisper again, your hands being light as they slide down his front, over his pecs and down his abdomen, playing with the fabric of his gray t shirt. "tick tock, baby. i'm waiting."
he closes his eyes. his eyelids feel weirdly hot, just like his skin, even though his fingertips are freezing cold from nervousness as they slide under the soft fabric of your cami top.
this was just supposed to be a make-out session while you two waited for your takeout to arrive. not a dirty talk lesson. but when his pretty girlfriend has plans, satoru can't say anything to oppose, even if he's struggling to let the foreign words out.
"when you kiss me," he starts, his voice shaking already but he swallows the flustered feeling down as he continues. "like, when you're hugging me tightly and kissin' me... your— your chest, it presses up.."
you hum, impressed about his attempt and what he means to say as you play with his silky hair, smiling more in encouragement as you coo. "yeah? go on. be real with me."
"yeah. okay." he quietly repeats the word in an audible exhale, eyes closing shut like the phrase took the life out of him. "they press up against me, and i.. hah, baby, it's so hot. makes me feel all dizzy."
"what is this 'they'?" you giggle softly, knowing damn well that you're just not helping your poor boyfriend out. your hips roll against him once. slowly, like you know what it does to him when he can feel the rough denim of your shorts brush against the tent in his sweatpants.
"your tits." he moans out, finally— and his cold hands drift up your top to brush against the smooth expanse where your ribcage expands from your soft gasp.
"and they're always so warm." he whines, almost complaining now as the words spill out of his mouth with each movement of your crotch against his. his hands finally shift up to carefully— because satoru is never reckless with your expensive little tops— lift up the fabric to bunch up over your chest, exposing the sweetness that lies underneath.
his blue eyes grow wide at the way your breasts rise and fall out of that lacy little bra— light pink, intricately detailed, and yet so, so annoying because it's hiding you from him.
he's already been bold enough. he won't admit that he prefers it when you walk around his room without a bra under your tops, because it's so weird to say out loud that he likes seeing the full shape of you.
...he thinks about it anyway.
he's still speechless as he blinks once, twice, saliva naturally collecting in his mouth as he swallows in an effort to not drool over you like a dog.
"can i—"
"duh."
the quick, impatient response from you makes his gaze snap up to your eyes, as if he's thinking that he misheard you. you sigh in frustration, hands squeezing his shoulders as you shift against him again, earning a shaky sigh of pure bliss from his pretty mouth. "i said yes, 'toru. stop zoning out when i'm right here."
he doesn't know what to do first. hands? mouth? his mind swirls into a tornado of fog.
then his nimble fingers gently tug at the bra like that's enough to take it off. you almost do a double take.
does he... not know how to take off a bra?
he tugs it upward again, watching the way your tits spill out a little from below, and the sound leaves his throat in low volume, so subtle you'd almost miss it if it weren't for the way his eyebrows furrowed like he was in pain.
oh?
you stay silent.
because clearly, he's enjoying this, pawing at you— like the tease is far more enjoyable than just exposing your skin to him in a quick move. the way his dick twitches under you is a clear sign. you almost moan at the thought of him being such a freak without even knowing it.
"p-pretty," he sighs again, adjusting his glasses as he leans in now, both hands sliding over the expanse of your back as he brings you closer to his torso and settles his face against your chest.
never in your life have you seen a man take his time like this.
his lips brush over your soft skin, warm breath against the lace making your thighs squeeze around him as you hold on tighter and play with his hair, whispering quietly. "gonna touch?"
"mmh? not yet.."
he whispers, and your eyes snap open at the words. "why?"
"wanna enjoy it," he mumbles, suddenly casual, like he's in his element now that you've stopped hurrying him. he nuzzles your chest, breathing in the scent of you— perfume, sweat, your lotion combined. so perfect that it makes him groan again.
after a minute, his hands finally undo your bra quicker than you'd expected. the lace is carefully taken off and set aside by his pretty, pale hands. the veins on the back of them, running up his forearms and disappearing under the sleeves of his t shirt— they make you bite your bottom lip.
his mouth takes one puffy nipple in— tongue swirling around it like he's read a goddamn textbook about exactly this. his eyelashes flutter as he pulls his head back, not letting go of you until you moan at the tug of his mouth. "'toru.."
he hums, letting go, but moves to your other nipple with a soft sigh. "can't be partial."
you almost want to laugh, but the way his hands and mouth co-ordinate to fondle your tits and suck on them at the same time is actually so well-timed. not surprising for who he is. he's so gentle, it makes your mind dizzy with want.
"you're taking your sweet time," you whisper softly, almost tauntingly sweet, "are you stalling? don't wanna fuck me? i won't be mad if you say no."
he huffs against your skin, his nose grazing the underside of your breast while his hand travels between your bodies, pressing over your soft tummy— almost lingering there for a moment and then moving down to undo the buttons of your denim shorts. "i'm exactly where i wanna be, babe. lie down on your back f'me?"
how can you even say no if he's asking you with such a sweet tone?
god, this man is a problem.
your eyes focus on the ceiling for a moment as you rest on your back, soft thighs giving under his touch as his hands tug the denim lower, fully discarding the pair of shorts.
satoru doesn't hesitate this time.
he presses his face against damp, sweet-smelling lace, arms looping around your thighs, palms resting flat on your lower belly to anchor you down. he's flushed, hair sticking up in different directions and eyes closed shut behind his glasses as he whimpers against you. "i can smell how much you want me, pretty. you want me, don't you? i know she does."
at this point, you're just stunned, lips parted in awe, a quiet sound escaping just as he rests the flat of his tongue against your aching pussy. "fuck, satoru, don't play."
he feels you clench around nothing under his tongue— feels the shift in your muscles when they contract, and realising that it's all because of him and for him only encourages him further. "i won't. promise. always wondered how you taste..."
with a feather light touch, he hooks his fingers under the fabric and tugs it to the left, exposing you to his warm breath, glistening and puffy.
two fingers gently spread you open— his blue eyes twinkle the way they usually do when he's conducting an experiment or finding a particularly interesting statement in some encyclopedia. he's not ashamed of the thoughts he's thinking now, and mumbles freely. "i think you've got the prettiest pussy i've ever seen. not that i've seen any, well, not that i want to see any other—"
you whine at his words and cut him off, squeezing his head between your thighs as you look down at his sweet face, which only makes your skin burn with unexpected surprise. "you're such a freak."
"huh?" he asks absentmindedly, drunk on the scent of you as the tip of his tongue flicks your clit just once, watching your entrance flutter at the contact. "no, i'm just making observations, s'all."
"that's exactly what makes you a freak. you're a natural, 'toru," you murmur, tugging at his soft hair as you guide him closer to you, if that were even possible. "now stop talking and start eating."
he nods, ever the obedient boyfriend, and his tongue slides between your folds. he sucks just once, tasting your essence, his spit warm over your skin as your hips lift up naturally from the pleasure. he's figuring it out, figuring you out, the warmth of being between your heavenly thighs blurs his vision due to the fog in his glasses as he murmurs breathlessly. "take these off of me, sweetheart? can't see you. need to see you."
you nod, taking his glasses off gently as you fold them and set them aside— but he doesn't give you time for the task, instantly dipping his tongue in just once, your hips begin to rock against his face— god, his nose hits your sensitive clit so perfectly. it's been more than half an hour that you were soaked and ready for him, and the slightest bit of attention makes you swear that you're gonna cum any minute.
"wait. gotta prep you," he suddenly whispers like it's a rule, even though you're practically dripping. you tremble, glossy lips opening to respond, only to fall apart wide when he slides a finger in, deep and slow until his palm presses right against you. "you're tight. doesn't hurt, right? let me know, baby."
"i'm literally about to cum," you moan through a clenched jaw— finding him to be so damn attractive like this, and equally annoyed because he isn't even aware of how he affects you. your hand weaves through his hair again, "keep talking to me."
he presses a soft kiss to your clit, tongue playing with it while his finger moves gently, feeling your pillowy walls, adding another for company. "m'kay."
his fingers move in a proper rhythm now, curling deep, and he rests his head against your thigh while watching the way your pussy takes his digits like it's his favourite tv show. the sounds leaving your lips get louder and he speeds up, taking it as a sign to bring you to the high as his thumb presses against your clit, hard. "close yet? is that your pussy making those sounds? didn't know that was possible..."
your spine arches against the soft mattress.
"oh, fuck!" you squeal, your fingers twisting into snowy streaks of hair as your eyes squeeze shut, "coming, 'toru!"
he hums, lazy and sweet, kissing your pelvic bone with a gentle smile as he watches you. "i know, sweet girl. breathe."
his fingers stay deep in you until you've calmed down (which you haven't, not really). your stomach is tense, chest rising and falling with each heavy breath as he carefully pulls his hand away. he tastes you on his fingers, and can't help but moan out loud. "i knew this, too. real sweet."
this can't be the same guy who couldn't say tits twenty minutes ago.
as if sensing your hazy confusion and shock, he smiles again, shifting to hover next to you, one arm around your body and the other sliding through your hair gently. "you said you wanted me to be real with you. that's what i'm doing."
he tugs your panties down entirely while still speaking with the sweetest tone to his voice. "now, i need you to open those legs wider for me. is that okay? you'll take my cock, won't you?"
Wherever you go, that's where I'll follow — Gojo Satoru
pairing: Gojo Satoru x fem!reader
synopsis: crushed by the pressure of his work, Satoru and the reader's relationship begins to spiral. You do everything you can to make him happy, but you fear it's not enough. Maybe it never was. After a miscalculation that could have resulted in innocent lives being lost, the situation takes a turn for the worse.
Word count: 17k+ (I'm sorry in advance)
genre: heavy angst with happy ending
warnings: heavy angst, swearing, reader is a motherly figure to Megumi but their relationship is a bit strained, mentions of depression and self-doubt, reader is a sorcerer, fighting, insecurity, arguments, and breakups (?), descriptions of gore, mentions of sexual intercourse (mdni), depictions of a complicated and untraditional relationship, reader gets hurt, hardly edited/proofread (oops), gojo is fed up and mean :(
a/n: this is the first and longest thing I've ever posted on here lol. I felt like there was a lack of sorcerer!reader, so I played around with that concept a little bit. other than potentially shitty writing (sorry for any typos or grammatical errors), I truly hope you enjoy <3
sequel & blurbs
“Get out.”
The hash sentiment lingers, hanging heavily in the air.
“Well, hello to you too.”
He hears your feet shuffle across the floor as you stumble to take your shoes and coat off. “I just came to check on you.”
“And I’m fine,” he responds without moving, one arm up, draping over his aching eyes. He lies on the living room couch, one lanky leg propped up at an angle.
“You’re clearly not fine,” you respond, seeming unphased. “Have you eaten anything?” You ask, waiting for a response that never comes. “Okay, I’ll make your favorite ramen.”
He feels the side of the couch dip, your hand settling on his chest. Your fingers were greedy like you couldn’t stop yourself from playing with the fabric or caressing his taut muscles. Your voice is gentler when you speak this time. “Do you want an ice pack? Some tea?”
You two have done this dance before. You come home to find him exhausted, overworked with a migraine that could tranquilize an elephant. And just like always, you carefully slip his shoes off and unbutton the sleek black jacket to his uniform. It’s hard for him to stay mad about anything when you’re this kind, this caring.
“Satoru, please say something.”
“There’s nothing to say.”
Your voice was so gentle. So sweet, saccharine, and so fucking patient. A voice you only ever reserved for him and for his ears only. A gentle whisper carried in a gentle breeze. It was his favorite sound.
But not tonight.
So you try something else. Sweet kisses along the corner of his lips. You’re even bold enough to move his arm, the arm he was using to desperately block out any light or simulation. You kiss his eyelids, his forehead, and cheeks—feather-light. Your hand slides up his chest before reaching his face. You caress your thumb under his closed eyes, and your other hand finds his hair, gently massaging his temple. He has all of you. Every bit.
“Let me take care of you.” If it were any other night, your breath fanning his neck would have shattered him; goosebumps would have wrecked his body, he’d shiver, and everything in him would ease, and all of his stress would slip away into nothingness. He never had to be the strongest with you. You would render him down to nothing but a simple man with just a few words. “You don’t look too good, honey. I’m sorry you’re not feeling well.” For a woman so strong in your own right, a woman of unyielding dignity and poise and unwavering determination to succeed, this is his favorite side of you.
But not tonight.
When his hand clasps your wrist, he feels your whole body freeze against his. Maybe you were surprised. Maybe you predicted this and were preparing yourself but-
The tongue-lashing dies in his throat when he opens his eyes. Just a peak to your face makes him falter. You were pouting. Worried. “I’m fine.” it’s harsher than you deserve but kinder than the thoughts swirling through his head a second ago.
He’s agitated. Stuck in the same old system that continues to fuck him over—his students over.
And yet, you just looked too beautiful.
You pull away, finally taking the hint. Then, you stand, fully removing yourself from him and stepping away. Your body heat quickly disappears from where you once sat, and he quivers. The room was quiet once again.
The room remained quiet even as you placed a hot bowl of ramen on the table beside him, a glass of water, and two pills.
You slept alone that night.
-
You remember when you first met Megumi.
“Who the hell are you?”
You never would have expected that to be the the words from a child you had just met. You raised a brow. “Well, aren’t you a fucking, brat?”
You were different back then—colder, angrier. You were similar in that sense.
Oddly enough, maybe that’s what gravitated him to you.
You’re not sure when it happened, but gradually, the harsh edges of you began to… change. Not entirely softened, as thorns remained, but you bloomed, red petals and all. You grew softer, kinder, more patient—and finally—your heart had made space for others. The fear of loss remained, but you had never cared for someone so fragile. No one had ever cried for you, reached for you with small chubby fingers, or depended on you as he once had. You never had someone in your life that needed to be nurtured, protected, and guided.
He was just a boy.
Over time, you realized that if you remained unchanged, perhaps he would never grow into the man he needed to be. You’re not sure why he picked you, why he looked up to you of all people, but he did. He found comfort in you and followed you like a little duckling with a little waddle and permanent scowl.
There wasn't a rhyme or reason. He chose you, and you chose him.
Soon enough, you were waking him up for school, running your hands through his messy, dark locks. You were making him bento boxes, running to parent-teacher conferences, and having hard but meaningful conversations with him in his room about his troubling behavior.
Then you were hugging him as he cried, as he revealed the same dark thoughts you once had about yourself.
You wished this world wasn’t so cruel, so dark. You hope that in a different life, he would have grown into a normal kid, with hopes and dreams and a list of things he wanted to do and go out and experience. You didn’t want him to be shackled to a world that’s left you so scarred.
You fought for any sense of normality you could give him. If that meant confronting the higher-ups, so be it. At times, you even confronted Satoru.
He was just a boy.
Fire never harmed you; it never dared to scorch your skin. You commanded and held domination over nearly every flicker of heat. He was so small when you met him; you remember the first time you saw his small form shiver in the cold. It made you anxious. Despite buying him the heaviest winter coat you could find, you were beside yourself, always wondering—is he warm enough?
But, long were the days of you bundling him up in his jacket, tying his shoes, and tugging beanies over his dark hair and red ears. Long were the days of you clasping his little hands in yours to bring them warmth when the air grew too bitter. He grew older, smarter, wiser, and stronger. The boy that used to cling to your skirt after a hard day at school now stood inches taller than you.
You knew that one day he’d leave you, and you were okay with that. Seeing him so ready for the world made you happy. You worried—of course you still worried—but you were so proud. He was hesitant, unsure at times, and sometimes even looked back to you for assurance.
You were always there, smiling, ushering him along.
You can do it. I believe in you.
You grew up together, you think. Sometimes, you wondered if he ever paid for your shortcomings, or if he remembered your failures as a caregiver, but just like you did him, he’d assure you with a soft nudge and a gentle smile.
He knows you did the best you could with what you had.
He was just a boy.
Your boy.
He wasn’t yours, but you loved him like he was. Only as he grew did you realize the lines you had crossed.
He doesn’t remember his mother, but you’re sure he remembered her smile, perhaps her touch, or the sound of her laughter. You never meant to impose on her memory.
When it happened, he had just gotten into Tokyo Jujutsu High, and Satoru took him on his first official mission. You no longer had the means of pushing this off; you couldn’t beg Satoru or the higher-ups for another month, another week, another day. Megumi wasn’t a normal kid. He was a sorcerer and needed to start fulfilling his duties and mastering his technique.
“You can’t avoid the inevitable. You can’t protect him forever,” Satoru had once told you.
You knew he was right.
You stayed home that day, anxious and worried, but you knew Megumi would be alright. Satoru was with him. Even if the tall man was a bit harder on Megumi than you, you knew he’d keep him safe.
However, your worst fears came to fruition. Megumi wasn’t the same after that mission.
You remember. Satoru’s eyes were stern that night while Megumi's eyes never left the floor as he made his way to his room.
You remember thinking—what could I do to make my boys happy again?
After all, they were your everything, the reason you stood here now with a full heart. Things were newer for you and Satoru then, but he kissed you that night, warm, large hands gently holding your cheeks. He missed you a little bit extra that day. You were nervous, hesitant to fall into the sanctuary of his embrace, but it was only a matter of time until you were fully, devotedly his.
“Are you okay?” You had asked, only for him to nod his head.
“Yeah. Of course, I am, angel. Megumi is shaken up, but he’ll be alright too.”
You made Megumi’s favorite dinner that night—the same beefsteak he’s raved about since he was only six. Well, he never raved, but you perfectly remember the first time you made it, which happened to be the first time he tried it. He could barely get his chin over the table to scope his food into his mouth. He wasn’t good with chopsticks yet, so he used a little fork, which he held in his tiny fist. His little eyebrows raised before dipping down, creasing at the inner corners as he concentrated on the flavor. He murmured it’s good, and you remember being so proud of yourself. That was one of the first times you felt that you were doing something right by him. You made the same dish on occasion, and time only helped you perfect the recipe.
Megumi never came out of his room that night. The lights were off when you knocked. Even after hearing no response, you had cracked open the door, poking your head inside.
“Gumiii,” you stepped into his room. He was on his bed, groaning as you flicked the light on. He turned his back to you. “I made your favoriteee.”
You had sat on the edge of his bed, a hot plate of food in your hands. “C’mon, it’s the beefsteak you like. Nice and warm.”
“‘m not hungry,” he had grumbled.
You sighed. “The mission must have been unpleasant.” He remained still. “I’m sorry, Gumi. Satoru said you did well! I’m proud of you—” he flinched from your touch, snapping his arm away from your reach. You froze, having felt the coldness of his rejection. “If you don’t want to talk about the mission, how was your first day at your new school?” You asked. “Do you have any classmates you like?”
“Just quit it already…” he had murmured. “I’m not in the mood.”
Your shoulders slumped. “I’m sorry. I just want to make sure you’re okay. My first mission was tough too, and you already know I wasn’t great at making friends either–” you winced, biting your tongue. This was coming out all wrong. “… are you okay, Megumi?”
“I’m fine!” He clipped, pushing himself upright in bed. “Just leave me alone and stop acting like you’re my mom already!”
You remembered—and just the memory of that night shambled your heart. You could never forget the hurt those words caused and how you couldn’t show it.
You had smiled wearily. Then, you placed his dinner on his desk. “…you’re right,” you echoed. “I’m not her, never could be. I’m sorry if I imposed. I never meant to.”
You never spoke of the incident, but you remembered that things were tense between Satoru and Megumi for a short while after that. You told Satoru to drop it, but you had a feeling the poor boy received a tongue-lashing from Satoru. You were never sure, though, and you could never prove it.
You just remembered feeling cracks in the foundation of the home you never knew you had so carefully crafted, brick by brick. Some of the warmth was gone—a warmth you never knew was quite there until it wasn’t.
Little by little, you pulled back. Megumi moved into the student dorms shortly after, and he needed you less and less. You no longer made him bento boxes or his favorite beefsteak. You bit your tongue with the lectures: Megumi, that’s not nice, or Megumi, you need to have more faith in yourself. You can do it.
Though the bitter bite of cold never entirely touched you, heated by an unquenchable fame, you pulled back your hand when you reached for him. He left you seared—burned.
You still worried. You never knew if you were giving him too much or not enough. So, you left most of the mentoring to Satoru now. It’s been a few months since the incident, and now you only ever speak to him if he approached you first.
That's why you were happy when you spotted him in town. You offered him a small, shy wave. He unexpectedly approached you and asked how you were and what you’d been up to. However, the most unexpected part was when he asked if you were busy. You shook your head, and it was impossible to hide you beam when he offered to get you hot chocolate from the same coffee shop you used to take him to after school in the colder months.
However, it seemed you weren’t the only one confused by Satoru’s recent behavior.
“Huh?”
“Gojo didn’t want me going on my mission,” Megumi reiterated.
You blink a few times, tapping your fingers against the styrofoam cup in your hands. “Huh. He’s never done that before.”
“He doesn’t think I’m ready. He took the mission himself.”
“He said that? That he doesn’t think you’re ready?”
“Well… not exactly.” He scowls slightly, looking down at the cup of hot chocolate. “But he damn well implied it.”
“Gumi,” you frown at the boy. He doesn’t make eye contact with you; he looks forward now, gazing out the window and watching the fresh snow coat the ground.
He was upset.
“He could’ve at least taken me with him.”
For a moment, you see that same little boy you met over ten years ago and that same dejected look on his face after being let down one too many times. It breaks your heart.
“If Satoru took the mission and went alone, I’m sure it’s for a good reason.”
He wants to say more but opts for something quick and sweet. “Yeah. Maybe.”
You have to do something. Quick. Anything to make him a bit happier. “I have a mission later in Osaka. I’ll be catching the 2 pm train. Wanna come? I could use the extra help.”
He’s quiet for a moment, thinking, you presume, but he nods. “Yeah, sure. I don’t have anything else to do.”
“Great! And just so you know, we’ll probably be dealing with a grade one or two.”
He pauses momentarily before calmly asking, “And you need help with that?”
“Uh, yeah. Any help is much appreciated. Plus, I haven’t seen you much recently.” You smile brightly, and he turns his head, eyes finding the ground, looking a little bashful.
“About that…”
“Don’t worry about it,” you wave him off. “You’ve been busy with school, and I know that.”
“But that’s not–”
“It’s okay, Megumi,” you smile again, resisting the urge to reach across the table and gently squeeze his hand. “I get it.”
He gives you a look, a small disgruntled scowl. He wanted to say more.
“Alrighty then.” You stand, stretching from sitting in the chair. “I’ll buy you another hot chocolate for the road. We should probably start getting ready to leave.”
-
The mission goes well. An abandoned warehouse in Osaka conjured up a nasty looking grade three, but Megumi held his own just fine—like you expected. He’s grown much stronger and more sure of himself. You’re proud. Seeing how far he’s come certainly puts a smile on your face. He’s not a little boy anymore, you realized. He’s growing into a fine young man.
Urg. Stop getting emotional.
However, after stopping for a later dinner, you both arrived home late, around nine or so.
“You did good tonight, Megumi,” you tell him for the nth time.
He rolls his eyes, tucking his hands deep into his pockets. “You’ve told me that already.”
“I know, I know. It doesn’t change the fact that I’m proud of you. You’re getting so much stronger.”
Instead of brushing you off like all the other times, he sighs before offering a forced “thanks.”
“Alrighty then. Try and get some sleep, okay? I’ll see you and the others sometime tomorrow, yeah?”
“Sounds good. Get back home safe.”
You nod, smiling. You make sure to watch him as he goes, making sure he gets inside before turning around. He’s capable of taking care of himself, but some habits never grow old. Making sure he gets inside anywhere safely has always been something you’ve prioritized, whether he was going to a friend's house, school, or boarding the train.
You loved him like your own, but you knew he wasn't. After all, it was only a few months ago now that he reminded you that he wasn't yours.
You’re not my mom.
It hurt—it still does—but you never held it against him. You still loved him nevertheless. Your relationship might have shifted but it doesn’t negate the fact that you care for him and would gladly give your life if it meant keeping him safe.
Then, there was Kugisaki and Itadori—two others slowly weaseling their way into your heart. They’ve helped Megumi so much; he might be too proud to admit it, but they’ve helped him come out of his shell; they were his friends, and you knew they had each other backs.
You sigh, a translucent cloud of white floating up and above your head. Just like always, your thoughts shift to blue eyes. Satoru. You’ve missed him today. No calls or obnoxious spam texts. It’s not unusual per se, especially when he gets busy. Regardless, you missed him.
But, something is bothering you. He wasn't communicating with you and he usually tells you these things. Even if he didn't have the time to tell you something right away, he'd eventually find a moment to talk to you. This time around, he didn’t. He didn't tell you he was leaving or about the whole ordeal with Megumi.
He just got up and left. You woke to a cold bed and an empty house. No text message, no note with a silly doodle. When you called him in the morning, it went right to voicemail. Eventually, when you pull up your shared text messages to check for anything new, you only saw the message you sent him from the day before. At a loss, you type out a quick message. You didn't think it would make things better, but at least it was something.
I hope you have a good day today :)
It was all you could really muster up after last night. He seemed so agitated, and so fed up. You blamed it on stress; he isn’t usually like that. Usually, his touch was careful, calculated as if you were fixed of glass. You missed his lame jokes and mischievous grins when he was up to no good. You weren't offered any of that last night. Or the night before. Even the night before that.
You’re starting to worry.
He always bounces back so quickly. The only thing that typically gets him this mad are the higher-ups. Which, in Megumi's case, makes sense. You can see why Gojo would intervene if they gave him a dangerous mission.
But why didn’t he take Megumi with him, at least?
Hm.. maybe it was beyond Megumi's skill set. Would the elders be stupid enough to set him up? They did it to you long ago, but they wouldn’t be bold enough to do it to the boy with the ten shadows technique, would they?
Or maybe Satoru… just doesn’t want to be near you?
Urg. You roll your eyes at your own selfish thoughts. Satoru wouldn’t do something like that. He’s already overworked as it is. Maybe you should make him something. A nice dinner? Or maybe he needed a pick-me-up? Kikufuku? You’re sure you could find the recipe online.
You're torn, so you decide to make both. Maybe you'll even put on a nice dress.
You decide to call him, and after a few rings, he answers. “Hey, honey,” you say sweetly, happy he even bothered to answer your call. "I was wondering when you’d be home tonight. I want to make you a nice dinner.”
He’s quiet again—too quiet. “Dinner? Tonight?”
“Yeah, you’ve been so busy lately. I figured you’d like that.”
He hums into the phone, sounding a bit lighter. “Dinner does sound nice…”
Your smile widens. You could hear the underlying stress in his tone; it was flatter than usual, but at least he was trying. “... I’ll even put on your favorite dress?”
He chuckles a bit. “Tempting, but I’ll probably have to leave after dinner.”
“Oh,” you murmur, wincing slightly at the rejection. Maybe you’ve gotten too spoiled—too accustomed to him pushing off his responsibilities all for the sake of spending a few more moments with you. Were you being too greedy? “Are you okay? They’re not stretching you too thin, are they?”
He sighs in a carefree tone. “I'm doing fine. Same old thing, just a different day,” is all he offers, but you can tell he’s withholding.
“I can help, y’know,” you offer gently. “If you have too many missions, I can take a few off your plate.”
“Nah,” he tells you a bit arrogantly. “It’s better if I handle it.”
Now you’re really starting to feel the distance. He usually reserves the softer parts of him for you. You suppose he just didn’t have the patience to do so right now. “You, uh, got into it with the higher-ups I heard,” you mention, trying to keep the conversation going but approaching from a different angle. “Megumi was telling me you even took his mission. I think he was a bit upset you didn’t take him with you. How come you never told me?”
“How come you never told me you were going to Osaka? Or the fact that you took him with you?”
Your stomach twists, unease bubbling in your chest. You didn’t like where this was heading. “I– it’s never bothered you before,” you manage, though your voice falters, dying down into nothing but a whisper. “And it’s not like you’ve been… wanting to speak to me recently. I haven't had the time to tell you much of anything," your trail off, your voice slowly fading before you begin again. "Did I do something to make you mad?”
The silence that follows is unbearable—longer than you ever imagined it could be. “Satoru… Please just talk to me.”
“I gotta go,” his tone is cold, clipped, and final.
There’s a click as he hangs up, and the silence becomes deafening and threateningly absolute.
-
You realize you miss the way he used to look at you. Not the way he'd gaze at you, but in the way he would gaze into you, as though you were ever the only thing that ever really mattered.
After your last conversation with him, you were unsteady. You hated how you stayed in bed for hours, analyzing everything he's said to you recently, dissecting his every action. You hated how needy you suddenly felt, even while laying there, in his bed, in his clothes. He paused just a second too long before answering you now, as if he had to must up the courage and energy to do so. His laugh no longer came out easily. Others might miss it, but you never could. It was still rambunctious, taking up a whole room, but to you, it felt forced, brittle even. You've known Satoru at his best, and you've also known him at his worst.
When he looks at you now, you wonder if he's really seeing you. Painfully, you realize you haven't seen him; not without his eyeband on at least. Last night you did, for the first time in a while, but he seemed agitated.
The worst part was that you didn't know how to bring yourself to confront him. You struggled, unsure which pretty words and cadence would unluck the distance between you two.
Did something happen on one of his missions? Was he stressed? Had the higher-ups pushed him too far, testing his patience?
Or was it you? Was this somehow your fault?
Did you scare him away? Have you said too much, cared too deeply, loved too loudly?
You weren't sure, but you had to try something.
You were grateful you were cooking him dinner tonight on your day off. It was the least you could do, and you adored taking care of him. You choose hot pot, something you and Satoru have tried at home before. It took over a few hours to prepare, but it was worth it. You made two broths, you sliced up shabu-shabu and wagyu beef and even went to the extent of watching a video to make a dipping sauce. Unfortunately, you forgot one of the ingredients for the kikufuku mochi and didn’t want to risk making something he didn’t entirely like. Luckily, you had spare time to run down to the kikufuku store right before it closed. Of course, you grabbed all his favorite, two boxfuls, in fact. He was a big guy, so you hoped you had more than enough food for him to indulge.
You and Satoru were together. Though he never outright asked you to be his, you knew. It was an unspoken thing, and you were content with that. For as goofy and eccentric as that man could be, it was rather surprising how he was never outright with what he was actually feeling.
He was damn good at showing it, though. In more ways than one.
You feel it in the way he’d always reach for you after a nightmare. Shaking, needy hands tightly clasping at your waste, fearful of you disappearing and slipping to a place where he could not reach you. Don’t ever go where I can’t follow. Please. His face would nuzzle into your neck, sharply inhaling your scent. You’d hold him, whispering endless promises. I’m here. I’ll always be here. Or it's okay. Breathe, my love. I’m with you.
You feel it on the nights he’d pin you beneath him, his grunts and moans echoing in your ears as he fills you so completely. He’d beg, no demand you—tell me you’re mine. Only mine.
And, of course, you’d eagerly nod, overwhelmed with the pleasure only he could strum out of you so perfectly. ‘m yours. All of me—yours.
You feel it in his protective gaze, his eagerness to hold you in the life vest of his arms. You felt it late into the night, damp bodies pressed against one another; low lighting, quiet laughter, and secrets revealed. His dreams, his wishes, his what ifs—the parts of him that no one knew or considered. Or when he handed you a silver key with a handsome and cheshire grin. What do you say? He was lovely, every bit of him, especially his gentle and selfless heart that you would never take for granted like the rest of the world seemed to.
You feel it when he comes home from overseas and how his strong arms hold onto you just a bit longer, a bit tighter. You feel it with how he smiles into your neck or that one time at the airport when he lifted you up and spun you around, uncaring who saw.
You feel it in the way that it was unspoken. You feel it in his cursed energy and how it perfectly intertwined with yours, reaching for you, comforting you when his hands could not. You especially feel it in the necklace he gifted you—the one your fingers were playing with now: a silver chain with cerulean sapphires, the same breathtaking shade of his eyes. His cursed energy, carefully imbued into the stones, was like carrying a piece of him with you—always, wherever you may go, and it rests directly above your beating heart.
He might not voice it, but you feel it. He loved you. And you certainly loved him.
So when had it become so hard to reach him? Why does he seem so intangible all of a sudden? Something deep and unsettling blooms in your stomach.
And now that you think about it…
When was the last time you two did any of that? When was the last time his careful hands caressed you?
Only Satoru could make you this worried or make you feel this displaced. A sense of panic strikes you, and you pull out your phone to text him when you realize he’s thirty minutes late. Usually, that wouldn’t bother you, but–
After only three rings, you're sent to voicemail. When you check his location, he’s at the high school. Should you check on him? Or would that make him… mad?
He toru! Dinners ready. When do you think you’ll be home? Miss you.
You bite your lip. He quickly read your message, but those three little bubbles never show up.
Nothing. Just nothing.
Maybe he’s staying up late writing the report for his latest mission?
“eek!” Your phone pings, and after a round of hot potato, you see he’s texted you back.
Only to be met with more disappointment.
Dealing with something urgent. Don’t wait up.
You frown, knowing you should drop it, but you can’t.
Satoru…
He’s typing faster now. What?
You pause, thumbs hovering over letters you hesitate to type. What’s going on? You’ve been off lately.
I’m fine. Just busy.
Do you want me to bring you dinner to the High School?
Those three bubbles appear and disappear more times than you can count. No. I said don’t wait up.
You know I don't sleep well without you.
He responds in a heartbeat. It wouldn’t be the first time.
Your patience is wearing thin for the first time since this ordeal started. Are you saying you won’t be coming home tonight?
You’re offered no response. He doesn’t even open your message. For the second night, you lay in a cold bed. Except, Satoru doesn’t come home.
Only he could fracture you so completely.
-
During your next mission, you brought the whole trio along. According to the report you were handed, you were only dealing with a grade three, but there was also an Infestation in the area. You could use the backup.
You had initially asked Megumi, but once Yuji caught wind, he was adamant that he tagged along, and, according to Nobara she had nothing else better to do.
“Are you guys sure? It’s your day off.”
Yuji shrugs, both arms up, hands up and behind his head. “Yeah, I’m game.”
“Me too,” Nobara voices with a small glint in her eyes. “I got something new I want to try out anyway. We didn’t get to go on a mission last week as it is.”
You paused. "Huh? Gojo didn’t take you on any?”
“Nah,” Yuji shakes his head. “I think he’s been busy or something.” He looks at Kugisaki. “Hasn’t Gojo-Sensei seemed a little… off?”
Nobara nods. “Uh yeah. He hasn’t been himself at all. We figured you’d know something,” Nobara says, curious eyes scanning you.
“Huh… I’m not sure. We haven’t gotten around to talking lately.”
Megumi hums, though it sounds more suspicious than his usual passive tone.
Though they weren’t necessarily your students, you figured there was no harm in taking them. You've done it before and having them around was always like a breath of fresh air—reminding you of why Satoru dedicates himself so fully to his cause and being a teacher. They give you a reason to get stronger and keep fighting. You loved these kids and all their bickering.
Except, this mission doesn’t go anything like you had expected. The report was wrong—a grade two was ambling through the abandoned schoolhouse. That was fine; the four of you were more than enough to kill it. The infestation was a bit overwhelming, but you had their backs, and they were nothing but pesky small curses lower than a grade four.
Everything went well when the ambush happens. You all saw it: right in front of your eyes, a grade one emerging from the shadows, born into something nasty. It's skin oozed a sickly black slime that clung to its misshapen body. Its face—or lack there of—was dark and amorphous, split by a jagged maw that stretched impossibly wide, revealing rows of sharp serrated teeth, ready to cut and slash through flesh like a meat grinder. Other that is daunting appearance, the only other notable thing about it was its speed.
You told the kids to back down, but it was already too late. They were already involved, stuck in the heat of battle and fighting as a seamless unite. They were more than capable of standing on their own.
But you needed them out of here. Your obligation was to protect them no matter how eager they were to help. However, before you could think of your next move, the curse made one last self-preserving attack. It opened in wide jaws, releasing several red beamed energy blast aimed directly at stone pillars.
You had no time to think, only react. In an instant, you surged forward towards the trio, faster than their eyes could react. Grunting, you knocked them back, glass shattering as you kicked them through a window. You felt the impact ripple through your body, fully knowing you knocked the wind out of Megumi and Yuji. However, they recovered quickly, their instincts sharp enough to catch Nobara–
Right in time before the building collapsed.
The building groaned like a wounded beast, its entire frame buckling from lack of support. Stone walls crumbled into clouds of dust and debris, windows shattered in explosive bursts, steel beams twisted and snaped with sickening shrieks. The ground trembled violently as the structure gave way, collapsing into a chaotic heap of concrete, rubble, and smoke, swallowing everything beneath. Including you.
You survived. Reinforcing your body with cursed energy made you strong enough to withstand the impact, and your heavenly restriction certainly helped. Nevertheless, you still took on quite a bit of damage from the tons of metal and concrete.
You woke up under the rubble with a startling gasp, choking on the dust. Were you out for a few seconds? Minutes? You were unsure, but the only thing pushing you to stand was the panic coated in Megumi’s voice. He was calling for you, and so were the others. You could hear the strain in their voices, the utter distraught. You healed your broken leg and the gash on the corner of your forehead, ceasing your gushing blood. You gathered yourself and your strength before pushing. They found you quickly after that, noticing a heap of rubble moving. They ran, rushing to help you push back concrete that threatened to suffocate you. You never did like tight spaces.
Thankfully, you were alright. The kids were safe as well.
However, the curse had escaped. Megumi was visibly shaken, his fingernail cracked, bruised, and bleeding from digging urgently through the rubble to find you.
Everyone was on edge. It wasn't their fault you didn't react quickly enough. You were more than capable; maybe that's why the failure stung so much.
You let yourself down. You let them down.
You were spiraling into a dark place quickly. The guilt threatened to swallow you whole. Gojo was still nowhere to be seen. You didn't have the strength to call him. You’re not sure what you could even say. You’ve fucked up before, but never to this extent. Not to where a whole building collapsed.
“Good morning. A tragic incident occurred last night when an abandoned school collapsed around 7 pm. Authorities are currently investigating the cause, and preliminary reports suggest that the collapse could have been due to a structural weakness—one of the many reasons why the school was abandoned in the first place. We will continue to monitor the situation as more information becomes available–"
Megumi gently grabs your phone and locks your screen. Wordlessly, he shakes his head before pocketing your device. You’re too exhausted to ask for it back.
“Are you sure you’re okay, Sensei?” Yuji's voice was soft, the first voice to break the ice. You look up from your hands, unsure how long you’ve been lost in thought. You force a small smile as you gaze at the three kids. You were sitting across from them in the waiting area outside the council room.
“I’m alright. Are you guys?"
“We’re all fine,” Megumi cuts in quickly. “We’re– we’re more than okay.”
“That's good,” you trail off. “That's really good.”
Uncertainty hung dangerously in the air. What happened now? You were okay, but for how long?
You knew you were in for a lashing with all the collateral damage you caused. It was supposed to be a simple mission. This wasn't supposed to happen. You four were fine, but did anyone else get hurt?
You flinch at your own thought. You don't think you could live with yourself if innocent lives were lost.
“Sensei?” Yuji's soft, unsure voice cuts in once more. When your eyes make contact, he smiles brightly. You can tell it’s forced. “After this, wanna go get something to eat? There’s this great sandwich shop down the street!”
“Y–yeah!” Nobara sits up straight after being less than conspicuously nudged by Yuji. “It’s pretty good. We went the other day–”
The council room door creaked open. The higher-ups were waiting, shrouded in shadows and faces hidden. Even if you couldn't see them, the tension was palpable. Even without seeing them directly, you could sense their anger, smell it as it rolled off of them in a quiet, unspoken fury. You glance at the kids once more, this time with a gentle, reassuring smile curling at your lips.
Everything would be okay.
-
Everything was, in fact, not okay.
The air was heavy as you entered your office. Your limbs ached, your head throbbed, and every breath felt like dragging glass through your lungs. You had thought the worst of it was over, and slowly, you felt your body begin to shut down, but only when there were no prying eyes to see how you compensated for your injuries. Even after using RCT, you had a limp—your bones were mended but not quite right. Your head was no longer bleeding—but still, you weren't quite right.
You dismiss it as exhaustion; after all, you had just learned RCT not too long ago. Maybe you missed something. However, this wasn’t anything you couldn't handle on your own. You could see Shoko, but why bother her? You’ve endured far worse. Dealing with a sore body and a headache for the next few days wasn’t out of your jurisdiction.
When you open the door, a flickering lamplight reveals a tall frame standing by your desk. Even before your eyes dance upon his sharp and still silhouette, the air shifts—your soul already knows he is there. Satoru.
But, his eyes never meet yours; you weren’t blessed enough to see them, a bright blue illuminating in the absence of light. His eyes were covered with a familiar dark cloth. However, you didn’t need to see them to know that the usual warmth they held as he gazed upon you was gone. In its place was a coldness that turned your stomach.
“Satoru–”
“I know,” he says, voice clipped as he turns to face you. “I read the reports.” Your heart sinks as he haphazardly tosses the report down to your desk.
You’re exhausted, unsure of where to even begin. So many questions floated in your weary mind. Where were you? When did you get here? Please, don’t be mad at me.
It’s funny how all your dignity, poise, and strength to endure are gone with him. You already took one berating from the elders, and you’re not sure you could handle another.
Not from him.
“But, I want to hear it from you.” He stepped closer, his height making him all the more domineering. “What happened out there? And how the hell are my students caught up in all of this?”
“The report was wrong. It was a grade two, not three, but we handled that just fine. We cleared out the area and completed the mission, but we were ambushed. A grade one appeared, destroyed the pillars, and–” You hesitate, unable to form the words. “Well, you know what happened.” He’s quiet, too quiet for your liking. “I–I did everything I could, Satoru. The students were fine, but the curse got away.”
“Everything you could?" His voice echoes. "I don’t need excuses. Certainly not from you. You endangered them—all of them. They’re not even your students!” He snapped, his voice rising in a way you’ve never heard before.
You bite back the lump forming in your throat. “I thought you, out of anyone, would understand the circumstances.”
“...Understand?” He utters back, a quiet fury rolling off him in waves.
“I made sure that–”
“You failed,” he snaps, voice laced with malice. “Enough. Just stop it. You were reckless and went behind my back, and you let a pathetic grade one get the best of you.”
Your chest tightened, crumbling at the weight of his tone. “Went behind your back? I did no such thing.”
“They could have been hurt because of you!” You visibly flinch, his words carrying more weight than the debris that had buried you—broken bones and all.
“I’m recommending you be demoted to grade two.”
What?
“You can’t do that. Satoru, you can’t–”
“I can,” he said coldly. “and I will. You failed, and not only did you fail, you went behind my back and involved my students. Your recklessness caused this,” disdain coats his voice, and he sucks his teeth. “I was gone for two fucking seconds, and you damn near ruined everything. People could have died. My students could have been injured. So stop being a nuisance and just do as you're told from here on out.”
No.
No, no, no, no.
You fought for years to get to grade one. A woman with a name of no renown—this society was never in favor of you; the system was set up for you only to fail time and time again. For years, you were held at grade three, then grade two, all because of your name’s sake—all because you were a woman. You didn’t have the luxury of being as good as other sorcerers; you had the burden to be better.
Even now, at grade one, they continue to undermine you and undervalue you. You knew you didn’t have room to make mistakes, for they would tarnish every bit of good you have done. You thought Satoru understood that. You thought he viewed you as an equal, someone strong enough to stand by him. You thought he valued you, respected you.
You never thought a mistake, a stupid mistake, would lead to this.
It’s not fair. It’s not fucking fair.
“This has nothing to do with my rank. You don’t believe me. You don't trust me. After everything–”
Hearing his scornful laugh, your vision begins to blur. “Don’t make this personal. You fucked up, and now I have to clean up your mess.”
Your ears begin ringing. The pounding in your head becomes too much and threatens to crack your skull open once more.
“But it is, isn’t it?” You whisper. How could it not be personal with how he's been treating you for days? “You haven't been able to look at me in weeks. You speak to me as if I’ve become nothing but a burden to you—a nuisance. What did I do to deserve this?”
He remains silent, the muscles in his jaw ticking as he grits his teeth. Point proven.
Your heart painfully twists with each beat. “Do you even… care about me anymore?” You’re not sure why you say it, why the words slip past your lips, but they do.
He read the report and he hadn't even asked if you were okay. Maybe it was a selfish thought, but it makes your chest ache. You just wanted to go home, crawl in bed and hold him. However, you knew that wasn't in the cards right now.
“Don’t twist this into something it’s not.”
Your voice finally wavers before him, cracking as you press on, desperate for him to understand—desperate to have him by your side as he has been for so many years.
“You’re casting me aside like I’m... worthless."
It was cruelty, a quiet and deafening insult for him to demote you of your status—but more specifically, your place beside him. That hurt runs deep, to the point that feelings of betrayal start seeping into your veins, poisoning you, antagonizing you. Belittling you. It was a sharp dagger you never expected—searing with a hatred that threatened to cripple you. This wasn’t just about your position. He was a man of unchallenged stature, of the highest status and regard, lowering you, demeaning you with his every word, every action.
When did things go so wrong?
Yet, even now, you question yourself. Were you being dramatic? Were you taking this too personally? Were you being selfish?
Because he was right. Every word he's said so far was right. You failed. You put them in danger.
You stand there, a hollow feeling growing in your chest. The sting of Satoru’s words cut deeper than any blade you’ve faced. His jaw tightened, his gaze hard as steel and cold as ice. “You gave me what I never asked for.”
“Don't you dare!” You snap, finger trembling as you point his way with an accusatory jab. “Don’t you dare pretend this is nothing. You know me better than anyone. How could I not take this personally? I’ve done nothing but stand by you, love you, trust you–”
“Like I said, I never asked for any of that,” he utters sharply, his carefully composed exterior shattering. “Whatever we were was nothing more than fucking convenience.”
Suddenly, he stops, freezing at the onslaught of his own lethal words. His next words seemed to die in his throat. The damage was done.
Exhausted, defeated, numb. His words hit you like a death blow. “... Convenience?” Echoing the very word that came from his lips—a sound you hardly recognize comes from your mouth, a small slip of the anguish tormenting and swelling in your body escapes.
The necklace around your neck, the very one he had given you, seemed to pulse against your skin, warm and alive. It carried a piece of him, a piece of you, a guiding hand in the absence of light: a thread, an anchor—a way home.
Suddenly, you hated it. Hated the way it sat so close to your heart, hated the warmth, his energy; you hated that, even now, his words cutting so deep, unraveling the fabric of your being, it comforted you, reaching for you.
You yanked it off, the chain snapping in two as you held it in your trembling hands.
He falters, his whole being frozen. “What are you doing?” he asked, quiet and tense, blanketed in uncertainty.
“I don’t want it,” you say, voice quivering, threatening to fail you at any moment. His energy—the only energy that blended so perfectly with yours—reached for you, and so did his trembling hands. Reflexively, you flinched away, retreating further into the room and further from him. “Don’t,” you shake your head. “Don’t touch me. Not with your hands, not with your energy. Don’t.”
Silent tears stream down your face. You are unable to look at him, and your breathing is shallow and unsteady. You open your hand, letting the necklace drop to the floor. The faint sound of metal hitting wood echoes in the suffocating silence of the room.
There’s a soft knock on the door. It creaks, slightly opening. “... Y/n sensei?” came an unsure voice.
You stiffen, and suddenly, you can sense them, three nervous students standing outside your door. Too caught up with Satoru, you had entirely missed them. You clear your throat and dry your cheeks with the back of your hand before turning to the door. You walk over, opening the door wide enough to see them.
“Sorry if we’re interrupting, but we just wanted to know if you still wanted to come out for dinner with us...”
Fuck. How much did they hear?
You take a breath, and it’s shakier than you anticipated. “Yeah, sure. That sounds nice. Let me grab my jacket, okay.”
Yuji only offers an unsure smile. Norbora has a hard time even looking at you, while Megumis's eyes are solid and unyielding, glaring right past you. His hands were in his pockets, balled into tight fists.
You don’t know what to do other than quickly turning. Within a few ushered strides, you were at your desk, grabbing your coat off your desk chair; you’re careful to avoid Gojo, who manages to plaster on that big fucking grin.
“Heard you guys were up to no good while I was away.”
“We were fine,” Megumi interjects before Yuji could open his mouth. “More than fine.”
“Y–yeah, everything ended up being just fine. Y/n-sensei made sure of that,” Nobara awkwardly adds, shifting her weight on her feet.
“Ah,” Gojo nods. “Well, make sure you get some rest tonight. We’ve got a long day tomorrow! You guys will be training with the second years!”
You hated how he could act as if everything was alright while you were fighting back tears. It was another jab, a suckerpunch to the gut.
You just needed to get out of there.
-
After dinner with the kids, you headed out on your own the following day. You went home, stuffing some clothes in a bag before spending the night at a cheap motel. Before getting with Satoru, you always floated from place to place, never truly settling. Those days, all you carried on you was your backpack. You didn’t have a home or many possessions you could call your own. You just had yourself.
I guess old habits die hard.
Megumi was the first to text you: I went to Gojo's house today and didn’t see you.
All good! I’ve been busy running errands.
Nobara text you sometime after.
Hey Sensei!! Let me know if you’re available today! Let’s go shopping!
You responded rather quickly. Sorry, I’m not around today. Maybe ask Maki? Or maybe Yuji and Megumi would like to tag along.
But guys suck :(
Then, there was Yuji: Hey, Sensei! Let me know if you want ramen! The gang and I got you since you covered for us the other night! I even got coupons!
You weren’t sure what to say. You always covered for their meals (no exceptions), but you knew they were just trying to be kind. You double-tapped and hearted the message.
You appreciated them more than anything, but frankly, it was a bit embarrassing. You never meant for them to overhear you and Satrou that night in your office, and you were never one for pity. If it were anyone else, you would have called them out and told them off. However, you wouldn’t dream of doing that to the kids. They were trying to support you in the only way they knew how, but it wasn’t their responsibility to worry about you.
Surprisingly, Shoko was the next person to contact you. You never stopped by my office. I’m assuming you’re alright?
Smiling gently, you responded. Yeah, no injuries to report.
A building collapsed on you.
You scoff, imagining her deadpan expression. Heavenly restriction, remember?
That doesn’t mean you can’t get hurt.
Your thumbs hover over the keyboard. Yeesh. Just meet me at the bar you like downtown.
That’s where you are now, Shoko’s favorite bar, tossing back your third shot. ”Take it easy. I don’t feel like dragging you home tonight.”
“Ah. I’m alright, Shoko.”
“You don’t look it.”
“Neither do you with those bags under your eyes.”
She brings her drink to her lips, mumbling “touché” before taking a swig. “Do you want to talk about it?”
Vivid memories pressed to the front of your mind of the building collapsing. “Satoru is demoting me. After the elders ripped into me, I found him waiting for me in my office.”
“He– what? Jeez,” she took another sip of sake. “Out of everything, I didn’t expect that.”
“I– we haven’t been doing too good. I’m not sure if there even is an us after last night.”
“Huh. He did seem a little out of it today.”
“Somehow, I kinda doubt that.” There’s a beat of silence, and you swirl the liquid in your cup.
“If it means anything, he asked me about you. Asked if you were alright.”
You smile a bit sardonically. If Satoru really wanted to find you, you knew he could, as he had the means to do so. From here, you were only about five miles away from his estate. It’s not like you were too for his eyes to see. Suddenly, that thought bothers you, and you find yourself almost subconsciously concealing your cursed energy.
“Is that why you texted me?”
She gives you a weird look. “Partially. I had my own concerns.”
“Like what?”
“If I’m being honest with you, you’re not great at RCT. I wanted to check and make sure everything was alright. It eventually catches up with you if you don’t do it correctly. I’ve seen it cause irreparable damage before.”
“Ah. I guess that makes sense.”
“You should come to my office tomorrow so I can check–”
“I think I’m gonna quit.”
“…what?”
“I mean, that’s what they really want, right?”
“If you do that, they’ll find the easiest excuse to label you as a traitor. A cursed user.”
“Don’t you think I know that? Since day one, they’ve been trying to paint me as a villain.”
“So don’t give them what they want,” Shoko bites back. She pinches the bridge of her nose with her thumb and index finger. “Listen, I can’t stop you. You are going to do what you want to do at the end of the day, but you don’t need to do this. You made a mistake.”
“I’m just tired,” you tell her truthfully. “For months, I’ve been pretending, going through the motions. I've been miserable. Megumi hasn’t wanted me around much. He’s older now, and he doesn’t need me anymore–”
“Of course he does,” Shoko cuts you off. “He’s still a kid.”
“And I’m not his mother,” you retort bitterly. “Then, there’s Satoru. He’s been so distant. He used to always be in my corner and make everything better, but I don’t even have that now. Now, all of the jujutsu society thinks I’m a liability. He thinks I’m a liability. Maybe it’s why he’s grown to resent me so much.”
“Please. Just stop talking,” Shoko remarks, overwhelmed with how quickly you were talking. She wasn’t necessarily a fan of conversations like these, but at least she listened. “I’m here if you ever need anyone. And please, don’t let this fester. I would rather not lose another friend.” She takes a large gulp this time, finishing her drink before gesturing for a refill. “Tsk. Satoru is complicated—I get it—but he wouldn’t want you to leave. Neither would Megumi. That kid loves you. Maybe you and Gojo just need a break.”
A break? Ha. That was one way of putting it. However, it already felt much more like a breakup, and its permanence frightened you. Like many other things in your relationship, it was never voiced but certainly felt.
“Yeah,” you say softly, body buzzing as you down your fourth shot. “Maybe you’re right.”
-
You start walking home after having drinks with Shoko. It was a long walk, and you took your time. You weren’t in a rush to head home to potential chaos. The thought of staying at a hotel crossed your mind, but you had nothing to change into. Frankly, it didn’t matter where you went either. It’s not like you’d be able to sleep any better.
Though, it’s not like you were going back home to anything good. You were suspended without pay; you couldn’t go near the school grounds or exercise any curses—a stipulation you rolled your eyes at. If they thought just a few measly words would stop you from exercising a curse, they would be more idiotic than you thought.
Still, maybe it’s good to take some time off. Maybe you should stay at the hotel. If you were lucky, they’d have a washer and dryer.
Then, your phone starts to ring—a unique ringtone that a white-haired idiot assigned to his contact one day after you let him “borrow” your phone. He even changed his contact photo; years later, you never had the heart to change it.
Your heart aches when you see the contact photo of him, his goofy smile and gorgeous eyes peeking over his black shades. You answered hesitantly after a few rings.
“Hello?”
“Heyyy,” you hear, his voice light and cheery yet, lacking its usual spark. “Where are you? I know I missed dinner the other night so I picked up your favorite on my way home!”
Back to normal? Just like that?
You take a breath, reeling in your emotions. It wasn’t normal, per se, but you could tell he was trying, stepping cautiously over the ice he knew could shatter at any moment.
“I’m not home, right now.”
“Huuuh?” You can hear the slight whine in his voice, and you can imagine him pouting like a small child. You expect him to carry on with his theatrics, but he hesitates. “When do you think you’ll be home then?”
“Uh, I don’t really know,” you trail off, unable to keep up his faux mirth and bravado.
“Well, if you don’t want to sleep next to me tonight, I can just take the guest bedroom!” For a moment, he sounds hopeful.
Honestly, he’s just making your head spin.
“Honestly, I think it’s best if I stay out of the house for a little while, Gojo.”
There’s a beat of silence before you hear his nervous laughter. “Gojo?” he remarks dejectedly. “Can’t remember the last time you called me that.”
You were unsure what to say; you hadn’t even realized you initially referred to him by his last name until he pointed it out. You want to tell him sorry—for everything, but your tongue tenses in your mouth, and your throat threatens to close up. You hated it when he got like this, and typically, you’d do anything to make him smile again.
But you’re hurt, and he caused that hurt.
“I wanted to talk to you about the other day,” he adds quickly, unable to withstand your silence.
“What’s there to talk about?” You ask softly. “What done is done. I messed up.”
He’s quiet for a moment. “You’re right. It can’t be undone now. But that’s not what I wanted to talk to you about.”
Your stomach drops your heart twists and aches. Was he going to officially end things with you? A bitter, more cruel half of you whispers—you weren’t even officially together to begin with. However, none of that even matters; he has too much of you, too many pieces of your frail heart in the palm of his hands. You were irrevocably his, but was he ever yours?
Just a few weeks ago, you thought you would have an entirely different answer than the one you have now. You're too afraid to face him or the truth. You were guilt-ridden, your pride and dignity torn to shreds. Hearing that he no longer wishes to be with you would be too much.
Honestly?
You’re not sure how you’d react. If you’d sob, if you’d remain stoic, or if you’d flip a table and trash every one of your possessions. You’re at wit's end, and the level of fallout threatening to break free from you was immeasurable.
So, you finalize what you had been contemplating just five minutes ago. “I think I’m going to stay at a hotel, Gojo. I need space. Time to think.”
“I don’t want us to go to bed mad at each other,” he says lowly, his voice reverberating through the phone. You shiver. “It doesn’t feel right.”
You hated this. You fucking hated this.
Your chest tightens, and your knees weaken. You wanted to give in. He always had that power over you. He ruled your heart so effortlessly. You yearned for him, your heart singing a million love songs, beckoning him back to you.
But you couldn’t. You were too mad. You felt cast aside as if you were nothing but an afterthought—after all these years. Yet again, you feel the foundation of your home cracking, and your knees go weak yet again. You take a shuddering breath right before repeating the exact words he threw at you just a few nights prior—words that so effortlessly dismantled your spirit. “It wouldn’t be the first time.”
-
You’ve always had a habit of running. It was easier for you than most. You figured you’d go back to that cheap motel in Tokyo, but you were too restless. Too angry. Feelings of betrayal ran deep, and the guilt nipped away at you until there was only a void.
Before you could leave, though, you call a number you knew by heart. Stepping onto the train and holding your phone to your ear, it rings. For a moment, you assume he’s asleep. It was getting late, but after the fifth ring, the line clicked. A groggy voice peaks through.
“Sensei? What’s going on?”
“Megumi,” you breathe out. “Hi. Sorry to wake you.”
“It’s fine.”
“Nozomi 1, departing from Tokyo and heading to Kyoto, will depart shortly. Please be careful of your footing while boarding. Please refrain from using mobile phone inside the train–“
“You’re leaving?” The tiredness in his voice is replaced by something else you can’t quite place.
“Only for a short while. It’s not like I’ll be working anytime soon,” you chuckled nervously. “But I just wanted to let you know. It didn’t feel right leaving without speaking to you first.”
“Oh,” is all he can muster up at first. “I– when will you be back?”
“I’m not sure,” you answer him honestly. “A few days, maybe.”
“Well… Can we visit you? I’d go alone, but I think Yuji and Nobara would kill me if I did.”
Oh. You hadn’t expected that. You close your eyes, taking a deep breath. “Um, yeah. When I figure out where I’m staying, I’ll let you know.”
He sounds worried. “You don’t know where you’re staying yet?”
You snicker. “Ha, this is, uh, kinda an impromptu thing.”
“… and you’re sure alright?”
“Yes, yes, I’m alright. I just wanted to tell you.”
You can tell he’s not exactly satisfied, but he isn’t one to stop you. “Well, text me where you’ll be staying in a few hours. You should probably hang up now, though, and figure it out.”
You smile softly to yourself. He always was a kind boy—kinder than he’d ever reveal. “Yeah, that sounds like a good idea. Goodnight, Megumi.”
“Night.. I’ll call you later. Be safe.”
When you hang up, you feel a bit better.
-
The first night was hard—really hard. Sleeping away from Satoru was incredibly difficult, but so were his sharp words that relentlessly bounced around in your mind. You found no peace by your window, watching the last of that day's sunlight slipping away behind the horizon, casting long shadows over the dead trees covered in snow.
You could almost feel his presence, like the cast of your shadow on a wall—following you, mirroring your every move. Your phone never rang with his ringtone, your phone never buzzed with a new text. Yet you stared at the shadows for a bit longer, a bit more intensely, waiting for two blue eyes to illuminate the space. They never did.
Kyoto's stillness seemed to reflect your own, waiting for something to change, waiting for something dead and wilted to bloom once more.
However, even all the way over in Kyoto, bad luck seems to follow you like the plague. You were walking to a small corner market to grab something to eat when you felt the disturbance in the air—tasted it on your tongue. You hoped that surge of cursed energy wasn’t what you thought it was. You would have loved to be proven wrong, but your instincts were keen like a hound trained to hunt.
A curse womb opened right above a Kyoto High school.
You were definitely getting fired after this.
You knew a cursed object was most likely responsible for this. Considering it happened at a school, you were more than willing to bet a strong cursed object was placed there, most likely intended to ward off any other strong curses that might otherwise appear in the area. You assumed the seal broke, probably after hundreds of years of suppressing the power of the object. You’ve dealt with a case like that before.
You couldn’t have been more wrong.
Three stupid students—ghost hunting of all things—removed the seal. The decorated white cloth tightly wrapped around a black skull was torn, and its viscous cursed energy soared, tinting the sky black.
“Oh, you’ve gotta be fucking kidding me,” you hissed under your breath when you slammed open the classroom door. “This way, c’mon!” You didn’t have to tell them twice. Book it, and you stay by their side for as long as you can. You had to put up your veil, but only after they were far enough.
You got impatient, however, especially towards the kid who had been recording everything up until now, where you crushed his phone in your hand.
“Wha– hey! You're gonna pay for that!”
“What the hell is more important? Recording or your fucking lives? Shut up and run!”
The air suddenly cracks with a tension that makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. It’s here. You could feel it—the dark, oppressive presence creeping across the courtyard, lurking. You yourself could see it with your eyes, but you felt it.
Your senses were better than most. It was partially why you and Yuji got along and trained together so well. You were just like him when you were younger. Granted, he wasn’t born with cursed energy like you were, but your heavenly restrictions were nearly identical.
You stop running when you reach the edge of the courtyard, but those three kids carry on in a scram. Holding the cursed object in your hands, you raise the skull in the air. It takes a considerable amount of force, but you crush the skull, black dust coating your hand. There’s a hollow screech, and you hope that’s the end of it.
Of course, your bad luck persists.
Typically, destroying the cursed object that’s created a cursed womb kills it or at least nullifies it. The exception is when the curse is an S-grade; those wombs are damn near impenetrable.
Destroying the object seemed only to irritate the curse as it began crawling out of a bloody sac.
You hold up your fist, index, and pointer finger together, pointing to the sky along with your thumb. A crimson veil pours down, covering the entirety of the school. However, you sense three others within your veil just as you seal off the area.
“Yo, Y/n sensei!! What the hell are you doing here, loca!” A deep laugh echoes across the courtyard.
Christ. You knew that voice from anywhere.
You glance over your shoulder and see a few unexpected faces. Utahime and two other students—Miwa and Todo who looks way happier than he should be, considering the circumstances.
The newly born curse loomed menacingly overhead, its red eyes gleaming like coals in a dying fire. It was tall, with protruding joints that snapped into place. Its black and sleek hair extended beyond its long, contorted body. Its face was painted white and cracked as if crafted of aged porcelain. Its kimono was white, stained with splashes of red and black goo. You stood firmly in place, fire crackling at your fingertips, your breath steady but sharp in the cold night air. Todo and Miwa joined your side quickly, and Utahime offered you a firm nod from the sidelines. She was entrusting you with her students.
Quickly, the courtyard became a battlefield, filled with the crackle of burning energy and the hum of raw power.
The curse lunged, zipping through the air. You were faster, your body twisting and moving with fluid grace. You raised your hand to strike, a jet of flame bursting forward, crackling against the air. The curse shrieked as the fire seared its back, black smoke rising from its melted skin.
It recovered too quickly for your liking. It rolled through the flames like water through a sieve, reforming and lunging again, its claws gleaming.
Your senses were on fire—every shift in the air, every sound, every movement was magnified. You could hear the heartbeat of the curse, the faintest tremor of its form as it coiled to strike. You could smell the thick, sour scent of decay that clung to it like an ancient smog. And you could feel it—the deep, heavy weight of power pressing down on you, making your muscles tighten and strain against the oncoming attack.
The curse moved to strike again, but you were already there, rolling beneath it, body twisting in a perfect arc, and feet hitting the ground in a spring-loaded motion that sent you leaping upward. Your fist, wreathed in fire, crashed into the creature’s chest.
The explosion of heat sent the curse reeling, but it was only a momentary distraction. It retaliated, slashing the air with a massive, clawed hand. Three energized strikes were headed your way. You reacted with seconds to spare, but Miwa stood directly in the line of fire. You knew her simple domain wouldn’t be summoned fast enough, but she didn’t. It would be a miscalculation that ended her life.
The claws tore through your side, then whipped down in a sickening arc, ripping clean through your arm. The pain came in an instant—a blinding, searing agony that burned through your body. You didn't even have time to scream.
You staggered back, a cry escaping Miwa’s lips as she looked at the bloody stump where your arm used to be. Blood poured and squirted from the wound, but there was no time for that.
"Get back!" you shouted to the blue-haired girl, voice raw. She wasn’t nearly ready for this; Utahime gravity overestimated her abilities or underestimated the cursed strength. Regardless, the girl was too distraught to do anything at this moment.
There’s a rush, and you suddenly realize you are outside the heat of battle. Todo went in, guns blazing, but you could only waste so much time. Todo was strong, way above his current ranking, in your opinion, but it was only a matter of time before that curse cut him down, too.
Without a second thought, you dropped to your knees. The pain was overwhelming, but you focused, drawing from the reserves settled deep within your core. Your energy surged, and tendrils of fire spiraled around the wound, filling the air with intense heat.
“Sensei! Are you alri–" Miwa gasped, her feet coming to a haunt as she watched in awe and terror as your arm began to regenerate—pulsing with energy. The flesh knitted itself together, bone and sinew reforming in a frenzy.
But the process wasn't easy and certainly didn’t come without a price to pay. Your body screamed, the regeneration draining your reserves. You were already weakened, and the battle had just begun. Tsk.
Todo found his way back over to you two, panting heavily. “How are you doing over there, Sensei?”
"Clap," you say, voice strained. "Now." He looked at you, bug-eyed, but he nodded. He didn't hesitate.
He brought his hands together in a sharp clap, and everything shifted. “Alright! Let’s dance!”
In an instant, you found yourself on the other side of the curse. You inhaled deeply, heart pounding, immediately launching yourself back into the fight.
The curse roared in confusion, disoriented, but it was too late. You were already in motion. Your feet hit the ground in a fluid motion, and with a vicious snap of your wrist, fire erupted once again. This time, it formed into a massive whip of flame that lashed through the air.
The curse hissed as the whip wrapped around its neck, and you pulled with your whole body. Never losing your grip, muscles straining, you move forward, wrapping the flames over your arm again and again, pulling tighter and tighter until you smelt the pungent odor of the burning flesh around its neck. You wrapped the whip around your arm one last time before turning your body and pulling the whip from over your shoulder, viscously yanking and slamming the curse to the ground and into submission.
The curse struggled, its body writhing, but it was weakened. Miwa went for the opening, summoning her New Shadow Style: Simple domain. She’s gotten better since the tournament, and you acknowledge with a grave chuckle as she instantly draws her blade, slicing the curse directly across its chest cavity. She cost you an arm, but deep down, you knew she had the conviction to win and succeed.
Todo doesn’t wait. Another clap. Another shift. You and Todo swapped places with the curse itself this time, and the curse had no time to react. He goes for a punch, cracking the curse with a quick jab, followed by a right hook. He claps again. The moment the curse materialized in front of you, disoriented, you surged forward, throwing everything you had left into one final strike.
It twisted in anguish, its body crumbling to the ground before its remains turned into ash.
Then, there was nothing.
The air grew still. The ground beneath you is scorched but calm. You sucked your teeth, silently berating yourself.
You hated using your technique. Frankly, you opted not to unless you absolutely needed to, which was the main reason why people hardly knew about it. It wreaked havoc, leaving nothing but indomitable infernos that refused to be quenched like normal flames. They left nothing destruction in their wake—hungry to consume and spread. However, you’ve gotten better at controlling it—you’ll give yourself that. The only thing burned here today was the grass in the courtyard.
You stood there for a moment, panting, your body trembling with exhaustion as you collapsed to the ground, panting heavily. “Y–you did it!” Miwa cheered. “I had no idea you knew RCT. Thank you for helping me back there.”
“What the– Miwa, we won! Show some conviction!” Todo cut in, flexing his biceps.
“He’s right,” you managed a weak smile as you worked on catching your breath and easing your fast-beating heart. You collapse to the ground, still gaining your breath. "We did it."
You hear footsteps approaching from behind. Tilting your head, you see Utahime standing directly above you.
“Oh. Hi ‘hime.”
She smiles a bit, but her face remains hardened. You straighten up a bit, catching on to her attitude. Something wasn’t right.
“You guys did a good job. However, another problem has arisen across the city.”
“Huh? Another one?” Miwa asked, brows tugging inward. She shifts her weight from one hip to the other. “That's like the fifth one today...”
They continue on in their conversation as you drop your veil, sniff the air, and concentrate on your surroundings. A sense of foreboding strikes you under the dark ambiance of the sky. Even after killing that S-grade, things don’t feel right.
“Thanks for joining us,” Utahime says, drawing back your attention. “I nearly had to call for backup.”
You scoff, glancing up at her from the ground. “Something doesn't feel right, Utahime.” She nods, agreeing with your observation. “When did the reports come flooding in?”
“About an hour ago now.”
“Hm,” you wonder, thinking back to when you first found the cursed womb. “That’s about the same time I first sensed the presence of the cursed womb. They’re most likely connected.”
“That's what I thought. The presence of the cursed womb must have irritated some of the curses in the city, most likely because they were drawn to the energy fluctuations the cursed womb caused. It's good you were here. We're stretched thin right now. If you don’t mind staying, we could use your help. The other students are out on missions across the city, and things just keep getting worse.”
You smile up at her before pushing yourself back up on your two feet, brushing the dirt from your pants. “Sure, let’s get going–” but as you stand, it feels as if a bolt of lightning strikes you down or as if your chest has been cracked open by a sledgehammer. The agony was too great to even scream as you fell to your knees and crashed back into the ground.
It was lights out.
-
It was quiet. Dark—a vast, unending expanse of nothingness that swallowed you whole. An endless drift. It would have almost been peaceful if not for the faint pull at the edges of your awareness, like an anchor trying to tether to something you couldn’t see.
But then came the first sound.
You heard voices—muffled cries. Please wake up, said one voice. Please stay with me, came another.
Pain began to throb somewhere in the background, dull and distant. Disembodied as if it belonged to someone else.
Don’t you dare leave me. The voice was sharp, demanding, cracking under the weight of fear. You knew that voice and remembered all the sweet things it used to whisper to you. Your heart takes a painful lurch. You can hear its occasional beat in your ears. We need you. I need you.
Oddly, you were cold.
You were drifting again, further and further. The anchor was slipping. You were sinking, your head hardly above water, when another muffled voice broke through—whimpering, sobbing. Your heart lurches painfully.
Mom, please don’t go.
The words pierce through the nothingness, shattering it all to bits and pieces. The words pull at you, a lifeline you hadn’t known you clung to and needed. Images begin to flash, and suddenly, the voices are no longer just voices. Your heart suddenly burns as though the memory of life itself is fighting its way back into you.
Your eyelids were heavy, limbs weak, unresponsive—cold. You were so cold, but it wasn’t enough to stop you from crawling out of a black pit that threatened to swallow you whole. There’s a faint sensation of pressure, a hand tightly gripping yours.
Light begins bleeding into the edges of your awareness. You sucked in a deep breath, lungs empty and greedy.
Then, your eyes fluttered open.
You blinked a few times, realizing how hard it was to breathe. Breathing was supposed to be an automatic response, but you had to force it, each breath dragging along the back of your throat like sandpaper. You’re weak and shivering as you use most of your energy to sit up. You were in an empty room, you realized—the sharp smell of sanitizer permeating your nose.
You push yourself out of bed, knees buckling under your weight. You catch yourself, gathering whatever bits of strength you have left. Your teeth clattered. You were freezing. Shaking, you wrapped the white blanket over your shoulders, gripping it tight before you trudged towards the door.
The hall was mostly empty, all except for a sleeping boy slouched over in a chair beside your door. Your heart squeezes.
“Megumi,” you whispered his name. You stare at him for a moment, unable to bite back the tears that nip at your dry eyes.
You wrapped the blanket around him, tucking it gently around him. However, he flinches, jumping straight up in his chair. “S-Sorry,” you tell him quickly with a watery smile. “You looked cold.”
“You…” the word was a raw and weak whisper. His eyes widened. It took a moment for recognition to settle in, but once it did, he spoke again. “You’re awake.” He stood up from his chair, and you stepped back, offering him space. “You’re awake,” he repeated again.
Then, you start to wonder just how long you’ve been out of it. Days? Weeks? The thought of months terrifies you, but before you can even go down that loophole, he’s hugging you tightly. “You’re awake,” he says once more, his voice breaking.
However long it was, he’s right. You’re awake. You’re here, living and breathing. You wrap your arms around his torso, patting and rubbing his back soothingly. “Yup… I’m here. I’m awake.”
You let him be the one to pull away, letting him take however long he needs. You enjoyed it regardless. You couldn’t remember the last time you hugged him.
When he pulls away, his eyes are red. He sniffs a bit, backing up and taking the blanket off his shoulders. This time, he’s the one wrapping the fabric around you. He’s frowning a bit as he does. “... you’re the one that’s cold,” he notes quietly.
“What happened?”
“You don’t remember?” He asks softly, brows furrowing.
You shook your head. No. Frankly, you didn’t remember much of anything right now. “I was on my way with Yuji and Nobara. We got on the train after you let me know where you were staying.” That’s right. You texted Megumi when you figured out where you’d be staying. You thought they’d come over sometime in the following days. You had no idea they were rushing to see you on the next available train.
He places his hands awkwardly on your shoulder before gently guiding you to the chair he was sitting in moments ago. As you go to sit, your body seems to forget how to move for a moment, and you lose your balance. He catches you quickly, carefully helping you down into the chair. “When we got to Kyoto, we realized quickly how bad things were over there. We started helping out at the Kyoto school, dealing with the curses that had been lingering in the area where the cursed womb opened up. Eventually, we ran into Todo and Miwa. They told us what happened.” He grunts, kneeling down so he’s at eye level with you.
You’re silent for a moment. “How long was I out for?”
“Pushing four days now.”
The memories strike you like a fright train. “Are you okay? Is everyone alright?” You hadn’t realized you had reached for his cheek.
He grabs your wrist, thumb gently caressing the back of your hand before pulling your hand away, guiding it back to your lap. He moves the blanket until it's covering you again. “We’re all fine. Everything’s been dealt with. Yuji and Nobara went down to the cafe to grab some lunch. They’ll be thrilled when they come back.”
You tilt your head. “Why didn’t you go with them?”
He smiles a bit. “I didn’t want to leave you unattended.”
You don’t know what to think. You’re just happy you’re back. Happy because he was happy. You always hated it when he worried about you. You never believed it was his job to do so. However, he stayed by your side and protected you when you couldn’t protect yourself.
You wiggle your toes and roll your shoulders before standing again. “You shouldn’t be standing–”
“I’m alright, I promise,” you tell him, dismissing his concern. “I just want to walk around, okay?”
He stares at you intently, unsure, but he seems to have no energy to argue with you. “... alright,” he relents.
He follows you closely as you drag your feet across the floor. You don’t know where you are walking, but you want to stretch your legs and regain a sense of your body. You are weak, but you need to move.
You ask the question you were too hesitant to ask: “What about Gojo?”
He huffs. “He left a little while ago. Said he’d be back shortly,” he scoffs. “Bullshit if you ask me.”
“Megumi,” you sigh his name with a soft reprimand.
“He should be here,” he responds disgruntledly. “He should be by your side, and he’s not."
You stay quiet. You’re not exactly sure what to say to him when you agree. Maybe Gojo was done. Whatever this was, whatever relationship you had—maybe he didn’t want you anymore. You look ahead, fighting your own body that threatened to collapse at any moment. You could feel Megumi’s eyes on you, but you didn’t have the heart to look at him right now.
You were afraid you would sob if you did.
Though you had never walked these halls before, the hospital's layout was quite easy to catch on to. After taking a fourth right turn, you see your room in the distance. A stubborn part of you says to keep going and keep walking, but the exhaustion is catching up to you quickly. If Megumi hadn’t been by your side, cautious eyes scanning you, you might have kept going until you passed out. You realize that the strength you had was nearly depleted. Only trickles of your cursed energy remained, and it would be a long while before you gained it back.
You hear footsteps behind you. Quick and ushered. Megumi turns before you, his whole frame tensing. He sucks his teeth and clicks his tongue. “So he finally shows up.” He speaks in a sardonic tone, loud enough for anyone in the hallways to hear.
Satoru comes running from around the corner then, taking deep breaths. Your brows slightly pinch together in confusion. “S–Satoru,” you stutter, walking closer. “When did you get here?” He looks disheveled. Alarmed. Was he just running?
It was hard trying to figure out what he was feeling or experiencing when that black eyeband covered his eyes. However, you noticed the bouquet in his hands, a delicate combination of soft and tender hues: pale pink and roses, white peonies, deep pink lilies, and baby’s breath delicately wrapped along sprigs of greenery.
You place a hand on Megumi’s shoulder. “Why don’t you go eat with the others?”
“But–”
“I’ll be alright,” you explain to him in a soft tone.
He hesitates, torn between staying and leaving. He was unsure if he should leave you to handle this alone, but after a moment, he backed down, probably realizing he shouldn’t stand between the two of you and what needed to happen. With an irate glance shot at Gojo, he turns, pocketing his hands as he makes his way to the stairs.
Only when the door shuts do you look at Satoru again.
He stays unusually quiet, his face unreadable. Frankly, it was rather unsettling. You had no idea what was going through his mind. “I–I’m sorry!” you blurt out the first words that crash to the surface of your mind the moment you see him in his entirety. There was no hope of holding back. After days spent away from him, lost in his absence, and days dancing on the edge of death, the words tumble out of you before you can stop them—unbidden, unstoppable. “For everything. Y–You must have been stressed with work and other things. My fuck up only added to your plate. I get it, ya know? It's selfish of me, even now, to rely on you so much when there’s a whole world that needs you. They are not my students, and I put them in danger.” Quickly, the tears gather in your waterline again, but you blink them away. “I–I’ll be leaving soon. I’ll… I’ll go. I’ll get out of your way, and you won’t have to deal with me bothering you any longer–”
“Can I touch you?” The question comes suddenly, softly, and almost hesitantly.
You blink a few times, puzzled, but then, you unravel, folding inward under the weight of his voice. Your breath hitches in your throat. Was he still holding onto what you had said that night? Was he haunted by the barriers broken and the others so carelessly assembled?
He still wanted you?
You didn’t want him to let you go. Not yet. Not ever.
Like a dam breaking, you surged forward, closing the space between you two. Seconds later, you feel his resolve crumble. He crushes you to his chest, flowers falling to the floor. His arms enveloped you with a force that robbed you of breath, your feet nearly coming off the ground as you both stumble backward. Trembling, he clung to you as if you were an anchor in a world that threatened to tear him apart. There were no words—the unspoken agony and grief were far too overwhelming to put into words—if there even were words for it.
I’m sorry. I love you. I’m glad you’re okay. You felt it all with him. You could feel the pounding of his heart against your chest, hear its frantic rhythm match your own.
His hands were shaking, one tangling in your hair, the other wrapping entirely around your frame and squeezing your hip. He buries his face into your neck, and his hot breath is ragged and uneven as he inhales your scent. “I thought–” he swallows, shaking his head. “I didn’t know where you were—for a second time.”
Your cursed energy was low, more depleted than it had ever been. It explains why you were so weak, so frail. When he saw your empty bed, he must’ve panicked. He ran to you, anxiously following the weak traces of your presence.
Your fingers tangle in his hair, and the familiar silk of his eyeband rubs against your skin. You gently tug at the fabric with the tips of your fingers. His breath hitches, but he doesn't pull away. Instead, he stills as you slip the black band from his face. He lifts his head just enough to rest it against yours. They were that same stunning shade of azure—bright and impossibly vivid, glowing softly as if they carried the remnants of a forgotten star. Captivating, otherworldly, yet achingly human—something he’d often forget from time to time.
“You promised,” he murmurs, voice broken. “You promised.”
“What are you talking about?” you ask just as brokenly.
Suddenly, one of his hands grasps your neck, and you choke on your words. He doesn’t squeeze tight, but the look on his face is enough to make you gasp. “I couldn’t feel you. I couldn’t feel you anymore,” he says achingly.
Your chest tightens, nails slightly digging into his forearm. You open your mouth to speak, failing more times than succeeding. You wanted to speak, but the words lodged in your mouth.
“I–I don’t understand.”
“You’re not wearing it anymore,” he murmurs, his nose brushing softly against your cheek. The necklace you always wore—his gift to you, the one that held a part of him, a part of the two of you—was gone. He could feel it in the pit of his stomach, an absence that gnawed at him like hunger, an emptiness he could never satisfy.
His voice wasn’t angry, far from it. It wasn’t even harsh, but something in it—a quiet desperation—made the air between the two of you quiver.
“You promised you’d never go where I couldn’t follow,” he whispers again. “Remember?”
You nod in his hold, tightly pursing your lips together when a few tears escape, dripping from your eyes. He leans in, pressing his forehead against yours again, gazing deep and unwavering into your eyes. I remember. His grip on your neck loosens until he removes his hand from your throat completely, gentle fingers pushing down your shirt's fabric. His fingers trace your skin, the empty spot where your necklace once laid.
Then, it suddenly hits you. “Oh.”
He could feel you as much as you felt him. If you were ever too far from him—out of the range of his sight, out from where his hands could reach for you, that necklace was a beacon, a beckoning, a lighthouse in the storm that guided you home—guided him home.
You squeeze him tighter. You missed him. You really missed him.
“How did you find me?”
He takes a moment to breathe, trying to settle the rapid beat of his heart. “Utahime.” He wheezes out a pained laugh. “She called me panicking once you collapsed. I got there as quickly as I could.”
You copy his laugh, albeit coughing a bit from the pain blooming in your ribs. You hated to admit it, but the longer you stood, the more your body began to hurt. “I should just heal myself and get this over with.”
“Don’t,” his grip tightens on you again. “you’re using it wrong. There’s damage, lots of it,” he tells you, wiping at the blood that had stained your skin at the corner of your mouth with his thumb. “Any more and–” his eyebrows furrowed deeply, the weight of grief and guilt tugging his features. The corner of his lips tightened. “Shoko operated on you for hours. You nearly died.”
He sees what others cannot, his gaze piercing the surface to something deeper, something raw. He sees the world through an entirely different lens, and right now, the sight of you seems to pain him dearly.
For a moment, you wonder just how much damage is hidden within you and how much it must weigh on him to see it. “Shoko might have gotten you out of the woods, but she told me you’d need a few more rounds to get you back to normal.”
“That makes sense,” you murmur, allowing your entire body weight to ease into him. He accepts you with open arms. “I feel like I’ve been hit by a truck. Or twenty.”
“I missed it,” he utters, voice thick with regret. “If I had just looked a bit closer, we wouldn’t be in this mess. I fucked up. I could’ve prevented this.” His careful grip on you tightens as if you’d slip away from him once more. “But,” his tone softens. “You did so well. You took care of that cursed womb before I could even get to the scene.” Even through his pain and wallowing, his heart swells. He was proud of you.
He bends down, grabbing the flowers he dropped before moving towards you again. “Oh gosh,” you hide your face into his neck as he reaches down, one arm hooking under your legs as he lifts you. You don’t hesitate, wrapping your arms around his neck. “I’m definitely fired, aren’t I?”
He carefully guides you back into your room. He manages to toss your flowers on the counter by the window. “Don’t worry about any of that. I’ll handle it. ‘Kay?” He places you down on your bed, but he hesitates, not wanting to fully pull away.
Your eyes flicker, recalling the night of your augment. You knew this was the reason behind his haunted expression. You recognized the torment because you, too, had felt it. “You’re mad,” he observes relatively quickly.
You didn’t want to bring it up. You weren't necessarily mad, not anymore, but even near death couldn’t make you forget the pain he had caused with words he so carelessly struck you down with.
“What you said… Hurt me, Gojo,” you look down at your hands, feeling selfish for even bringing this up after nearly dying. However, you knew this conversation was inevitable. “Even if you were right I felt cast aside. Useless. Why didn't you tell me you felt that way before?”
“No… don’t say that. I was being stupid. I over reacted. I know you'd always protect those kids and that's exactly what you did. You’re not weak or a nuisance, or... convenient.” you flinch at the word. “You’re far from that. I need you to know that.”
“...Then what am I?”
“Everything,” he shudders. “You’re everything.” His lips brush over your forehead, your cheeks, and eyelids, each kiss tender and lingering. But then he pauses, his smooth lips hovering just above yours. He’s always been so confident, so self-assured. You’re unsure how to react.
You were sitting on your bed, feet dangling just above the floor. He is leaning over you, one large and warm hand on your thigh, the other cupping your face gently. He was close, but not close enough. Even bent at the waist, his height keeps him just out of your reach unless he leans back down just a bit more…
You wrap your arms around his neck and pull him down to you, giving him all the assurance you have to offer.
You were hurt, but you still wanted him.
You still loved him.
His mouth was warm and soft—testing the waters and treading carefully. His grip on your thigh tightens until–
He lets go. You feel the tension in his body dissipate, and finally, he allows himself to fully enjoy you—taste you. The kiss deepens, and you swear it brought life back into your frail body. He overwhelms you now in the most delicious way possible. Your toes curl, and your tight embrace eases. Your arms go weak, your hands moving to run down his chest, his taut muscles quivering in the wake of your touch. Every moment was a promise, every brush of skin a new vow. No words were spoken, but you both heard everything that had been held back, everything that had been left unsaid.
I’m sorry.
I love you.
I love you.
I love you.
He smiles against your lips, but you don’t stop or pull away, catching and nipping at his bottom lip. Then, you kiss him again, slotting his top lip between yours. “You really love me, huh? Hehe.”
Oh. You hadn’t realized you said it—whimpered murmurs against his lips. No wonder why he looked all dopey and smiley.
“You’re not going to make me grovel for forgiveness?” He pecks your lips again. “This seems too easy. I know you’re still mad.”
You chase after his lips. “Of course, I’m still mad,” you mutter against him. “But I thought I would never see you again.” Even as he frowns, you pepper his lips with kisses. “Plus, it's not like you to grovel.”
“I would for. Only for you, of course.”
You giggle, nipping his lip a little harder. “Yeah,” you rolled your eyes. “I’d like to see that.”
Oh no. You’ve made a grave mistake. You knew you messed up again the second the words fell from your lips. There’s a glint in his eyes now.
“Oh, my beautiful, angelic Queen! I know I have displeased you. Please accept my humble apologies!” You squeak at the suddenness of his actions. He sinks to his knees dramatically, and his palms meet the dirty floor, and so does his forehead. “I am at your mercy! I have failed you greatly, and I wish to make amends.”
You swat him on the back of his head, but it's not nearly enough to hurt him or deter him from whatever this is. “Gojo! Don’t bow like that! Get up!”
“But I can’t!” He whines. “You must forgive me! I will spend eternity on my knees if it means I can regain your favor, my perfect, beautiful, divine Queen. You alone rule this sinners heart!” He inches forward on his knees, squeezing himself between your legs. His hands find homage on your waist as he nudges his face into your stomach.
Your eyes roll skyward. “Only you could apologize and insult me at the same time, Satoru,” you grumble, looking down at him before running your fingers through white stands.
Suddenly, he looks up from this position, resting his chin right beneath your ribs, grinning ear to ear. “You called me Satoru~”
You feel your face flush, heat gushing to your cheeks and ears. “Shut up. You’re such an idiot. Can you get up now?”
“Nah,” he says lazily, burying his head into your stomach again. His voice comes out muffled. “I’m trying to make amends with my Queen. Let me, will ya?”
You ease, realizing you won't be able to stop him from doing what he wants. Even if it was a bit theatrical, he was doing his best—you know that because you know him. You let your nails gently graze his scalp as you continued to pat him. He hums, almost purrs, as your other hand finds his shoulder, squeezing him gently before running your fingers under his shirt, caressing his skull and the taut muscles in his back. A beat of silence passes, but you find yourself uncaring.
You had him back in your arms. That’s all that really mattered to you right now.
“Look, I know… I know I messed up,” he begins, voice so low, you nearly miss it. “I’m not great at this—saying the right things. I didn’t mean to hurt you. I was stressed. I was fed up with the higher-ups and fed up with my missions, but that’s no excuse. If I could take it all back, I would in a heartbeat. You deserve better than what I was giving you. I’m gonna try to be better… for you. For us.” His words hang in the air a bit awkwardly, but you can see the sincerity in his eyes and hear it in his voice. It couldn’t be missed. He shifts a bit, moving to kiss your belly. Then, his large hand wrap around yours, guiding your hand closer to his lips. He kisses the back of your knuckles tenderly as if the act of his apology could never be enough.
“You want me to stay?”
He squeezes you tighter. “Of course I do. What would I be without you?”
“Hm. You’d still be Gojo Satoru. Even without me.”
“I don’t want to imagine a life without you,” he mutters. “Wherever you go, that’s where I’ll follow. I've already told you that…”
“Don’t say that,” you whisper sweetly, patting his head. He nudges his head further into you. “The world will always need you.”
“I will always need you. So please… stop talking like this.” He pinches your side, making you squeak. Finally he looks up, an unimpressed expression gracing his features. “And don’t ever leave the city to get away from me. When you told me you were going to a hotel, I thought you meant in Tokyo.”
You chuckle nervously, looking elsewhere. “Yeah… Sorry about that.”
“Next time, take a walk or something. I dunno, go touch some grass if you get tired of me.”
A small smile escaped you, followed by a quiet laugh that shook your shoulders. You pat his back three times before kneading him softly. “Okay, humble peasant. You've groveled for long enough. Now lay with me,” you demand him. “I want you to lay with me. I’m so tired.”
“Psh. I’d hardly fit on this bed.”
“Whatever,” you tell him, scooting over. “I’ll make room. Get in, string bean.”
He grins. “Yes, ma’am.”
It’s a bit awkward at first with his lanky form, but he makes it work. It was a tight fit, and his feet slightly dangled off the bed, but he made no objections. With your back to his chest, he held you against him securely.
“You’re cold,” he observes out loud when you start playing with his fingers. It’s a bitter realization, a deafening one on his part. You know it bothers him, especially as he wraps the blanket around you tighter.
He tries not to let it show. However, he quickly becomes restless and you know he isn’t sated. He begins to move. “Let me go get you another blanket.”
“Nooo. Stay here.”
“Huh? But you’re freezing! And you’re never cold!”
“I’m already warming up!” You intervene with a small giggle, tugging him by his jacket. “Just shut up and lay with me, already.” He hesitates before unbuttoning his black jacket. When he was determined, there wasn’t any stopping a man like him, and right now, he was determined to get you warm.
He lays his jacket over you, spreading the fabric out, smoothing away all the wrinkles, and making sure you're covered. It might as well be a blanket with how long it was over you. Bonus points because it still carried him warmth and smelled like his cologne. A blend of earth and wood with a hint of something darker—smokey and smooth. You always loved the scent. Whenever he walked by, it brushed past you like a gentle breeze over still water, warm and inviting, with subtle notes of leather, musk, and vanilla.
He grunts a bit before easing into the bed again. “My little icicle- ow,” you shot your elbow back, getting him right in the ribs. “Okay, okay, I’ll stop.” He chuckles, before wrapping his arms over you one more. He brushes your hair from your neck, his breath fanning against your skin. He kisses you there once, twice, three times before saying something familiar.
“I could sense when you left Tokyo. I didn’t know what to do. Even with my eyes, I couldn’t find you. You were just gone. Don’t ever go where I can’t follow." He kisses your neck. "Please.”
You turn around, searching for his lips. He melts into you once again, squeezing your side sweetly. “I promise,” you murmur. “Wherever you go, that’s where I’ll follow,” you say, voicing back the same promise he made you. He smiles faintly against your lips.
When you woke up the next morning, your necklace was there. It was back where it belonged, sapphires resting gently over your steady beating heart—carrying Satoru’s silent promise.
Wherever you go, that’s where I follow.
-
a/n: I honestly don't know how I feel about this but if you made it to the end I hope the nearly 18k was worth reading. If you couldn't tell its based off the song Die With A Smile. Honestly, I think I might have been happier by making this a bit longer and flushing out some of the scenes more, but I was trying new things and I was excited to post my first jjk post :) however its getting late now but if there's any typos or errors I notice later I'll edit as needed.
anyways, if you'd like to see more gojo x sorcerer!reader let me know! also I really hoped you liked the bits I added with Megumi (he's just a smol bean).
Vampire Prince!Scaramouche x Blind!Reader [GOTHIC VICTORIAN AU]
anon . ݁⋆ i imagine the plot somewhat like this: humans being terrified of vampires because of the outbreak and all that, but User has a family full of aristocrats and lives in an estate (read more of the request here)
warnings (cw) .ᐟ yandere ꒰ manipulation ꒱ obsessive behavior・captivity ꒰ blood drinking・biting x loss of virginity ♰ dark romance ꒱ power imbalance ♰ unreliable narrator x psychological horror ꒰ chase scene ꒱obsessive behavior, ❝ dead dove ❞ porn with (a lot of) plot x sweet ending
word count 17k+ (don't ask)
authors note . ݁⋆ gifs at the beginning and my eyeball dividers (you’ll see when you read, sorry if they’re creepy) are all edited by me on flipping canva. please don’t repost/use the gifs, as they’re made specifically for this fic and probably wouldn’t work in other context, but the dividers you can use. cross-posted onto AO3. the reader has a similar aesthetic to Columbina.
You’ve never seen the sun.
You know it exists.
You’ve heard of its existence.
You’ve read of its existence.
And sometimes you can feel it.
You can feel it when the maids forget to close your curtains all the way, when the warmth of it creeps across your bedsheets and finds your skin.
It feels like being held.
It feels like something vast, something ancient is reaching through the glass just to touch you, just to remind you that you exist in a world that you’ll never witness.
You were born blind.
Your mother says that you came into this world with your eyes sealed shut, and when you finally did open them, or think you did, there was nothing behind them.
Emptiness.
Just darkness that has never, not once in 18 years, lifted.
You don't know what darkness looks like. You don't know what anything looks like. The concept of sight is as foreign to you as flight is to a fish. Fish don’t know of the world outside the sea, and they don’t know how some animals, like birds, can be free and fly anywhere. You feel like a fish, one that’ll never truly grasp freedom because you were born incapable of the tools needed for that.
You understand colors, scenery, and sight in general exist. You understand that other people are lucky enough to experience it. But… It’s something you’ve never had, so you’re incapable of missing it.
What you miss is freedom.
… Even if you’ve never had it.
Your room is your entire world. It’s large, you know that much. You know it’s large by the way you’ve mapped every inch of it with your hands and feet, memorized the distance from your bed to your vanity, from your vanity to your window balcony, from the window to the door that is always…
always locked.
Your family says it’s for your protection. Vampires are everywhere, they tell you. The outbreak has made the world even more dangerous for someone like you.
Someone fragile. Too fragile.
Someone helpless. Too helpless.
Someone…
blind.
They never say it, but you know it’s what they mean. You hear the servants whisper it sometimes when they think you can’t hear, but being blind since birth has made your hearing way too absolute, so nothing goes unheard with you.
You’re at your vanity today, in what feels like it could be morning, or late afternoon… You don’t know. Your concept of time has always been shitty because, in an enclosed space, most of your life has made it hard to learn what time feels like through your senses.
You’re running a brush through your hair for what feels like the thousandth time in this hour. The bristles catch on a small tangle, and you work through, repeating this process over and over. It’s something to do, something that’ll fill these endless hours.
You reach, and your fingers find a soft ribbon on your vanity, satin. You like that fabric a lot, it’s nice to feel, it’s not an understatement that you like soft things in your room. Soft always feels pretty to touch. You tie the ribbon into a tiny bow and clip it into your hair without needing to see, your hands already knowing the motion by heart.
Then, you grab your signature, the lace eye mask, delicate, so delicate, and you settle it over your closed eyes like it’s so a part of you that you would even consider it your second skin. You’ve worn one for as long as you remember; you change the fabrics sometimes, but you only wear it in white. Your mother started putting them on you when you were a child, said it made you look more comfortable… more at peace.
You think it just makes people less uncomfortable around you.
Less unnerved by the girl with the eyes that never open.
You hear a knock at your door.
You turn toward the sound, even though turning does nothing for you, because what would you even see? But even so, it’s just a habit that comes naturally, and you’ve been taught to be polite. "Yes?"
"It's me." You recognize the voice as your brother's, and you hear the lock click and feel the air change when the door swings open. You hear his footsteps cross the threshold, heavy boots on hardwood, and then the door closes behind him.
You turn back to your vanity, faced straight in front of your mirror that you’ll never see, picking up your brush, to again, brush your hair uselessly because at least it’s something to do. “You’re leaving today… I know, I just don’t know why I’m always the last one to hear about it.”
Like, I don’t matter enough.
You hear him cross the room to you. “Yeah… for a few days.” You feel him stop beside your chair, the slight displacement of air when he does. "There's a nest about two days' ride from here. Mother wants it cleared before it spreads."
"And Father?" You ask, pausing your movement with the brush as you do, like you’re almost scared of being alone without family, even for a couple of days, even though you’re never allowed outside your room without supervision, and your movements pick up again.
“Father?” he repeats, “Staying here, of course.” He pats your head as he continues, "Someone needs to manage the estate while we're gone."
You nod, because this is how it always goes. Your mother or father going with your brother for a hunt, and either parent stays behind to run the household… because you can’t. You’re incapable of overseeing the workers and the farmers, and the endless business dealings that keep your family weathering.
You stay in your room.
Always in your room.
Forever and always useless.
You drop your brush onto the table and fully turn your body where you can feel his. "... Can I come with you?" The words slip out before you can stop them, because they’re a habit.
You’ve asked before, and you won’t stop asking ever, because your voice is all you have. And yet… the answer is always the same.
"You know you can't." Your brother says, with a sigh, almost like he’s bored with this useless question of yours, but also feels bad about your incapabilities that make his reason.
Your voice picks up slightly, desperate for this time to be different. “I could help, my hearing is better than yours, you can’t deny that. I can detect them before you even- “
"And what would you do when you detected them?" He decides to cut in; his tone feels gentle, but also firm. "Run? Fight? You can't see them coming, little sister. You can't defend yourself."
“I could learn…” you start.
“No.” he finishes, final.
You sense him reaching out, and then you feel his touch, his gloved hand on your shoulder, he squeezes, just briefly, as if affection could dismiss what you’ve been wanting for forever.
"I brought you something," he says right after and your irritation fades oddly quick, replaced by curiosity, interested in anything new you could feel.
Your brother always brings you things from his hunts: trinkets, trophies, little pieces of a world you’re not allowed to experience firsthand.
He takes your hand, and you feel press something into your palm, it feels like cool metal with an intricate design. You run your fingers over it, mapping the shape, and it feels like a brooch, well, you assume it’s one with the circular shape, filigree around the edges.
"It belonged to a vampire countess," he mentions. "Mother put a stake through her heart last week... I thought you might like it."
"It's beautiful." You can't see it, but you know. The craftsmanship is exquisite beneath your fingertips. "Thank you, brother."
"Stay safe while we're gone." He kisses the top of your head, the way he's done since you were small. "Don't cause trouble for Father."
You let out a giggle, fingers still exploring the trinket as your head is tilted at the direction you feel your brother is at. "When have I ever caused trouble?"
He laughs, saying goodbye, and you hear the door to your room open, then close just as quickly, and then you hear the familiar and never foreign sound of the lock clicking into place.
And you’re alone again.
The hours pass slowly.
You read for a while, your fingers tracing over the raised dots of your books, but the story doesn’t hold your attention today. It’s a romance, which is one of your favorites, about a woman who falls in love with a man she shouldn’t. The villain of the piece, the one everyone warns her about.
You've always liked the villains.
Not because you think they're good. But because you understand them, in a way.
The books paint them as monsters, as irredeemable creatures of darkness, but you know that no one is born a monster. Something makes them that way. Trauma, or circumstance, or the simple cruelty of a world that refuses to show them kindness.
Not a lot of monsters do exist in the world you seem to live in, a lot of these are fiction, fake, or just myths. The only monsters that exist, the only ones you’ve heard about are vampires.
You wonder something stupid sometimes, stupid to you, you wonder what it would be like to meet one…
A vampire.
Your family has a history with them, generations of your family have been hunting them for centuries, and you’ve grown up on the typical propaganda your parents teach you.
That they’re wicked, bloodthirsty, that they’re dangerous, have inhuman speed and strength. You’re supposed to hate them, it’s what you’ve been raised to hate.
And you do because they’re monsters.
But sometimes, late at night, when loneliness feels like it might swallow you whole, you wonder if being a monster might be better than being nothing at all.
You set the book aside and make your way to the window. The route is familiar to you. Twelve steps from your bed, turn left, four more steps, and your fingers find the cool glass. You crack it open, just slightly, and the air rushes in.
It’s spring, you can smell it, and it’s your favorite season. The sweetness of blooming flowers in the garden, the dampness of recent rain, sounds of the sprinklers starting to go off.
You press your palm to the glass and close your eyes, even though they're already closed behind your mask, and you breathe.
This is as close as you get to the outside world.
You can hear the workers in the distance, the thud of someone chopping wood. You can hear voices too, too faint to make out the words. The estate is always busy during the day, full of people you've never met and never will.
You stay at the window for a long time.
Eventually, you close your window and return to your vanity. Sit down to brush your hair again. Tie a new ribbon. Change from your morning gown into an afternoon dress, soft white cotton with lace at the collar and cuffs.
You like soft things, white things. Light things, even though you've never seen light.
Your mother says you dress like a doll, maybe you do, and maybe that’s all you are.
A pretty thing to be kept on a shelf, looked at but never touched, protected but never freed.
You're brushing your hair again, for the thousandth time, when something changes.
The feeling is subtle at first, you can’t quite name it, but you freeze, brush halfway through your hair and listen.
The birds have stopped singing.
That’s the first change you notice. The constant chatter of sparrows and other beautiful birds that usually fill the air outside your window has gone… silent.
And beneath that silence, you sense something else.
A presence, one that doesn’t belong here.
Something is wrong.
You set down your brush, letting your panic settle in, listening to whatever strange instinct that you feel. Your heart is beating fast, and you don’t understand why. You shouldn’t feel scared, you shouldn’t ever feel scared because your room is safe. The door is locked, the windows are too high for intruders to climb, and your father is home.
But the silence drags on for too long, and your senses that most people take for granted, are screaming that someone is very, very wrong.
You could ring the bell by your dresser and wait for your father to come, hope he or a servant hears so you can’t alert them of the danger you sense.
Alert them of what danger? Nobody listens or would listen if you even tried to alert something you couldn’t describe. Maybe it’s nothing anyways, maybe you’re starting to go insane from the boredom up here and are hallucinating feelings.
Maybe the birds flew away because it’s about to rain?
You get up and walk up to your window, cracking it open, listening for anything.
It’s silent outside, perfect, unnatural silence compared to what you’ve listened to merely 15 minutes ago.
And then, distantly, a scream.
It cuts off almost immediately, far too quickly, and you press your hand to the glass, desperate to hear anything more, but there’s nothing after that scream, just dead silence again.
"Father?" you call, instinctively hoping he might hear even though you assume him to be downstairs in his study. You try again, louder. "Father!"
Nothing.
You close your window and move to your door, feeling the handle, try it even though you know it’s locked. It doesn’t budge, obviously, and you pound on the wood with your fist, but the sound seems to disappear into the silence, swallowed up by whatever wrongness has descended on your home.
"Someone!" you shout. "Please! Something's happening!"
Nothing again.
You back away from the door, your breath coming too fast. You’re trapped more than ever, it feels like the walls are closing in, and you can’t do a thing about it.
You give up banging when your wrist goes sore and achy, and you walk slow, in defeat towards your soft, large, ‘safe’ bed.
Minutes pass, long minutes, or hours. You can’t tell, you’ve stopped focusing on time, only focusing on your own spiraling thoughts as time passes.
Footsteps.
You finally, finally hear something close by your room. Someone walking through the halls of your home, opening doors, leaving them open, the sounds drift up from the floor below you, distant at first, then getting closer by the second.
Your father, it has to be. He’s coming back to check on you, tell you that everything is fine, that the scream you heard was nothing, that you’re safe, that he’s safe.
But why would he check every room before yours?
The footsteps climb the stairs to your floor.
You stand, smoothing your dress with shaking hands. The footsteps move down the hall, pausing at each door, and you count them, waiting as they get closer and closer.
They stop outside your room.
The doorknob twists, but doesn’t budge. Then you hear the lock to your room click, and the next thing you hear is the door swinging open.
“… Father?" You ask, voice small, standing by your bed, body facing the direction of your door.
It's silent for what seems like way too long. Then you hear a voice that isn’t your father’s.
"Interesting."
You scramble backward, your back hitting your vanity, and you knock something over. A perfume bottle that you hear shattering on the floor. The sound makes you flinch, but you quickly try to balance yourself against the table, swallowing big.
“Who’s there?” You ask, clearly frightened, not used to hearing a boy's voice that isn’t your brother's or father's. "Who are you? Where's my father?"
Your door stays open as you hear the boy’s footsteps cross the threshold into your room, fully.
The animal part of your brain keeps sending signals to run even though there’s nowhere to run.
"So you're the one they keep locked up here." His voice sounds young, now that you’ve heard him say more than one word. He also sounds amused in a way that makes your panic spike even more. "I was wondering what was in this… locked room."
"Get out." You reach behind you, fingers closing around the handle of your hairbrush. It's a pathetic weapon, but it's all you have. "Get out of my room!"
"That's not very hospitable." He's moving again. You track him by sound, but he's circling you, and you can't keep up. “… Though I suppose you have reason to be upset."
"Where is my father?" You grip the brush tighter. "What did you do to him?"
It's quiet, and you can sense that the boy has stopped moving, distance kept from you as he speaks again, and when he speaks, his voice is softer than what you heard before. "I'm sorry to tell you this. But your father is dead."
The words hit you like a physical blow, like a dagger to the stomach. You believe him immediately, because that’s never something to joke about, and it all does add up. You stagger back, your legs feeling weak, and you catch yourself on the edge of your vanity. "No." You say, even though you know.
"A vampire attack." He sounds sympathetic, and almost what you can assume as slight trauma in his tone, but it does sound oddly fake, "I arrived too late to save him. I'm sorry."
"You're lying." You shoot back, quickly, still in denial, your words not matching your thoughts.
"I wish I were." He replies.
Your… father. Your father, who has protected this estate for decades, who has hunted more vampires than anyone else in the region, who kissed your forehead last night and tucked you in, and did the same the night before that, and the night before that, every night for years.
Dead.
“Why are your eyes covered?” He asks suddenly, random. “Did you get some sort of surgery recently done or-”
You cut him off. "Who are you?" Your voice cracks on the last word. "How did you get in here?"
"My name is Scaramouche." Footsteps again, closer now. "My father does business with yours… Did business," he corrects, and there's something in his tone that you can't quite read. "I came to pick up some documents, and I found the door unlocked. I found-" He stops. "I found what I found."
"And you just happened to come upstairs?" Your question sounds weaker than an accusation of anything; no heat found, just despair, still processing your father's demise.
"I was looking for survivors." He sounds close now, very close, and you have no room to create distance because you’re already against your vanity. "The whole estate has been hit. Everyone downstairs is dead. I thought maybe someone up here had been spared." He pauses before adding, "It seems I was right."
You’re shaking, body trembling all over, and you don’t make an effort to hide how affected you are at this information… but it’s not that you don’t care, it’s that you can’t control yourself. You can’t control how weak you feel currently, how helpless and small you feel.
"I don't believe you." You muster out with your lips quivering, head tilted slightly down so he can’t see your eyes closed behind the mask.
“… About which part?" He says back, and there’s just the slightest hint of a tease in his words.
"Any of it… All of it." You raise the hairbrush, pointing it vaguely in his direction. "You could be a vampire yourself for all I know."
You hear him laugh, and it throws you off balance at how little you expected to hear one after an accusation like that.
"If I were a vampire, you'd already be dead." His voice is calm for someone you’re suspecting. "I'm not here to hurt you… I'm here to help."
“Help?” you say, palm tightening on your hairbrush. "By breaking into my room?"
"By saving your life, actually." His footsteps move again, and you tense, but he seems to be backing away, as if he could sense you want space. "The vampires are still out there. Most of them have moved on, but some might come back… This house of yours isn't safe anymore. I need to get you somewhere secure."
You let out a fake laugh, crossing your arms, head turned to the side. "I'm not going anywhere with you."
"Then you'll die."
The bluntness of his words makes you flinch. He doesn’t say it in a cruel manner, though; he says it matter-of-factly, like it’s nothing but an obvious truth that he’s ready to watch you learn the hard way.
"I will wait for my mother," you say. "And my brother. They'll be back in a few days-"
"A few days?" He sounds almost incredulous. "You think the vampires will wait a few days before coming back to finish what they started? They'll return tonight, as soon as the sun sets. And they’ll find you in your room… alone… defenseless. Does that really sound like something you’d want?"
"I'm not defenseless."
"Really? Said by the one holding a hairbrush."
Your cheeks burn at how right he is. You know a hairbrush isn’t a good defence weapon, it’s not even a weapon in general, but you don’t let go of it, because doing that might let him think you trust him.
"Look," he says, and his voice softens again, similar to the tone he gave when he told you your father is dead, "I understand you're scared and that you don't trust me. But I'm the only person standing between you and the same fate your father just met. Can you at least let me help you?"
Say no.
Tell him to get out.
Scream at him.
Tell him to let you mourn in peace.
But…
He’s right.
You’re alone in a house full of corpses.
The family you have that aren’t corpses are days away…
And…
You have no way to defend yourself against creatures that move faster than any sound your ears that are better than most can pick up.
“How do I know you’re telling the truth?” You ask, voice small and unsure. “How do I know this isn’t some trick?”
"You don't." He's honest, at least. "But what choice do you have?"
None.
You have no choice at all.
Slowly, reluctantly, you move past where you sense him and lower yourself onto the edge of your bed. You can’t stand any longer because of the grief eating you inside. You lower your head and press a hand to your mouth to stifle the sob that threatens to escape.
Your father is dead.
Your father is dead, and you're alone with a stranger, and everything you thought you knew about your safe, sheltered life has just shattered like glass.
"You're blind."
The statement catches you off guard. You raise your head, even though you can't see him, can't see anything.
"Yes." You respond, voice tiny.
"I thought the mask before was for some kind of surgery, but you don’t react to my movements," he says, like he's working something out. "And your eyes seem closed beneath it… Why is that?"
"They've never opened." You lie, they can open if you want to, but you choose to keep them closed under the mask at all times. And you don't want to feel the need to explain such an odd choice to a stranger.
He takes note of that, and it’s quiet for a while; you can’t tell if he’s nodding at what you said, or staring into the mask deeper. But finally, as if he got the concept of a girl like you being blind, he says, in a quiet tone, “That must be… difficult.”
"I manage… I’ve gotten this far at least." You say, voice threatening to break as you talk, as you’re still trying to hold back tears, trying not to look smaller than you already feel in front of this stranger.
You hear footsteps again, ones that seem like he’s getting closer to you, but they’re slow this time, careful, aware, like he’s approaching a frightened animal.
"I'm going to sit next to you," he says, tone so gentle in a way that any people pleaser hearing it would say yes in a heartbeat. "...Is that alright?"
You’re too tired and so… scared to even muster up a no. You don’t give him a response, and you feel the bed dip beside you. He’s a little too close for someone who's a stranger to you, but you don’t move away or tell him to move.
Being this close to him, you don’t feel warmth next to you… It feels like he himself is cold.
"I won't let anything happen to you." His voice is soft, really soft, and you can sense confidence in it that makes you believe him, just a little bit, but not enough. "I promise."
Your head is tilted down, and your fingers are toying with the edge of the lace on your dress as you think before asking, “Why do you even care? I’m just some blind girl you’d be better off leaving behind… You could just go to your home, where it’s probably safe, but… You aren’t.
“I don’t know why I care to stay.” He sounds surprised as he speaks, as if the words are foreign in his own mouth, as if his own answer to you is something he’s never said before. “But I can’t allow someone to die defenseless, especially if I have a chance to save them before they even reach that level of danger.”
And with that, you start crying. Tears are sliding down your cheeks beneath the mask you wear, and your breath is hitching. And what you feel next is a touch you’ve never felt before. A touch by a gloved hand, his hand, on your face, tilting your head, probably in his direction, and brushing away the wetness with care a stranger shouldn’t have.
His thumb traces the curve of your cheek as you don’t make an effort to pull away. He does it gently, tenderly, and you’re so desperately lonely, more than ever, that you lean into the stranger's touch.
"You're so young," he says, not commenting on your tears. There's something strange in his voice, something you can't identify. "How old are you?"
You swallow before saying, "I’m eighteen."
"... Eighteen?" He repeats it like he's savoring the word. "I'm nineteen. Just a year older than you, shame we haven’t met until now. Just as much as it is a shame your parents choose to keep you locked in a room, not knowing it doesn’t keep you safe, just traps you, especially when there could be danger right outside your room… or in it."
You let him finish, before managing out a, “You sound older than that… nineteen.” You feel his thumb brush over your cheek as you talk, wiping a tear for you, and that makes your voice come out tiny at the end.
“Do I?” You hear him make a soft laugh, thumb moving on your cheek again. “Maybe you’re right. I’ve seen a lot for my age.”
His gloved fingers trail down your cheek, along your jaw, and then they're gone. You miss the contact immediately, and you feel pathetic for doing so.
"Wait here," he says. "I need to make sure the way out is clear. Then I'll come back for you, I promise."
"Don't leave me."
Your voice breaks on the last two syllables, a tiny sob leaking out from your lips right after. It sounds so childish, the very thing you hate feeling like, but the thought of being alone again in this room without a body to cling to… it makes your chest hurt with panic.
"I won't be long…" he starts.
"... Please." You cut in, voice fading in such a weak way that you suddenly feel his hand on yours, squeezing gently through the glove he’s wearing.
"Alright… I'll stay." He settles more comfortably on the bed beside you. "We'll wait here together until it's safe to move. I’ll be as patient as you need me to be, but… It’s getting late, and the sun will set soon. We'll need to be careful and leave before the others come back."
"Others?" You ask, confused at the random mention of a group.
“There was more than just one vampire, I’m assuming, one can’t just kill every person here without getting caught, especially since it’s daylight and that works against them.” He sounds like he knows a lot about this, but you don’t find that suspicious because if you were in his shoes, you’d assume the same. “I don’t see them now, maybe I came hours after they left, maybe I came just as they left, but I’m certain that they’ll return at nightfall. They always do.”
You don’t trust him as he’s still a stranger to you, but you nod at what he says, because it does make sense, and he seems to be the only option you have currently.
The hours pass in silence after that.
Sometimes he speaks to fill it, asking you small, minor things about yourself, your life, your family… It’s odd he seems so interested in you. He doesn’t need to fill the silence with questions; he could just leave, or he could just keep it silent and not interact until you’re ready, while he sits there bored. But he doesn’t, but you also don’t match the energy needed to keep a conversation flowing, you answer each other in fragments, too grief-stricken for full sentences.
Sometimes… he just sits beside you, quiet and still, and you listen to the sound of his breathing.
It occurs to you, distantly, that you haven't heard him breathe once.
But you're too tired to think about what that means.
"It's time to go."
His voice pulls you from the half-sleep you'd fallen into. You spring upright, disoriented, and his hand steadies you.
"The sun is setting," he says. "We need to leave now."
"But… I want to see my father first." Your voice still sounds broken from the crying you did; you stopped about an hour ago. You’re sore, almost emotionless on the outside, but split open in despair on the inside.
"Are you sure that's wise?"
"I need to say goodbye." Your voice is firm despite the trembling in your hands. You’re suddenly aching to meet your father's body now that the idea is in your mind. "I need to... I need to touch him one last time. Please."
He's quiet for a long moment. You can feel him considering, weighing options you can't see… or you just imagine that's what he’s doing.
"... Alright," he says finally. "I'll take you to him."
He stands, and then his hand is extended toward you. You know this because he tells you, guiding your fingers to his palm. His glove is soft, fine leather, and his grip is steady as he helps you to your feet.
"I can walk on my own."
"I'm sure you can." But he doesn't let go of your hand. "But the halls are... difficult. You told me it’s rare when you’re outside your room, so let me guide you."
You let him lead you because you’d feel even worse if you stumbled over something that could’ve been avoided with his help.
Your sense of smell has always been another good trait of yours, one that you hate, because bad smells are hard to ignore.
And what you smell when you step out of your room, holding his hand…
It’s bad.
Something copper-rich that makes you feel like you might just gag.
Blood. You're smelling blood.
"Don't let go of my hand," he says quietly, careful to speak if there’s somebody or something lurking. "And try not to touch anything."
You just nod and trust him to do everything for you, everything to keep you safe.
Trust?
Where the fuck did that come from?
He leads you down the hall, down the stairs, through rooms you've never been allowed to enter. Your free hand trails along the wall occasionally, feeling the familiar texture of wallpaper, and then something wet, and you jerk your fingers back.
"I told you not to touch anything."
"I know… I’m sorry," you say, voice weak. “I just rely on touch a lot, especially with the things I haven’t explored yet.”
He doesn’t respond, his grip just tightens on your hand… firm in a way that feels possessive.
You walk for what feels like forever before he makes a full stop.
"He's here," he says. "In front of you… About two steps."
You let go of his hand.
Take one step… Two.
Your foot bumps against something soft and heavy, and you sink to your knees.
Your hands find him by touch. The broad chest, the fabric of his coat, the familiar shape of his shoulders. Your fingers travel up, trembling, to his face… his jaw… his cheek that’s already going cold.
And then his neck. Your fingers come away wet.
"No." The word is a whimper, more panic than denial. You press your palm to his throat, feeling the ragged edges of torn flesh, the slickness of blood that hasn't dried yet. "No, no, no-"
You gather him into your arms as best you can. He's heavy like the dead weight described in some of the books you read. And he’s so cold, cold in a way that makes you break further, sobbing suddenly, ugly wrenching sobs that tear through your chest.
"Papa." You haven't called him that since you were a child. "Papa, please. Please wake up. Please don't leave me alone. Please-"
He doesn't wake up…
He’ll never wake up.
You press his hand to your face, just to feel it one last time. The rough calluses on his palm. The familiar weight of his fingers. You memorize it, brand it into your memory, because this is all you will ever have of him now.
Behind you, Scaramouche watches this all play out in silence.
He watches you cry until you can’t cry anymore, how your voice sounds raw at some point, how your father's blood soaks into the fabric of your dress.
He watches… watches as you just kneel there, holding him, unwilling to let go.
And he doesn’t feel an ounce of guilt.
"We need to leave." His voice is gentle in a way that, if you were paying attention enough, he almost sounds like he’s faking kindness. "I'm sorry… really, truly sorry. But we need to go."
"I can't leave him." You yell, shocked at the desperation mixed with anger in your tone.
"You have to."
You resist the moment you feel his hand on your shoulder, trying to pull you away gently, you clutch onto your father’s coat… but… all that crying, all that grief, everything has made you too exhausted to fight back. So you let yourself get pulled to your feet.
His hand finds yours again, holding them in a way strangers shouldn’t, and he guides you away from your father's corpse.
A corpse he is the cause of.
You don’t look back when you walk away, hand in Scaramouche’s, because that would imply you could see, and you’ve never seen anything, anything in your life.
You’ve never been allowed to be normal.
You've been outside before, briefly, under heavy supervision. But this… this is different. This is the world, vast and open and terrifying, and you cling to Scaramouche's hand like it's the only thing keeping you tethered to reality.
"Where are we going?" Your voice is hoarse from crying.
"My home… It's safe there. You can wait for your mother and brother to return."
You walk in silence for a while. The ground changes beneath your feet, smooth stone, then rough earth, then gravel, then something softer. Grass, maybe. The air smells like trees and night-blooming flowers and something else, something you can't identify.
The room they've given you is beautiful.
At least, that's what Scaramouche tells you. He describes it in detail: the canopy bed draped in white silk, the antique furniture, the chandelier that catches the light just so. You can't see any of it. But you can feel the softness of the sheets, the smoothness of the polished wood, the weight of the heavy curtains that you've never been able to move.
"Can I open the window?" You ask one day.
"Not right now." His voice is gentle, apologetic. "It's not safe."
"... But I want to feel the sun."
"The sun is dangerous right now. They’re still vampires in the area. They might see the light from your window and know someone's here."
It doesn’t make sense, none of it does. But you're in a strange place, dependent on a stranger's kindness, and you don't have the energy to argue.
"Okay..."
He visits you every day. Or every night, you've started to realize. You can never quite tell when he arrives, but it always feels like evening, like the world has gone dark and quiet outside your sealed windows.
It’s weird he never shows up during the day.
He brings you food prepared by servants you’ve never met, carried up on silver trays. Sometimes he feeds you himself, guides the utensil to your lips, and the intimacy of it should make you feel embarrassed… but you’re not.
Because you’re falling in love with this strange… kind stranger.
Well, is he a stranger anymore?
It’s stupid how quickly you’ve fallen for him. It’s been a week, and you barely even know him… but he’s the only person you have now, the only voice in your silent world, and when he touches your hand or brushes the hair from your face, you feel something warm bloom in your chest.
"Tell me about yourself," you say one evening, or morning… You can't tell anymore.
"What do you want to know?" He responds, casual, ready to share whatever it is you want.
"Anything… Everything." You're sitting on your bed, your back against the pillows, and you can feel him next to you, how he moves closer to you. "I don't even know what you look like."
"... Would you like to?"
"Yes."
You feel him take your hand, slow, and raise it to his face. "Go ahead," he says. "See me."
Your fingers tremble as they make contact with his skin… his skin is cold, colder than it should be, colder than anyone’s skin you’ve felt. But it’s smooth, and you feel that makes up for it.
"Why are you so cold?" You ask.
He leans into your touch, and you can hear a slight sigh come from him, as if this relaxes him. "I run cold... I always have."
You map out his features, feel the sharp line of his jaw, the slope of his nose, the soft curve of his lips. His cheekbones are high and prominent, and his face is narrow and elegant.
"You're beautiful," you whisper, even though you can't see him.
He tilts his head at your touch. "... Am I?"
You smile, tiny in response. "I can feel it."
His hand covers yours, pressing it flat against his cheek. He's still wearing his gloves, even though you wish he weren't.
"What color are your eyes?" you ask even though color is foreign to you.
"Do you even know color?” He chuckles, playful in a way. “It’s dark violet… almost indigo, in some lights."
You nod, fingers still exploring. "That sounds pretty… What about your hair?"
"Similar, actually. Very dark, with hints of blue." You feel him shift, leaning closer. "Does that help? Can you see me now?"
"I don’t see, Scara.” You giggle, comfortable around him enough that you use a nickname now, “But I think I can imagine." You're building him in your mind, piece by piece, as you speak. "You're taller than me?"
“Im sure you can feel that I’m a little taller than you, but, unfortunately, not by much.” He laughs softly. "I'm quite short, by most standards."
"And thin?"
"Very."
You lower your hand from his face, and you feel him catch it before it falls. He holds your hand between both of his… gloved ones.
"Can you take off your gloves?" you ask.
He pauses, with clear hesitation at your question, squeezes your hand just once before saying, “If that’s what you want, then I will.”
You hear a soft sound of leather being removed, and then you feel his bare hand in yours. It’s cold just like his skin, but smooth, and soft, and you trace the lines of his palm, the shape of his fingers, and he pretends it doesn’t tickle.
"You're freezing." You note, again.
"I told you… I run cold."
You come up with a solution. “We should go outside, in the morning, when the sun is warm. It’ll help… and I like the outside air.”
You feel him go still beside you, like what you just said is something nonnegotiable, something he couldn’t ever possibly agree to.
For reasons you don’t know yet.
Then, as for what you’d assume to be a distraction, his free hand comes up to touch your cheek, and you sense him getting closer, leaning in.
"We can't go outside," he murmurs, and his lips brush yours.
You’ve never been kissed before, this is your first one, and he does it softly, and you don’t even know what to do. His mouth moves against yours, gentle, but also patient for you, and you try to follow his lead because this is something you definitely want.
When he pulls back, you're breathless.
"It's not safe," he whispers against your lips, continuing his last murmured statement while his thumb rubs over your lips. "I won't risk you."
"But-"
But he kisses you again, and that cuts you off. This kiss is deeper than the first, as he slides his hand into your hand, cradling the back of your head, and tilting his own head into the kiss. You melt into it… into him. And when he breaks away this time, you’ve forgotten what you were going to say, all you just want is more of that feeling he just gave you.
"Trust me," he says. "I'll keep you safe. I promise."
And you trust him way more than anyone in your position should.
More days pass after that… or nights, you don’t know.
You've lost track entirely.
He kisses you now. Often. His hands find excuses to touch you, your shoulder, your waist, the small of your back. Always through gloves, always careful, but the touches are becoming bolder. More intimate.
He kisses you a lot after that day, after that first kiss. Often… really often. His hands find excuses to touch you, your shoulder, your waist, the small of your back. Glove gone, because now he knows you don’t care about the cold. The touches are careful, but they’re also becoming more bold as the days go on… more intimate.
You don't mind, of course. And of course you want more.
"Scaramouche?"
"Mm?"
He just finished feeding you lunch, and he set the tray aside, setting onto the bed beside you. His presence has started to feel too much like home.
“I like it when you kiss me… touch me and all, it feels nice.” You start, voice small, nervous even as your head is tilted down, hand curling at your duvet. “I want more…”
He’s quiet as you speak, after you speak. You feel him looking at you, even though you can’t see his gaze. "Are you sure?"
"Yes." You respond, eager, but shy.
You feel his hand cup your cheek, turn it to face his direction, and you lean into his hand instinctively.
"You're so beautiful," he murmurs. "Do you know that?"
“But…” you shake your head, tiny. "I can't see myself."
"I know… But I can." His thumb traces your lower lip. "You look like a doll. Like something precious that should be kept under glass."
"... Is that how you see me?"
"It's how I want to keep you." He leans in, and his lips brush yours. "Safe... Protected. Mine."
The word sends a shiver through you. Mine.
He kisses you, his tongue sliding past your lips. You gasp, and he swallows the sound, his hand fisting in your hair. The kiss goes on and on, dizzying, overwhelming, and when he finally pulls back, you're panting.
"More?" he asks.
"Please."
His mouth moves down your jaw, along your neck. His lips are soft against your skin in a way that makes you whimper, involuntarily at each kiss.
"You smell incredible," he breathes against your skin. "Has anyone ever told you that?"
"No."
"You smell like..." He trails off. His mouth lingers at the curve of your neck, just above your pulse, and you feel his breath go shallow. "Like everything I've ever wanted."
You don't understand what that means. You feel his lips pressing kisses to your throat now, gentle and almost reverent, and you tilt your head back to give him better access.
"Lie back," he says. "Let me take care of you."
You obey his words, taking it as permission for what you were already going to do. You sink back into the pillows, your white nightgown riding up around your thighs. You hear him move, feel the mattress shift as he positions himself over you.
“Have you ever been touched before? He murmurs, pressing more kisses down your throat as he asks.
"No." You breathe out.
"Good."
His hands find the hem of your nightgown, and you feel his fingers slide beneath, skimming up your thighs, and your breath catches at that.
"Tell me if you want me to stop," he says against your mouth.
You've never wanted anything less in your life for him to stop.
He moves down your body, trailing kisses along your collarbone, your chest, the swell of your breasts through the thin fabric. And then he's sliding lower, pushing the nightgown up, disappearing beneath the sheets.
"... Where are you going?"
"Relax." His voice is muffled now, distant. "You'll see."
You won't see, you think. You never see.
But then his lips are on your thigh, pressing soft kisses to the sensitive skin, and you stop thinking entirely.
You feel him make a nip at your skin, just slightly, and you let out a soft whimper before you can stop yourself.
"Did that hurt?" He sounds curious, not concerned, curious.
"N-no. It felt..." you start, voice tiny.
"Good?" he finishes for you.
"Yes," you agree.
You feel him smile against your skin. And then his fingers are hooking into your underwear, sliding the soft satin down your legs, and you're bare beneath his gaze.
His mouth finds you, and you can feel his tongue licking up through your folds, a sensation you’ve never felt before, and you cry out. It’s nothing like the vague descriptions in some of the smut you’ve read… occasionally, it’s overwhelming… consuming.
"Ah... Scara..."
"That's it." His breath ghosts over your sensitive flesh. "Say my name."
His tongue circles your clit, teasing, tasting, and your hips buck involuntarily. He pins them down with one hand, holding you still.
"So sensitive." He sounds delighted. "And you can't even see what I'm doing to you. You can only feel it."
Every touch feels magnified tenfold. This is what being blind has given you… this heightened awareness… this desperate sensitivity.
He slides a finger inside you, and you gasp.
"Tight," he murmurs. "We'll fix that."
He works you open slowly, one finger, then two, stretching you while his tongue continues its assault on your clit. It feels too much by the way you can’t help but squirm, but it also feels like not enough, and also just everything all at once.
"Hah... please... I need..."
"What do you need?"
"I don't know... more... something..."
He adds a third finger, curling them up, finding a spot inside you that makes stars explode behind your closed eyes. His mouth seals over your clit, sucking gently, and you shatter.
The orgasm crashes through you like a wave. You cry out, your back arching, your hands fisting in the sheets, and he works you through it, relentless, drawing out every last tremor.
When you finally come down, he's crawling back up your body. His mouth finds yours, and you can taste yourself on his tongue.
"Good?" he asks.
"Yes... hah... yes..."
He pulls back and you can hear the rustle of fabric, the soft sounds of clothes being removed. And then his hands are on your nightgown, sliding it up, over your head, leaving you completely bare.
"You're beautiful," he says again. "So beautiful."
His hands run over your body, mapping your curves, and you wish desperately that you could see him. See what he looks like above you, naked and wanting.
"Can I touch you?" You ask.
"Yes."
He guides your hand down, down, until your fingers close around him… what you’d assume to be a cock. He feels hard, and the shape of it seems big. It’s heavy in your palm, and warm, warmer than the rest of his cold skin.
"Oh..."
"Do you feel what you do to me?" His voice is strained. "How much I want you?"
You nod, speechless.
He moves your hand away and positions himself at your entrance, the head of his cock pressing against you. Your breath catches at the feeling, realizing that this is really happening, that you’re really losing your virginity.
"This will hurt," he says. "At first."
"I know."
"I won't be gentle."
"... I don't want you to be, Scara."
And with that, he pushes inside, one thrust, all the way.
You scream, not from pleasure, not yet, just from the sudden fullness, the pain of being stretched beyond what you thought possible. He swallows the sound you make with a kiss, his mouth claiming yours, his hands pinning your wrists above your head.
"Shh." His lips move against yours. "Breathe."
You try to listen and breathe, but it’s hard when he’s inside you, especially so impossibly deep, filling every inch of your body. But you don’t feel pressured, as he’s very patient, holding you still and letting you adjust.
"Does it hurt?"
"Y-yes..."
"It won't for long."
He starts to move, it’s slow at first, long strokes that pull out almost all the way before pushing back in. His thumbs simultaneously rub soothing circles on your belly, a strange counterpoint to the ache between your legs.
And then the pain starts to fade... Replaced by something else. Something warm and building.
"Oh... hah..."
"There we go." He picks up the pace slightly, noticing. "That's it. Feel me."
And you do, you feel every inch, every thrust, every time he angles his hips to hit that spot inside you. Your moans grow louder, more desperate, and he swallows each one with kisses.
His mouth finds your neck again, and he kisses, sucks, and marks the skin there. He’s obsessed with your throat, you realize, with the way his lips keep gravitating there, always lingering.
"Can I..." You gasp as he hits that spot again. "Can I ask something?"
"Anything."
"Will you... Will you bite me?"
He goes still.
For a moment, you think you've said something wrong, that you’ve gone too far. But then his hips start moving again, harder than before, faster, and his voice is rough when he speaks.
"You want me to bite you?"
"Yes... please... I want..."
"Are you sure?"
"Ngh... yes... please, Scara..."
His teeth sink into your neck.
It’s not hard enough to actually break your skin, but it’s hard enough that it hurts, that it makes you cry out, that it makes the pain mix with pleasure in a way that you can’t tell them apart. He bites you again, and again, marking your throat with red impressions of his teeth.
"Mine," he growls against your skin. "You're mine."
"Yours... hah... I'm yours..."
He's fucking you harder now, losing control, his breath ragged against your neck. And then he's tensing, burying himself deep, and you feel him spill inside you.
And when he cums inside, something he does happens by accident.
His teeth clamp down hard on your neck. His teeth don’t even feel like teeth when he does it; it feels like a knife piercing your skin, something sharp, not like human teeth.
You let out a confused whimper in response to it, and his hips are stuttering, groaning against your throat, and the pain you feel fades into a strange, floaty warmth.
When he pulls back, his mouth lingers on the bite, kissing it, licking at something wet that trickled down your neck.
"Sorry," he murmurs, still inside of you. "Got carried away."
"S'okay..." You're drifting, boneless, blissed out. "Felt good anyway..."
He laughs softly, and you feel his thumb trace the bite mark, pressing gently, and you wince.
"I left a mark." He points out.
"I don't mind..."
"No?" He kisses the spot again, more focused on kissing that than your own lips, and then he licks it, slow and deliberate. "I'll have to be more careful next time."
Next time. The words warm you from the inside.
He shifts, pulling out of you, and you whimper at the loss. But then he's lying beside you, pulling you into his arms, and you curl against his chest.
"Will you stay?" you whisper. "Tonight? Sleep with me?"
"Yes."
"You never stay."
"I'll stay tonight." His arms tighten around you. "I'll stay as long as you want me."
You press your face against his chest, feeling safe in someone's arms, something that has always felt foreign to you until now.
"I love you," you whisper, 3 words you’ve never said to anyone once before.
He goes still at your murmured confession, not expecting to hear those words from you so soon, but he doesn’t mind it. His hand finds your hair, and he strokes it gently in a way that makes you curl into him further.
"I know," he says. "I love you too."
You fall asleep like that.
Wrapped in the arms of a monster you can't see.
You wake up to him still on your bed, his hand still on your hair, like nothing changed after you went to sleep.
Well… except for the fact that your nightgown is back on. You remember falling asleep naked in his arms, but now the soft fabric is back, covering you, and you wonder if he dressed you while you slept.
"You're awake."
His voice rumbles through his chest, vibrating against your cheek. You lift your head, even though lifting does nothing for you, even though you can't see him, no matter which direction you face.
"How long was I asleep?"
"A while." His hand starts to begin it’s pattern of stroking you hair. "You needed it."
You settle back against him. The silence is comfortable, easy in a way you've never experienced with another person. You've spent your whole life alone, and now you're not, and the relief of it is almost overwhelming.
"Can I ask you something?"
"Anything."
"Tell me about your family." You trace a small circle on his chest with your finger. "Your father… What's he like?"
Theres a brief pause, almost imperceptible, but you catch it. "He's a busy man," Scaramouche says. "Always working. I don't see him often."
"And your mother?"
Another pause, a longer one this time.
"My mother," he repeats, and there's something strange in his voice… something heavy. "My mother is... complicated."
"Complicated how?"
"She lives here. In this estate." His hand stills in your hair. "She's… powerful. Important. Everyone knows her name, fears it, respects it. But… she's never been much of a mother to me."
You wait, sensing there's more.
"She's neglectful," he continues, quieter now. "Always has been. Too busy with her own concerns to notice her son. Too wrapped up in her own world to care about mine." He laughs, but it's hollow. "I hate her sometimes. Most of the time, actually. But somewhere, deep down, I suppose I still..."
He trails off. You press your palm flat against his chest, feeling his heartbeat, not questioning why you can’t find it.
"I'm sorry." You say, clear sympathy in your voice.
"Don't be." His hand resumes its gentle stroking. "It's just how things are."
"Can I meet her?” You ask, more curious than eager. “Your mother?"
He tenses when you ask that, and he tries to cover it up, acting normal by continuing his rhythm in your hair. "Maybe," he says. "Someday. I'm not sure."
You accept the non-answer, it’s what you’re used to. Your whole life has been built on them.
"Scaramouche?"
"Mm?"
"My mother and brother." You swallow. "Do you know if they're back yet? From their trip?"
The silence that follows after what you say feels different than any question you’ve asked. It feels heavier, makes you feel oddly tense.
"Why do you want to leave so badly?" He says in a tone lacking of any emotion, in a way that sounds scary and not at all like the sweet boy you’ve grown to love.
It catches you of guard, definitely, and you shake your head immediately, frantically even.
“I don’t… not at all, Scara. I would never want to-” You stop, realizing what you just said without giving it a single thought. Never. You just fucking said never. You clear your throat, trying to fix your words. “I just… I want to know if they’re safe… that’s all. It has nothing to do with me wanting to leave.”
You feel him shift beneath you, feel his hand move from your hair to cup your cheek. That motion would normally make you feel secure, safe, loved by him. But right now… you’re just confused at his behavior, confused on why he can’t just give you a proper response without having you fall apart first.
"I visited your estate two days ago," he says finally. "To check. And they weren't there."
Your heart drops hearing those words. It’s been two weeks, they should be back by now on there trip, should’ve been back days ago, but what Scara’s telling you makes you think they never made it back… or did, and got killed by the very thing they’re skilled at hunting.
"What do you mean they weren't there?"
"I didn’t just look, also. I asked around… not your dead servants, but I asked your neighbors, anyone alive in the vicinity…” His thumb traces your cheekbone, it seems like he’s doing it to comfort you, but to you it feels like he’s mocking you. "I’ll be nice and say they're possibly missing."
All blood drains from your face as you process his words, you feel your body go cold just like his… you feel the relapse of emotions you felt the day your father was murdered.
Your face is gone.
Your mother… and your brother are missing.
You have no one.
… no one but him.
“No,” you whisper, shaking your head in denial, hoping that the worst isn’t as true as it seems. “No… that can’t be right. They were supposed to come back… they always do, I never worry about them when they go on hunting trips… I just feel sad that I’m never allowed to come with them. I wish I was now… I wish my brother wasn’t such a stupid asshole that only sees me as something weak… because maybe then, I’d be able to say goodbye.”
You burry your face in Scara’s chest, trying not to sob, but the tears threaten anyway. “I’d rather die with them, than not be with them at all.”
Scara watches this display of your… emotions without uttering a word, none until you’re finished.
“Shh.” He starts, voice soft and nothing compared to the uncanny, emotionless one like before, he strokes your head as you cry onto his chest. “I’ll check every day for you, I promise. I’ll go back and look, over and over, day and night if I have to. And the moment I see them, I’ll bring them to safety and tell you immediately.”
The words don’t help, not at all, because how would something as a promise you’ll never be able to see experience, actually, and I mean, actually make you feel better.
“Let me come with you…” You sit up, desperate, clinging onto his shoulders. “Please, Scara. I want to go home… I want to feel my house again, smell it, actually open the curtia-”
He cuts you off, “You can’t.” His tone is calm in a way that it makes an insane contrast with how much you’re currently spiraling.
"Why not?" You say, just as desperate as your words before.
"It's not safe." He says it like it’s already been decided, confirmed.
“I don’t care if it’s safe or not!” Your voice cracks. “What the hell, Scara, they’re my family… my fucking family! I’m an adult, not just some child that wants to be locked all the time, I can fend for myself, I’m sick and tired of being forced to stay in bed like if I even stepped out of it, I’d be in danger.”
"You can't come with me." His words are, again, firm and final. You’ve heard them before, a thousand times, coming from the very people you’re so desperate to find.
You're too fragile. Too delicate. Too blind.
But there’s a difference here because Scaramouche doesn’t say any of that. He doesn’t call you helpless, he doesn’t point to your disability as the reason. He knows your senses are strong, he’s seen you navigate his estate, memorize the layout of your room, detect his presence before he speaks. He knows you’d be more useful than him at searching, that your hearing could pick up things his eyes might miss.
So why won't he let you?
"They’re vampires out there," he says, as if reading your thoughts. "The ones who attacked your home. They're still in the area. I won't risk you."
Vampires.
You think of your father, his throat torn open, his blood soaking into your hands. You think of the creatures that did that to him, the monsters that hunt in the night, and hatred rises in your chest like bile.
"I hate them." The words come out bitter. "I hate vampires. They're disgusting creatures. Monsters. They killed my father, they destroyed my life, and I hope every single one of them burns."
Scaramouche doesn't respond.
You keep going, unable to stop yourself.
"My family has hunted them for generations. We've killed hundreds, thousands. And it's not enough. It'll never be enough. They're a plague, a disease, and the world would be better off if every last one of them was wiped from existence."
Still nothing.
You take a breath. "But..." You pause, uncertain. "I would like to meet one. Someday…"
"What?" Scaramouche finally responds.
"A vampire." You turn your face toward him, even though you can't see his expression. "In my books, they're always described as hideous. Monstrous. Twisted things with rotting flesh and hollow eyes. But… I don't believe that. I think they must be beautiful. Terrifyingly beautiful. And I want to feel one, just once. Even though I know it would be impossible. Even though they'd kill me before I could get close."
It’s quiet in the room, and you wonder if you’ve said something wrong, you wonder if he hates vampires as much as your family does, that maybe he was raised the same as you, but isn’t weird like you.
"You imagine them as beautiful," he repeats slowly.
"... Yes."
"Even though you hate them."
"I can hate something and still find it fascinating." You shrug. "I've never been able to separate the two."
He doesn't respond to that. Instead, he changes the subject entirely.
"Have you ever opened your eyes?"
The question startles you because no one has ever asked that before. People assume you can't, that there's something wrong with them, that keeping them closed is a medical necessity rather than a choice.
"No."
"Never? Really?"
"I choose to keep them closed." You touch the edge of your lace mask, feeling the delicate fabric beneath your fingers. "I can't see anyway. Opening them wouldn't change anything."
"Then why keep them closed?"
You hesitate because this is something you’ve never told anyone, not even your family. Something private, sacred, held close to your chest like a secret.
"You’ll probably find it stupid… but I'm saving them," you say finally. "For someone special."
"Someone special?"
"Someone who'll stay with me for eternity." The words come out soft, almost reverent. "Even in a human life. Someone who'll love me and protect me, but who'll also let me feel protected on my own. Someone who'll trust me to keep myself safe. Someone that I love enough to open them for."
You pause, your chest feeling tight.
"Someone who'll love me forever."
The silence that follows is so heavy you could drown in it.
"Only a vampire can love you forever."
You tilt your head, confused as his response, and let out a nervous giggle, thinking what he said to be a joke. "What?"
His lips find yours before you can say another word, he kisses you soft, gentle, cutting of your confusion before in can fully form.
"I'll love you for an eternity," he murmurs against your mouth. "And you can choose when you want to open your eyes for me."
You melt into the kiss, the strange comment already fading from your mind.
Days pass.
He sleeps in your room now, every night, he crawls into bed beside you, pulls you against his chest, holds you until morning… or what you assume is morning, you never know for certain.
He still feeds you, more now that the relationship you two have seems more established than ever. You wish though, that it was different, that you could feed yourself, and he does the same infront of you. One day, as he’s feeding you, you ask, "Can I eat with you? At a table, like normal people?"
"Maybe one day," he says.
That day never comes.
The day does come for a different shared experience, one that doesn’t involve eating but involves a lot of trust and intimacy.
"Let me bathe you."
The words catch you off guard completely. You’re sitting on your bed, tracing the embroidery on your pillowcase when he says it. You were going to bathe later, in a few hours, it’s not necessary to do it now… but you shake your head, almost at yourself, continuing to trace as you respond.
"I can bathe myself."
"I know you can." You hear him move closer, feel the mattress dip as he sits beside you. "But I want to do it. Let me take care of you."
You’ve been bathing yourself your whole life, navigating through your bathroom with the ever-present fear of falling. You’ve memorized the layout of every bathroom you’ve ever used, mapped the distance from every object… you don’t necessarily need help.
But… the thought of him doing it, of his hands on you, of not having to worry about slipping and cracking your skull on the edge of the basin because he'd be there to catch you...
"Okay."
His hand finds yours, and it’s cold, as always, but you’ve stopped flinching at the temperature. Ever since that night, the first night, when his skin pressed against yours and you were too overwhelmed by the softness of it to care about the chill. He's touched you more since then, like something shifted between you and he no longer feels the need to hide.
He leads you out of your room and down a hallway you haven’t memorized yet. You count the steps as you both walk, fourteen until you turn left, seven more, then a door on the same left side of the wall.
"Bathroom," he says, unnecessarily, leading you inside and shutting the door behind you both, locking it. "Stay here."
You stand on a rug, seemingly in the middle of the bathroom while he moves around the space. You hear water running, the squeak of a tap being adjusted, the slosh of liquid filling something large and deep. A bathtub bigger than any you've had before, by the sound of it.
"Temperature's good." His footsteps return to you. "Arms up."
You raise your arms, and his hands find the straps of your nightgown. It’s a short white babydoll dress, and he slides the straps off your shoulders, slow, deliberate, and the fabric pools at your feet.
You’re naked now, fully exposed, and you can feel his gaze on you like he’s physically touching you, tracing the curves of your body, the dip of your waist, the swell of your breasts. You can’t see his expression, but you can feel the weight of his attention.
"Beautiful," he murmurs, almost to himself.
His fingers find your face and they trace along your jaw, up your cheekbones, and then higher. They go to the lalce mask you’ve worn everyday since childhood.
"Can I take this off too?"
Your breath catches at that question. No one has ever seen you without it, not since you were a baby… too young to keep it on yourself. It's part of you now, as familiar as your own skin.
But he's already seen everything else. What's one more piece?
"... Yes. You can, Scara…"
He’s gentle as he unties the ribbon at the back of your head, sliding the delicate fabric away from your face.The air feels strange against your closed eyelids, more exposed than even your naked body.
He doesn't say anything for a long moment.
"You're not opening them," he says finally.
"I never do, I told you."
"I know." His thumb brushes across your closed eyelid, featherlight. "Your lashes are longer than I expected."
You don't know what to say to that. You've never thought about your eyelashes. You've never thought about any part of your face, really. It's just... there. A thing you can't see, can't evaluate, can't compare to anyone else's.
He cups your face in both hands and tilts it up toward him.
And then he kisses you.
Not your mouth, though, you feel him press a soft kiss on your cheekbone… then your eyelid, so gentle you can barely feel it, then the other one… reverent.
Worshipful.
You giggle because you can’t help it, the kiss on your eyelids tickles, and it’s also so sweet. You’re overwhelmed by the tenderness of it.
He doesn’t just stop there, he kisses your mouth next, lips moving against yours, his tongue sliding past your teeth. You melt into it, your hands coming up to grip his shoulders, and you realize he's still fully clothed while you're completely bare.
"Your turn," you murmur against his lips.
"... What?"
"Your clothes." You fumble for the buttons of his shirt, your fingers clumsy. "Take them off."
He laughs, soft and amused. "Eager."
"I want to feel you."
He lets you try, lets you figure it out yourself. Your fingers work at the buttons, struggling with the unfamiliar task, because you’ve never worn buttons before, and he doesn’t help. You get three undone before you give up, frustrated.
"It's hard when you can't see what you're doing," you mutter.
"Most things are."
You can't tell if he's mocking you or sympathizing… Maybe both.
He takes over, shrugging out of his shirt, then his pants, and then he's as naked as you are. "Come on." His hand takes yours again. "Water's getting cold."
He guides you to the edge of the tub, and helps you step over the high rim. The water feels perfect, warm, but not scalding, and you sink into it with a sigh of relief. The tub is enormous, deep enough that the water comes up to your chest when you sit.
He slides in behind you.
His legs bracket yours, his chest close to your back, and you feel his arms wrap around your waist, pulling you back against him. You let your head fall onto his shoulder.
"Comfortable?" He asks.
"Mm." You say, completely lost like you’re under some kind of spell.
He reaches for something, you hear the click of a bottle opening, and then his hands are in your hair. You feel him lathering shampoo through the strands, his fingers working at your scalp.
You let out a tiny, embarrassing (to you), whimper at the feel of it.
No one has ever done this for you, never touched your hair like this… with this much attention, this much care. His fingers press and circle, finding the stops that make the tension drain from your shoulders, and you go boneless against him.
"Good?"
"So good." Your voice comes out dreamy, like you’re distantly there. "... Don't stop."
He washes your hair thoroughly, rinsing it with ahndfuls of water, and then he reaches for another bottle, conditioner, you assume, and he works through the ends, detangling with his fingers, patient and methodical.
You could fall alseep like this if you aren’t careful. Being here… feeling this… makes you want to stay here forever, floating in warm water, his hands at your hair, his body solid and real behind you.
His hands go lower… down your neck, across your shoulders. He’s washing you now, his palms sliding over your skin, leaving trails of soap. He washes down your back, the curve of your spine, the dip of your waist.
And then he goes to the front of your body. His hands cup around your breasts.
You gasp, but you don’t pull away. His palms are slick with soap, sliding over the soft flesh, and his thumbs find your nipples, he circles around them, clearly teasing.
"Still okay?"
"Yes." The word comes out breathless, and you nod. "Yes, keep going."
He doesn’t rush after your full permission, he touches you like he has all the time in the world, like your body is something to be explored and memorized, the same as you do any room you come into. He learns the weight of your breasts, the way your nipples harden under his attention, the sounds you make when he pinches just slightly.
He lingers at your breasts for way too long.
"More?" His voice is low, rough against your ear.
"Please, Scara… "
His hand slides down your stomach, over the curve of your hip… between… your thighs.
You spread your legs without being asked.
He touches you slowly here too, like he’s learning, just like everywhere else. His fingers trace along your folds, slipping through the slickness that has nothing to do with the bath water. He finds your clit, circles it ones, then twice, and you let out the cutest whimper in response.
"Sensitive," he murmurs, you’re always sensitive, one of the few things you like (and hate) about being blind. "I like that."
And because he’s obsessed with it, because he seems to always go to it, his mouth finds your neck. He presses kisses to the curve of it, and you feel his teeth, just barely, tiny nips that send shivers down your spine. You're too focused on his fingers to pay much attention, too lost in the way he's touching you, slow circles that build heat in your core, especially when he slips two fingers inside.
He learns what makes you gasp, what makes the little hitches of breath you cant control, and he exploits it ruthlessly. Pressing harder when you react, curling up in the spot that makes your eyes roll back behind your eyelids and always pulling back when you get too close.
"Scara..." You're squirming against him, trying to grind into his hand. "Please..."
"Please what?"
"I need to cum... Please let me cum."
He bites your neck, harder than before, and it’s hard enough to sting. While he does it, his curl up into your cunt, abusing that spot of yours perfectly, in the way you’ve been needing this entire time.
The orgasm crashes through you, your body arching in the water, waves sloshing over the edges of the tub. He works you through it, his fingers relentless, his mouth still pressed to your throat, tiny bites you barely register through the pleasure. You're distantly aware of his teeth breaking skin, just slightly, just enough to taste, but it's lost in the overwhelming sensation of cumming on his hand.
You slump back against him, panting, trembling, and his hand moves away from between your legs to rest on your stomach.
"Good girl," he murmurs against your skin.
You're too blissed out to respond.
He holds you like that until the water goes cold. Then he lifts you out, wraps you in a towel, and carries you back to bed. You fall asleep in a new nightgown he got for you, in his arms, still floating.
You don’t notice the small wounds on your neck until the morning, when you accidently touch it because your neck feels weird. But even then, because you cannot see the weird look to it, how it just looks like two holes punched into your skin, you don’t think much of it.
Needless to say, you’ve become dependent on him.
He's the only person you see, the only voice you hear, the only touch you feel. When he's not in the room, you sleep. You can't help it. There's nothing else to do, no one else to talk to, and sleep is the only way to make the waiting bearable.
Sometimes, when you can't sleep, you walk. Around the room, tracing the walls with your fingertips, memorizing the furniture and the layout and the exact number of steps from the bed to the door.
The door that's always locked.
You think it's been three weeks.
On what feels like the twenty-second day, something changes.
You wake up alone, as usual. Reach for the door, as usual. But when you turn the handle…
It opens.
That makes you freeze because why would the door be unlocked? Did he forget to lock it when he left? But… Scara doesn’t seem the type to make a mistake, ever.
Your heart pounds.
You've memorized your room, but… you don't know what's outside it. The hallway, the stairs, the rest of this place that might be a mansion or might be something bigger. You're terrified of unknown spaces, always have been. The thought of stepping into an area you haven't mapped makes your hands shake.
But you're also curious.
And right now, curiosity is stronger than fear.
You step into the hallway and cling to the wall, feeling the texture beneath your fingers, and you start walking, slow. You’re careful as you walk, one hand staying on the wall, the other extended in front of you.
Your goal of finally being able to get out of that room without Scara’s supervision is to find a window. Not to jump or anything sucidial in that manner, you’re happy… happy in the sense that you’re trying not to think too much of your family, and think more of how Scara treats you. You want to find a window so you can feel the sunlight again. The curtains in your room are too heavy to move, and you miss the feeling of warmth on your skin.
But you don't find any windows. Not ones you can reach, anyway.
What you find are stairs.
You navigate them slowly, one step at a time, clinging almost for dear life onto the railing. Down, down, stop, hover your foot just to make sure that what’s under is really a step, then down, down. They’re more stairs than there should be, more than any normal house would have… this place is enormous, which would be any blind person nightmare to walk through, if they’re alone.
But you manage.
You reach the bottom, and the floor is soft here, carpet maybe. And being down here, you can hear voices.
Not Scaramouche's voice.
Multiple.
You freeze hearing them, every muscle in your body going tense. The voices seem to be coming from a room nearby, the people, you assume, probably don’t see you, so your panic does fade, just slightly. You inch toward the room you hear the voices coming from, and you feel for the door, it feels ajar, which is better than it being fully open, and you press yourself against the wall, moving as silently as you can.
"-tired of this," one voice is saying. It sounds like a male’s voice, deep, rough at the edges. "Three weeks and we're still tiptoeing around."
3 weeks? That’s the same amount of time you’ve known Scara.
"The prince wants her kept alive," another voice responds. Also male, but higher, more nasal. "What the prince wants, the prince gets."
The… prince?
"But the smell." The first voice again, frustrated. "Do you have any idea how maddening it is? Human blood, everywhere, all the fuckin’ time. It's all I can focus on."
Your blood runs cold.
Human blood.
"He keeps her locked up," the nasal voice continues. "Won't let anyone near her. He won’t even let us look at her."
"The prince has always been selfish." A third voice, bored. "You remember what he did to that village last century? Killed everyone, just because one of them looked at him wrong."
The first voice laughs. "Scaramouche has always been-"
You stop breathing.
Scaramouche.
They're talking about Scaramouche.
They called him prince.
Business partners' sons aren't royalty. Business partners' sons don't have people calling them prince, don't have people talking about villages they destroyed last century.
The man you've been living with, sleeping with, kissing, loving-
"Do you think the human smell's gotten stronger?" the first voice asks suddenly. "Over the past few minutes?"
"Now that you mention it..."
You run.
You don’t think before you do. Plan? Out the fucking window you’re never allowed to feel. You don’t have time for any of that, this is life or death, these… whatever these people are, vampires, sound hungry for you.
Your hands frantically feel along the walls, your feet stumble over unfamiliar terrain, you’re looking for a door… an exit, anything…
And oddly enough…
You don’t hear those men chasing you.
You don't hear them at all anymore, and that's worse. That's so much worse, because vampires are silent, vampires are fast, vampires can move without making a sound-
You collide with a body.
The impact knocks the breath from your lungs. You stumble backward, your hands coming up instinctively, something you assume to be a defensive position. Your arms crossed in front of your face, body curled inward, the way you've read about in books.
A familiar laugh cuts through the darkness.
"That's what you'd do if a vampire ever tried to attack you? Seriously?"
Scaramouche.
Something in his voice is different… the gentleness of it has been stripped away, like the way he acted before, was all just an act he was too good at. He sounds amused, yes, but in a cruel way, a mocking way.
"You-” Your hands go down now that you know who it is, but not in a way that you aren’t ready to try and defend yourself. You're shaking, trembling all over. "Y-you're a-"
"A vampire." He finishes for your stutter, and he says it causally too, like this confession is nothing to him. "Yes. Obviously."
"You killed my father, didn’t you." You say, hurt at the betrayal, the heartbreak is painfully clear in your voice.
"Mm. He died quickly… if that helps."
Something inside you snaps.
You lunge at him, fists swinging, you can’t see where you’re aiming, can’t see if you’re even close to hitting him, but you don’t care. You want to hurt him… you need to.
Your fists connect with nothing.
He’s moved, and you don’t know where, you just know he’s not where he was, and that causes you to stumble forward, off-balance. You feel a hand catch with your wrist, twisting it behind your back, and suddenly, you’re pressed against him, your back to his chest, and you can feel his mouth at your ear.
"That was pathetic," he says pleasantly. "Try again."
You struggle, trash, try to break free of his grip. And he seems to barely even be trying, his tight grip is effortless, his body immovable like a statue. You’re fighting with everything you have, and he’s just… standing there.
"LET ME GO!" You yell, loud, ready to bite at his hand if he tries covering your mouth.
"No." He says, casual, while you’re frantic.
"YOU KILLED HIM!" Tears are streaming down your face now, soaking into your mask. "You killed my father!!” You scream, your own throat burning and your next words come out quiet, broken, “You made me think… you made me… love you-”
"I didn't make you do anything." His voice is cold, a perfect match with his body. "You fell in love all on your own. I just... helped it along."
Your voice raises again. "You're a MONSTER!"
"Yes."
"I HATE YOU!"
"Do you?"
“ILL NEVER LOVE YOU!” You don’t stop screaming, you don’t care if someone hears, you don’t care about anything but seeing your family right now. “ILL NEVER FORGIVE YOU! Do you understand that, you fucking ugly, disgusting VAMPIRE. I hope someone drives a stake though your nonexistent fucking heart and-”
"Careful." His grip tightens on your wrist. "My patience has limits."
“I don’t care, I don’t fucking CARE ABOUT YOU. LET ME GO!! LET ME GO.”
He does, and you stumble forward, nearly falling. You spin around, your hands up, and your breath coming in ragged gasps.
"Fine," he says, and he sounds bored. "You want to go? Fucking go."
You freeze, hearing something you definitely didn’t expect. “What?”
“The door is right behind you, I’ll even open it for you, so you won’t struggle to find it like I know you will. You can walk out… into the night, because it is night right now, where they’re dozens, and I mean, dozens of vampires far less patient than me, and you can fend for yourself.” He pauses and you can feel amusement, something mocking in his tone. “Is that what you want?”
Yes.
No???
You… you don’t know.
"You're bluffing.” You say instead.
"Try me." He counters.
You hear footsteps, his, walking past you, and a large door creaking open from behind. Cold air rushes in, and it’s the same air you’ve been craving to feel weeks ago, and you can sense, just by it that he’s right, that it is nightime.
"There you go," he says. "Freedom, just like you want. Take it."
You want to be the brave one and run, sprint out that door and never look back.
But you’re terrified. The night is full of monsters, ones you’ve never encountered once in your life, apart from this one, and as much as you hate to admit your disability being the very think that makes you weak… you’re blind, and that ruins any chance of a proper escape you could ever have.
"That's what I thought." He sounds amused noticing your hesitation. "You want to prove you can protect yourself? That you don't need anyone? Then prove it."
You turn, following the air your feel and take a step forward, than another.
"Brave," he murmurs. "Or stupid. We'll see which."
You keep walking, out the door, into the cold, onto the ground that feels like dirt and grass and leaves. You’re also not wearing shoes, only socks, white ones with lace that cuffs at your ankles, you feel stupid remembering your lack of footwear, and you know that’ll just make this even more dangerous for you.
“How long have I known you?” He asks, suddenly.
You turn your head back toward his voice. "What?"
You hear the irritation in his voice, like he’s annoyed he has to repeat something he said that he knows made clear sense. “How long has it been since we’ve met?”
Your brows knit, confused at why this is a question he’s asking now. “I don’t know, I don’t remember.”
“Guess it then.”
You think, even though you’d rather be running right now "... Three weeks?"
"Close enough." You hear him step out after you. "I'll give you a three-minute head start."
You back up, arms crossed. "What the fuck? Excuse me?"
"Run." His voice is soft now, almost gentle, despite that one word sounding like a clear warning. "And I'll chase. That's how this works."
Your hands drop at your sides, "You're going to-"
"I'm not going to let some nobody vampire eat you." He sounds almost offended. "Just who do you think I am? You're mine. If anyone's going to kill you, it'll be me."
Your blood runs cold.
"A little tip," he whispers, and suddenly he's right behind you, his breath cold against your ear. "It's better to hide than to run too far. But even then... your scent gives you away. So either route you take, you're completely fucked."
You run before he finishes speaking.
The forest swallows you.
At least, you think it's a forest. They’re trees everywhere, you can feel them, their bark rough against your palms as you push past. You don't know where you're going, you can't see the path, can't see anything, can only feel and smell and hear.
You don’t even know hiding spots, if one you took would actually keep you hidden, or make you look obvious. Every direction you take feels dangerous, every step feels like a giant risk. You could be running toward more vampires, or running off a cliff… or just looking like an idiot, running in circles.
Your father is dead.
The thought crashes over you like a wave, nearly sending you to your knees.
He killed your father… Scara. How fucked up at you to still be reffering to him as the nickname you’ve been calling him? He’s the same man who held you, kissed you, made love to you. And he’s the same one who tore out your fathers throat and then walked upstairs, pretending to be your savior.
Your mother and brother might be dead too, because Scara told you he’d visit your estate daily, and now… with everything you’ve heard, and heard him confess to you, you wouldn’t be surprised if he did harm them, kill them.
Or worse, they might be alive, mourning you, searching for you, never knowing that you're just a few miles away, trapped by the very monster they've spent their lives hunting.
And you loved him.
You fucking loved him.
You… love him.
And that’s the worse part. Because even now, even knowing what he is, what he did, theres a part of you that wants to run back or stop running and just wait. That part of you just wants to throw yourself into his arms and pretend none of this is real.
Is he a monster?
He killed your father, lied to you, manipulated you into falling in love with him.
But was he a monster when you fell in love with him? Was he one before you knew? Was he always one, or did the truth change something fundamental about who he is?
You don’t know… You don’t know anything anymore.
You just don’t understand why you?
The trees seem to shift around you… you think you’re going in a straight line, but you keep feeling the same bark, same pattern, like you’re circling back without realizing.
He's playing with you.
He’s not chasing you, he’s herding you. He’s using his speed, his silence, his knowledge of this terrain to push you in whatever direction he wants.
You spin around, reaching out, trying to detect him.
Nothing.
Then you hear a rustle to your left, you turn, heart pounding.
Nothing.
A snap behind you, you spin again.
Nothing.
He’s everywhere and nowhere at once. Circling you like prey, messing with your senses, the very senses you’ve always relied on, the ones that are supposed to be better than anyone elses.
It's not enough.
It's nowhere near enough compared to a vampire.
"I can't do this anymore!" You're crying, tears streaming down your face, your voice cracking. "I'm tired! I’m so fucking tired…” You rub your head, exhausted, spiriling. “I can't-"
A laugh echoes through the trees. "Already?" He sounds delighted. "That was barely what? Two minutes."
"Please-"
"But you wanted to prove yourself, remember?" His voice comes from everywhere at once. "You wanted to show me you could protect yourself. That you don't need anyone's help."
You spin again, reaching blindly.
"Then do it."
Something shifts in the air and the next thing you feel is pain.
He slams you, hard, very fucking hard against a tree, and your back hits the bark hard enough to drive the breath from your lungs. Before you can recover, his mouth his on your neck, and his teeth are sinking in.
Sharp, knife sharp, actually, sharper than any knife, any sewing needle, it’s nothing compared to the playful nips like before.
You scream… or honestly, try to. What comes out is more of a whine, high and broken and pathetic. He bites again, different spot on your neck, just as hard, and again, and again, and fucking again. He’s relentless with it, like an animal, his mouth is everywhere, marking you, claiming you, and all you can do is hang there and take it.
"This," he growls against your skin, "is what I've wanted to do since the moment I saw you."
"Please-" Another bite cuts you off. "Please, I don't want to die-"
"I'm not killing you." His tongue drags across a bleeding wound, and you shudder. "Just tasting... You're too valuable to waste."
"I don't want to be a vampire-" You're sobbing now, ugly and desperate. "I don't want to be a monster like you-"
His teeth sink again, harder this time, obviously for your comment of calling him a monster, and it’s hard enough to make you scream for reach. The sound echos through the forest, and he groans against your neck like it’s the most beautiful sound he’s ever heard.
"Call me that again," he murmurs. "See what happens."
You can’t do anything else anymore… not even your voice seems to work as the blood loss is making everything fuzzy and distant. You can hear your heartbeat in your ears, in your neck also, where he’s been taking and taking like you’re a snack. All you do is whimper helplessly, hands limp at your sides.
When he finally stops biting you’re barely even conscious. You feel him, distnatly, because of how blacked out you’re feeling, him licking the wounds, cleaning the blood thats dripped down your neck, pressing soft kisses to each bite mark like an apology.
Except he’s not sorry.
And he never will be.
Your legs give out.
He catches you before you even have the chance to fall onto the dirty ground. His arms slide under your knees, your back, lifting you easily, bridal style. Like someone out of one of your romance novels. The irony would be funny if you weren't too exhausted to laugh.
“I’m sorry,” you whisper, as your head falls limp in his arms. You think apologizing sounds better than continuing to yell at him, at this point, and your words come out weak, barely audible from the bloodloss. “I’m so sorry, Scara… P-please… take me home… even if it’s just for a second. Let me see- I mean… feel my house again, just one more time, and you can do what you want.”
“I am taking you home, obviously,” he says, and his voice sounds calm, pleasant for someone who just tore your throat open in a forest. “My home is yours now, more than ever.”
You shake your head, a weak no coming out as you continue, “Please, Scara… I want to see my mother… my brother.”
"That’ll never happen, you don’t see y/n, remember?"
"Please-"
"You will never feel or sense their presence again." He starts walking. "Those are just terrible people who’ve kept you locked in a room your entire life. Who’ve made you feel like a burden. And you want to go back to that? They don’t even deserve you. They don’t even let you live.”
You start crying again, quiet, weak tears you’re too exhausted to wipe. “W-what? How can you even say that…” But your voice sounds so, barely audible, the weight of them feeling low in a way that seems impossible to defend yourself, your own family. “You don’t know them… they… they’re my family…”
"They're your prison." He cuts off your pathetic attempt at trying to defend, his own words heavier than yours tenfold. "But you're free now. I'll teach you to protect yourself. I'll teach you to keep yourself safe. I'll let you go outside, feel the sun, do anything you've ever wanted. I couldn’t before, because I couldn’t let you know I was a vampire just yet."
Your voice cracks, and you can feel your hair sticking to some of your tears, “B-but I don’t want-”
"With time, of course." He sounds almost reasonable. "I can't trust you yet. But it's a promise I'm confident in."
You grit your teeth, but even that’s a weak movement of yours. "I hate you."
"Do you?"
"I'll never love a monster… A vampire like you." Your tone is filled with disdain, even in this state.
"You already have." His arms tighten around you. "You're letting me carry you right now. You're fighting your own emotions, telling yourself you hate me, but you don't. If you truly hated me, you would’ve kept fighting. You would’ve clawed and screamed until I had to knock you unconscious to get you home."
You don't respond because you don’t have one.
"Here's what's going to happen," he says, and his voice drops, turning serious. "As long as you continue to love me, as long as you never stop, I'll keep your mother and brother safe."
Your tears suddenly stop hearing that, processing that last part faster than you’ve processed anything before.
"They're alive," he continues. "I know where they are. I've seen them. They've been back for a week, mourning your father, setting up a funeral while I watched from the shadows. Your brother misses you. Your mother sleeps in your room at night, waiting for you to come home."
Tears stream down your face again.
"But if you show hatred for me..." His voice goes cold. "If you try to run again. If you make me think, even for a second, that you've stopped loving me. I'll kill them. And your attempt to escape won't even matter, because you're never leaving anyway."
You're silent the rest of the way because of that.
Because you’re scared to speak now, scared to say anything that might sound like hate.
Or love.
Or both.
He carries you back to your room.
The room you’ve been staying in, you’ve assumed was for guests. But as he lays you on the bed, tucking the blankets around you, he says, "This room is yours. I decorated it especially for you."
You don't respond, but you listen.
"The rest of this mansion is dark," he continues. "Red and black to be specific. Everything is dark-toned, dark-colored, shadows and gloom. But this room..." He pauses. "This room is different. It’s white… soft, light."
You still don't respond, but he knows you’re listening.
"That's what I associate you with," he says quietly. "Light, in the middle of all this darkness."
You turn your face away.
"I left the door unlocked on purpose," he adds. "I wanted you to find out eventually… I didn't want to be dramatic and tell you myself."
You’re still silent, so much that if he didn’t know you, he’d assume you passed out by now.
"Do you have any questions?" he asks.
You do, you have so many that your head might explode. But, you feel weak, and only one matters right now to you.
"Do you love me?" Your voice is hoarse, broken. "Actually love me?"
"Yes." No hesitation. "You're the only person I've ever cared about. And I'll love you forever."
"Why me?" You turn to face him, even though facing him doesn't mean you can see him. "What about me could you possibly want? You've only known me for three weeks."
"When I walked into your room that day," he says slowly, "I felt something I've never felt before. Something as stupid as love at first sight. I've seen thousands of humans in my time on this earth. Hundreds of years of faces and bodies and souls. And you're different than any of them."
"How?"
"You dress differently… Probably because you can't see." He sounds almost fond. "You're beautiful, even with your eyes always closed. And I'm impressed with how much you manage without sight. How you need to feel things before you're comfortable with them. How your senses are stronger than any human I've ever met."
"That's my favorite part about you," he says quietly. "Your senses. The way you experience the world. It's... fascinating. Beautiful, in its own way."
You don't know what to say.
So you don’t say anything.
Eventually, he leaves.
You stop counting the days.
What's the point? Time has lost all meaning. You're here, in this room, and you'll be here forever. Whether it's been three weeks or three months or three years makes no difference.
You avoid him.
Not physically, you can’t avoid him physically, because he still comes to your room every day, still brings you food, still sits at the edge and talks to you. But the difference is that you don’t respond, or engage. You give him nothing to work with, not love, and no hate, just… emptiness.
He watches you a lot.
You can feel it, his eyes on you, all the time, even when he’s giving you space. Even when he’s standing on the other side of the room, he’s watching, waiting.
For what?
You don’t have a fucking clue because you aren’t giving him shit.
You stop eating, too.
It’s not conscious, not something you’re doing in retaliation… you just can’t. The food tastes like ash in your mouth, and swallowing feels like choking, and eventually you just stop trying. You loose weight of course, which turns you into something you hate, getting weaker, more fragile, but even though that is something you hate… you don’t care at this point.
You’d be fine dying like this.
He gets mad pretty quickly.
You can hear it in his voice, when he threatens you, tells you he’ll force the food down your throat if he has to, calls you childish, pathetic, weak.
You barely flinch or react when he yells, and he hates the lack of reaction, hates how emotionless you’ve become… depressed, almost like a corpse that only chooses to move when they’re forced to. And your eyes being closed never helps that.
You eat, only to get him to go away, and you don’t let him feed you. You take the fork from his hand before he even can, and eat mechanically, joylessly, and you don’t let him touch you.
He doesn't push, surprisingly.
He respects the boundaries you've drawn, even though you know he doesn't have to. He could force himself on you. He could pin you down and take whatever he wants. But… he doesn't.
It’s like he respects you as a person in the way your family never has, even though the situation is dark.
Oh yeah, your family…
The only time he actually makes a threat about your mother and brother is when you make a mean remark towards him, specifically calling him a monster, telling him you hope he burns, anything your brain can muster out that sounds good enough to be hatred.
"Careful," he says each time. "Remember what I said."
And you remember.
And that makes you shut your mouth.
On what you think might be the twelfth day of silence, you break.
You don’t know why… you don’t know what about that day makes you crack, but when he walks into the room that evening, you don’t stay in bed, you don’t turn away from him.
You get up, cross the room, and wrap your arms around him.
He goes still at the sudden motion he hasn’t felt in days from you. You feel the tension in his body, the surprise, and you’re crying, tears soaking into the fabric of his top, and you’re holding onto him, tight, with strength you’re surprised your weak body can manage.
"I'm sorry," you whisper, your head desperately nuzzling onto his chest. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."
He’s quiet for a long moment, still processing all of this, and then, finally, his hands wrap around you, pulling you closer, and you feel warm… protected when he does.
"I'm sorry," you say again. "I'll stop fighting. I'll let you love me. I'll... I'll give it back. I'll try."
He lifts you effortlessly, and carries you to your bed, carefully settling you against your pillows. You try desperately reaching for him, craving his touch back, even though it was just a second, and he settles beside you. He touches you again, his hand on your face, thumb brushing away your tears.
"I know," he says quietly. "I know you will."
He kisses away the wetness of your cheeks, and you whimper, and he doesn’t stop. He presses his lips to your closed eyes, the very ones he worships when you’re without your eye mask, and he kisses your forehead, your nose, and when his mouth finally finds yours, you melt into it.
You give in.
Completely.
When he pulls back, you feel him smile against your lips.
You realize, it’s the first time you’ve ever felt him smile before.
Like he won.
The days become easier after that.
Not good, or happy just… easier. You talk to him again, let him feed you, touch you… hold you. You don’t tell him you love him, though, you can’t, maybe not ever you feel, but you show him in other ways.
You offer him your hand.
He takes it, confused, and you guide his to your wrist. "Drink," you say.
He doesn’t ask if you’re sure, if you’re aware that the skin on wrists is thin and that cuts, punctures there hurt worse, burn even. He just lifts your wrist to his mouth, and his fangs sink in. You gasp at the pain, whimpering as he sucks, because that pain fades rather quickly into something else. Something warm and floaty… and almost pleasant.
You offer him your neck, too.
This becomes a routine. Everytime he visits your room, which is every night, you tilt your head, exposing your throat, inviting him to drink. You don’t need to say the words anymore, he understands.
He's not gentle with it at all.
You don't want him to be, anyway.
His teeth tear into you, hungry, possessive. He drinks until you’re dizzy, until you can barely stay upright, and then he licks the wounds clean, pressing apology kisses on them and he holds you as you recover.
"You're getting better at this," he murmurs one night, his mouth still pressed to your throat. "Taking it so well."
You don’t respond, you don’t talk when he feeds. You just thread your fingers through his hair and hold him closer.
He keeps his promises.
The door is unlocked now, all the time. You can leave your room whenever you want, wander the halls, explore the mansion. You still cling to the walls, still map everything by touch, but the fear is fading… slowly. And he helps you the first couple of times, teaching you what each room is, giving you a large tour while he lets you move independently, without his hand, but of course, he steps in when you’re close to tripping or falling.
He takes you outside, too.
The first time he does, you cry. Actual tears just streaming down your face as you stand in the garden and feel the breeze on your skin. The air is fresh and clean and alive, and you haven't felt anything like it since before your father died.
He watches from a distance.
You don’t know how far, you just know here there… in the shadows, keeping you safe while letting you believe you’re on your own.
When the sun rises, he retreats further. He goes into the deepest shade, where the light can't reach him. But he stays, always.
You don't know how many days have passed.
Months, maybe. It feels like months. The seasons have changed, you can feel it in the air, smell it in the flowers, hear it in the birds that sing different songs now.
You're sitting in the garden, your face turned toward the sun, when you realize something.
You love him.
Not the fake love he manipulated you into. Not the desperate clinging of a captive to her captor. Real love… Terrible, terrifying, all-consuming love.
He killed your father, kept you prisoner, threatened the rest of your living family… and yet, you love him anyway.
Maybe that makes you as much of a monster as he is.
"Scaramouche."
He appears beside you fast, and silent as always. You've stopped being startled by it.
"I want to show you something," you say, turning to your right, where you sense him.
"What?"
Your hands are shaking as you reach for your face. For the lace mask you've worn since childhood, the one you've never removed in front of anyone.
"Wait." His hand catches your wrist. "You don't have to-"
"I want to."
You pull the mask away.
You feel vulnerable much like that day in the bathroom, much like some of the nights in bed with him when you take it off, just so you can feel him kiss your eyelids again. You feel vulnerable, because you know what you’re about to do, and you’re ready for it also.
Slowly, carefully, you open your eyes.
Nothing changes for you when you do it, you can see anything you’ve never been able to see, and no doctor, nothing supernatural will ever change that.
But… the act of opening them, of revealing this part of yourself that you’ve kept hidden for eighteen years, feels monumental.
He's silent.
For a long, long moment, he's completely silent.
"Are they..." You laugh nervously. "Are they white? Do they look strange? I've always wondered if they're all one color, or if-"
"They're beautiful." His voice is reverant, fully reverant, not a mock in sight.
"What color are they?" you ask. Not that it matters, you don't know what colors look like anyway.
"I'm not going to tell you."
You knit your eyebrows, rolling the eyes only he can see. "And why not?"
"Because you don't need to know." His hand comes up, cupping your face, and his thumb traces the skin beneath your open eyes. "You just need to know that they're the most beautiful eyes I've ever seen."
You lean into his touch, your eyes still open, still staring at nothing, and you feel tears start to fall.
"I love you," you whisper head tilting in his touch, to him, it looks like you’re staring up at him, to you, you’re just falling the direction where you sense him. "I don't know when it became real. I don't know when I stopped pretending. But… I love you, Scara."
He’s quiet, again, he’s always quiet after you drop big moments on him, quiet because you’re unable to see the expression he makes, but you imagine him smiling, a pure smile on his face. His forehead touches yours, and you can feel his breath ghost across your lips.
"You asked me once," he says softly, "what kind of person could love you forever. Who could stay with you for eternity. Who could protect you and trust you and give you everything you've ever wanted."
"... I remember."
"Only a vampire can love you forever," he murmurs. "Only a vampire like me."
He kisses you.
And you kiss him back.
And somewhere in the distance, the sun begins to set.
the soft evening light bled through your dorm room curtains, the buzz of people’s chatter danced along the halls. you and your boyfriend, satoru, were entangled on your bed, with you being perched on his laps.
your hands griped the soft, white tufts of hair while his own were splayed across your hips. the two of you were caught in a clumsy kiss, lips mashing together is a wet mess, tongues entangling is a grossly delicious way.
your hips moved slowly against his own, soft pants and whines leaving both of you as you made out. he moaned into your mouth, needy and desperate as his grip grew tighter. tugging him in closer you swelled his sounds, a small smirk playing on your lips.
suddenly… “ow!”
both of you exclaimed in pain as it felt as if something was tugging on your teeth. the two of you opened your eyes in absolute horror, dread sinking in at the realisation of what was happening. the two of you had got your braces caught together!
“sa’ru” your voice was slurred from the restrictions on your mouth, his eyes were wide in bewilderment as your poor boyfriend tried to think of a solution for this—very embarrassing—problem. “hol’ on.” his voice was equally as muffled, glasses tilted as he tried to untangle the brackets.
the heat of the moment had now died down, instead replaced by an awkward, embarrassing silence that stretched over the two of you. satoru was still busy trying to free your braces from hiss, drool started to slip from both of your mouths as he worked.
“sa’ru can i clo’ my mouf now?” your speech was barely audible, yet satoru still murmured a wet ‘no.’ sighing, you accepted defeat.
you definitely weren’t getting any action tonight. not unless you wanted to get free by tomorrow.
The Heart of the Mountain Pt. 9 | Thranduil x reader
Summary: Elvish folk never usually resided in Dwarven kingdoms – but you, you grew up in Erebor, raised as one of the dwarves. Now the royal advisor of Thorin Oakenshield, following on his quest to reclaim the mountain
Pairings: Romantic Thandruil X fem! Reader, Platonic Thorin X reader
Content advisory / markers: Enemies to Lovers, Angsty, kind of emotionally unavailable reader at times, sad / traumatic reader backstory, threatening / uncomfortable behaviours and words, yearningggg, draaaaama, reader has a scar, swearing
Links: Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part 6, Part 7, Part 8, Masterlist, Divider
Translations: Hiril Vuin – My lady, Ellon – male elf, Annon allen - I give thanks to you,
An: OH MY GOODNESS this is a loooooong chapter!!!!! I hope you enjoy the drama that´s in store this part hahahhahah. Please let me know what you think of this dramatically packed chapter?!?!! I always love reading what your guys´ thoughts are hehe. Sorry this took so long to publish, I have had so much uni work + I´ve been sick several times these past weeks so haven´t had much time to write!
Also, I tried to figure out how long after Smaug´s attack the battle of Moria between Thorin and Azog happened, but could not find it anywhere! For the sake of this chapter, it was several months after Smaug! If anyone knows the actual info I´d love to know hahah!
Thank you as always for reading and supporting, and all comments / feedback and reblogs are so much appreciated!!!
It was a cold, wet night in the fields of Middle-earth. The crowds of dwarves and men from Erebor and Dale that had survived the dragon, emigrating wherever they could live, had set up camp for the night. You sat outside your makeshift tent, staring into a fire that was struggling to stay alive in the wet grass it had been born in. You inhaled sharply, a quiver finding its way into your body as the cold was settling into your bones. You had a sneaky feeling this night, like many of the previous ones, would be restless.
It had almost been a month since the attack, and people were hungry, weary, and cold. Walking for miles a day was tiring enough when you had enough energy, now take away rations and warm clothes.
You carefully brought your knees to your chest, gently hugging yourself to retain a semblance of warmth in your torso without straining your back too much; the burn along your shoulder to your waist was still to heal. Though you healed faster than the dwarves did, you had never dealt with such injury before, having generally only dealt with cuts, scrapes and bruises. Smaug had not only stolen your home, but he had stolen something in your heart, too. You could not tell what was missing, but it seemed as if there was a hollowed-out, dark hole in your chest, one that you tried not to think too much of. The nights were long enough dreaming of the dragon; you did not need to occupy your days with him, too. You had spent the days after the attack mostly in solitude, not communicating lest you had to.
"You're still up?" you heard a familiar dwarf speak, his footsteps coming closer and silencing just as they reached you, flopping down next to you in front of the fire. You did not say anything to Thorin, and he, too, took a moment before he spoke again, giving you time to shoo him away if you desired. He took a breath, "You should not sit out here in the cold. You need rest," he continued, turning his head to look at you. You continued to stare into the fire, almost as if a spell had been cast over you. Thorin spoke your name, and you heard him, but you did not respond. He then looked back into the fire. "I just came back from scouting the lands up ahead. It looks like we might be able to reach a village in a day or two, depending on how fast we can walk," he reported, and you nodded. You weren't trying to be rude, nor were you ignoring the dwarven prince – you merely did not have much to say these days, other than of the monstrosities you had both experienced, and you knew that Thorin was just as disinterested in speaking of it as you were.
"How is your back?" he asked, and you finally parted your lips to speak, to Thorin's great relief. "The cold is soothing," you told him, not going into details of how much pain you carried as it was constantly rubbing against your clothes, and how much of a burden you felt as you could not carry anything upon your back. "We won't get very far if you freeze to death," Thorin added. The prince had not generally been very gentle to most in the time after the attack, but he had been kind to you. You sighed, eyes fixed upon the heat that was slowly dying. "A village, you say? Do you think we will be able to work for lodge?" you asked, turning on the only part of you that you knew was painless – the part of the advisor. Thorin clicked his tongue, knowing that reasoning with you was futile. "We must try. I worry if we keep going like this, we won't last another fortnight," Thorin spoke raspily, clearing his throat. None of you had been very well. You took a deep breath, finally turning to look at the dwarf next to you.
You knew your next words would not be received well, but there was worth in trying.
"We have not yet tried the elves," you suggested, and Thorin quickly shook his head, slapping his hands down into his thighs as he got up from his seated position.
Thorin had not yet told you of Thranduil's betrayal. You had been deep in the halls of Erebor when he had turned his back on your people, not having heard nor seen the elves of the woodland realm.
"They won't come to our aid," Thorin spoke, starting to walk away, as if that was automatically going to conclude the conversation. You furrowed your eyebrows, shaking your head as you, too, wearily got up, winching inaudibly as the burns upon your back stung against the fabric against it. You followed the stubborn dwarf, making sure not to be too loud as most of the camp had gone to sleep. You had been disappointed in the Elvenking when he did not respond to your letters, but you did not see him as a bad ellon. Though he did not feel the same as you, did not mean he was of bad nature.
"I think you are mistaken, Thorin. King Thranduil and yourself might have your differences but-" you started to argue in hushed, gentle tones, but Thorin stopped in his tracks, turning towards you and facing you, forcing you to a quick halt. You could tell by his expression that he was out of patience from this conversation. "Thranduil betrayed us, Y/n-" he snapped, but upon his inhale after his words, his expression seemed to soften – as if he had spoken out of line.
It was not false what he said, but Thorin had not wished to tell you just yet. He wanted you to heal first, before taking the difficult news.
You furrowed your eyebrows, looking down to the dwarf before you. You let out an exasperated chuckle, and a confused, yet naively hopeful smile made its way to your face. Surely, you didn´t understand what Thorin was talking about. Thranduil´s lack of aid in the attack was not a betrayal – he was far away from The Lonely Mountain and would not have reached Erebor with his troops in time to help.
"We have not seen the Elvenking for many moons, there is no way-" you started, but Thorin spoke once more, ripping off the bandaid he had been keeping on for way too long. He was unsure if he truly had not told you to save your feelings, or to save himself from delivering the news.
"He was there. Him, his army, they were all there. He turned his back on us," Thorin confessed, analysing your expression with every word he spoke. Your furrowed eyebrows and confused smile turned into a frown and parted lips. You cleared your throat, swallowing.
You were not quite sure you understood what you were hearing. Surely, Thorin meant before the attack? When he visited the kingdom all that time ago?
"He went back to his kingdom, Thorin. He had to return to his duties in the woodland realms," you denied the worst interpretation of Thorin´s words. There was no way Thranduil had come all the way to Erebor only to turn his back on your people.
"He watched Smaug decimate our people-!" Thorin snapped in hushed tones. He, too, was aware that most were asleep. You shook your head, biting your lip. "No-" you refused to hear him, but you did not leave, either. You looked anywhere but into Thorin´s eyes. Thorin finally saw that past the soft spot you had for the king, Thorin´s words were finally reaching you. "-I yelled out to the Elvenking-" the title used as an insult, "and he turned his back and his army on us-" Thorin finished his speech, all heartbreakingly loaded with the volume of loud whispers. Your breath heavy, you finally met Thorin´s eyes, biting your lip as you focused on not letting it quiver. "I-" you could barely speak, not knowing what to say.
Your frown slowly turned into a scowl.
"I am going to kill him," you spoke, matter-of-factly.
Not with any ounce of threatening demeanour or groan, but as if it were a mere fact. It was Thorin´s turn to look confused; he furrowed his eyebrows. "What?" he asked, with a hint of concern in his tone. You nodded. "I... am going to kill him," you added again, a lightness to your tone that worried Thorin more than an angry outburst ever could. You nodded again, turning on your heels and marching towards your tent with a determined pace. "Y/n," Thorin called after you as you marched off, following your footsteps. You picked up your pack that was resting outside of a makeshift tent (a kind word to describe your current sleeping arrangements), flinging it over your shoulder and drawing a sharp breath through your gritted teeth, wincing as it hit your back.
In your rage, you had clearly forgotten about the healing wound upon your back.
You shook it off, brushing past Thorin as you turned around and started heading away from camp, marching off at a speed no one had seen you in for quite some time. As you paced, you felt your eyes start to sting, your tear ducts threatening to get to work. "Y/n-" Thorin called once more, following you once more. "Stop following me, Thorin," you ordered with a trembling voice as you strode onwards, reaching further and further from camp – but Thorin kept up his pace.
"What is your plan, Y/n?" Thorin began, knowing you had none. As expected, you did not answer, striding onwards almost in a limp due to your bad back. "Are you walking there in the dark of night?" Thorin spoke after you as he followed, but his pace needn´t be too quick, for in your wounded state, you were not a fast traveller. As you walked onwards, attempting to ignore the dwarf´s words, you blinked rapidly as your eyes stung, thinking about the news that had just been laid upon you. "Leave me be," you managed to mutter out with a breath of false courage, but no part of you wished to be left alone. You breathed heavily, starting to need deeper breaths to obtain oxygen. "Y/n," Thorin spoke once more, and you shook your head quickly. You felt tears well up in your eyes, sniffling and blinking, trying to keep them at bay as your lips quivered. "You will meet goblins and orcs much before you meet any elves on your journey," the dwarf continued.
As you were rushing away, Balin came back to camp from doing a round of patrol in the area, spotting you and Thorin from afar. He furrowed his eyebrows, observing you with a rucksack upon your wounded back, and Thorin following you in the night. He always thought the two of you had such an interesting dynamic – protective, kind, yet relentless. He tightened his lips, realising that Thorin must have told you about the elves´ betrayal.
Balin had, in the past, feared that you would one day stop feeling at home with the dwarves – that you would long to find your birth parents, your people. However, it had become clear to Balin in your time working alongside him in Erebor, and after he became a bit of a parental figure for you, that you had such loyalty and love for The Lonely Mountain, for your home, that he did not worry about such things anymore. He did, however, understand the hurt you were going through, grappling with the fact that your kind had shown such a gross portrayal of betrayal. His heart ached for you. He kept watching you and Thorin from a distance, taking notice of your slow, almost weakening pace as the pack on your back was rubbing against your wound. He clicked his tongue, waiting for Thorin to take a stand and get that bag off of you – this is the last thing you needed for a smooth recovery.
Thorin was thinking the exact same thing – he was done playing games. He quickened his pace, running up in front of you, stopping in your tracks and grabbing your shoulders to stop you. The moment he grabbed you, you grimaced, tugging at his grasp to make him let you go. "Let me-!" you begged him to let you go, not even to go to the forest of Mirkwood, but merely to get away. You needed to get far from camp, from anyone.
You couldn't think straight, and when you looked back to this moment years from this, you knew Thorin was right to hold you tight.
Thorin´s grasp was firm but gentle, keeping you in your spot, and you lowered your head, pinching your eyes shut, forcing the tears to trickle down your unwashed cheeks, leaving a trail of clean skin where ash and dirt had previously resided. "I´m sorry," Thorin apologised, not only for you feeling this way, but also for the way he had delivered the news. It was insensitive, knowing how you had felt about the elven king.
You had never told Thorin how you felt for the ellon, but he knew.
You shook your head, your breath hitching as you let out stifled cries. You could not help it – it was as if you felt possessed by grief. You pressed and rubbed your lips together, as if keeping yourself from speaking. Thorin watched you, a frown making its way to his face, and once again, you shook your head, refusing to let him feel pity for you. Thorin gave you a kind, sympathetic smile, almost as if he was trying to comfort you. "Why don´t you get some rest?" he asked quietly, but not in a whisper. The two of you were far enough from camp now that you were engulfed in darkness, the only light illuminating you coming from the fires of the campsite. You took a deep breath, looking down at Thorin. The number of times you had defended Thranduil to Thorin.. It made your heart ache. "I am sorry, Thorin," you apologised, and he shook his head, giving your arms a gentle squeeze. "I don´t want to hear it," he spoke before grabbing the ream of your rucksack, pulling it off the shoulder that you had carelessly slung it over, taking it from your back and giving your wounded body release.
He started walking back to camp, expecting you to follow. "I shall only be a minute," you told him, looking forward into the dark of the night as Thorin walked back to the campsite which lay behind you. Thorin stopped in his tracks, observing your body language for a minute. He did not say anything – he merely let you have your moment of peace, returning to the campsite.
As he approached Balin, he looked at the grey-haired dwarf with a look of understanding. "So you told her, then?" Balin asked expectedly, and Thorin found a spot next to him, both of them looking over to you in the distance. Thorin inhaled sharply, holding his breath for a moment. "You can´t blame the girl for wishing there be more peace between elves and dwarves," Balin started, still looking at your figure that was lit up by the fires of the site. He sighed. "Torn between two worlds, she is," Balin added, and Thorin´s expression remained stoic. "The moment he did not respond to her words, she should have abandoned any thought of alliance between our realms," the dwarven prince spoke, and Balin furrowed his eyebrows, finally removing his gaze from you and shifting it to the Dwarf next to him. "She sent letters?" he asked, and Thorin´s eyes remained on you.
"No,"
𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒
Time would reveal that you eventually found your way to the Woodland realm – all but 171 years after Smaug´s attack. That night, after the nightmares followed by an unexpected visit from a palace guard, you would, after some tossing and turning, find your way to a dreamless sleep. The rest did you well, and was sorely needed, as you only flickered your eyes open when sunlight had sprawled its way across your chambers, forcing your consciousness back to reality. You took a deep breath, stretching your body before sitting up.
As your mind awoke and set itself back into your current predicament, you felt – for but a brief moment – at home. You furrowed your eyebrows as it fell upon you that this was Mirkwood, not your home. Truthfully, it had been a strange feeling to sense home, for that is not a feeling you had felt since leaving Erebor. Travelling from bed to bed, kingdom to kingdom – that did not leave much sense of home.
As you got up that day, you got dressed in yet another one of the garments from your armoire, this time it was clothing more fitted for moving around – very similar to the style of what the red-haired elf had worn, what was her name again? Tauriel. Your garment, however, was not her shade of green but rather a deep ocean blue.
You decided that today you needed to move around. You had so much pent-up energy, mostly because you were restless to get back to the mission, back to the company.
Wandering the halls, you heard shuffling and quick paces echoing from a nearby area. It sounded like... sparring?
The sounds of shuffling feet and metal slicing into thin air were sounds you were quite familiar with after years of sparring and training with your daggers. You loved it – combat. In your days serving as the royal advisor of Erebor, you did not do much fighting – you picked up some, here and there, when Thorin would catch you observing his training sessions with the new guards. Back in your time at home in the Lonely Mountain, you owned a sword named Silver – not too creative a name, but you had no battles to name her after. It was light, forged by the dwarves of the mountain with engravings especially made in your initials. That sword you left behind on the fateful day of Smaug´s attack, never to see it again. In your mind, however, you still carried it upon your back.
You furrowed your eyebrows, smiling slightly to yourself as your inquisitive nature took over your very being, following the source of the sound to a small indoor garden. There, you were met with the delightful surprise of seeing the guardsman who had burst into your chambers the previous night to rescue you from the dangers that ended up simply being a nightmare. He was practising his swordsmanship, stepping forwards and dancing with light feet as he was battling an imaginary foe – fine work, it was. Much more hoity-toity than you were used to seeing in battle, but beautiful nonetheless. You watched him for a minute, missing the daggers which the elves had stolen from you. You did need to get those back at some point.
"Fine work," you spoke after watching the guard for a minute or so, and the ellon flinched, turning to look at you and giving a relieved chuckle whence he saw who it was that had caught him playing around while on duty. "Does the king not let you sleep?" you asked him, and he chuckled once more, shaking his head as he sheathed his sword, wiping his palm on his forehead to ensure there were no loose hairs out of place. "My duty runs from midnight to midday. I have a few hours left," he explained, adjusting his uniform. You nodded, watching the precise amendment of his garments. "Slacking off on duty then, are we?" you playfully commented, and he laughed at your remark, taking a few steps towards you. "Who are you to say?" he retorted, to which you smirked – you enjoyed it when people caught on to your humour. "I have spent almost all of my days in kingdoms and palaces, I think I know what duty entails," your observation was spoken with a light, playful tone – not one of accusation, but one of banter between friends. The ellon smiled at you, unsheathing his sword once more and pointing it your way, squinting his eyes as if challenging you. "Do you fight, then?" he asked, to which you extended your arm, placing the tips of your fingers on top of the sword, making sure not to touch the sharp blade. You slowly lowered his sword, shaking your head. "I do – but swords are not my weapon of choice. Haven´t fought with one in some moons," you explained, and he merely raised his eyebrows. "Of course, the daggers. I heard you went through some trouble to retrieve them?"
You shook your head, now squinting your eyes as a threat, tightening your lips as you tried to suppress your smile. "You elves are insufferable," you mocked, and he furrowed his eyebrows, cocking his head to the side. "Are you not an elf?" he asked rhetorically, knowing full well that you were – but somewhat amused by the notion you did not think yourself a part of them. Your gaze softened, swallowing before letting out a chuckle – somewhat taken aback by your own words. You walked closer to him, grabbing the hilt of a long dagger he had sheathed upon his belt, a secondary weapon for him, you presumed. "Go on then, show us what you´re made of." You changed the subject, now lifting the dagger as if bracing yourself for sparring.
His question had somewhat shocked you – not because of anything he had done or his tone, but because it had caught you out on your own language, your words. You did not identify yourself as part of them.
The ellon chuckled, lifting his sword once more and getting into sparring position. "I must warn you, Hiril Vuin, I will not go easy on you," he threatened you playfully, to which you rolled your eyes. "Oh, please,"
And with that, the two of you started sparring; his moves were longer and stronger than yours, whereas you were quicker and more calculated, finding your way to his weak spots, but he was good at keeping you at bay. When the two of you had sparred for a bit, the two of your blades clinged as they hit one another, the two of you mere inches apart as you grappled for the other to lose control. "I feel I should catch your name," you spoke through catching your breath, and he laughed, untangling his sword from your blade and pulling away, taking a few steps back as he lifted his sword to his face, ready for next round. He caught his breath before speaking, "Lysanthir,"
"Pleasure, Lysanthir."
Your blades once more found their way back to one another. He was a skilled swordsman, that was sure, but you were also a skilled fighter. Though not as strong as he, your footwork was light and swift, making up for your lack of strength. As he was underestimating your calculations, you managed to get behind him, wrapping your arm around him and ultimately landing the dagger an inch away from his throat. It was non-threatening, of course – only in the name of the game. He smirked, catching his breath as he lifted one of his palms to call a truce. "You admit defeat?" you asked him, and he nodded very lightly. "I do, my lady. You win,"
"Anon Allen," you spoke, and as the two of you disengaged from the position, you chuckled smugly to yourself as Lysanthir brushed himself off, catching his breath as he turned around to face you. His smile, however, was quickly wiped off his face, and his stature seemed to turn to stone as he straightened his back and lifted his nose, looking to the person who had entered the gardens.
You furrowed your eyebrows, turning to look at the source of his straightening. You very quickly understood why, when you saw the Elvenking standing at the entrance to the gardens, his eyebrows raised somewhat without compromising his royally stoic expression.
"I did not realise my guards were so easily defeated. Well done, Lady Y/n," Thranduil spoke to you as he glared at Lysanthir; his tone was calm and complimenting, but you could tell by the way his jaw tightened that he was not particularly pleased. Lysanthir lowered his head in respect, speaking some words in Sindarin which you did not quite understand, but you assumed it was something along the lines of ´I will now get the hell out of here before you bite my head off´ – your imagination was paraphrasing him, of course.
As Lysanthir took his leave without a second look at you, you tightened your lips, frowning as he marched off. You felt bad for the ellon, not wanting him to get into trouble for a sparring match in which you insisted upon. You looked down to the dagger in which he had forgotten to retrieve from you, shaking your head as you started your march to follow the warden, ignoring Thranduil in your pursuit. Before you had the chance to leave the gardens, however, the Elvenking spoke as you walked past him. "I wouldn´t bother with him," his stoic expression upkept, but there was just a hint of annoyance in his tone. You stopped in your tracks, furrowing your eyebrows as you turned to look at Thranduil. "For sparring, I mean. We have better wardens than him," he continued, and for a minute, you could have sworn the great king felt something akin to...envy. Not one for beating around the bush, you decided to confront him on it. "You almost sound as if you are jealous, Thranduil," your tone an inquisitive one, laced with the slightest detectable amount of mockery and annoyance. The king´s eyes met the ceiling as they rolled in his head, scoffing. "I am merely surprised you and he have found so much in common, that's all. I expected you felt animosity towards all who roam these halls," he looked down at you with only his eyes, his nose held high. If it wasn't for the fact that he was so beautiful, you would have thought he looked like a right prick the way he was looking at you. However, there was just something about that damn king which you found indescribably etherial, though you would never admit it... again.
"Not all elves who roam these halls have given me reason to feel such emotions," you retorted, and he lowered his head ever so slightly, his nose not so high and mighty as before. His jaw tightened, but he did not speak. He merely stared at you with his icy blue eyes as if your words had scorned him. "Though we spoke yesterday as if no time have passed, does not give you the right to have any opinion on whether or not I act in a hostile manner to your grace," you started, pointing your finger at the king. "You lost that right many moons ago," you turned as to finally leave the gardens and return Lysanthir´s weapon, and Thranduil spoke, "The dragon-" he started, but you quickly interjected, not wanting to hear the king´s futile excuses. "It was lost much before the dragon ever even thought of the gold in Erebor-!" you snapped as you turned back to the ellon once more, clenching your jaw and furrowing your eyebrows, the slightest frown making its way into what you wanted to be an angry expression. Thranduil was.. confused. He did not understand what you were speaking of, knowing the only interactions you had before the attack were of a sweet, and heartfelt nature.
He had missed you, after he placed a kiss upon your head when he left the Lonely Mountain, but he had not written to you for he did not feel it was right. If you wanted him, you would have had to write to him first. If not, he was concerned of the risk of pressuring you. A king´s word may be law, but a king´s word of the heart was not.
"You did not acknowledge my open heart – Eru, you did not even write to me, and you expect me to greet you with open arms?" You scowled at him, speaking in hushed and rushed tones, not wanting any passer-by's to hear the words coming from the root of your heart, seeping out from the cracks left there by Thranduil´s betrayal.
Thranduil´s gaze turned to a frustrated frown, his lips parting as his eyes scanned your every expression. What were you talking about? You were the one who did not speak to him, not the other way around. "Y/n-" Thranduil´s voice was gentle, but there seemed to be a ghostly sadness lingering in it, one which you would not hear, not from him. "Do not pretend as if you don´t know what I am speaking of-!" you whispered sharply, letting your dagger drop to the ground as you angrily stepped towards him. You were angry, sure, but you did not want the fact that you were holding a weapon feel threatening in any way. Your words were sharp as blades, he could worry about that instead.
The Elvenking looked down at you with an expression as if he had seen a ghost, his breathing rapid as he tried to puzzle together what you were telling him. "Last time I heard from you was the day I left The Lonely Mountain," he spoke just as sharply as yourself, begging for you to understand what he was saying. "When you did not write to me after our meeting I assumed you did not return my affections, and I left you be," he continued, frustrated – and as he spoke, your gaze softened, becoming more worried than angry.
If what he was saying was true, it must have meant-
"Do not humiliate me," your voice cracked, but your angry expression remained strong.
It was Thranduil´s turn to step closer to you, your two bodies now so close you could feel each other´s hot breath on your skin. He spoke through gritted teeth with a tight jaw, a clear frustration and heartache laced upon his every word as if he was desperate for you to believe his speech, "I never received any letters," Thranduil spoke, taking a deep breath.
And suddenly, almost two centuries of heartache and animosity was confronted.
"What did you write to me?" he whispered to you, not letting his eyes leave yours. You bit your bottom lip, your top lip concealing your teeth as you tightened your lips. You frowned. You struggled to comprehend what Thranduil was telling you. There had been so much revealed to you the last 24-hours that you felt your heart was on a constant roller-coaster of emotions.
"I begged you to help us – for I knew the sickness the king was enduring would one day come with consequences-" you spoke quickly, your face grimaced as you could not regulate whether you were feeling angry or heartbroken. Thranduil seemed to try to control his rapid breathing, his eyes fixed on yours. "And what else?" he asked, and you sighed, looking straight back into his eyes, parting your lips. "And... that my heart was yours if you wanted it,"
Your heart dropped.
You could not believe what you just said. You could not believe that just fell from your lips as if some spell had been cast over you. What were you thinking? You simply humiliated yourself and-
Before you could continue to worry, something else seemed to possess your body as the two of you stared into each other´s eyes, catching each others breaths and taking in this heated moment.
You did not know who initiated it, but in an instant, the two of you lept towards each other as if you were opposite magnets reunited, and you pressed your lips against his. Thranduil´s hands found their way to your cheeks, cupping them and holding you as if he was scared to let you go.
You did not know how it happened, but then and there, in the heated moment of arguments and conflict, your heart took over your very being.
𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒𓈒⠀𓂃⠀⠀˖⠀𓇬⠀˖⠀⠀𓂃⠀𓈒
Part 10 TBC! Let me know if you wish to be added to the taglist!
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