#clean and sharp inking

[imagella-blog]

Easter egg coloring page, magnified ornamentation style

Easter Coloring Pages #easter egg coloring page #magnified ornamentation #clean and sharp inking #expressive linework #gothic ornamentation #mesoamerican influences #sigma 105mm f/1.

[u3pxx]

ooo whats ur favourite part of ur art process!! if u havent said already n_n

lineart/inking if im being a grade-a freak, coloring in the flats if im just a normal human person DFGHJ

[arttsuka]

My hand everytime I draw and use colors

[sixeyesonathiel]

a treatise on inconvenient attraction — teaser.

pairing — undercover prince satoru x servant reader

synopsis : satoru is many things: a crown prince in disguise, a so-called eunuch draped in silk and secrets, and entirely too clever for his own good. but when you appear in the middle of palace chaos—calm, competent, and wholly unimpressed—satoru finds himself watching a little too closely. you cure what the court physicians couldn’t, ask the wrong questions with the right kind of precision, and somehow manage to look like you belong everywhere and nowhere at once. he tells himself it’s curiosity. it’s duty. it’s absolutely not personal.

but then again, inconvenient things rarely are.

tags — oneshot, apothecary diaries au, fluff, humor, slow burn, sexual tension, secret identities, enemies to lovers, royal court politics, witty banter, eventual smut

a/n: fic has been posted here <3

a calamity of cosmic proportions had just befallen the imperial court—or so the wrenching sobs reverberating through the silk-draped pavilion would have you believe. 

a hairpin, delicate as a poet’s ego, had snapped clean in two, its jade heart fractured like the dreams of a dynasty on the wane. the air thrummed with tragedy, thick with the scent of jasmine oil and the faint, acrid tang of ink from a nearby scholar’s overturned pot, as if the universe itself had taken offense at the ornament’s demise.

at the pavilion’s heart, satoru held court like the star of an imperial opera, his presence a spectacle of calculated excess. 

“it is truly a heartbreak of craftsmanship,” he intoned, cradling the broken shard as if it were a soldier felled in a war only he had the imagination to mourn. the jade caught the morning light, refracting it into mournful glints that danced across the lacquered floor—enough sorrowful symbolism to inspire three ballads, a minor diplomatic incident, and at least one overwrought ode penned by a lovesick scribe. “this was no mere ornament, madam. this—this was a poem carved in bone and stone, an elegy to elegance itself.”

the concubine, lady mei, sniffled with the fervor of a stage heroine, her silk sleeves fluttering like moth wings as she dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief monogrammed in gold thread. each sob was a performance, perfectly pitched, as if she’d rehearsed it in front of a mirror. her powdered cheeks glistened with artfully placed tears, and the faintest smudge of kohl at her eyes suggested she’d mastered the art of crying without ruining her face.

satoru sighed, the sound heartfelt and entirely performative, a maestro playing to an audience of one. he tilted his head just so, pale hair spilling over his shoulder like moonlight cascading over porcelain, catching the light with a shimmer that felt choreographed.

a breeze curled through the open lattice, lifting the hem of his embroidered robes with such enviable timing it seemed less nature’s doing and more the work of a bribed servant sliding a screen open at precisely the right second. with satoru, either was plausible—nay, probable.

behind him loomed suguru, a study in austere black, hands clasped behind his back with the rigidity of a man bracing for chaos. his expression was carved from stone, all sharp angles and weary resignation, as if he’d been sculpted to endure satoru’s theatrics for eternity. his hair, tied with habitual neatness, let a few rogue strands graze his cheek, like even his appearance knew better than to fully relax in such company. 

his gaze skimmed the scene, heavy with the exhaustion of a man who’d watched this exact farce, with only slight variations in props, more times than the palace cats had stolen fish from the kitchens.

“perhaps,” satoru declared, raising the jade fragment aloft as if offering it to the heavens for judgment, “we must mourn it properly. a vigil, steeped in moonlight? a commemorative tea ceremony, with cups etched in sorrow?”

“a funeral pyre,” suguru muttered, voice dry as the desert beyond the red cliffs. “i’ll fetch the kindling. maybe some incense to mask the absurdity.”

satoru ignored him with the serene grace of a man who’d long since perfected the art of selective hearing, his eyes never leaving lady mei’s trembling form.

“fear not, my lady,” he vowed, dropping to one knee with the flourish of a knight swearing fealty in a tale spun by drunken bards. he clasped her hands, his fingers cool and deliberate, adorned with a single ring that glinted like a conspirator’s promise. “i shall find a replacement—more exquisite, more divine, more… unbreakable. yes, even if i must scour every silk merchant, every jade carver, every whispering bazaar between here and the red cliffs, where the winds themselves sing of lost treasures.”

he let the silence stretch, heavy with portent, as if the gods themselves were taking notes. lady mei gasped, her breath catching like a plucked zither string. a single tear traced her cheek, glistening like a dew-drop on a lotus petal—a prop so perfectly placed it deserved its own stanza.

mission accomplished. satoru’s lips twitched, the faintest ghost of a smirk, gone before anyone but the narrator could catch it.

behind them, suguru pinched the bridge of his nose with the slow, methodical frustration of a man who knew it would do nothing but give his fingers something to do. his sigh was a silent prayer to deities who’d clearly abandoned him long ago.

when the theatrics finally subsided—lady mei comforted, her handkerchief sodden, the jade fragments swaddled in silk like relics of a forgotten saint—satoru glided from the pavilion with the poise of a swan who knew exactly how devastatingly beautiful he looked mid-stride. he trailed perfume, a heady blend of sandalwood and smug self-satisfaction, curling behind him like incense smoke in a temple to his own ego.

suguru followed, a silent shadow with a scowl etched so deeply it might’ve been carved by a jade artisan. his boots clicked against the stone tiles, each step a muted protest against the absurdity he was forced to endure.

once they slipped beneath a carved archway into a quieter corridor, the performance peeled away like silk robes sliding over lacquered floors. satoru’s spine straightened, the exaggerated flourishes vanished, and he walked with the easy, unyielding grace of a man born to command palaces and bend power to his will. 

the air here was cooler, scented with wisteria and the faint, medicinal bite of herbs drying in a distant courtyard, their bitterness a sharp counterpoint to the corridor’s polished serenity.

“what?” satoru asked, eyes gleaming with faux innocence as he adjusted the sapphire-studded sash at his waist, the fabric whispering against his fingers. “i was being helpful.”

“you were being ridiculous,” suguru replied, his voice flat as the surface of a frozen lake, though a faint twitch at his jaw betrayed the effort it took to keep it that way.

“ridiculously helpful,” satoru corrected, flashing a grin that could outshine the emperor’s polished jade throne. he flicked open his fan with a snap, the painted silk catching the light like a peacock’s tail, waved it twice, then forgot it entirely, leaving it to dangle like an afterthought.

suguru shot him a sidelong glance, more sigh than stare, the kind of look that carried the weight of a thousand unspoken retorts. 

now that the mask had fallen, subtle details sharpened into focus: the glint of satoru’s ceremonial earrings, small but forged from gold so pure they whispered of plundered kingdoms; the way his sleeves, just a touch too long, brushed the corridor’s tiles with a soft, deliberate drag, like a painter’s final stroke; his hair, nearly waist-length, swaying like a silk banner unfurled for a procession, catching the latticed sunlight in a cascade of silver.

“a hairpin emergency,” suguru deadpanned, his voice slicing through the air like a blade through silk. “you skipped a logistics meeting—where, might i add, we were discussing grain shortages—for a hairpin emergency.”

“it was tragic. deeply symbolic. that hairpin was the fragility of desire itself, suguru,” satoru said, his tone lofty, as if lecturing a particularly dense pupil. he gestured with the fan, now remembered, its arc as grand as a courtier’s bow. “a metaphor for the fleeting nature of beauty, shattered in an instant.”

suguru glanced skyward, seeking divine intervention from a heavens that had long since stopped answering. 

the corridor stretched before them, vermilion pillars rising in regal procession, their surfaces carved with dragons that seemed to smirk at the absurdity below. sunlight filtered through the screens, painting latticed shadows that danced over the tiles like a secret script only the palace walls could read.

“and your grand plan to unravel the true nature of court politics,” suguru said, each word measured, “involves… hosting interpretive grief sessions for concubines over broken accessories?”

“the best disguises become second nature,” satoru replied, winking with the confidence of a man who’d never doubted himself a day in his life. “besides, would you rather i play the stuffy prince, droning on about grain quotas and tax ledgers?”

suguru didn’t respond, which, to satoru, was as good as a standing ovation.

they turned a corner, the air shifting as they passed a courtyard where a fountain burbled, its water catching the light like scattered pearls. a pair of palace cats, sleek as whispers, darted across their path, their eyes glinting with the smugness of creatures who answered to no one. 

a servant, her robes the muted gray of dawn, bowed deeply as they passed, her gaze fixed on the floor, though the faintest tremble in her hands suggested she’d heard the hairpin saga and was bracing for its inevitable sequel.

and beneath it all, beyond the red walls and silk screens, something stirred. not fate—not yet. but close, like the first ripple on a still pond, or the faintest creak of a palace gate left ajar. 

for now, there was only satoru, strutting like a peacock in the emperor’s garden, his voice lilting, his feathers flashing in the sunlight—and suguru, the poor bastard doomed to trail him, shoulders squared, expression grim, half a pace behind like the world’s most disapproving shadow, forever caught in the orbit of a star that burned too bright to ever dim.

the palace hummed with a frenetic buzz—not the charming, festival-lanterns-and-rice-wine kind, where moonlight glints off sake cups and laughter spills like cherry blossoms, but the swarming, fretful, everyone’s-talking-and-no-one’s-hearing kind that screamed someone important was either sick, scandalized, or both. 

lucky for the court, it was a two-for-one special: the emperor’s favored concubine, lady hua, had taken ill, and the whispers swirling through the vermilion halls were ripe with intrigue sharp enough to cut silk.

it began with fainting spells, delicate as a willow branch snapping under snow. then came the headaches, each one described with the reverence of a poet lamenting lost love.

by the time rumors slithered to satoru’s ears, the court physicians had added skin lesions to the list—delicate ones, naturally, because heaven forbid a woman of the inner court suffer anything less than poetic. “female temperament,” the physicians declared with the smugness of men who’d never questioned their own brilliance, waving it off as a trifle. “probably just the summer heat, thickened by her delicate constitution.”

maybe it was. maybe it wasn’t. but satoru was bored—a state as dangerous as a spark in a lacquered pavilion when paired with his curiosity and the kind of power that hid beneath shimmering silk like a blade in a jeweled sheath.

he sprawled across a divan like a cat claiming its throne, pale hair spilling over the brocade cushion in a cascade that caught the lantern light like spun silver. “i want to see her,” he said lazily, one hand dangling over the edge, fingers brushing the cool jade inlay of the table beside him.

the air carried the faint sweetness of osmanthus from a nearby brazier, undercut by the sharp bite of ink drying on a discarded scroll.

suguru didn’t look up from the scroll he was pretending to read, arms crossed over his dark robes like a disapproving older sibling teetering on the edge of committing murder by eye-roll alone. his hair, tied with a cord of black silk, gleamed faintly in the slanted light, as if even it resented being dragged into satoru’s orbit.

“the emperor hasn’t summoned you,” he said, voice flat, though the faintest twitch of his brow betrayed his dwindling patience.

“that’s the beauty of being a fake eunuch,” satoru replied, already rising with the fluid grace of a dancer who knew every eye was on him. his robes—silver threaded with blue embroidery, obnoxiously tasteful—shimmered like moonlight on a still pond, the hem brushing the polished floor with a whisper. “every door swings open if you smile just right and flash a bit of charm.”

suguru exhaled through his nose, a sound that carried the weight of a thousand unspoken curses. “your highness, court gossip is beneath your station.”

“nothing is beneath my station when i’m playing eunuch,” satoru chirped, swiping a rice cake from a lacquered tray as he sauntered toward the door. he popped it into his mouth, the sesame seeds crunching faintly, and shot suguru a grin that was equal parts mischief and menace. “in fact, it’s half the fun.”

and just like that, he was gone, robes flaring behind him like a comet’s tail, leaving a trail of sandalwood perfume and impending chaos. 

suguru muttered a curse under his breath—something about peacocks and their inevitable reckoning—and followed, because someone had to keep the idiot from plummeting headfirst into disaster.

what they found at lady hua’s quarters was chaos distilled into a single, suffocating room. maids scurried like ants fleeing a crushed nest, their silk slippers whispering frantically against the floor. 

physicians argued in hushed but venomous tones, their sleeves flapping like indignant birds, while someone—likely a junior attendant—sobbed into a brass basin, the sound muffled but piercing. the air reeked of camphor, sharp and medicinal, tangled with the cloying sweetness of sandalwood incense and the sour undercurrent of barely-contained hysteria. 

a breeze from an open screen carried the faint tang of lotus blossoms from the courtyard, but it did little to ease the oppressive weight of the room.

satoru leaned against the doorframe, one hand languidly fanning himself with a jade-inlaid fan, its painted silk fluttering like a butterfly’s wing. the other hand rested lightly on the fan’s hilt, fingers tracing the carved dragon as if it might whisper secrets.

he looked like a man at the theater, idly amused by a tragedy he had no stake in—and to be fair, he was. his eyes, sharp as a hawk’s beneath their lazy half-lids, scanned the room with the casual precision of someone who missed nothing.

then his gaze snagged on something—or rather, someone.

you.

in the heart of the maelstrom, you were an island of calm, steady and still as a stone in a raging river.

you weren’t dressed like a physician—no embroidered insignia, no silk badge pinned to your belt like the pompous healers squawking nearby. your robe was simple, utilitarian, the color of weathered slate, its sleeves pinned up past your elbows to reveal forearms smudged with the faint green of crushed herbs. 

you crouched beside lady hua, movements quick, efficient, precise, as if the chaos around you was merely background noise to be tuned out. the room bent around you, maids and physicians alike giving you a wide berth, like you were the eye of a storm they dared not cross.

satoru straightened, just a fraction, the motion so subtle it might’ve gone unnoticed by anyone but suguru. his fan slowed, the silk shivering in the pause.

“who’s that?” he murmured, voice low, the words curling like smoke as he tilted his head, pale hair slipping over his shoulder like a waterfall of moonlight.

suguru had already clocked you, his arms now crossed tighter over his chest, the dark fabric of his robes creasing under the pressure. his jaw tightened, a flicker of suspicion in his eyes. “not a court physician. not officially,” he said, each word clipped, as if he resented having to state the obvious.

“well,” satoru said, his lips curving into a smile that was equal parts intrigue and trouble, “now she’s interesting.”

you were wrapping lady hua’s wrist in linen soaked in something pungent—fangfeng root, if satoru’s nose didn’t betray him, mixed with the bitter bite of yanhusuo and a faint trace of ginseng. old-school herbs, the kind not dispensed in the palace’s pristine apothecary but ground by hand in shadowed apothecaries far from the emperor’s gaze. 

your fingers moved with the deftness of a musician, tying the linen with a knot so precise it could’ve shamed a sailor. beside you sat a worn wooden box, its corners scuffed from years of travel, but its contents were meticulously organized—vials labeled in a script too small to read from the door, tools gleaming faintly in the lantern light.

satoru’s eyes narrowed as he watched you work. your movements were too clean, too practiced, like someone who’d stitched wounds in the dark long before stepping into a palace. 

lady hua groaned softly, her face pale as the moon, and you pressed your fingers to her pulse, murmuring something under your breath. there was no softness in it, no coddling, just the calm precision of someone who knew exactly what they were doing—and didn’t care who saw.

and then—your eyes.

they flicked up, not to the patient, not to the bickering physicians, but to the room’s edges. to the guards in their lacquered armor, their spears glinting like threats in the corner. to the doors, half-open, where shadows shifted in the corridor. to the windows, where the lattice cast jagged shadows across the floor. 

your gaze moved like a soldier’s, mapping exits, calculating distances, noting every potential threat with a speed that was almost instinctual.

satoru felt a thrill crawl up his spine, sharp and electric, like the first crack of thunder before a storm.

“she flinched when the guards shifted,” he whispered, his fan now still, its silk drooping like a forgotten prop.

suguru’s expression didn’t change, but his eyes darkened, a storm cloud gathering behind them. “trauma?” he asked, voice low, testing the word like it might bite.

“training,” satoru replied, folding his fan with a slow, deliberate snap, the sound cutting through the room’s din like a blade. “she’s not afraid of chaos. she’s afraid of uniforms. of order that isn’t hers.”

he glanced at you again, and this time, you felt it. your shoulders stiffened, just for a heartbeat, as if you’d sensed a predator in the room. 

you didn’t look up, didn’t meet his eyes, but the way you angled your body—back to the wall, never cornered, one hand hovering near your box like it held more than herbs—told him everything. 

your kit was no mere healer’s tool; it was a survivor’s arsenal, scuffed and worn but as familiar to you as your own skin. the faint scar on your knuckle, barely visible, gleamed like a silent boast of battles won.

“is that why you’re smiling?” suguru asked, his voice bone-dry, cutting through satoru’s thoughts like a knife through silk.

satoru didn’t answer. not aloud. but oh, yes, he was smiling, lips curved like a crescent moon, because the emperor’s concubine might be fading, her breath shallow as a winter breeze.

but you?

you were alive—vibrantly, dangerously alive, a spark in a room full of smoke. your every movement screamed secrets, and your eyes held a story no one in this palace had the guts to read. 

lady hua’s illness might’ve been the court’s obsession, but you were something else entirely—a puzzle, a threat, a flame flickering just out of reach.

and satoru, with his boredom and his power and his peacock’s flair, had just found a problem worth solving. the air thrummed with it, heavy with the scent of camphor and intrigue, as the palace walls seemed to lean in, whispering of the chaos yet to come.

[sunni-stuff]

You, the butchers daughter, end up stalking your father's new hire.

The first time you see him, he’s hauling a side of beef off the truck like it weighs nothing, muscles taut beneath his apron. His broad shoulders stretch the fabric, veins running thick down his forearms as he grips the meat hook. The sleeves of his shirt are rolled up, revealing strong arms marred with faded scars—some thin and clean, others jagged, stories you’ll never hear. His hands, wrapped in black gloves, are steady as he works, but you wonder what they’d feel like bare.

Then there’s the mask. Black, snug, covering everything from the bridge of his nose down, leaving only his sharp, calculating eyes visible. Dark and unreadable, they barely glance your way. You’ve tried to catch him slipping, maybe when he wipes sweat from his forehead or adjusts the apron strings that crisscross his powerful back, but he’s careful—never lets you see too much.

The tattoos peek out beneath his sleeves and creep along his collarbones where his shirt dips. Flames coil around his wrists, swallowing skulls with hollow eyes. A soldier, masked like him, grips a rifle among the chaos. A bomb mid-fall, grinning shark teeth, dog tags suspended in ink—each piece a fragment of something unspoken. You’ve glimpsed ink curling over the tendons of his neck, bold lines, and intricate designs that hint at a past you aren’t meant to know. It’s all war, death, and destruction, an unspoken story carved into his flesh. When he moves, the shadows shift over the ink, making it seem alive. You want to ask, to pry, but he’s as unreadable as the art on his skin

He doesn’t talk much, just nods when your father gives orders. The others joke around, laugh, make noise—but he’s silent, methodical, unsettling in the way he moves like he’s done this before. Like butchering meat is nothing new to him.

But what frustrates you the most? He never looks at you for more than a second. Never lingers, never smirks, never acknowledges the way you watch him. As if you’re invisible. And that, more than anything, makes you want to figure him out.

At first, it was just curiosity. No man had ever outright ignored you before—not when you batted your lashes, not when you "accidentally" brushed too close, not when you lingered just a little too long in his space.

But him? He barely acknowledged you. A nod if you were lucky. A grunt if you spoke directly to him. Most of the time, he just kept working, muscles flexing under his apron, strong hands wielding a cleaver with practiced ease.

The others—your father’s old hands, the regulars who came in for their weekly cuts—would’ve tripped over their feet to get your attention. They always had. You were used to the lingering stares, the awkward compliments, the way men fumbled through conversations just to keep you talking. So why didn't he?

It was maddening.

So, you did what any sane young woman would do.

You prodded. You poked. You tested.

You stood too close, pretending to inspect the marbled meat he was slicing, only for him to shift away without a word. You asked him pointless questions, just to hear his voice—low, rough, with an accent you couldn’t quite place—only for him to answer in as few words as possible before returning to work.

It became a game. You knocked things over in his path just to see if he’d catch them (he always did). You “forgot” something near his station just to have a reason to come back. You even tried teasing, playfully calling him mystery man under your breath.

Nothing.

Not a flinch, not a smirk, not even a flicker of amusement.

That should have been the end of it.

But then you started watching. Not just at work—no, you started watching him.

The way he left every night at the same time. The way he took the same route, never straying, never rushing. The way his head tilted slightly whenever he passed certain corners, as if he was listening.

It fascinated you. And when fascination turns to obsession, well…

That’s when you started following him.

You followed him—never too far, never too close—always careful, watching him move through the streets with an air of confidence that seemed to thrive in the quiet of the night. For weeks, this had become a routine, one that started innocently enough. Just a few blocks at first, just enough to ensure that he was who you thought he was. But over time, the habit deepened. Each night, you followed him further, until it became something you couldn’t help but do.

Yet, despite your best efforts, he never made any stops, never took any detours. He just kept walking, heading toward some destination that only he knew. And every time you reached the point where you would turn around, you still didn’t have any answers—no clue what he was up to or where he was going. Just that he moved through the night like someone who belonged there. Unfazed, untouchable.

Then one night, the weather turned.

The rain hit hard, cold droplets splattering against your skin, soaking through your jacket in seconds. You’d stopped for a split second—just long enough to get the damn zipper up, to pull the hood over your head—but in that moment, he'd vanished.

Your heart thudded in your chest as you cursed under your breath, glancing quickly down the wet street, searching for the familiar outline of his tall frame. But there was nothing. No sign of him.

“What the hell?” you muttered to yourself, your voice drowned out by the downpour. You couldn’t let him slip away. Not now, not after all this time.

You started to jog, your boots splashing in the puddles as your eyes darted left and right, scanning the alleyways and storefronts. Your breath came faster as you pushed yourself harder, frustration building. You weren’t going to lose him now.

Then, suddenly, your body was jerked backward, your breath caught in your throat as a strong hand pressed over your mouth. The air around you was thick with the scent of rain-soaked pavement and something darker, something more familiar.

Before you could even react, you were shoved hard against the cold brick of an alleyway wall, your back colliding with the rough surface, your head snapping back slightly from the impact. Your pulse spiked in your ears as panic started to claw at your chest, but the firm grip on your mouth held you silent, still.

For a second, everything went still. The rain beat against your jacket, heavy and relentless, but there was no sound, no movement—just the suffocating pressure of his hand over your mouth and the close proximity of his body.

You felt the heat radiating off him, the sheer strength of his presence as if the space between you was no longer your own. The tension in his arm, holding you against the wall, was undeniable. He was in control.

Your heart raced, but it wasn’t from fear. It was from the frustration, the adrenaline coursing through your veins, the urge to finally break the silence between you. You had followed him, hunted him, and now here he was—this close. The tension was suffocating, and you couldn’t decide if you were going to scream or say something sharp.

But before you could gather your thoughts, his voice broke through the storm. Low, smooth, with an edge of something dark. “Thought you’d lost me, didn’t you?” His words came muffled through the mask, but the tone was unmistakable.

He didn’t seem in a rush, like he knew you were trapped in the moment. You didn’t even know how long he’d been standing there, or how he’d managed to close the distance between you so quickly. The rain drummed relentlessly on the alley’s pavement, but his eyes, those sharp, dark eyes, never wavered from you.

“Can’t say I’m impressed by your little game,” he murmured, fingers brushing against your cheek in a movement so deliberate it made your breath catch. “You follow me for weeks, but never thought of what might happen when you get too close.”

“Were you hoping to catch me doing something interesting?" he asked, his breath a warm tickle on your ear, sending a shiver down your spine. There was a calmness in his voice, like he was in complete command, and the way his body molded against yours told you he was used to people being in positions like this.

“I…” You swallowed, struggling to free your voice. “I wanted to see if you’d… notice me.” You hadn’t thought this far ahead. Why had you been following him? What had you hoped to find? You were just a silly girl who wanted the attention of a man who wanted nothing to do with you.

Simon’s laugh was low, almost quiet, but it carried a weight to it that you didn’t expect. It was rich with amusement, deep and rough, and it rumbled against the tension hanging between you both. The sudden sound caught you off guard, your breath catching in your throat as you tried to make sense of it.

For a moment, you were frozen, not sure whether to be annoyed or confused. Had you just made a fool of yourself in front of him? Why was he laughing?

You swallowed hard, trying to steady your nerves, but it didn’t work. His laughter still echoed in your head, and your voice came out shaky. "W-what’s so funny?"

He didn’t immediately answer. Instead, you could feel him shift slightly, his hand easing off your wrist but still close enough to make you aware of the power he held. Simon took a breath, the rain still pouring around you both, but his presence was like a shield, solid and immovable.

"You," he finally said, his voice quieter now, but the amusement was still there, like a shadow in his tone. "You think I didn’t notice you? You’ve been practically waving a flag." His fingers brushed lightly over your wrist, tracing the spot where he’d gripped you, his touch soft now, almost teasing.

"I wasn’t… I wasn’t obvious," you managed to protest, though it came out weaker than you’d like. You could feel your cheeks heating, your frustration mixing with something else you weren’t ready to admit.

"All this time, and you still think I didn’t know?" He shook his head, though you couldn't see his face behind that damn mask. “Sweetheart, you’ve been following me around like a lost puppy, and I was just waiting to see when you'd finally stop pretending.”

For a moment, you stood there, silence pressing in between you both, broken only by the sound of the rain pelting the alley around you. Simon’s words lingered, his laugh still echoing in your mind. You weren’t sure if you were frustrated or flustered or both, but you knew one thing for sure—he had misunderstood what you asked.

Finally, you spoke, your voice clear despite the uncertainty brewing inside you. “That’s not what I meant,” you muttered, taking a step back, shaking your head. You weren’t sure why, but you needed to ask, needed to get to the bottom of it. “Do you have a girlfriend?” you asked bluntly, your eyes never leaving his face.

Simon’s expression didn’t change much, his gaze still sharp but unbothered. “No,” he replied simply.

That answer made something inside you tighten, though you couldn’t quite pinpoint why. But you weren’t done. You shifted your weight, suddenly daring to ask the next question, the one you knew would make him uncomfortable. “Do you find me attractive?”

His eyes flickered for a split second, the usual guarded look breaking, but he nodded, his voice low. “Yes.”

The answer hung in the air like a challenge. Your heart was racing, your mind spinning, trying to connect the dots between what he said and what he did. “So why,” you demanded, “don’t you ever look at me? In the shop, I mean. Why don’t you notice me like the other guys do? They stare, flirt, and… well, pay attention.”

For the first time since you’d started this strange back-and-forth, Simon looked genuinely confused. He stepped back slightly, brows furrowing as he regarded you. “I don’t understand,” he said slowly. “I do pay attention.”

You blinked, taken aback by his response. “What do you mean?”

Simon’s gaze softened just a fraction as he tilted his head. “During lunch... I cut your deli the way you like it—slices thin enough you can stack ‘em. And when I’m working, I stay in your section. Always have.” He paused, his expression almost apologetic. “Flirting with my boss’s daughter at work isn’t exactly the best move. But…”

You stared at him, your mind trying to make sense of his words.

He stepped closer, his presence filling the space between you both, his voice lowering to a near whisper. “But work’s over now, lass. And here we are.”

You could feel the heat rising to your cheeks, the real meaning of his words sinking in, and suddenly, the whole night felt like it had shifted, like the game you were playing had just changed.

You opened your mouth, about to say something—anything—to break the silence, to clarify what had just happened, but before you could speak, Simon moved with startling speed.

One moment, you were standing there, staring up at him, and the next, he had lifted you effortlessly into his arms. Your breath caught in your throat as his strong hands gripped you, pulling you flush against his chest, his heat seeping into your bones despite the chill of the rain.

“Your house or mine?”

[dakusan]

S h u t U p a n d S i t S t i l l

Tattoo Artist!Kim Seungmin x Reader | He tattoos like a surgeon and fucks like a sadist. You showed up for ink. He gave you obsession.

🔞synopsis: Tattoo Artist AU. you walked into NO SAINT INK for a rib tattoo—left with trembling thighs, his hoodie around your neck, and a cock you can't stop dreaming about. Seungmin is quiet, sharp-tongued, and mean in the best ways: he bends you over the bench, fucks you until you cry, then wipes you down and feeds you strawberries like you're his favourite masterpiece. It starts with your seventh tattoo. Ends with you moaning his name every night, in his bed, in his hoodie, with his fingers under your panties. This isn’t just art. It’s obsession. And now he’s your boyfriend too—lucky you.

💌a/n: i literally don’t remember who requested tattoo artist seungmin first. either way. you got it. the man who fucks you stupid then wipes you down like he’s cleaning his favourite mug. HE’S HERE. AND HE’S IN LOVE (but would rather die than admit it out loud) 🫶🍓🖤. also? 🔔 THE MINI SERIES ORDER HAS BEEN DECREED 🔔 next up: JEONGIN. after that: ⟡ MINHO ⟡ CHANGBIN ⟡ FELIX and then finally—drumroll, throat clear, studio lights flickering— BANG CHRISTOPHER FUCKING CHAN. the cherry on top. the tattoo daddy. the final boss of soft filth and filthy softness. pray for me. p.s. if you liked it, if you screamed, if your thighs clenched even ONCE—REBLOG IT. LIKE?? yes. COMMENT?? also yes. p.p.s. if i catch you in the notes saying “need him biblically,” “he wiped me down like a canvas,” or “not the strawberries 😭”—just know i love you. violently 💋 p.p.s. see u next Tethered Tuesday with Jeonginnie~

⚠️ warnings: 18+ | MINORS DNI | Bench sex / semi-public (studio after hours) | Mean dom!Seungmin | Praise kink, brat taming, overstimulation | Spit play, creampie, multiple orgasms | Oral (m receiving), fingering, unprotected sex | Aftercare king behaviour | Reader is shameless and mildly unhinged | Seungmin is quiet, dangerous, and obsessed

📌 Please read responsibly. Hydrate. Stretch. You are the CEO of your own coochie.

📍credits: dividers by @cafekitsune

🎧 » Charmer — Stray Kids « 0:58 ─〇───── 3:09 ⇄ ◃◃ ⅠⅠ ▹▹ ↻

Seoul, South Korea. Tuesday, 3:12 PM.

You push the door open with your hip, bells jingling overhead as warm incense curls toward the ceiling — sandalwood, patchouli, something citrusy beneath it all. It’s always like this at NO SAINT INK. Chill beats humming low, Felix probably somewhere in the back rearranging his piercing tools like he’s Marie Kondo with a needle fetish, and—

“Fuck,” a voice mutters from behind a half-drawn curtain. You grin. Found him.

Kim Seungmin.

The reason you have six tattoos—and the reason you keep coming back for more.

You strut past the front desk like you own the place, setting down your tray of iced americanos and pastries with the confidence of someone deeply annoying. Your seventh session. Four healed pieces, one still peeling, and the newest one inked just last month. And of all the artists here, you keep picking the same one. On purpose.

Seungmin doesn’t look up at first. He’s sketching something at his desk—lined in ruler-straight precision, every pen stroke exact, no wasted ink. Hair slightly tousled. Sleeves rolled. Black gloves already on like he’s been prepping to ruin someone’s day.

He finally lifts his eyes—and groans.

“Why are you here again?”

“Hi to you too, sunshine,” you chirp, sipping your iced coffee with maximum slurp.

“I told Felix to screen your bookings.”

“I bribed him with matcha cake. Also, he says hi.” You swing the drink tray toward him with flair. “Got you your usual. Thought you could use the energy. You looked a little pale last time.”

He stares. “You’re lucky I don’t stab clients.”

“You already do,” you smile sweetly, plopping into the client chair. “It’s called tattooing.”

You met him through Felix, of course—NO SAINT INK’s glittery menace and certified piercing god. You came in on a whim two years ago for a constellation of helix piercings and left with a phone background of Felix’s stupid peace sign and a mouth full of swear words after he showed you Seungmin’s tattoo portfolio. Clean lines. Razor-sharp contrast. Occasional anatomical sketches paired with poetry in tiny, deliberate script.

When you told Felix you wanted something specific for your first tattoo—a geometric wolf across your ribcage—he nodded once and said, “Seungmin’s your guy.”

You’ve hated him ever since.

He’s impossible. Quiet, dry, sarcastic in a way that feels like a dare. Doesn’t flirt. Doesn’t smile. He just tattoos like he’s building something permanent—measured, focused, untouchable. But when you’re the one under his needle? His fingers linger a little too long on your waist. His voice drops when he tells you to hold still. And you—being the insufferable brat you are—live to poke at the ice until it cracks.

Which is why you’re here today. For tattoo number seven.

From him. Again.

“Let me guess,” he says, sipping the coffee despite himself. “Some half-baked Pinterest inspo you expect me to redesign overnight?”

“I’m hurt,” you pout dramatically. “I actually brought a reference this time. Plus, I figured you missed me.”

“I miss peace and quiet.”

“Then why’d you pick a career where girls beg to get pinned under you?”

He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t move. Just says, “Get on the table before I change my mind.”

You smirk. There it is. That little twitch in his jaw. That flick of his tongue against the inside of his cheek when you say something just annoying enough to rattle the cage.

You pull out your sketch. “I want it here,” you say, lifting your shirt to gesture just below your sternum, to the space between your breasts and your ribs. “Delicate linework. Abstract. Your specialty.”

Seungmin stares. Then sighs. “You do realize I’ll have to touch you for placement.”

“Oh no,” you gasp, faux-innocent. “That would be terrible.”

He drops the clipboard with a snap.

“You’re unbearable.”

“You’re obsessed.”

Seungmin mutters something under his breath—probably a curse, probably in two languages—as he snatches your sketch and jerks his head toward the back hallway.

You follow with a smug little skip in your step.

The private rooms at NO SAINT INK are all artist-personalized. Seungmin's? It’s all dark wood, clean steel, framed minimalist pieces, and surgical-grade tidiness.

Cedar diffuses from a sleek black humidifier in the corner. The light is warm-toned and angled perfectly. His iPad sits on a tidy desk, stylus already beside it like it was placed there with a ruler. And on the windowsill—three succulents. Perfectly spaced. You teased him about it once and he deadpan replied, “One for every time you’ve wasted my time.”

He drops your paper sketch on his desk and sits, spinning the iPad toward him with a sigh. “You’ve got five minutes to explain what the hell this is.”

You plop down in the rolling stool beside him, leaning your chin on your hand. “It’s art. Use your imagination.”

He gives you a long, deeply unimpressed look.

“Fine,” you huff. “It’s… inspired by sacred geometry. Like a mandala, but cracked open. Fragmented. I want it to feel like breaking and healing at the same time. Like symmetry trying to reassemble itself.”

Seungmin blinks. Then blinks again.

“…You pulled that out of your ass just now.”

“I did not.”

“Did too.”

“Seungmin.”

He groans and starts sketching.

You watch, quiet now—because this is the part you actually love. The way his fingers move when he draws. Controlled, calculated. Not robotic. Not sterile. There’s warmth there, if you know where to look. And you do.

He sips the coffee you brought like it’s medicine. Then grabs a croissant and bites it with grim resolve, like chewing it too quickly might register as gratitude.

“I still think you bribed Felix with blackmail.”

“He was emotionally weak. I seized the moment.”

“You’re a menace.”

“And you’re drawing me the prettiest trauma-symbol I’ve ever seen, so who really wins here?”

He doesn’t answer. But his pen slows. His strokes get sharper. He’s in his element now. You recognize the shift—the way he leans in closer to the iPad, slightly squints, drags his stylus with deliberate precision.

The design blooms under his hand: a fractured mandala, circular symmetry interrupted by jagged arcs and broken segments. Clean dotwork in the center, a few splashes of abstract floral curls breaking out near the bottom edge. Like order blooming from chaos. Like something whole again.

“You’re disgusting,” you whisper, stunned. “That’s perfect.”

“I know.”

“Arrogant.”

“You begged me for it.”

“I said please once and you moaned like I kicked your dog.”

He flicks his eyes to you, slow. “Say please again.”

You blink.

Then smirk. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

But he’s already reaching for the print button.

“Let’s stencil this,” he says coolly, rising from his chair and heading towards the printer to print the design out. “I’d like to be rid of you before sundown.”

“Careful,” you say, trailing him out of the room. “One day you’ll miss me when I’m gone.”

“Promise?”

“Never.”

While he is busy with the printer, you kick your shoes off and climb onto the bed like it’s yours.

Technically, it’s a client bench. Adjustable, padded, wrapped in fresh black vinyl. But in your mind? It’s a throne. A stage. A perfect little altar for the games you play with Kim Seungmin.

You wiggle into place, tugging your top over your head in one smooth motion. You’re down to your bralette now—delicate black lace with scalloped trim, something clearly chosen on purpose. Not slutty. Not overt. But just enough to see Seungmin’s jaw tighten when he walks back in.

He’s still fiddling with the stencil printer—cutting the sheet, prepping it with solution. Focused. Professional. Cold, as ever.

You lounge, arms folded behind your head, watching him from the bed like you’re sunbathing and he’s just lucky to be in your light.

“You gonna stare the whole time?” he murmurs without looking up.

“Am I bothering you?”

“Always.”

You grin.

Just then—click—the door swings open, and Felix’s voice rings through the room.

“Hey, demon duo—just letting you know I’m locking up soon. Jisung dipped early, and Chan-hyung’s out all day, so it’s just you two in the studio for the rest of the afternoon.” He wiggles his brows. “Try not to kill each other. Or fuck. Or both.”

Seungmin doesn’t look up. “Go away, Felix.”

“Don’t be rude. I brought you into this world.”

“I was here first.”

“Emotionally? Never.” Felix flicks his brows toward you. “Good luck, baby girl. If he’s mean, just call me and I’ll stab his tires.”

You salute him. “Noted. Drive safe.”

With a wink, Felix is gone. The click of the studio door locking behind him feels final. Loud.

Seungmin exhales slowly. Then turns.

You’re still lying there on the bed, head propped, shirt discarded, body sprawled like a damn invitation.

His gaze flickers once. Down. Then away. Then back again, like it physically pains him to give you that much attention.

He lifts the stencil paper, holds it up to the light. “You know this placement is gonna be tricky.”

“Delicate linework on soft skin,” you echo sweetly. “Your specialty.”

He levels you with a look. Flat. Dangerous. Amused.

“…You’re going to be impossible today.”

“I’m always impossible.”

“No,” he says, slipping on gloves with a soft snap, “today it’s worse. Today you want something.”

You blink, feigning wide-eyed innocence. “Me? Never.”

He steps forward, slow and deliberate, stencil sheet in one hand, alcohol wipe in the other.

“Sit up,” he says, voice low. Commanding. “And lift your arms. I need a clean canvas.”

You obey—grinning like a menace—arms up, ribs exposed, breath catching slightly as the cold wipe grazes under the swell of your breast. He’s careful. Professional. Completely murderous about it.

The tension is a wire, pulled tight between you.

He smooths the stencil paper across your skin, presses down, then peels it back slowly, eyes trained on the imprint left behind.

It’s beautiful.

Nestled between your ribs, spanning just above your solar plexus: the fractured mandala blooms in fine linework, cracked yet radiant. His style. His hand. His art.

And now—it’s on you.

Seungmin looks at it for a beat too long.

Then: “Lie back.”

You do.

He adjusts the overhead lamp. Tilts your chin slightly. Brushes a single finger along your sternum, just below the stencil line.

You shiver.

He smirks.

“Try not to squirm this time,” he says. “You’ll fuck up the symmetry.”

Finally, Seungmin moves again. Gloves snap into place—tight, black latex stretched over knuckles and the fine lines of his fingers. You watch him through lowered lashes as he pours ink into the caps—his shade of black. You’ve learned that by now. Not too warm. Not too blue. Just sharp enough to slice through skin and stay.

The hum of the machine starts soft. Like a warning. Like a purr with teeth.

He looks at you once.

Just once.

And you know he’s not going to go easy.

“You good?” he asks, voice flat.

You nod, smug. “You always ask like you care.”

“I do care,” he mutters, tilting your chin again with a gloved hand. “Would be a shame if my art got fucked up because someone couldn’t keep still.”

Your eyes narrow. “Someone?”

He dips the needle, tests the line on a pad, and leans forward—right into your space. His breath ghosts over your lips.

“You.”

You roll your eyes and shift slightly, arms up, chest rising.

“God, you’re such a dick.”

His smirk could slice bone.

“And you’re still here. What does that say about you?”

You go to reply—but the first sting of the needle hits, and the breath punches from your lungs.

“F-fuck—!”

“Oh?” Seungmin says innocently, hand steady as he traces the mandala’s outer ring. “Is it too much already?”

You grit your teeth, exhale through your nose.

“No. Just... colder than I remembered.”

He hums like he doesn’t believe you. Like he knows what you’re really reacting to.

The first lines burn clean and sharp—stretching out beneath your skin, each pass as exact as a scalpel. Seungmin works in slow, confident strokes, one hand guiding your body where he needs it.

His fingers splay across your ribcage for tension. Firm. Possessive. Cruel.

He doesn’t speak at first. Just tattoos. Focused. Controlled.

But then—

“You know,” he murmurs, “most people don’t come back after their first rib piece.”

You hiss, fingers curling into the vinyl under you. “Most people don’t have your charming personality to keep them coming.”

He chuckles. Actually chuckles. Which should be illegal.

“You’re getting off on this, aren’t you?” he says.

The needle lifts for a second. He wipes gently with a cloth—soft at first, then firm, dragging over raw skin like he’s making a point.

You arch just slightly into his touch.

“I’m getting off on annoying you,” you counter, breath shaky.

His next line is faster. Harsher. He presses your side firmly, keeping you in place.

“Yeah?” he murmurs, low against your neck. “Then try really hard not to flinch right here.”

You flinch.

He clicks his tongue. “You’re so fucking bad at taking orders.”

“And you’re so—”

The machine stops.

He raises a brow. Wipes again. Slow this time.

“I’m so what?”

You glance down. Past his gloved hand on your ribs. Past the half-finished mandala. Past the slight smear of ink on your sternum.

You swallow.

“…focused.”

He smirks. Dangerous. “Damn right.”

And then he leans in—his next line beginning right where your breath catches worst. Right under your breast. Right on the spot where your heartbeat flutters like it’s begging him to notice.

You think he does.

Because his voice dips—deeper, smugger.

“Still think I missed you?”

You bite your lip.

Lying here. Under his hands. Wrapped in tension and black ink and the sharp, brutal pressure of a boy who tattoos like he’s angry at your skin for hiding itself from him—

You can’t lie.

Not to Seungmin.

“…yeah,” you say quietly.

His eyes flick up when you say it.

Yeah.

One syllable, quiet as breath, but loaded—the way confession always is. He doesn’t reply, not out loud. But the corner of his mouth lifts. Not a smirk. Something more dangerous. Something knowing.

He tilts your body slightly to one side, guiding you into the perfect angle, and you let him. Of course you let him.

“Still breathing okay?” he murmurs, even though he knows damn well what your breathing sounds like right now—shallow, choked, tight.

“Mhm,” you manage.

He presses back down with the needle. His strokes are smoother now, filling in the fractured petals of the mandala. He works just beneath the undercurve of your breast, just along the swell of sensitive skin—close enough to tease, close enough to make you ache.

You twitch. Barely. But enough.

He doesn’t say anything.

Doesn’t have to.

Because when he lifts the needle to switch angles, he uses his other hand to press firmly along your waist, holding you in place. His fingers curl just slightly into your side. Possessive. Grounding. A little cruel.

You shudder.

“Still can’t take orders,” he mutters.

You glare. “Still a fucking sadist.”

He hums. “Takes one to keep coming back.”

That earns him a punch to the shoulder—gentle, a flick of your knuckles—but he’s already grinning as he dips the needle again.

Your skin burns.

And still—still—you want him closer.

The ink trails down now, toward the bottom of the design. He’s practically tattooing over your stomach, your diaphragm pulsing with every breath. He’s leaning in lower too—head bent, nose just inches from your sternum. If he angled left, he’d be mouth-to-skin. If you arched just slightly, you’d be brushing right into him.

The tension hums in the air—hot, oppressive, close.

“You okay?” he asks, voice low again. This time it’s not mocking. It’s… loaded.

You nod once. “Are you?”

He glances up.

“Been better,” he mutters. Then, deliberate: “You squirm too much.”

You lift your eyes to his—taunting, daring. “You tattoo too slow.”

That gets you a sharp tap against your side.

“Careful.”

“Make me.”

The machine goes quiet.

You blink.

Seungmin sits back, gaze steady. Gloved fingers still resting against your stomach.

“You always this mouthy when someone’s on top of you?” he asks, like he doesn’t already know.

Your heart stutters.

You open your mouth—then close it.

He watches you for a second longer—until you shift just slightly under his stare. And only then does he lean back in, restart the machine, and murmur:

“Thought so.”

The final line burns sweeter than the rest.

Your breath hitches again—not from the pain, not really. You’ve gotten used to the sting. You chase it now. Crave it. Especially when it’s from him.

Seungmin finishes with a few last passes, the machine humming low and steady, until finally—he stops.

The silence after feels too quiet.

You blink up at the ceiling. It’s over. And suddenly your whole body is aware of how tense it’s been—your spine bowed slightly, your legs tight, your hands fisted in the sheets beneath you like you’ve been trying not to moan the whole time.

(You kind of have.)

He switches the machine off. The room exhales.

You stay lying down for a beat too long.

Then you hear the snap of his gloves being pulled off. The rustle of the rolling stool as he pushes back. The low clink of metal—his tools being set aside, wiped, lined up again with military precision. He always cleans up like he’s scrubbing evidence.

You sit up slowly, your ribs feel warm, raw—but not in a bad way.

He’s already tossed the gloves into the bin and is reaching for the mirror. You swing your legs over the side of the bed, biting your lip as you peek down.

The mandala gleams—inky black and flawless, nestled beneath the swell of your breasts like it belongs there.

Your breath catches.

“…fuck,” you whisper.

Seungmin glances over.

“Yeah,” he says. “I know.”

You shoot him a look. “Cocky much?”

He shrugs, reaching for his disinfectant spray like it’s nothing. “Not my fault I’m better than everyone else.”

You laugh—quiet, low, still slightly winded. “I should stop feeding your ego.”

“You should stop showing up half-naked and asking me to touch you for two hours.”

You freeze.

He doesn’t even blink.

You’re perched on the edge of the bed now, ribcage still bare. And he’s standing barely a foot away, still wiping his tools, still calm—but his jaw is tight again. His fingers grip the disinfectant bottle like he’s trying to decide whether to clean your table or ruin your day.

The air shifts.

Slowly, you stand—stepping forward. His eyes flick downward. Just once. Then he meets your gaze.

“…Seungmin.”

He raises a brow.

You step closer. Bold. A little breathless. “You never said thank you.”

He tilts his head. “For what?”

“The coffee. The pastries. My continued emotional support and aesthetic contribution to your client portfolio.”

He snorts. “Oh, right. How could I forget.”

“You could show some gratitude,” you say, smile growing. “Like, I dunno…”

A beat.

You lean in.

“…a kiss, maybe?”

He stares at you—flat, unreadable.

Then, finally, finally—his hands stop moving. The rag drops from his fingers. His jaw twitches once.

And he says, voice low: “Lay back down first.”

Your breath stops. “W-What—”

“For the aftercare,” he says—completely serious. But his eyes are glinting, the ghost of a smirk tugging at the corners. “Unless you want it to get infected.”

You huff, but you obey—because of course you do.

You lie back down, ribs lifting with every inhale, the crisp air of the studio brushing across your skin. Seungmin moves slowly—methodical, precise. He reaches for the healing balm and the bandage roll with the same focus he uses when prepping a tattoo needle.

And then—

Then he steps into your space again.

You feel his gaze before his hands. That lingering look, dragging from the ink across your sternum to the fine lace of your bra. To the soft dip between your breasts. You’re not stupid—you know how you look. You know how he’s looking.

But he doesn’t say anything.

Just kneels beside you on the tattoo bed, bracing one arm by your head, and starts applying the balm.

It’s… soft. Softer than it should be.

His gloved fingers glide gently across your skin, cool gel easing the sting of the fresh lines, but what you feel isn’t clinical. It’s heat. A low, blooming throb of something far more dangerous. Especially when his thumb grazes the edge of your bra. Not on purpose, not exactly—but he doesn’t move it away either.

You exhale. Carefully. Slowly.

His voice comes quieter this time, rough around the edges.

“You really wore this just to fuck with me, didn’t you?”

You blink up at him. “Excuse me?”

“This,” he murmurs, brushing the bandage wrapper open, eyes never leaving yours. “The lace. The black. The fact that it’s barely covering anything while I have to touch you like a fucking monk.”

You smirk. “What, don’t like being teased?”

His eyes narrow. “You’re not teasing.”

“No?”

“You’re begging.”

Your stomach flips.

He leans down slightly. Applies the bandage. His fingers skim the top edge of your sternum, then press lightly under your breast to make it stick. You jolt a little—not enough to be a flinch, but just enough for him to notice.

His lips twitch. “Thought so.”

You swallow.

“You could’ve said something,” you murmur.

“I did,” he says. “When I told you to stop showing up half-naked and flirty like I wouldn’t do anything about it.”

“And yet—” you gesture around, breathless, “—you haven’t.”

He finishes pressing the bandage into place. Carefully. Slowly. But his eyes—his eyes are anything but.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he says softly.

And then he leans in. Close. Close enough that his breath grazes your cheek, close enough that the heat of his body curls over yours like smoke.

“I’m just not done punishing you yet.”

You barely have time to gasp.

Because his hands are suddenly on your waist, fingers splayed wide, warm. He leans over you, lips brushing your ear as he speaks, voice like smoke curling from a lit match.

“You really think I’d let you keep pushing me forever?” he murmurs, his tone dark velvet, laced with something wicked. “Waltzing in here every time with that mouth—wearing shit like this—knowing damn well I’d eventually snap.”

You can’t speak.

Not with the way his hand is sliding up—up—fingertips skating the edge of your ribcage, the outline of your bra, the warm silk of your skin. Every inch he touches makes your back arch, breath stutter, pulse thunder.

“I—I didn’t—” you start.

“You did.” He cuts you off with a growl of a whisper, lips ghosting just beneath your jaw. “You knew exactly what you were doing. And you knew exactly who you were doing it to.”

His hand finds the clasp of your bra—flicks it once, expertly. Loose. Deliberate.

Lace falls.

You whimper.

He exhales sharply through his nose—his palm sliding up to cup you fully, thumb brushing across a nipple already sensitive from all that adrenaline and ink and restraint. The tension coils tighter—like it’s been waiting weeks to snap.

“You’ve been needing this,” he mutters against your skin. “Coming in again and again—acting like a brat. Begging for attention. Flashing me those looks like I wouldn’t fuck you into the goddamn wall the second I got the chance.”

A pause.

“Is this what you wanted?” he asks, mouthing down your throat, sucking once—hard. “You wanna be my canvas off-hours too?”

You nod. Frantic. Breathless. Your fingers clutch at the hem of his shirt, tugging, anchoring, pleading.

“Say it.”

“I wanted you,” you pant. “I want you. I’ve always—fuck—Seungmin—”

He snarls.

And that’s it.

His mouth finds your breast with zero pretense, tongue hot and teeth grazing—biting, not cruel, but enough to leave a mark. His other hand slides down, past your waistband, finding the thin lace of your underwear—

Already soaked.

You feel him smirk against your skin.

“Such a fucking mess,” he growls. “You come from the needle or from me?”

You writhe.

“Seungmin—”

“Yeah?” His fingers slip beneath the lace. “Lie to me again. See what happens.”

And then—

Then he presses in. Two fingers, all at once, knowing exactly where and how to touch you. Because he’s studied you. Memorized you. Sketched you in his mind over six tattoos and hours of tension, and now he finally gets to wreck you.

His fingers curl.

You break.

Your head falls back. Your thighs tremble. He’s still got one arm braced next to your head, and the other is fucking you open while his mouth maps every inch of your chest like it’s sacred.

“You’re mine now,” he mutters into your skin. “You wanted this? You earned this. So take it.”

You moan—high, wrecked, nearly slurred. His fingers don’t relent. Curling deep. Unforgiving. He’s fucking you with them like he’s trying to carve his name inside you, and maybe he is.

But just when it starts to crest—when you feel it, the rush, the crash, the electric burn starting in your spine—

He stops.

You jolt. “No—!”

He pulls out slow. Cruel. Slick fingers dragging free. You clench around nothing, hips chasing him, tears prickling your lashes.

He tsks.

“Thought you were smarter than that.”

You blink, dazed. “Wh-What—?”

“You think you get to cum already?” He leans down, lips brushing your ear again. “After walking in here like that? After tormenting me for months?”

His hand finds your throat—light pressure, just enough to pin you back against the vinyl bed. Your mouth falls open. Instinct.

“I spent hours sketching that design,” he whispers. “Tattooed it on your fucking ribs. You came in here dripping and smug and bratty. And you think you get to finish first?”

You whimper.

He lets go.

“Get on your knees.”

You blink. “W-What?”

“You heard me.”

He stands, undoing his belt in one smooth motion—his eyes never leaving yours. You follow his gaze down, down, as he pushes his jeans low and his boxers lower, cock flushed and leaking and so fucking hard.

You drop to your knees, onto the soft rug in his private studio, beneath the overhead lamp and the echo of the bed creaking behind you.

“Open,” he says tapping the tip of his cock against your pretty lips.

You blink up at him, lips parted, brain still catching up to the command. Seungmin doesn’t flinch, doesn’t repeat himself—he just stares down, eyes half-lidded, cock heavy in his hand, tapping the head once more—twice—against your bottom lip like a test.

You obey.

Mouth open. Knees aching. Head swimming.

"Good," he murmurs, voice like low thunder.

One hand tangles in your hair—possessive—guiding, not forcing. His hips roll forward, slow and controlled, and the first brush of him on your tongue makes you whimper. Your thighs press together instinctively.

Because he tastes like every fantasy you’ve denied yourself. And he’s watching you the whole time—jaw tight, chest rising, his gaze flicking between your mouth and your eyes like he's trying to brand the moment into memory.

“You always run your mouth,” he mutters, stroking your cheek with his thumb as you take him deeper, “but you’re so fucking quiet now, huh?”

You hum around him, tongue flattening, jaw straining, eyes locked on his like it’s the only anchor you have. He groans—quiet, raw, like it slips out before he can stop it.

Your hands steady on his thighs, you suck deeper. Hollow your cheeks. Let him feel everything.

“Fuck,” he hisses. “You really—shit—you’re good at this, huh?”

You moan, just to be a brat. The vibration makes him jerk.

His fingers twitch in your hair. The other hand finds the back of your neck, thumb pressed right where your pulse jumps.

“Greedy,” he mutters, breath stuttering as you pull back slow—spit-slick, lips flushed—then take his cock again, deeper this time, choking a little and loving it. “You want all of it, don’t you?”

You blink up at him, teary-eyed and burning, and nod.

And that’s all it takes.

His grip tightens. His hips roll. Controlled at first, almost gentle—but the moment you relax your throat and let him in further, something cracks.

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

The next thrust punches straight down your throat.

You choke—once, loud and messy—but you don’t pull away.

You don’t dare.

Not when Seungmin’s hand tightens in your hair like a leash. Not when his cock sinks deep, hot and throbbing and slick with your spit. Not when his groan scrapes straight from his chest, raw and filthy, as he watches your throat swallow around him.

“Fuck—” he snarls, voice strained. “You were made for this. Look at you.”

You try—your eyes flicking up through the blur of tears, spit dripping from your lips, mascara smudged beneath your lashes. You can barely see, but you feel everything—his fingers curled at the base of your skull, his cock throbbing on your tongue, the harsh stretch of your jaw.

“You’re a fucking mess,” he pants. “Spit everywhere—shit—drooling on me.”

You are—slick and soaked, saliva trailing from the corners of your mouth to your chin, coating his cock in glistening sheen. You gag again when he presses deeper, but he doesn’t let up.

“Take it,” he mutters, more to himself than you. “Take it. You fucking wanted this.”

He rolls his hips again—harder this time. Meaner. The tip of his cock bruises the back of your throat, and you sob around it, spit bubbling at the seams.

Seungmin hisses. “Yeah. That’s it.”

His hand tilts your head—just slightly—enough for him to watch you from above. “Look at you. Fucking crying for it.”

You blink up, lashes clumped and wet, mouth stretched open and obscene.

“Don’t stop,” he growls. “Wanna see you ruined.”

He fucks into your mouth like it’s a punishment. Like every gag, every wet choke is a penance you owe for teasing him for months. For bratty texts. For lace bralettes and stolen glances. For every look that said take me without saying a word.

Your throat tightens—and he moans.

“God—your throat—shit, I can feel it. Fucking clenching like your pussy would.”

You twitch.

He laughs—low and cruel. “What, you liked that? Want me to fuck both ends until you can’t walk or talk?”

You whimper around him. Loud.

Precum spills onto your tongue—hot and bitter—and he curses. Your hands claw at his hips, digging for purchase as he starts to lose it—thrusts jerking harder, messier. Your throat is raw, face soaked, and still—still—you stay open for him.

His voice shatters through your haze, ragged and mean.

“You look fucking perfect like this. Broken. Beautiful. Mine.”

One more thrust. Deep. Sharp.

You gag—again. Loud.

And Seungmin snaps. He jerks back suddenly—his cock pulling free with a slick pop, strings of spit connecting you still. You gasp—cough—spit dripping from your tongue.

“Open wider,” Seungmin rasps.

You do. Tongue out. Strings of drool glistening in the studio light. He grabs his cock—slick, flushed, twitching—and strokes once, twice—then spits. Right into your mouth. Then again. Then again.

You moan. Loud. Shameless.

“Filthy little thing,” he pants. “Look at you. Covered in spit and tears and fucking loving it.”

You nod. Once. Hard.

He leans down, cupping your jaw—thumb swiping through the mess on your chin, dragging it across your lips like warpaint. Seungmin's eyes watch you for a beat longer until he finally helps you up onto your feet.

You gasp, legs wobbling, mouth still slick and open as he turns you around and places a hand between your shoulder blades, coaxing you down on the bench.

“Hands flat,” he orders.

You obey.

He kicks your legs apart with his knee—rough. You gasp. Then moan, throat raw and spit-slick, head swimming from the sudden repositioning. His hands working quick, pulling down your pants and panties in one go. Seungmin hums in satisfaction at the sight of your wet cunt dripping. Fucking dripping.

“Better,” he mutters. “Stay like that.”

You squirm—but not far. Not really. Just enough to test him.

He growls.

And then—CRACK.

His hand lands sharp across your ass, a loud sting that echoes through the studio like an accusation.

You cry out.

“Still a brat,” he mutters. “Still fucking pushing me.”

His hands drag down—gripping your hips, pulling your ass back against him like he’s lining up a weapon.

“You think I won’t fuck you right here? Bent over the same bench I tattooed you on?” he says low, cruel. “You think I won’t use you just like this—all messy, full of spit, dripping down your thighs like a fucking reward?”

You whimper. “Then do it.”

A beat.

And then—he does.

He thrusts in all at once—deep, unforgiving, stretching you full in a single brutal push that knocks the air clean from your lungs. The bench creaks. Your nails scrape against the vinyl. You’re already soaked, still fluttering from his fingers.

Now you’re split open around him.

“Fuck—” he hisses. “Tight little thing—gripping me like you were made for this.”

You were. You want to scream it. But all that comes out is a cracked moan, spine arching as he pulls back—

Then slams in again.

Hard.

Rhythmic.

Cruel.

The bench jerks with every thrust. His hips slap into your ass, cock punching deep and devastating with every motion. The angle hits something brutal—low, mean, a spot that makes your vision spark.

“Louder,” he growls. “Wanna hear you.”

You whine—broken, gasping, drooling against the bench.

He leans over you now—chest to your back, breath in your ear, one hand fisted in your hair while the other snakes under your stomach to lift your hips just right.

His cock drags so deep, your thighs shake from the pressure, and the stretch is perfect—like he’s carving himself into you on purpose.

“This pussy’s been waiting for me,” he mutters, voice guttural. “So fucking wet—so ready to be used.”

You cry out as he pounds harder—faster—gripping your hips with both hands now, dragging you back onto his cock with every brutal snap of his waist.

“You hear that?” he pants.

Slap slap slap. Wet. Filthy. Perfect.

“That’s you,” he growls. “Fucking dripping down my cock—making a mess all over my bench like a desperate little toy.”

You moan—loud. The vinyl squeaks beneath you. Your toes curl, your back arches—and you know it’s close. That heat low in your stomach coiling tight.

“Wanna cum?” he grunts, snapping his hips even harder. “Gonna let me make you cum on my cock this time?”

You nod frantically. “Please—please, Seungmin—”

“Beg properly.”

“I need it—I need you—I’m gonna—fuck—please—!”

He slams in one final time—

And you break.

You cum hard—clenching around him, gasping his name like a prayer, back bowed and thighs trembling, your body nothing but nerve endings and his. It hits like lightning—violent, hot, devastating.

Seungmin moans through his teeth.

“God—fuck—you feel so good when you cum—” he grits, voice cracking with restraint. “So tight, so—shit—don’t stop. Don’t fucking stop squeezing me like that—”

He doesn’t slow. Not even a little. Seungmin just keeps going—thrusts deeper, harder, dragging your spent cunt right through the sensitivity like he wants to fuck you into a second orgasm.

You whine. Loud. High-pitched. Borderline sobbing.

“Too much—” you gasp, but your body says otherwise—clenching, fluttering, soaking him.

He groans, hips snapping into you again.

“I know,” he pants, voice wrecked. “I know it’s too much—but you’re taking it anyway, aren’t you?”

You nod. Shaking. Barely holding yourself upright over the bench as his cock slams into your soaked pussy again, again, again.

“You look so fucking wrecked,” he snarls. “Bent over this bench, fucked-out and dripping—mine.”

“Yours,” you echo—half-breath, half-moan. “Yours, Seungmin, fuck—!”

And that—

That does it.

He growls, deep in his chest, and thrusts one final time, burying himself to the fucking hilt—and you feel it.

His cock jerks once. Twice. Then—heat. Hot, thick, flooding you.

Seungmin’s cum spills inside you in brutal waves, pulse after pulse, spilling past your already-fucked entrance, dripping down your thighs with every twitch of his hips.

He groans—loud, broken—grinding in deeper as his release coats your insides.

You both stay like that for a beat.

Panting. Shaking. Silent except for the slow drip of your combined mess hitting the studio floor. His hands are still on your hips, fingers bruising, cock still buried deep inside you like he can’t bear to pull out just yet.

Finally—

“…fuck,” he mutters. “Look what you do to me.”

You whimper. “You started it.”

He smirks. Breathless. Still inside you.

“You came first,” he says, voice hoarse. “That makes it your fault.”

You roll your eyes. Weakly. Legs trembling.

But when he finally pulls out—slow, careful—you both groan at the mess. His cum leaks from you instantly, hot and obscene, slicking down your thighs in thick globs.

Seungmin watches. Just watches. Then hums.

“Pretty,” he says quietly. “All ruined. Just like I wanted.”

You’re bent over the ink bench, gasping. Barely conscious of your own limbs. There’s cum dripping down your thighs, breath fogging the vinyl, your body throbbing in time with your pulse.

And behind you—

Seungmin exhales. Low. Spent. Quiet.

Then: zip.

The sound of his jeans being pulled back up, the belt loosely fastened with one hand as the other brushes through his hair. You hear it—the shift. The snap back to reality. To composure. To Seungmin-afterglow, where all that bite turns to balm.

You expect him to vanish, to go grab wipes or complain about the mess—

Instead, you feel his hands. Gentle. Soft on your waist. Carefully guiding.

He straightens you. Not rough. Not impatient. Just… careful. Like you’re something fragile now.

You blink as he eases you to sit on the edge of the bench again, his hands steady on your hips until your legs stop shaking.

“Still with me?” he murmurs.

You nod. Slowly. “Barely.”

He huffs a breath of a laugh—tired, wrecked, softer than before.

Then he brushes sweaty strands of hair from your forehead and mutters, “Good girl.”

You melt. Right there. Ruined part two.

He disappears for a moment—only to return with a full box of wipes, a towel, and a silver water bottle you know is his personal one.

“Open,” he says gently, uncapping it and holding it to your lips.

You sip.

He waits. Watches to make sure you don’t choke. Then: another sip. A wipe to your neck. Another for your thighs.

He doesn’t comment on the mess—doesn’t smirk, doesn’t tease. Just… cleans you.

Tender. Focused. A little too quiet.

He wipes the insides of your thighs slowly, scooping up the slick and cum and sweat and ink-tainted heat with barely-there touches. When you flinch, he pauses. When you shiver, he murmurs something under his breath you don’t quite catch—but you feel it. Like a balm.

“You’re doing fine,” he says eventually. “I’m almost done.”

“You don’t have to—”

“I want to.”

That shuts you up.

Once he’s cleaned every inch of you he marked, he helps dress you up again, pants and panties up but then he grabs his spare hoodie—crumpled on the back of his chair—and slips it over your head with no warning.

It’s oversized. Smells like cedar and ink and him.

He tugs the hood over your messy hair, then pauses to kiss the top of your head.

And that’s what finally ruins you.

Your eyes sting. But you blink fast. No way you’re crying in this hoodie.

“…Seungmin?”

He hums.

“You okay?”

His gaze lifts to yours. Tired. Sweet. Still a little dazed. Another soft hum in response. And then he's back in motion. Efficient again. Packing up the mess, tossing used wipes, wiping down the vinyl. He moves like he needs something to do with his hands or he’ll grab you again.

Once the bench is clean, he turns to you—really turns.

And in a voice way too soft for someone who just fucked the breath out of you against workplace furniture: “Wanna come back to mine?”

You laugh—hoarse, soft, still ruined. “Like this?”

He smirks. “I have more hoodies.”

You blink up at him.

“…And strawberries?”

He smiles.

"And strawberries."

You end up at his place that night. Still wearing his hoodie. Still barely walking.

He gives you a fresh towel and the softest pair of sweatpants he owns, sets you in the bathtub like you’re made of porcelain, and kneels beside it the whole time—washing your hair with slow fingers and kissing your shoulder between rinses.

You eat strawberries straight from the bowl while wrapped in his towel. He lets you finish the last bite before tugging you onto his lap and kissing you breathless all over again.

No sex that night. Not because he doesn’t want to—But because he already has you.

And maybe, he just wants to hold what he’s wrecked.

He lets you fall asleep on his chest. Hoodie, thigh over his lap, lips parted against his collarbone. He doesn’t sleep. Just watches. Fingers curled around your wrist like a habit he never wants to break.

And the next morning? He wakes you up with coffee. And a second round (Messier than before.).

And ever since that day? You just… kept coming back. Not for tattoos, though that’s still a bonus. No—now you show up for him. Your boyfriend. Your soft-spoken menace. Your chaos control. Your personal ink-stained sadist.

You still strut into NO SAINT INK like you own it—drink tray in hand, smug little smirk on your face, eyes locked on the back room like a predator in love.

You still flirt just to watch him clench his jaw. Still wear lace under oversized hoodies and whisper “miss me?” every time you lean against his worktable.

He still rolls his eyes and mutters “unbearable” without looking up.

But when the clock hits closing time?

And everyone is gone. The lights dim. The blinds are drawn. The door locks with a click.

Seungmin doesn’t pretend.

He pulls you into the back with one hand around your neck and the other already working at your zipper. He lays you across the vinyl like it’s a fucking altar. And he fucks you like he’s trying to tattoo his name inside your soul.

You moan like you were made for it.

And when it’s over—when you’re sore and sticky and boneless all over again—

He picks you up. Wipes you down. And kisses your forehead like you hung the moon. A ritual really. Because from annoying menace client, you are now his favourite annoying menace girlfriend.

Who still pisses him off about random designs and bullies him into doing them. And he still ends up doing them for you, except they are ten times better and equipped with all the loving bullying just for you.

Just for his favourite menace girlfriend.

[womshame]

Yandere Teachers x Mother Reader

Summary: All she wanted was a simple parent-teacher meeting. A few minutes to talk about her son’s progress, nothing more. But when three different teachers — each charming, each dangerous in their own way — set their sights on her, Y/N’s world spirals into a nightmare disguised as devotion.

Word Count: 11,147

Trigger Warnings: yandere behavior (obsessive love, emotional manipulation), psychological manipulation, coercive control, stalking, non-consensual surveillance, forced/coerced captivity, implied drugging, dubious consent, threats of violence, unhealthy power dynamics, grooming undertones involving parental figures, child emotional manipulation (non-explicit), ambiguous/psychologically complex ending.

The hallway smelled like pencil shavings and bleach.

Y/N adjusted the strap of her bag and checked her phone for the third time. Eli’s teacher conference was scheduled for 6:00 PM sharp, but she’d arrived ten minutes early, nervous and trying not to show it. The fluorescent lights overhead hummed softly, casting a dull glow across the linoleum floor.

The door to Room 107 was open.

She approached with a small knock on the frame.

“Ms. L/N?” A man stood up from behind a desk. His voice was warm, polished. “I’m Mr. Callahan. Please, come in.”

He was tall, maybe in his late thirties, with a clean-cut jawline and glasses perched on a straight nose. A wedding band glinted on his left hand as he extended it.

“Nice to meet you,” she said, shaking it briefly. His grip was firm, a little too lingering.

“I’m Eli’s homeroom teacher—and his literature instructor. Mr. Rivera and Mr. Brooks will join us shortly. We like to hold joint meetings when possible, helps with consistency.”

She nodded politely, taking a seat in the chair across from his. The classroom was neat, the kind that showed effort: posters about classic novels lined the walls, and a stack of well-loved paperbacks rested on a side shelf.

“I have to say,” he began, folding his hands, “your son is bright. Restless, perhaps, but bright. He has an advanced vocabulary for his age, and a very curious mind.”

“That’s… good to hear. I was worried. He hasn’t been himself lately.”

Mr. Callahan leaned forward, elbows on the desk, gaze gentle and focused. “Sometimes, intelligent children grow frustrated with structure. Especially if they feel misunderstood.”

Before she could answer, the door opened again.

“Hey,” said a second voice—louder, younger. A man with ink-stained hands and paint smudges on his shirt entered with a crooked smile. “Ms. L/N, right? I’m Mr. Rivera. Art.”

His handshake was quick, his fingers calloused. He dragged a chair from one of the student desks and sat close—closer than necessary.

Then came the third: Mr. Brooks, taller than both, broad-shouldered, dressed in a sleek tracksuit that made him look more like a personal trainer than a school employee. He gave a casual nod.

“Evening. Eli’s got good stamina. Bit headstrong, but coachable.”

“Thank you,” Y/N replied, feeling the three men’s attention weigh down on her. Each seemed friendly, professional… but something about the room was off. Maybe it was the way all three had made a point to look her in the eyes. Maybe it was the feeling of being watched, closely, like prey mistaken for a puzzle.

Callahan cleared his throat. “We’ve noticed some behavioral patterns. Not aggressive, but… withdrawn. Occasionally defiant. Have there been any changes at home?”

“Nothing drastic,” she replied, hesitating. “We moved apartments last month. I’ve been working longer hours.”

“That could do it,” Rivera murmured. “Kids are sensitive. He draws a lot of houses, you know. Empty ones.”

Y/N blinked. “What?”

“I mean—it’s sweet. He seems attached to the idea of home. And people in it.” He smiled, then added, “You show up a lot in his sketches. It’s nice. You’re very… detailed.”

Mr. Brooks crossed his arms. “He’s protective of you. I asked him once who’d win in a race—him or you—and he said, ‘My mom, ‘cause she runs everything.’”

Y/N let out a short laugh, unsure of how to respond.

Callahan used the moment to shift the conversation. “We’d like to be more involved. Give Eli support beyond just the classroom. He’s got potential, and with the right guidance…”

“Is that something you’re comfortable with?” Rivera asked. “More frequent updates, maybe. Home activities?”

“I—sure,” she said, too quickly.

“Great,” Callahan smiled. “I’ll make a note to reach out next week.”

They spoke for another fifteen minutes, but the conversation had subtly shifted. It wasn’t just about Eli anymore. The questions were polite, but personal. Did she have help at home? Was there someone else involved in Eli’s life? Did she have time for herself?

As she left the room, three pairs of eyes followed her.

Outside, the night air was cooler. She took a deep breath and told herself not to overthink it. They were just teachers. Caring professionals. Nothing more.

But in Room 107, long after she was gone, Mr. Callahan tapped a pen rhythmically on the desk.

“She’s… attentive,” Rivera said softly, almost dreamlike.

“Smart,” Brooks added. “And tough. I like that.”

Mr. Callahan said nothing, just looked down at the page in Eli’s student file—where Y/N’s contact information was written in black ink.

He traced the number with the tip of his finger.

Eli came home with a gift.

A small, carefully wrapped box, tied with a blue ribbon. He plopped it on the kitchen table and shrugged when Y/N looked at him with a raised brow.

“Mr. Rivera said it was from me,” he mumbled, grabbing an apple from the counter.

“From you?”

“Yeah. I dunno. He said I picked it out.”

Y/N slowly untied the ribbon and peeled back the paper. Inside was a delicate charm bracelet—silver, minimal, with a tiny engraved heart. It was beautiful. Too beautiful to have come from a third-grade art project.

“Did you… make this for me?” she asked carefully.

Eli frowned. “No. I didn’t know it was for you ‘til today.”

Y/N didn’t know what to say. She smiled faintly, thanked her son, and tucked the bracelet back in the box. That night, while Eli slept, she sat on the couch and stared at it for a long time. It was flattering. And unsettling.

The next day, Mr. Brooks caught her after drop-off.

He was waiting just outside the school gate, hands in his jacket pockets. “Hey, Ms. L/N,” he said casually. “You got a minute?”

“Uh… sure.”

“There’s a field event next weekend. Technically it’s optional, but I think Eli would really benefit from it. Bonding, teamwork, fresh air.”

“That sounds good,” she said, then paused. “Should I pack something for him?”

“Well, actually, it’s a family-style thing. Parents are encouraged to join.” His smile sharpened. “Thought you might like the chance to see him in action.”

“Right.” She hesitated. “I’ll check my schedule.”

“You do that.” He nodded once, then added as she turned to leave, “You know… You’re doing a hell of a job with him. That boy idolizes you.”

Y/N nodded with a faint, polite smile. She didn’t notice how long he kept watching her walk away.

That afternoon, a text pinged on her phone. Unknown number.

Hi, Ms. L/N. This is Mr. Callahan. Hope it’s okay I reached out. Wanted to follow up on our chat. Eli seemed happier today—might be that lovely influence of yours. Let me know if you’d like to schedule a home visit.

Her stomach twisted.

He hadn’t said anything about messaging her directly. And a home visit?

She typed a brief reply:

Hi. Thanks for the update. No home visit needed, but I appreciate the support.

He responded within seconds:

Of course. Just want what’s best for him. And you, too.

The next few days, things started to shift.

Mr. Rivera began sending home odd “projects” for Eli—little collages made from old photos that Y/N didn’t remember giving him, or drawings that mirrored things in their apartment. A ceramic mug with her initials carved into the side.

Mr. Brooks showed up at the grocery store, casually leaning on his cart like it was coincidence. “Didn’t expect to see you here,” he said, even though the school was on the other side of town.

Mr. Callahan started emailing after school hours, offering book recommendations. Some of them were surprisingly romantic in theme.

Each interaction was friendly. Innocuous. And yet, she couldn’t shake the growing unease curling under her ribs. Y/N wasn’t new to attention—she was used to the occasional awkward parent interaction, the sidelong glances. But this? This was different.

They weren’t just interested in Eli. They were circling her.

At pick-up one afternoon, Eli ran out with a huge grin.

“Mr. Rivera says you should come see our art wall!”

“Maybe next week, sweetie.”

“He put your picture on it.”

Y/N blinked. “What?”

“Yeah! The one he drew. He says you’re his muse.”

The word hit her like cold water.

She walked Eli to the car, quiet the entire drive. That night, she looked up each of their school bios online. All three had spotless records. Callahan had been teaching for over ten years, his LinkedIn profile filled with glowing endorsements. Rivera had an art show once, mostly abstract portraits. Brooks was a former semi-pro athlete turned educator. Married. Single. Single.

Harmless, on paper.

And yet…

At bedtime, Eli asked, “Mom?”

“Yeah, baby?”

“Why do my teachers ask so many questions about you?”

Y/N paused. “What kind of questions?”

“Like… what do you do when you’re not working, or if you like flowers, or if you ever get lonely.” He looked up at her. “Is it bad if I answer?”

“No,” she said softly, brushing his hair back. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

But deep down, she knew this wasn’t normal.

And if it was attention—why did it feel like a trap?

The café was her sanctuary.

A little spot tucked between a florist and a laundromat, ten blocks away from her apartment—far enough from the school that she could sip her coffee in peace, answer emails, and feel like more than just someone’s mother.

Y/N slid into her usual corner booth, ordered a cappuccino, and pulled out her phone. For a moment, the world was quiet.

Then she heard the door chime.

“Wow. Small world.”

She looked up slowly.

Mr. Brooks stood in the entrance, a duffel bag slung over his shoulder, wearing a hoodie and joggers. He smiled like this was completely natural—like they always ran into each other on Saturdays.

Her heart sank.

“I didn’t know you lived around here,” he said, stepping into her space before she could answer. “Mind if I sit?”

She hesitated. “I was just about to—”

“Just for a minute,” he insisted, already pulling out the chair.

She smiled tightly, hoping he couldn’t see how fast her pulse was ticking under her skin.

“Long week?” he asked, glancing at the book on her table—Wuthering Heights.

She nodded, sipping her coffee to avoid answering.

“I read that in college,” he said. “Dark, right? All-consuming kind of love. Unhealthy as hell. Still… kind of beautiful.”

He said it like a confession.

Y/N looked at him closely. There was something behind his smile—something intense. He wasn’t just making small talk. He was watching her.

“You really didn’t know I lived near here?” she asked finally.

“No idea,” he said, too quickly. “Total coincidence.”

But when he left—after buying her a second cappuccino she didn’t want—she saw him cross the street and head not toward the subway, but toward the parking lot behind the building. No gym bag. No gym.

That night, she didn’t sleep well.

At school the following Monday, she tried to brush past it. Told herself to focus on Eli, on the week ahead. But it got harder.

Mr. Rivera cornered her in the hallway after drop-off.

“I have something to show you,” he said, leading her to the art room.

She hesitated at the door. “I’m really not—”

“It’ll just take a second.”

Inside, the walls were filled with colorful drawings, sculptures, mosaics. He walked her to the far end, where a new display had been pinned.

Her.

It was her.

Charcoal sketches of her face—three, maybe four—each more detailed than the last. Her eyes, her hands, the curve of her smile. All drawn from memory.

“I didn’t mean for this to be weird,” he said, voice low, like they were sharing a secret. “You just… have that kind of presence. The kind that sticks.”

“Mr. Rivera—”

“Call me Adrian.”

She stepped back.

“I appreciate the… art,” she said, carefully, “but I don’t think this is appropriate.”

His smile didn’t falter. “You inspired me. That’s not something I get often. You should be flattered.”

“I’m not,” she said, voice firm now.

For a second, something flickered in his expression—something sharp, like rejection was unfamiliar to him. But then he smiled again, softer.

“I’ll take them down. Of course. Just… don’t tell anyone, okay?”

She didn’t respond. She just walked away.

At pickup that day, Mr. Callahan was waiting beside her car.

He looked more formal than usual—shirt tucked neatly, tie tight, that same composed, unreadable smile.

“I hope I’m not intruding,” he said, stepping closer as Eli ran toward them from the building. “I wanted to talk. Just for a second.”

Y/N unlocked the car and motioned for Eli to climb in. “I’m in a hurry.”

“It’s about Eli,” he said. “He’s been mentioning nightmares. About losing you. Do you know anything about that?”

Her heart clenched.

“He’s been clingier,” she admitted. “I thought it was just stress.”

“I think he’s afraid,” Callahan said softly. “Afraid something might happen to you. That you might leave him.”

She looked up sharply. “Why would he think that?”

Mr. Callahan held her gaze. “Children feel what we hide. If you’re overwhelmed, if you’re struggling—even if you don’t say it—he knows.”

Y/N swallowed. “I’m doing my best.”

“I know you are.” His voice dropped to something intimate. “But you don’t have to do it alone.”

There was a long silence between them.

“I appreciate your concern,” she said finally. “But I’d prefer to keep things professional.”

For a brief moment, she saw the crack in his expression. A twitch in the jaw. But it was gone in an instant.

“Of course,” he said smoothly. “Just let me know if that changes.”

He turned and walked back toward the school, his posture calm, controlled—but she knew something had shifted.

All three of them—Brooks, Rivera, Callahan—they weren’t just stepping over lines.

They were drawing new ones around her.

Y/N kept her door locked at night.

It wasn’t something she used to think about—living in a safe neighborhood, third floor walk-up, decent building—but lately, it felt necessary. She’d started checking the windows twice, pulling the curtains tighter, even placing Eli’s shoes closer to her bed.

She hadn’t told anyone about the sketches. Or the café incident. Or the conversation with Callahan.

What would she even say?

“My son’s teachers are obsessed with me”?

Who would believe that?

Still, the pattern was unmistakable now. Each of them—Mr. Rivera with his hungry artist’s stare, Mr. Brooks with his casual stalking, Mr. Callahan with his perfect words and impossible calm—had made it clear in their own way: they weren’t just interested.

They wanted her.

And they weren’t going to stop.

On Wednesday morning, Eli’s backpack was heavier than usual. She opened it before drop-off to make sure he hadn’t stuffed in toys or half the bookshelf again.

There was a small envelope tucked in the front pocket. No name. Just her address handwritten across the front.

Inside: a folded note.

I watch the way you move when you think no one’s watching. You’re always so tired, but still so beautiful. You shouldn’t have to do everything alone. You’re not alone anymore.

No signature.

She didn’t know which of them sent it.

That night, she didn’t sleep at all.

⸻

The school’s field event took place on a gray, windy Saturday.

Y/N had debated not going. Every instinct screamed stay home, but Eli had been so excited—picked out his own sneakers, laid out his water bottle the night before, begged her to run in the parent race. She couldn’t take that away from him.

So she showed up, dressed in a sweatshirt and jeans, forcing a smile when other parents waved at her. The open fields behind the school had been turned into stations—races, obstacle courses, even a small art tent.

Eli ran ahead.

She scanned the area and immediately spotted them.

Callahan by the sign-in table, clipboard in hand. Rivera near the painting area, smiling at the children. Brooks already in athletic gear, tossing a football with a few dads.

Her stomach turned.

They hadn’t seen her yet. She turned to leave—to pretend she’d forgotten something in the car—but then a familiar voice called out.

“There you are.”

Callahan.

He looked pleased, as if he’d known she would come. His tie was off, sleeves rolled up, and the wind tousled his dark hair just enough to make him look almost younger. Almost innocent.

“You made it,” he said. “Eli’s going to be thrilled.”

She nodded, wary.

“We’ve got a spot for you in the relay if you’re interested,” he added. “It’s low pressure. Just a fun way to bond.”

“I think I’ll just watch.”

“Of course. But if you change your mind…” He handed her a bottle of water with a label she didn’t recognize. “Brought this from home. Thought you might like something better than the vending machine stuff.”

She took it reluctantly, pretending not to notice the way his fingers brushed against hers.

A little later, Mr. Brooks approached. He was sweating, chest rising with exertion, grinning like they were old friends.

“You should’ve seen Eli in the footrace,” he said. “Little guy’s got legs.”

“I’m proud of him.”

“You should be. And hey—” he leaned a little closer “—you looked real tense earlier. You okay?”

“Just tired.”

“You know…” he said slowly, “when I said you didn’t have to do everything alone, I meant that. I’ve seen what it does to people. The pressure. The loneliness. You need someone who gets it. Who gets you.”

She took a step back. “Mr. Brooks—”

“No,” he said, voice gentler now. “Tyler.”

“I think it’s best we keep things professional.”

His jaw flexed. “Right. Professional.”

He walked away without another word—but not without a look. A look that promised this wasn’t over.

She found Eli, pulled him into a hug, and told him it was time to go.

“But we haven’t done the painting!”

“You can do it next time.”

Rivera caught them near the gate. “You’re leaving already?”

“We have things to do.”

“Can I give you something first?”

She didn’t respond fast enough.

He held out a small canvas, freshly painted. It was a house—her apartment, unmistakably detailed, down to the chipped mailbox and ivy on the wall. And in the doorway, a woman holding hands with a man whose face wasn’t filled in.

“I thought maybe Eli could finish it,” Rivera said. “Fill in whoever he thinks belongs there.”

She stared at him. “That’s not appropriate.”

“I think it’s perfect,” he said, quiet and smiling. “Because you deserve someone there.”

She left without another word.

⸻

That night, her apartment felt colder.

She put Eli to bed early and sat on the couch with the water Callahan had given her, still unopened. The canvas Rivera handed her rested on the kitchen counter, face down. And her phone buzzed again—another message from an unknown number.

You’re not being fair. You act like you don’t want this, but I see the way you look at us. At me. Don’t lie to yourself. Let me in.

She turned her phone off.

But even then, in the silence, she couldn’t shake the sense that someone was outside. Watching. Waiting.

She should have changed the locks.

It was the first thing Y/N thought when she came home and saw her bedroom door slightly ajar.

Not wide open. Not obviously tampered with. Just… ajar.

She froze in the hallway. Eli was still at school—she’d stayed late at work and hadn’t picked him up yet—but everything in her body screamed wrong.

She walked slowly through the apartment, barely breathing, calling softly, “Hello?”

No response.

She opened the door fully.

The bed was neatly made. The window slightly open, even though she was sure she’d closed it that morning. And on her pillow—just resting there, like a lover’s offering—was a flower.

A single calla lily.

Her breath caught in her throat.

She hadn’t seen a calla lily in years. They were her mother’s favorite. She’d mentioned it once, offhandedly, at a parent-teacher conference. To Callahan.

Her hands shook as she reached for her phone.

No missed calls. No new messages.

She turned to leave—and stopped.

Her closet was slightly open too.

A cold panic settled over her spine. She grabbed the closest object she could find—a lamp—and yanked the door open.

Empty.

But on the inside panel, written in what looked like red ink, were the words:

You shouldn’t hide the parts of you that are most beautiful.

She picked up Eli ten minutes later, barely able to hold herself together. She didn’t call the cops. Didn’t call anyone. What would she say?

Someone broke in and left her a flower?

Someone knew things they shouldn’t?

She tried to act normal at dinner, but Eli stared at her through his spaghetti like he knew something was off.

“You okay, Mommy?”

“I’m fine, baby.”

He looked down at his plate. “Mr. Callahan said he could help you feel better.”

Her heart stopped.

“When did he say that?”

“At lunch. He sat with me.”

“He what?”

“He said he misses seeing you smile. And he asked if you were still drinking the water he gave you.”

Y/N nearly knocked over her chair as she stood. She opened the fridge and found the bottle still sitting in the door. Untouched. She checked the seal. It was tampered.

She threw it away immediately.

That night, she didn’t sleep. She sat on the floor beside Eli’s bed, one hand resting on his leg, eyes fixed on the door. When dawn finally bled through the windows, she had already made up her mind.

Something had to be done.

⸻

She showed up at the school without an appointment.

Callahan was in the middle of a lesson, but the front office buzzed him out when they saw her face.

He appeared in the hallway a few minutes later, smiling like nothing was wrong.

“Ms. L/N. This is a surprise.”

“Not a good one.”

His brow furrowed. “Is something wrong with Eli?”

“You need to stay away from us.”

The smile didn’t fall—it tightened.

“I don’t think I understand.”

“You’ve crossed a line. You and the others. The notes. The visits. The water bottle. The drawing in my closet.”

A flicker of something crossed his face—an unreadable shift.

“I see,” he said. “So you’ve decided we’re the villains in this story.”

“There’s no we. You’re my son’s teacher. That’s it.”

“You don’t actually believe that.”

He stepped closer.

“I’ve seen the way you look at me. At us. You’re tired. You want help. You want someone who knows you, who sees you. You’ve just convinced yourself it’s not allowed.”

“Back off,” she said, voice shaking.

“You keep pushing us away, but we’re not going anywhere. Not me. Not Tyler. Not Adrian.”

He said their names like a vow.

“You can’t do this,” she whispered.

“I can,” he said. “Because I’m already doing it.”

She walked away before he could say more.

But the next day, Eli didn’t come home with just drawings or comments.

He came home with bruises on his wrist.

“What happened?” she asked, trying not to panic.

“I… I tried to go to the nurse without telling Mr. Rivera. He got mad.”

Y/N’s breath caught.

That night, she sent an official complaint to the school board. Short, direct, formal.

She didn’t name all of them. Just Rivera.

But something in her gut told her it wouldn’t matter.

Not when the people she was reporting were already inside every corner of her life.

The next morning, her car wouldn’t start. The tires were slashed. No cameras caught anything.

Inside the driver’s seat, tucked under the wiper blade, was another flower.

A calla lily.

And this time, a note too.

You belong with us. You’ll see it soon enough.

Y/N stopped answering unknown numbers.

She stopped opening her blinds.

Stopped taking the same route home from school.

None of it helped.

The morning after the tire-slashing, she received a visit—not from one of them, but from the principal. A polite woman with thinning blonde hair and a clipboard full of vague smiles.

“Just a quick check-in,” she’d said. “We received your report. I’m sure it’s a misunderstanding.”

Y/N had tried to explain—about the drawings, the messages, the bruises. But the woman’s smile never wavered.

“Adrian Rivera is a beloved teacher,” she said. “Sometimes, children get bumps and scrapes. That’s no reason to tarnish a man’s reputation.”

“I’m not making this up,” Y/N said, voice fraying.

“No one’s saying you are. But may I be frank?” The principal lowered her voice. “Single parents can be… under a lot of stress. It’s easy to feel isolated. Misread signals. Build stories around people who are just trying to help.”

It felt like a slap.

That night, there was a knock at her door. Late. Too late.

She didn’t answer it.

But she heard the voice.

“Y/N. Open the door.”

Brooks.

“Tyler,” she called through the door, “go home.”

“I just want to talk.”

“You’re scaring me.”

A pause.

Then: “You didn’t used to be afraid of me.”

“I never invited you into my life like this.”

Another pause. Then something sharper in his voice.

“I saw Rivera leaving your building today. What did he say to you?”

Y/N froze.

“I didn’t let him in.”

“But he tried. Right?” Brooks asked, now lower, darker. “He doesn’t deserve you. None of them do. You think Callahan’s your friend? He’s worse. At least I’ve been honest about how I feel.”

“I’m calling the police.”

He didn’t respond at first. Then: “I’d never hurt you. You know that. But they might.”

She didn’t sleep again.

⸻

The next day, she found Rivera already waiting near her parking spot at the school lot.

His arms were crossed. His face was hard.

“I heard about last night,” he said.

She stepped back. “How?”

“Brooks told me.”

“Why are you even talking to each other?”

“Because we all care about you.”

She laughed. A humorless, bitter sound. “That’s not care. It’s obsession.”

Rivera stepped closer.

“You were supposed to come to me first. Not go crying to the board. Not let him near you.”

“You’re delusional.”

“I saw you take the flower. I saw you keep the note. You liked it.”

“No,” she snapped. “I was scared.”

For a second, his eyes flickered with hurt—genuine, almost childlike.

Then they hardened again. “You don’t know what you want.”

“I know what I don’t want. Any of this.”

“You think you can keep pushing us away, but you’re not the one in control anymore.”

She opened her car without another word, heart pounding. He didn’t stop her. But he watched her drive away, and she could feel it—the weight of his gaze, like hands pressed against her skin.

⸻

The next time Callahan spoke to her, it was in public. At pickup, on a crowded sidewalk, with other parents and kids milling around.

“You look tired,” he said smoothly. “I’m worried about you.”

She didn’t respond.

He leaned in, voice quiet.

“I heard Brooks showed up. That he scared you. I told him to be patient, but he doesn’t listen well. Adrian’s even worse. He’s reckless. Impulsive.”

“And you’re what?” she asked. “The good one?”

“I’m the one who’s planning long-term. The one thinking about Eli’s future. Your future.”

“You’re married.”

“That doesn’t change how I feel.”

She stepped away from him, her voice low and shaking. “This has to stop.”

“No,” he said calmly. “This is the beginning. They think they can take you from me. From us. But I’m the only one who’s stable enough to protect you.”

“From them?”

“From everyone.”

⸻

That weekend, she took Eli to her sister’s house in the next town over. Left no note. Turned her phone off. She needed distance. She needed time.

But the first night there, her sister handed her the landline phone with a confused frown. “There’s a man asking for you. Says he’s a teacher?”

Y/N took it with shaking hands.

“Hello?”

“You’re good at hiding,” Rivera’s voice said. “But not that good.”

Click.

The dial tone buzzed in her ear.

She dropped the phone.

⸻

The next morning, there were three letters under her windshield, weighed down by a rock. Different handwriting. Different words.

But the same message.

You belong with me.

Don’t trust him.

I won’t let the others take you.

⸻

Y/N realized then: this wasn’t just obsession.

It was competition.

And she was the prize.

They weren’t going to back off.

Not even from each other.

Y/N had stopped sleeping.

She watched shadows move across the ceiling at night, her son curled against her side, his breath soft and even while hers came in sharp, panicked bursts. She didn’t know how they’d found her sister’s house. She didn’t know what they’d do next.

But she knew this: she couldn’t run forever.

They’d follow.

They’d always follow.

The breaking point came on a Monday.

She returned to her apartment alone—just for a few clothes, just for a few things—and found all the locks changed.

Not broken. Changed.

Her key didn’t fit. The door handle was new.

She stood on the hallway carpet, frozen, her pulse thudding in her throat.

And then it opened.

Callahan.

Sleeves rolled up. Calm as ever. Wedding ring still glinting.

“You shouldn’t be out here alone,” he said gently. “It’s not safe.”

Her mouth opened, then closed. “Did you—did you change my locks?”

“You left. I had to make sure you were protected. Adrian and Tyler have been watching the building.”

“You don’t live here.”

He gave her a faint smile. “Don’t I?”

She pushed past him.

Her apartment looked… the same. But it wasn’t.

There were new curtains. A different lamp. Fresh flowers on the table—calla lilies. And a photo of Eli, one she didn’t remember taking, in a silver frame beside the bed.

“I’ve been taking care of things,” he said. “Paying bills. Collecting your mail. It’s been chaotic without you.”

“You broke into my life,” she said, voice rising. “That’s not care, Mr. Callahan. That’s—”

“Stop calling me that.”

He sounded calm. But the edge was there now, thin and sharp as glass.

“You don’t have to pretend this isn’t what you wanted. I’ve always been patient with you, Y/N. I’ve waited. I’ve watched. I know you better than anyone.”

“You don’t know me,” she said.

He stepped closer.

“I know you hate mornings. I know you hum when you’re thinking. I know you cry when Eli’s asleep and you think no one’s listening. I know you’ve been so alone for so long you stopped believing someone would stay.”

Her hands shook.

“And I know,” he whispered, “that you don’t trust them the way you trust me.”

Before she could speak, the knock came.

Loud. Sharp. Repeated.

Callahan’s face tightened.

“Ignore it,” he said.

But she was already moving.

She opened the door—

And came face-to-face with Brooks.

He looked wild. Sweaty. Hair messy. Hands shaking.

“Get away from her,” he growled at Callahan.

Callahan stepped in behind her, hand on her shoulder. “This isn’t the time, Tyler.”

“No,” Brooks said, stepping inside, voice shaking. “You think you’re better than me? Just because you talk nice and wear your little tie? She’s scared of you. She told me.”

“She told me the same about you.”

“Stop it—both of you!” Y/N snapped, voice breaking. “This isn’t love. This is control. You don’t own me. You never did.”

But it was too late.

They weren’t listening anymore.

“You drugged her water,” Brooks hissed. “You crossed a line.”

“You’ve been following her to the store,” Callahan snapped. “You leave notes on her car. You’re worse.”

“You’re married.”

The word hit like a slap.

Callahan flinched—but didn’t back down.

“My wife doesn’t matter. She doesn’t understand me the way Y/N does.”

Brooks lunged.

They struggled—shouting, grunting, crashing into furniture. Y/N backed into the corner, heart pounding so loudly she could barely hear. She had to do something. She reached for her phone—

And then Rivera appeared in the doorway.

Silent. Watching.

He didn’t look surprised.

“I told you,” he said softly. “They can’t be trusted.”

Blood trickled from Callahan’s lip. Brooks was breathing hard, fists clenched.

“You’re all insane,” Y/N said, voice trembling.

Rivera’s eyes locked with hers. “We’re in love.”

He stepped forward—and drew something from his pocket.

Keys.

Her keys.

“Give them to me,” she said.

“You don’t need them anymore,” he replied. “You’re staying with me now. I’ve already cleared out the guest room. I thought you might need space at first.”

“She’s not going anywhere with you,” Brooks snarled.

“She’s not staying here either,” Callahan snapped.

“Stop,” she said, louder. “All of you—stop.”

The room froze.

“I’m done pretending,” she said. “Done waiting for you to change. You’re sick. All of you.”

“You need us,” Rivera said. “You just don’t want to admit it.”

“I needed help,” she said. “And you weaponized it.”

No one moved.

Then, slowly, Callahan looked at the others.

“She’s scared,” he said. “Look at her. We’re not doing this right.”

Rivera frowned. “Don’t get soft now.”

“I’m not,” Callahan said. “But if we don’t work together, we’ll lose her.”

A pause.

Brooks muttered, “You’re suggesting we share?”

“No,” Callahan said. “I’m saying we stop tearing her apart.”

Y/N stared at them, disbelieving.

“You think I’ll just accept this?”

Callahan turned to her. “You don’t have to. Not yet. But we’ll prove ourselves. One by one, or together. You’ll see. We’re not going anywhere.”

The worst part?

She believed him.

She tried to run.

It wasn’t clever or dramatic. No backdoor escapes or fake identities.

Just a car rental, a wad of cash from a stashed emergency envelope, and a trembling hand on the ignition.

Eli slept in the backseat, clutching his favorite stuffed bear. She hadn’t told him anything. How could she?

All she could do was drive.

The highway stretched ahead like hope. And for the first few hours, it felt real. Like breathing for the first time in weeks. Like freedom might still be possible.

Until the flashing lights appeared behind her.

At first, she thought it was just a cop.

Until she saw his face.

Rivera.

She slammed the gas.

He followed.

She tried to lose him off the main roads—swerving through small towns, taking turns without signaling—but he stayed close. Relentless.

She pulled into a gas station, heart slamming, breath jagged, ready to grab Eli and run on foot if she had to—

But Callahan was already there.

Leaning against a rental SUV. Calm. Perfect.

Like he’d known she would come here.

Like they’d planned it.

Brooks stepped out from behind the pumps next.

Blocking her escape.

Panic rose in her throat like bile. She opened the door, grabbed Eli—

“Mommy?” he murmured, still sleepy.

“It’s okay, baby. It’s okay—”

But then Rivera was in front of her.

And Callahan behind her.

And Brooks flanking the side.

No escape.

“Don’t,” she whispered, backing against the car. “Please. He’s just a kid. Don’t do this to him.”

“We’re not here to hurt him,” Callahan said gently. “We love him too.”

“You don’t know him!”

Brooks stepped closer. “We know you. And he’s yours. That makes him ours, too.”

“I will never let you near him.”

“You already have,” Rivera said. “He likes us. He talks about us. He draws pictures of us at home. He trusts us.”

Y/N swallowed hard. “You manipulated him.”

“We earned him,” Callahan said. “Just like we earned you.”

“Stop saying that!”

Eli began to cry.

“Mommy, I want to go home—”

“You are home,” Callahan said.

Y/N spun to him. “I will never choose any of you.”

Callahan nodded slowly. “That’s alright.”

He looked at the others.

“She doesn’t have to choose.l

[alygator77]

motherhood and matrimony

ꨄ︎ pairing. au ceo! satoru gojo x single mom secretary fem! reader

ꨄ︎ warnings/tags. 18+ MDNI, nsfw, smut, masturbation, enemies (annoyances) to lovers, opposites attract, fake marriage, marriage of convenience, slow burn, fluff, little angst, mentions of death (satoru's father).

a/n. tysm for another follower milestone! as a thank you, here are some ceo! satoru headcanons for my ongoing fic motherhood and matrimony. this can kinda be considered as a teaser for those that haven't read the series. for those that have read the fic, this fleshes out the circumstances between satoru and reader a bit more, giving us a bit of insight from satoru's POV (and showing how down bad he is, hehe.)

ceo! satoru, who walks into meetings ten minutes late, just to prove he can. he never rushes—the clock bends for him, so does the room. postures straighten, laptops shift, conversations hush—eyes flicking away like they weren’t just whispering about the latest tabloid headline with his name in bold.

he doesn’t give them the satisfaction of reacting—never does. because he’s used to the attention. the scrutiny. the weight of being watched.

whatever… he never asked for this. he’s the heir of gojo corp, he just has to exist… right?

ceo! satoru, who doesn't read half the reports placed in front of him—rolling his eyes during company briefings, doodling dicks into the margins of billion-yen contracts. he slouches in a chair that cost more than most people’s rent—twirling a pen, daring someone to scold him. it’s always his father. it’s only ever his father.

“take this seriously satoru. you need to grow up. have you found a wife yet?”

the pressure of his legacy comes dressed in politeness, in tightly-wound ties and family dinners that feel more like interviews. it’s never ‘what do you want?’ only ‘what will you become?’

people think he’s lazy. arrogant. detached. 

eh… maybe they aren’t wrong? 

and yet, for all his mockery, he still shows up. still puts on the suit. still plays the part with a half-smile and his middle finger tucked just behind his back. because maybe, if he doesn’t take it seriously, it can’t hurt him the way it was always meant to.

ceo! satoru, who keeps people at arm's length, especially women. they whisper his name like a prize—because everyone wants something from him: money, attention, his title, a seat at the table. so? he gives them nothing—flirting without intent, touching without feeling, fucking without consequence. 

love is a transaction. intimacy? a liability. and gojo satoru? he’s tired of being collateral.

so, he stays perfect on paper—sharp in the spotlight, hollow behind closed doors. if he gives them nothing, then there’s nothing to take. 

untouchable, unbothered, and lonelier than he’ll ever admit.

ceo! satoru, who notices you the moment you don’t notice him. you’re new—his father’s latest hire. just another name slipped into a calendar invite he didn’t read, another title he forgot before the ink dried. nothing remarkable. not at first glance. you keep to yourself, all neutral tones and clean lines. head down, posture straight, buried in your work like it’s the only thing keeping you tethered. 

boring, uptight. 

that’s his original impression of you. 

until he makes some offhand comment in a meeting—low, careless, designed to make the room laugh. but this time, you glance up, meeting his eyes with a scowl.

“...are you finished?” you mumble. cold. quiet. unamused.

the fuck? 

it’s always his father. it’s only ever his father. and yet here you are—desk-bound and barely blinking—making him feel like he’s overstayed his welcome—in his own kingdom, mind you.

oh. he’s gonna give you hell.

ceo! satoru, who makes it his personal mission to get under your skin. so, he starts dropping by your office more often. for no real reason—papers he could’ve emailed, questions he already knows the answers to. 

“hey miss secretary,” he drawls, dragging the words like velvet across glass. “miss me?”

he pushes. you push back. he reroutes your calendar and you reroute his meetings. he leaves three unsigned forms on your desk just to watch you chase him down the hallway with your heels clicking like gunfire.

“try doing your job sometime,” you hiss. 

satoru lives for the moments you slip. he’s used to women shrinking beneath his name. you don’t shrink—you scowl. and it’s addicting. because all that politeness you wear in front of his father is paper-thin around him, and your patience is stretched tight over something sharper. 

ceo! satoru, who notices you’ve been late three times this week. not by much—seven minutes, ten at most. but still, late. unusual for someone like you.

you—who normally arrives fifteen minutes early. you—who color-codes schedules and double-checks logistics like it’s second nature. you—who never lets a single thread unravel.

“this company runs on discipline, not excuses,” his father lectures you. “apologies sir… my babysitter has a habit of running late.”

and just like that, the room changes. 

ceo! satoru, who said nothing at the time—just watched. you’re a single mom? he’s thinking about the way you never mentioned a child. the way you never once asked for accommodations. the way you kept your head down and your performance sharp, even when your personal life clearly wasn’t giving you much room to breathe. and for the first time, he wonders if he’s been looking at you all wrong.

because it’s easy to call someone uptight until you realize they’re holding the world together with both hands and no help.

you square your shoulders, taking his father’s lecture like you were used to it. why did it seem like you had practice with swallowing apologies you didn’t owe? that doesn’t sit well with him…

ceo! satoru, who didn’t see it coming. not really. one moment his father is mid-sentence, gesturing over untouched steak and quarterly projections. the next, there’s a tremor in his voice—a hand that doesn’t settle, a breath that doesn’t finish. silver clattering to the floor. staff rushing in. panic rising in the air like heat.

he doesn’t remember the walk to the ambulance, only the stillness of his own father’s body.

ceo! satoru, who knows the answer before the doctor speaks. it’s in the look. the way the nurse steps back. the way no one can meet his gaze.

“it was a heart attack… i’m sorry. he didn’t make it.”

he nods. once. what is he supposed to do—to feel? he doesn’t know what to mourn. the father he feared? the man he resented? the stranger who lived down the hall of his own childhood? the man who spent his entire life, trying to mold him—now undone by something even he couldn’t control. 

there was no grand ending. no dramatic farewell. just silence. 

and satoru—left with all the noise that came after.

ceo! satoru, who stares down at the stipulation in his father’s will like it’s a ghost. and honestly? maybe it is. maybe this is how his father haunts him—not with memories, but with demands.

to inherit full control of gojo corp and the family estate, satoru must be married. with a child. within one year.

he blinks once, then laughs—quiet, disbelieving. of course. of course the man who never trusted him in life wouldn’t trust him in death. control, even from the grave—his father’s final move, final manipulation.

ceo! satoru, who isn’t prepared when it’s you who offers a solution. no dramatics, no buildup—just a simple, “let’s get married.” it takes him a full breath to process it. a fake marriage. a clean deal. a contract that helps you both. 

you—already a mother, already the picture-perfect illusion his father wanted him to build. you—who has everything the will demands, and nothing he’s ever had to pretend to want. for a moment, he’s stunned into silence. because you’re not offering him love, you’re offering him freedom.

ceo! satoru, who doesn’t trust easily, but maybe he trusts you? because you’ve never wanted anything from him, never asked for his attention. you’re practical. smart. tired in the same way he is (he’s just better at hiding it).

and sure, maybe what you’re offering isn’t customary. no emotional attachments, no strings. just terms, signatures and survival. it’s not what his father would have wanted. but fuck it, that’s the point.

ceo! satoru, who is not prepared for the way you kiss him at a public event. he tells himself it was just the heat of the moment, knowing you only kissed him to play your role. he tries to conveniently ignore the way your lips part first, slipping your tongue in, sighing against his mouth, leaning into him like you’re his—like he fucking owns you.

but… this is just a charade, marriage of convenience—nothing more. shit. then why the fuck is he rock hard remembering the taste of you?

ceo! satoru, who only meant to jerk off to you once—just to get it out of his system, okay?! clearly that’s all he needs right? he lasts maybe five minutes before he’s groaning your name, hips lifting as he’s spilling cum all over his abs, shuddering as he fucks his own fist thinking about you. 

there. that’s it. out of his system—no more, right? (wrong)

ceo! satoru, who doesn’t know what’s worse—the fact that it happens again, or that it happens easier. it doesn’t take much now—just the sight of you leaning over the dining table in a robe, a bare leg bent, hair tangled from sleep. the curve of your neck when you tilt your head. the flash of skin when you reach for something too high.

what the fuck is wrong with him?!

you’re not even doing anything. not really. you’re just there—folded into his space like you belong there. moving barefoot through his estate in oversized sweaters and quiet hums, curling up on the couch without a clue what you’re doing to him.

ceo! satoru, who’s never felt this out of control. not in boardrooms. not in interviews. not even in the middle of his father’s most ruthless lectures. but with you? with you, it’s all unraveling—you’re like gravity.

and now it’s routine—fucking his hand to the thought of you, slipping into his bedroom, pants pushed down, fist tight around his twitching cock, muttering curses into his palm to keep from moaning too loud, because you’re always asleep in the room next door.

it’s just stress relief, he tells himself. a coping mechanism. a release.

taking care of a kid is harder than he expected. the pressure’s always building as ceo of gojo corp. and you—you’re always close. always soft. always there.

ceo! satoru, who imagines you on your knees, in his office, tucked under his desk like a dirty secret. he’s slapping his dick gently against your cheek, rubbing his precum all over your pretty little mouth, encouraging you to part your lips before feeding you his cock, inch by inch.

schlick. schlick. schlick.

his filthy faps echo off the bedroom walls—sprawled out on expensive sheets, cock flushed and leaking down his knuckles as his wrist works faster, panting, groaning, lost in the addicting image of you.

“s-shit—fuck—” he breathes, head tilting back, hips rocking forward. “j-just like that… so good f’me, baby… so fuckin’ good—”

your muffled moans would sound so cute, gagging around his cock, drool dripping down your chin as you blink up at him, teary and beautiful. he’d stroke your hair back, whispering praise, thrusting lazily down your throat.

“fuuuck—look at you, so pretty—s-shit…” he’s fraying at the edges, nearly breaking as his strokes grow faster, messier. “p-please—fuck, need it—need your mouth, please… just wanna—nngh…”

ceo! satoru, who fantasizes about cuming across your tongue—your eyes fluttering closed as he tells you to swallow. and you’d swallow it all, wouldn’t you? looking up at him with ruined lips, cum streaking your chin, smiling all coy with those pouty lips he dreams about every night.

“fuckfuckfuck—” his voice cracks, stomach tensing, cock jerking in his hand. “‘m gonna cum— ‘m gonna—fuck—" he gasps, hips lifting off the edge of the bed as his orgasm crashes through him like a tidal wave.

and it wrecks him.

cum spills over his fist in hot, desperate spurts, leaking between his fingers, dripping down his wrist, painting his abs, his shirt, his thighs in thick creamy streaks.

“g-god… yes… f-fuck, baby… f’you, all f’you…” he whimpers, eyes fluttering shut as your name slips from his lips, over and over again like a prayer.

ceo! satoru, who lies there afterward, sweating and spent, staring at the ceiling like it might tell him what the fuck he’s doing. you’re not actually his—you were never meant to be.  sure, you’re his wife, but only on paper, nothing more. so… why do the lines keep blurring? thinning. you’re already under his skin. already in his sheets. in his head. on your fucking knees every time he closes his eyes.

and it’s not just lust anymore.

it’s the sound of your voice when you’re half-asleep. the way you talk to your daughter in that soft, maternal tone, tugging at something deep in his chest. the gojo estate used to feel like a museum. all cold marble and high ceilings, every corner echoing with the absence of something warm. he never realized how empty it felt until you started filling it. slowly. quietly. without trying.

now there’s a pink toothbrush beside his in the bathroom. a collection of tiny socks and hair ties on the entryway table. a soft giggle in the morning light and the scent of syrup in the kitchen air.

your daughter’s toys spill out across the living room rug. your coat hangs next to his in the foyer. your voice carries down the hall like it belongs here.

he wants you like a home he never thought he deserved.

and... that’s the most terrifying part of all.

love is a transaction. intimacy? a liability. if he gives you everything—his time, his trust, the bruised, aching thing in his chest he swore no one could touch—what would you do? would you break him?

a/n. awww... for those that have read the fic it was fun to go back to the start of this story to see how far this pair has come 🥹 i figured ceo deserved his own headcanon, i love my pookie. chapter 10 is in the works. if you enjoyed this teaser consider checking out this fics full masterlist here! i will also be reopening this taglist.

taglist:

@geniejunn @fortunatelyfurrygiver @rosso-seta @acowboykisser @mikyapixie

@shokosbunny @fire-child-kira @aluvrina @laviefantasie @kurookinnie

@poopypipi @painted-hills @stillserene @mira-lol @k-kkiana

@sebastianlover @blueberrysungie @kalulakunundrum @doireallyhavetonamthis @lingophilospher

@ichikanu @artist1936 @christianacj27 @watermelon-online @jkbangtan7

@angelina7890 @aruraa @han11dh @jonesmelodys @k1ttybean

@a-trashbag @jotarohat @khaleesihavilliard @tsukistopglazer @elliesndg

@maskedpacific @that-redheadd @lovelyartemisa @eolivy

@valleydoli @voids-universe @sukunadckrider @aishies-stuff

@saccharine-nectarine @ilianasau @pinksaiyans @gojoslefttoenail

[orphicsun]

american kids (e.w headcannons)

pairing: southern butch ellie + fem reader

warnings: 18+ content (use of strap-ons + oral sex + ass slapping), mentions of guns since it's a southern au and all, southern dialect/accent noticeable, use of the term 'daddy' (i think ellie is the type of butch to love the name).

☼ southern butch ellie who wears a pair of joel's hand-me-down jeans while she works. sweat drippin' down her forehead, hair tied back messily to keep it out of her face. plenty of pit stains on her wife pleasers and she still looks irresistible.

☼ southern butch ellie who plows through endless fields in her tractor (and you)

☼ southern butch ellie who isn't too picky about her meals. you'll approach her lounging form, practically glued to the recliner, and tap her tanned shoulder with a plate of mississippi mud roast.

"ain't you just so sweet?" she'd tease, tugging your waist to sit on the side of the chair. when you (reluctantly) managed to pull away to clean the crock pot, you'd feel her roughened hand give your ass a little shameless smack, and if you paid closer attention, you could hear the snicker erupt from her throat.

☼ southern butch ellie who loves being called daddy in the privacy of your farmhouse' master bedroom.

in reverse cowgirl, her hands keep a firm grip over the curve of your hips. you rock your hips back and forth, whining incoherent shit she can't make anything of. you jump and look back at her when her hand comes down on your ass, a sharp spank leaving a red handprint on it. "you gonna be nice for daddy and ride her cock, quit mumblin'?" she chides. your whimper sends 1500 watts straight to her bush-hidden pussy. without further notice, you're flipped underneath her, and the harness around her waist is being ripped off so she can shut you up with her pussy on your face.

☼ southern butch ellie with plenty of ink. the single name "shimmer," her first horse, on the back of her shoulder. letters capital and thin. then, an assortment of random tattoos you wouldn't expect someone in the bible belt to have. not that ellie follows any bible, but it's surprising to see. her arms stay mainly clean, freckles on her shoulders and faded down her arms unobstructed, but she swears one day she will get your name on the inside of her wrist.

"see that vein right there, babe? right below 'er. perfect place for your name, don't cha think?"

☼ southern butch ellie who seems rough on the outside, but is the true definition of a sweetheart. you live in a trailer park? she grew up in one, doesn't judge. though that is all too common in the south, some folks still judge. she will never understand it. adding onto this, she ordinates between little and big spoon. some nights, she loves being held and squeezed to sleep. the nights when she has no plans of actually sleeping, she likes sneaking behind you and rubbing her thick belt buckle against your ass.

☼ southern butch ellie who is awkward with kids to the point it melts your heart. she can hardly speak to them, just nodding along and trying to keep up with their jumbling words. give her a couple hours with the kids, and you'll find her playing crack the egg on a trampoline with them.

☼ southern butch ellie who hunts with a rifle in the backwoods. she'll come home with a couple rabbits or a deer if she is so lucky. keeps the rifle stored away safely, but sometimes her mind drifts to your safety. if anyone even so much as thought about trying to harm you on her property? rifle is going to be used for more than forest critter.

☼ southern butch ellie who loves getting a strap blowjob, whatever you wanna call it. she gets asked all the time why lesbians use strap-ons if they don't like cock—this is why. the way the tan plastic shines neatly with your saliva. the way she can last longer than any guy getting a blowjob, fucking your throat for as long as she so pleases, knowing you love gagging for her dick.

☼ southern butch ellie who fucks you in the bed of her '97 pick-up truck, a few blankets underneath you. she'll have you in missionary with your legs wrapped around her hips, and she handles you so easily. she doesn't sputter like a man. she fucks you hard and deep, encouraging you to dig your nails into her back. she doesn't stop until she knows you're worn out.

☼ southern butch ellie who loves a good home-cooked meal from you, but knows how to whip up some bomb ass breakfast herself. hashbrowns and sunny-side up eggs, a few strip of bacon or sausage links on the side for you when you rise. since she always wakes earlier than you, she has the advantage of being able to cook for you before you are able to fuss about her morning chores and how you should be the one to cook.

☼ southern butch ellie who hates overall traffic and chaos in the city, but will drive through an interstate to one in november for every major holiday. she isn't the richest person, but likes picking up overtime to get you that specific teacup set you saw in a flea market or a lacy pair of victoria's secret panties in the mall that she catches you staring at weeks prior.

☼ southern butch ellie who makes a mixtape for the nights the two of you drink beer on the hood of her truck and roll a couple joints. and yeah, it's the classics of the south. george strait, the charlie daniels band, dolly parton, johnny cash, shania twain, willie nelson, etc. she throws in some soft older love songs like coney island baby, somethin' stupid, i will always love you, dedicated to the one i love, forever, be my baby, and tonight will you belong to me.

taglist: @ferxanda, @vahnilla, @witzs, @frillynpinkprincess, @plasticl0v3r, @meow4510, @eriiwaii, @g4ys0n, @mitskimisfit, @ruelezz, @bewareofmyglock. want to be tagged? click here

[holeforzenin]

Based on this! , AGE GAP (reader is in early 20s n Toji is in late 30s), fluff/comfort, he calls you “kid”. Not proofread

"Tojiii, guess what!!" you yelled excitedly as you energetically kicked off your shoes in the doorway and stepped inside. The white paper swayed in your hand as you let out a symphony of high-pitched giggles. You were so happy and eager to let Toji on the great news that you had accomplished today. You hurriedly ran through the halls but were obviously being super careful not to slip and fall on the marble tiles because of your socks because unfortunately you had to learn the hard way. You raced into the living room and there he was, sitting on the couch. A damp wrinkly towel in his hand that he’s using to clean the dried blood from his sharp sword. It was always so icky to you seeing him doing that because you hated bloody stuff like that so much!! It never failed to disgust you, that's why he always does it while you're not at home.

"What's up kid? Gimme a sec okay" he greeted you warmly, flashing a genuine smile before he swiftly stood up and placed his sword and towel on the nearby table then walked over to the sink to wash his hands. You hummed in approval and used the time to flatten and fix your hair because after all, you were literally running down the street in excitement so your hair was bound to be messed up.

He dried his hands with a clean rag before gracefully making his way back to where you were, standing by the couch. He effortlessly lifted you up with one hand and sat down and placed you firmly on his lap. The white paper immediately caught his attention as he carressed your side softly. “What's that you're holding baby?", his voice laced with curiosity as he tried to make out the words written on the sheet.

"That's what I wanted to show you silly!" You playfully giggled as you leaned towards his solid chest that you always felt so safe and comfortable buried in. His brows furrowed together as he hummed a low "Hm?".

"Remember that exam I told you I was nervous for??, I got an A!! You hear that?? A fucking A. I PASSED!!. You exclaimed enthusiastically as you quite literally shoved the entire paper in the older man’s face. The big, bold A in red ink came into clear view—Making him chuckle as he smirked at you before pulling the paper away and placing it next to him. A hand came up to ruffle your hair affectionately as you both laughed.

"See? I told you there was nothing to worry about baby. You're a smart girl, of course you'd pass. I'm proud of ya kid, keep it up” He uttered proudly. The sweet comfort in his voice had butterflies dancing in your tummy as your cheeks heated up from the heartfelt compliment. Of course, he notices and places a tender kiss on your forehead. He cupped your cheeks as the two of you locked eye contact. His thumb brushed against your skin, causing your face to melt into his warm touch. You placed a gentle kiss on the inside of his hand, making him blush faintly.

"Thank you Toji, I knew you'd be!” you muttered lowly but loud enough for him to hear. "Of course baby. You know I'll always be proud of ya, no matter what" he leans in, planting a quick kiss on your nose before patting your back.

"Alright enough of this, let's get you some food kid, I bet you're hungry. I made your favorite pasta for you" His heart swells up as he watches your eyes widen in joy.

"YOU MADE PASTA?? GET UP, WHAT ARE WE WAITING FOR!!" You yelled excitedly before jumping up from his lap and running into the kitchen. Oh he loved you so much.

[imagella-blog]

Child-Friendly Halloween Coloring Pages - Learn & Grow

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[strawberry-bubblef]

Just found your blog after seeing the Overblot students reacting to causing serious harm to the reader/their partner and oof the angst is strong there! Excellent stuff all around and the way that several of them have symbolic injuries suited to each is fitting-

Like Vil pointed out the irony that his attack blinded them (likely disfiguring too)

Leona missing the arm that never hesitated to reach out for him.

Jamil making his S/O unable to stand without them, needing his support.

For some reason, it all reminded me of the Jekyll and Hyde musical (not at all accurate to the original work but the music is pretty good) particularly the Confrontation song, where Jekyll and Hyde have a musical number ripping into the other.

Imagine if the Overblot guys (whether merely haunted by their memories of the event or tying into your original post about permanent injuries inflicted to the person they loved most) have nightmares confronting those versions of themselves especially in regards to the harm that could have (or did) happen to their S/O. Only to get hit with “can’t you see were the same” but maybe the OB’s are mild yanderes towards the S/O or point out easier it is to keep them by his side, that he’s willing to take the risks to keep them around unlike the “good boy” persona some of them keep up.

OB students having nightmares of themselves after hurting their s/o

Part 1: Ob student unintentionally hurting their s/o

Aww! Thanks for the sweet words 🥲🫶 I'm glade you liked it !

Riddle Rosehearts

The halls of Heartslabyul are silent after curfew. Moonlight cuts silver through the tall windows, casting the checkered floor in sharp, cold contrast. It’s late, but Riddle isn’t sleeping. Not really. Not anymore.

He jolts awake again, breath shallow, red eyes wide. He stares at the ceiling, but all he sees is the moment he can never take back.

Your voice, cracking as you tried to reach him.

The way the vines coiled around you, cruel and tight,his vines.

How you cried out.

And the silence after. The absolute silence.

He’s by your side now, and you’ve forgiven him. You told him as much, your voice gentle, your hand on his. But that forgiveness tastes like ash when he remembers the look on your face back then,not fear, not anger, but disbelief. As if you couldn't quite believe he was the one hurting you.

It clings to him like a second skin.

And every night, the dream returns.

The maze is dead now. No more vibrant red blooms or the sweet scent of petals. Only twisted thorns and rotting leaves, the sky above a bruised, stormy purple. The air is heavy with guilt and magic.

In the center of it all sits his throne.

That version of him is waiting, legs crossed elegantly, sipping black tea that stains the porcelain cup like ink.

“You're late,” the Overblot says. “But I suppose shame slows the feet.”

Riddle takes a breath. “I’m not here for your games.”

“Ah, but we’ve played such lovely ones, haven’t we? Tea parties and rules and hearts cut clean in half.”

He steps closer, circling Riddle like a cat. “Do you remember how quiet they became after we were done? No more backtalk. No more chaos. They obeyed. Isn't that what you wanted?”

Riddle flinches.

The Overblot leans in, voice silken and low. “You wrapped yourself in rules because your mother left you no room to breathe. So you did the same to them because love is terrifying when it’s free, isn’t it?”

“I was wrong,” Riddle says. “That wasn’t love.”

“Then what do you call it?” the other hisses, the smile gone. “You think your bouquet of apologies rewrites what you did? You think gentle words and shared tea make up for the way they screamed?”

Riddle’s hands tremble. He can’t meet his own eyes,those cruel red eyes staring out of a mirror cracked by power and pain.

“I didn't mean to hurt them.”

“But you did.” The Overblot’s voice turns almost tender, almost sad. “And I-we will always live with that.”

Silence falls like snow.

And then: “But at least I was honest. At least I did what had to be done to keep them close. You fear they’ll leave. I made it impossible. Maybe you should be thanking me.”

Riddle recoils. “You turned them into something fragile.”

“I turned them into something ours. They stay because of you, but they flinch because of me.”

A pause.

“Can’t you see?” he whispers. “We’re the same.”

The dream ends with Riddle reaching for his collar, choking on petals that pour from his mouth,crimson, velvet, suffocating.

He wakes with a cry.

It’s still night, the room quiet. He reaches for you instinctively, but the sheets are cool, the space beside him empty. Panic strikes fast and cold.

He finds you on the balcony, bathed in moonlight. Wrapped in a soft robe, you’re gazing at the stars. Your arm is wrapped, supported. Some movements are slower now. But your eyes are bright as ever.

You turn as he approaches.

“Another nightmare?”

Riddle says nothing. He only stands behind you and hesitantly slide his hand into yours. His grip is tight,not crushing, never again but desperate in its quiet plea.

“I don’t deserve you,” he whispers.

“You don’t get to decide that alone,” you reply softly, placing yourhand over his. “You made a mistake. A terrible one. But you changed. You’re trying. That matters.”

“I see him every time I close my eyes,” Riddle admits. “He says we’re the same.”

You turn, gently cupping his face with the only hand that you have left. “Then prove him wrong.”

He leans into your touch like a drowning man, clinging to the only solid thing in a storm. In your eyes, there’s still pain. Still healing. But also,somehow hope.

He’s terrified he’ll always be at war with that version of himself.

But if you’re willing to walk beside him through the thorns, maybe, just maybe, there’s a path forward.

Leona Kingscholar

The desert wind howls in his ears.

Leona stands on the edge of a dry, cracked savannah where nothing grows, under a sunless sky. The ground is stained with soot and ash, grass burned to cinders. In the distance, a pride stone crumbles into dust.

And there,at the center of the destruction,is himself.

Or at least, what’s left of him.

His Overblot form sits lazily upon a throne of twisted bone and stone, smoke curling from his mane like incense from an open flame. Those glowing eyes burn, full of mirthless amusement.

“Took you long enough,” the Overblot drawls. “What, couldn’t face me sooner? Or were you too busy watching them struggle to tie their shoes with the wrong damn hand?”

Leona's jaw tightens. “Shut up.”

“Hit a nerve?” His other self stretches, claws dragging over the arms of the throne. “I’m not the one who tore it from them. You are. We are.”

“I never meant–”

“Don’t insult both of us. You knew what that spell could do. You were angry. Jealous. Tired of always coming second. So you struck. And you didn’t stop.”

Leona’s fists clench. He can still remember the heat, the way magic surged through him like wildfire, untamed and wild. The look on your face when you collapsed, your dominant arm crushed under a landslide of sand and force.

He remembers how still you were. How you didn’t reach for him. Couldn’t.

And how the silence that followed was louder than any roar.

“They can’t write like they used to,” his Overblot murmurs. “Can’t lift a box. Can’t sketch, or braid your damn hair. All the things they used to do so easily,gone. Because of you.”

“I know !” Leona snaps. “I live with it every day.”

“Do you?” The Overblot tilts his head. “Then why haven’t you left? Why not let them go and find someone better for them? Someone whole?”

Leona’s voice drops to a growl. “Because I love them.”

The other version smiles, sharp and cruel. “No. You need them. And they need you now, don’t they? You made sure of that. No one else understands them like you. No one else will want them like this.”

Leona stares, disgust tightening in his throat.

“Come on,” the Overblot purrs. “Admit it. Part of you is relieved. Because now they’ll stay.”

“No.”

“They’ll never leave you.”

“NO!”

The Overblot lunges, claws out, but Leona doesn’t move.

Because he knows the truth: this isn’t about physical pain. This is about guilt, about possession, about fear.

And about how love can rot if left to fester.

He wakes up leaning against a tree in Savanaclaw. It's still dark, the early morning stars just beginning to fade. His hands are buried in the dirt, sweat soaking the back of his shirt. His heart thunders in his chest like it’s trying to dig out.

The scent of jasmine reaches him first. Then your voice.

“Bad dream?”

Leona looks up.

You’re seated nearby, wrapped in a blanket, watching the horizon. Your sleeve is pinned up neatly, your right side turned toward him. The scarred place where your arm used to be is hidden, but he knows its shape by memory now.

He sits beside you wordlessly. You lean into him, letting his warmth chase away the morning chill.

“It’s always the same dream,” he mutters. “Me. Him. You.”

You rest your head on his shoulder. “Do you still hate yourself?”

He doesn’t answer.

His grip tightens ever so slightly. “I wish it had been me instead.”

You reach for his hand with your remaining one and lace your fingers together.

“I would’ve still stayed,” you say. “Even if it had been you who got hurt. Even if it was your arm.”

Silence stretches, heavy and honest.

Leona leans into you then, pressing his forehead to your temple.

“I’m trying,” he whispers.

“I know.”

And for once, the guilt doesn’t scream quite so loud.

Azul Ashengrotto

The sea is too still.

No current, no light,only the inky abyss stretching endlessly in every direction. Azul floats weightlessly in the dark, arms crossed over his chest, eyes closed as if sleep could shield him from what he knows is coming.

No light,only the inky abyss stretching endlessly in every direction. Azul floats weightlessly in the dark, arms crossed over his chest, eyes closed as if sleep could shield him from what he knows is coming.

And then it starts.

The water shifts.

A shadow coils in the deep like smoke in water,and from it emerges himself,not in his human form, not even in his merman body. No, it’s the Overblot: bloated and grandiose, tentacles stretching into the black like roots through rot. His grin is razor-sharp, filled with oil-slick malice.

“Still pretending to be human?” it coos. “Still clinging to the mask of the poor little businessman?”

Azul doesn’t look at it.

“Did you think success would make you good?” the Overblot hisses, gliding around him like a serpent. “That if you just worked hard enough, they’d love you? Respect you?”

Azul breathes slowly, deliberately. “Shut up.”

“Oh, touchy.” “You weren’t nearly so quiet when you were begging them not to leave you. Not when they were lying there,bleeding, gasping because you made them part of your deal.”

Azul flinches.

He sees it again: the whirlpool, the crashing debris, the spell cast in desperation and greed. The way you fell,your leg crushed under the magical pressure, twisted unnaturally before he could stop it.

Before he cared to stop it.

“You used them,” the Overblot sings. “Because deep down, you thought: if they depend on me, they won’t leave me.”

“I didn’t—”

“Yes, you did,” it snarls. “You saw them shine and you thought: I want that. You dragged them into your schemes, into your world. And now?”

A cruel smile stretches over its face.

“Now they can’t even dance.”

Azul’s fists curl.

“They limp through the halls, leaning on a cane or your arm, and every step is a reminder. And yet, they still smile at you. Still tell you it’s not your fault.”

The Overblot leans in close, eyes glowing.

“But it is.”

Azul screams,no sound leaves his throat, only bubbles but he surges forward, trying to claw at the thing wearing his face, only for it to melt away into nothing.

Leaving him alone in the silent sea.

He jolts awake in a cold sweat.

The lounge is dark, only the soft glow of enchanted lamps illuminating the drapes. Azul sits on the couch, disheveled,, breath caught halfway in his throat.

A small noise draws his attention.

You're at the window, adjusting your prosthetic leg,carefully, patiently. You don’t notice him watching, or maybe you do, and you choose not to look.

He swallows.

You always do things quietly now. No complaints. No bitter remarks. But you also don’t hum anymore when you walk. You don’t twirl in the water like you used to.

Azul lowers his eyes.

He hears the soft tap of your cane as you make your way over, the familiar pattern of your gait now etched into his memory.

You sit beside him, brushing your hand against his.

“You dreamt about it again.”

He nods, shame burning behind his eyes.

“I see him in the mirror sometimes,” he murmurs. “The one I was. I wonder if I’m still him.”

You shake your head. “He would’ve run from this. You didn’t.”

Azul hesitates before reaching for your hand. “I don’t deserve your kindness.”

“Maybe not,” you whisper, “but you’re trying. And that counts more than you think.”

He leans in slowly, resting his forehead against the side of your head. “If I could give you that leg back…”

“I wouldn’t take it.”

He stiffens, shocked.

You turn to him with quiet intensity. “Because then maybe you’d still be pretending to be someone you’re not. I don’t need perfection. I need you.”

Azul doesn’t reply,he can’t. But he holds you a little tighter, breathing in the proof that somehow, some way… you’re still here.

And maybe that's enough.

Jamil Viper

The chains rattle again.

He doesn’t know where he is,some room, always dark, always humid. The smell of sweat and ash lingers like incense from an old nightmare. Stone walls stretch in every direction, but there’s no exit. No sky. Just that mirror on the wall.

He doesn’t look at it.

Not yet.

He knows who’s waiting on the other side.

But he turns anyway.

And there he i. The Overblot version of himself smiles cruelly, slouching in that confident, arrogant way Jamil hates to admit he once wished he could embody.

“You look exhausted,” the Overblot drawls. “Not sleeping well, Jamil?”

“I’m not here to talk to you,” Jamil hisses.

“Oh, but I’m here to talk to you.” The reflection slinks closer. “How’s our darling doing, by the way? Still limping around because of you?”

Jamil’s stomach churns.

The sound of bones snapping, of the ground cracking during that awful moment,when magic surged out of control, when the pressure pinned you down, the illusion spells fraying as your foot was crushed beneath falling debris he summoned. Not even intentionally. Not really.

But he knew you were nearby.

And he still didn’t care.

He had finally taken the reins of his life and you were collateral.

“I didn’t mean-” Jamil starts, voice strained.

“You didn’t stop,” the Overblot cuts in, venomous. “You didn’t hesitate. You knew they were watching. And still you used your magic. Still you twisted their mind until they collapsed.”

Jamil’s voice is a whisper. “I didn't want to hurt them.”

“You wanted control.”

Silence.

“You wanted them to stop pitying you. To see you,not the servant, not the background character, but the powerful one. And when you had it, even just for a moment…”

The Overblot tilts his head.

“…you liked it.”

Jamil clenches his fists. “I hate you.”

“No,” it says, baring fangs. “You hate that I’m you. You hate that some part of you thought, ‘If I can just keep them dependent… they’ll never leave.’”

The words sting like poison.

“Now look at them,” the Overblot murmurs. “They used to dance barefoot on sunlit floors. Now every step is calculated. Controlled. Like you wanted everything else to be.”

Jamil shuts his eyes tight.

When he opens them again, the mirror is empty.

He’s alone again.

But the silence is louder than before.

He wakes up in a sweat.

The room is dim, lit by the flicker of a candle. The warmth of the dorm blankets does little to soothe him, especially not when he sees the empty spot in the bed beside him.

You're by the window.

Adjusting the supportive brace over your ankle,what's left of it. Your balance is careful, practiced. Your fingers are deft. Jamil sits up quietly, heart aching.

You glance over your shoulder. “Nightmare?”

He nods, slow.

You limp over to him, footsteps padded by the soft cloth of your wrap. You don’t say anything at first,you just press your forehead to his, fingers tangling with his.

“I see him,” Jamil says. “The version of me who… who didn't care. Who thought being loved wasn’t as important as being obeyed.”

You don’t flinch. You already know.

“I hate him,” he whispers.

“But he’s not you,” you murmur back.

Jamil’s eyes glint with unshed tears.

“I almost made you another chain.”

You shake your head, taking his hand and placing it against your heartbeat. “But you let go. You let me go. You helped me stand again.”

His voice is raw. “You should’ve run from me.”

“I didn’t want to,” you reply. “I wanted to walk beside you. Even if I had to relearn how.”

He exhales shakily.

And when he kisses your knuckles, it’s soft. Tentative. Like he’s still trying to prove to himself that you’re real,that this, what he has now, is real.

Even after all he’s done.

Vil Schoenheit

The mirror doesn’t lie. That’s the curse.

He can’t hide from it. Not from the face that stares back at him,twisted, blot-streaked, gleaming with hatred and pride. His Overblot self grins through cracked lipstick and bleeding glamour.

“Ah. Come to scold me again, Schoenheit?”

Vil doesn’t answer. He already knows how this goes.

Every night, it’s the same: the same confrontation, the same voice that sounds too much like his own, the same sickening echo of violet light bursting from his fingertips, burning away the world and everything he held dear.

Especially you.

“Still pretending you didn’t enjoy it?” the Overblot version sneers. “You always thought beauty was everything. Until you became the monster.”

Vil’s voice is cold. “I wanted the world to see me. Not them.”

“And now they can’t see anything at all.” A cruel chuckle. “Isn’t that poetic?”

His throat tightens.

He remembers the scent of magic in the air, the searing heat, the flash of light as your scream tore through him. The way you clutched your face, blood slipping between your fingers. The panic that followed. The silence. The way your eyes never found him again.

“I didn’t mean to hurt them.”

“But you did.” The Overblot tilts his head mockingly. “You wanted to be seen. So you made sure they never would be seen again. You took that from them. You, who worshipped beauty like a god.”

Vil’s hands tremble at his sides.

“You knew what your magic could do. You chose to use it anyway.”

“I thought I could control it.”

“You were wrong.”

Silence.

Then:

“They still call your name,” the Overblot whispers. “Even now. Still reach for you. Still smile in your direction. And doesn’t that make it worse?”

Vil turns away.

“All they know is the echo of your voice and the feel of your touch. And you cling to that, don’t you? Because if they saw you as you were... they would’ve run.”

The mirror cracks.

Not from magic but from the way Vil slams his fist into it, fury rippling through every bone.

And when he opens his eyes again, he's awake.

The bedroom is quiet, curtains drawn open just enough to let in moonlight. You’re seated on the bed, fingers moving expertly as you read a Braille book Vil had custom,made for you. Your head tilts slightly when you hear him stir.

“Another dream?” you ask gently.

Vil’s voice is hoarse. “Yes.”

You set the book down. “Was it him again?”

“…Yes.”

You pat the space beside you, and he comes willingly. Sits beside you. Lets you touch his face. You always do that now,run your fingertips along his cheekbones, brush over the curve of his lips, like you’re memorizing him all over again.

“I hate what I did to you,” he whispers. “I took the stars from your eyes.”

“And still I find light in your voice.” you say softly.

Vil swallows. “You don’t hate me?”

“I miss what I lost,” you admit. “But I don’t miss you. Because you’re still here.”

He presses your hand to his chest. “It should’ve been me.”

“No,” you whisper. “You came back to me. That’s enough.”

Sometimes, he still dreams of mirrors.

But these days, when he wakes,he’s holding your hand.

And somehow, that makes all the difference.

Idia Shroud

That’s how the nightmare always starts.

Blue flame dances along the walls, scorching consoles, melting cables, and setting off a chorus of alarms. Everything is chaos.Except for him. Except for the Overblot.

It rises from the flames like a ghost made of rage and sorrow, hair wilder, cloak billowing like smoke. It grins, bearing rows of flame-slicked teeth.

“Guess what, Idia,” it sing-songs. “You’re the villain in your own tragic visual novel. Bad End unlocked!”

Idia curls inward, arms around himself. “I didn’t want to hurt them.”

“You did more than hurt them,” it hisses. “You burned them. Because you wanted to keep them close. You wanted them safe.”

“I lost control. The magic-”

“You thought locking them in the Underworld was safer than letting them leave you. And when they reached out for you..” The Overblot snaps its fingers.

The scent of scorched flesh.

The sound of your cry.

Idia covers his ears, but it’s no use.

“You destroyed the very hands that held you. Four fingers. Gone. Just like that. Do you know how many times they tried to play your games after that? Tried to cook? Draw? Hold a pen?”

“I didn’t mean to-!”

“But you did.” The voice is ice now. “And you know what the worst part is?”

Silence.

“They still forgive you.”

Idia lifts his head slowly, shame thick in his eyes.

“They still smile when you fumble with words. Still wrap what’s left of their hand around yours. Still kiss your cheek and say it’s okay. It’s not okay.”

“I know,” he whispers. “I know it’s not.”

“Then why do you stay?”

He doesn’t answer right away.

Then-q

“…Because they asked me to. Because they didn’t want to lose me too.”

The Overblot’s grin fades.

Idia steps closer to it. For once, he doesn’t flinch.

“I am a coward. I am broken. But I’m trying. Every day. I can’t fix what I did… but I can be here now. And that’s what they asked of me.”

The flames flicker.

“You don’t deserve them,” it spits.

“I know,” Idia says. “But they still choose me. And I’ll spend the rest of my life trying to be worthy of that.”

He wakes up gasping.

Your hand is in his,smaller now, missing parts of what once was, wrapped in soft bandages and healing cream. But warm. Still warm.

You stir beside him. “Another one?”

He nods.

You squeeze. “You’re still here.”

“…Yeah.”

You rest your forehead against his. “Then I’m okay.”

He doesn’t cry, but he holds your hand tighter.

And for the first time, the nightmare fades into silence.

Malleus Draconia

The castle is quiet. Too quiet.

He wanders its halls alone in the dream. The stone is grey, cracked with age. Thorny vines have grown wild over every door, every window. The sky outside is eternally twilight, like the world itself is holding its breath. Time doesn’t move here. It hasn’t for centuries.

He knows where you are.

He always knows.

Your chamber lies behind an arch of briars, untouched by rot or dust. Enchanted sleep preserved you, peaceful and unmoving, lips barely parted as if frozen mid-sigh.

He crosses the threshold slowly, reverently. His footsteps don’t echo anymore.

You lies there still.

Because of him.

“Malleus.”

The voice that greets him isn’t yours.

It’s his but deeper, weightless, echoing with ancient magic.

The Overblot.

It steps into view like a reflection peeled from his shadow. A smile too gentle to be anything but cruel.

“You saved her,” it says. “She was going to leave. Be taken away. You stopped it.”

“I imprisoned her,” Malleus whispers.

“You protected her. In eternal sleep, she couldn’t be harmed. Couldn’t abandon you. Couldn’t be taken away by time or fate or death.”

Malleus walks toward the bed. Your skin is still warm beneath the spell, magic thrumming softly with every breath. So many years have passed. More than he dares count.

“And yet she wept in her dreams,” he murmurs. “I heard it. Even through the spell.”

“Dreams are nothing,” the Overblot croons. “She’s safe. Isn’t that all you ever wanted?”

His hands tremble.

“I wanted to be with her,” Malleus says, voice breaking. “Not without her. Not like this.”

The Overblot’s smile fades. It regards him like a disappointed parent. “You are a king .You could have have eternity together.”

“No. I forced eternity upon her. I robbed her of choice… of time… of life.”

A silence falls.

Then-

“But she’s awake now.”

That voice. Yours.

He turns.

You're standing in the doorway. Older than you should be, touched by the centuries but beautiful still. Eyes full of sorrow and kindness both.

“I’m awake, Malleus.”

He stares, breathless. “This isn’t real.”

“It could be,” you say, stepping forward. “If you let go of the guilt. If you come back to me.”

“But I hurt you. I stole your future.”

“And yet I chose to wake up.”

You reach out.

He takes your hand in both of his, kneeling as if in penance.

“I will never forgive myself,” he whispers.

“Then let me forgive you instead,” you say. “You’re here now. And I waited because I believed you’d come back.”

He wakes in your arms, forehead against your shoulder, breath shaky.

You cradle his head gently, fingers weaving through his hair.

“You dreamt it again,” you murmur.

He nods, silent.

“I’m still here,” you remind him. “Still choosing you.”

And he holds you tighter, as though centuries could slip between his fingers once more.

But this time, he’ll never let go.

English is not my first language !

[dmitriene]

cw: omegaverse, knotting, marking and possessiveness.

you were invading simon's riley head, not only often flashing before his perilous black eyes, but also tormenting him in his dreams, your unfiltered, sweet ambrosial scent were hunting his senses, carving into his nostrils and making them flare, saliva pooling behind his closed mouth with popping fangs.

sweet little soldier, you didn't knew in what exact danger you were getting yourself into with your scent gland demonstrated in his face constantly, every breath he took is a perfect lungful of your addicting scent, rubbed against his gear when you were sticking to him purposefully, your pretty eyes always dazed and gawking at him.

ain't afraid to cling to him with your dainty fingers wrapping themselves tightly around his bicep, the rising wave of his tart, pungent smell doing nothing to shoo you away, not with your scent gland swelling with a need to be marked, belong to someone who won't let you walk around like that, irritating other's alpha's ruts.

you came to him yourself, foozling into his arms willingly with mind frazzled by your own heat, smelling of ripe want to be taken, crawling yourself out your poor nest on a wobbly legs to find his quarters, where anyone could've picked you by their way through the hallway, making simon's arms encircle your form with a too searing grasp, hiding you in the safety of his quarters.

lips behind his mask teased by sharp tips of his fangs, scraped to the bleeding wounds that flooded his mouth with metal tang, but the encasing scent of you, lustfully alluring in your bared vulnerability and craning neck, flashing him the view of the swollen, burning skin made his pupils dilate, eyes taking an shade of black, sinking tar, imagining how you'll taste on his tongue.

simon has a mind to not send you back, he dreamt of you, of this moment, wanting to be the one to mar your pure skin with blooming marks of belonging and leave a bleeding, thrumming mark at your neck, only him and no one else, no other alpha is good enough, and no one had a chance with you from the start.

you picked simon, smart thing, laying your eyes on the more menacing men of all around, with his chocking scent that is too much even when he's out of rut, swirling pools of inking nothingness that replaced his eyes never could've let you know that he's intirested in your persistent attention, but you're here, anyway, and it makes his blood roar.

you're sweetly docile on his cold sheets, even with your body exposed to it's full vulnerability, pulsing pussy oozing pools of slick beneath your sticky thighs, and with simon still being half clothed, the only thing you do is preen at him with rumbling purrs, nuzzling the duvet beneath you that reeks of him and sticks to your itching skin.

loosely wet, legs obediently limp when he spreads them briefly, stilling himself to gaze at the glossines of your puffy folds, the shiny glare of your pungent juices that fill his nostrils, even the thick cloth on his face unable to conceal him from anything that relates to you, the gleam of glossy eyes, the all consuming scent, making simon drawl a husky growl.

you writhe to present yourself for him, would've rolled adorably on your soft tummy if he hadn't pin you down, looming over you almost menacingly, tattooed arm braced above your head, if not for his thick, gloveless fingers that were plunging in your gushing dewy pussy, scissoring between thin walls and feeling the tight clench around his soaked digits, sucking him in.

too sweet, both in the way you look and taste, your saccharine slick blooming on his taste buds when he licks a hot, filthy swathe from his knuckles and up to the pruney tips of fingers, thin lips shining with accumulated spit and your juices, licked clean to sate his curiosity about the way you taste, but now simon needs to sate his cock and your heat.

your body melted against the mattress, chest rising rapidly with greedy lungfuls of air, making your ribcage burn as you watched simon carefully with gleaming eyes, tracing the opening plane of the fat and muscles adorning him, as he rolled his shirt up, inch by inch that revealed the scarred canvas of his pale, wide chest, getting rid of the cloth swiftly, shoulders rolling with small cracks of stiffed bones.

happy trail of dark, thin hair that trailed beneath the waistband of his pants that he was getting rid of, unzipping them with slightly shaky fingers, veins popping with blue webs on the thick skin as he rolled them down, letting his heavy cock bob out through the boxer briefs, tenting the darkened fabric with wet spot, thick musk that filled the air licking at your senses.

simon does it as fast as possible without snapping, trying not to rip his clothes off his body and pounce on you, throwing his pants off the bed, before rolling the soaked fabric of his boxers down, his onyx gaze locked eerily with yours as he gripped the fat girth of his cock, rudy flesh adorned with popped veins and dribbling, pearly precum from his slit, squelching obscenely at each jerk of his wrist.

you claw your needy hands towards him, wanting to caress his rippling abs, make his cock sink inside of you and knot you as his, not registering when garbled string of words spilled from your lips, begging him to finally give it to you, voice small and tipping on the string of crying out the tears that bead in your glazy eyes, and simon isn't the one to neglect his omega.

he's the one to take care of your needs, the one who can give you what you crave so deeply, sate the hunger that bubbles like molten lava in your belly, scorching hot, making every inch of your skin beneath his calloused palms slick with sweat that rolls off of you, shining under the dim light and begging to be licked off.

you obey his grip on your supple hips, blunt nails sinking into the fat of flesh and you're too far away to feel the tiny pinpricks of pain, letting him tug you closer to him as he lifts your legs up, and you obediently lope them around his waist, ankles crossing together against the small of his bowed back, as he slaps his throbbing cock between your fluttering folds, rubbing each inch of his girth along the tacky mess, before sinking against your gaping hole.

fattened, bulbous tip passing through the ring of your tightening muscles, each inch gradually managing to still stretch you around his cock, letting you feel how big he is despite your pussy being as loose as possible, slick dripping out of your gooey hole like molasses to ease the glide and spur simon on a tentative thrusts, one shallow roll of his hips enough for you to tighten with stars in your eyes and rapturous cry spilling from your throat.

your whole body seizing, picking on rippling feeling of your silken walls around his meaty cock that make simon's eyes turn pupil less, blackening completely as he moves his body to blanket you, trapping you in a crushing embrace as he lowered himself down and picked up the pace of his thrusts, freely stuffing you full and stretching your thin walls to the brim, forcing you to accommodate the fat shaft that now was rearranging your insides with frantic motions.

fat cock mercilessly sawing in and out of you, your body unable to jolt beneath the wall of heavy muscles and swallowing palms of his hands that mapped along every inch of you, groping at the round globs of your ass to prop you securely, raking to play with your puffy nipples, capped to the pair of pretty tits that were jiggling right in his face, your spit shined lips open wide just a bit higher, making him howl in answer to your punched, tiny gasps.

your hands clinging and clawing with rosy crescent for stability on any place of his body, the beefy biceps, the wide shoulders, but you want to have him closer, and when you sink with stinging nails somewhere beneath his covered neck, amber of his eyes peering at your lidded gaze and needy sobs that spill from your mouth, simon frees one hand to rip his balaclava off.

no point of holding anything back, not with your pussy tightening with rapid pulsing as your glassy gaze rakes along his tousled, askew hair, looking pressed against his skull slightly, until you skid your fingers in the locks, tugging lightly to bump his forehead against yours, and your smell grows even thicker so close, his pale eyelashes fluttering when he takes a lungful, and then slots your mouthes together.

skimming his teeth along the plump flesh, biting with little sting and lapping off the pearling blood, so fragile, sucking your lip into his mouth before releasing with a wet pop to suckle on your tongue, catching as you tried to curl it's around his, wet mouth swallowing your low, whimpering moans, as his balls slapped against your ass with the squelch of your ceaseless slick.

it wasn't long before you felt your orgasm lick at your tummy, making your toes curl and twitch against the dip of simon's spine, his mouth leaving yours to focus on the rapid clench of your gummy walls, latching tightly around his cock with every frantic bounce of his hips forward, and simon could feel the way the root of his cock grew thicker than the rest of his shaft, knot swelling smoothly, and your cunt was more than ready to accept him.

he knotted you when your little sounds developed in ragged, confused little moans, holding onto his hair with tight, whitening grip of your knuckles, feeling the unyielding, swelling pressure of simon's cock at your tightening hole, pummeling into you at brutal, sudden pace that knocked air out of your lungs, his breath morphing into growling pants, skimming along the burning skin of your neck, tongue lolling to lick along the salty sweat, sucking a drop that rolled down your gland, before sinking his teeth in.

crying scream guggled out of your mouth as hot tears streamed down your eyes, rolling harshly into the back of your skull as you clamped down tightly on simon's spilling cock, knot catched securely between your spasming walls, splitted to your limit around the rippling girth that pumped you with soft rocks back and forth, your body frissoning, until simon wasn't been able to move.

stuck in your pulsing cunt, milking him with rapid, rhythmic clenches to the last drop of the creamy cum that was oozing out from your stuffed hole, seeping down simon's still cock with frothy white streaks, dripping down the sodden sheets and duvet, as he lapped his tongue against your gland, scarlet blood coating his swollen, bitten lips, smeared in a sweet layer as he cleaned the fresh, palpitating mark.

this spoke about your belonging to him, his sweet omega, the one he can and would call as his own, keep you stuck on his cock every night with swelled, imprinted mark of his sharp teeth on your neck for anyone to gawk on, as your consciousness slipped with whiny call of his name, sending pleasant shudders down his spine, as he peered at you again, his mate, safe and sound in his arms, knotted full of him and reeking of his pheromones.

main masterlist. quidelines.

[sixeyesonathiel]

a treatise on inconvenient attraction

pairing — undercover prince satoru x servant reader

synopsis : satoru is many things: a crown prince in disguise, a so-called eunuch draped in silk and secrets, and entirely too clever for his own good. but when you appear in the middle of palace chaos—calm, competent, and wholly unimpressed—satoru finds himself watching a little too closely. you cure what the court physicians couldn’t, ask the wrong questions with the right kind of precision, and somehow manage to look like you belong everywhere and nowhere at once. he tells himself it’s curiosity. it’s duty. it’s absolutely not personal.

but then again, inconvenient things rarely are.

tags — oneshot divided into two parts, apothecary diaries au, fluff, humor, slow burn, sexual tension, secret identities, enemies to lovers, royal court politics, witty banter, mutual pining, medical drama, imperial intrigue, disguised royalty, forbidden affection, reader is so done, satoru is so annoying, suguru is tired, palace hijinks, touch-starved idiots, eventual smut, masturbation, possibly inaccurate court etiquette & other cultural inaccuracies, i tried my best please be kind ^^

wc — 29k | gen. masterlist | part two | read on ao3?

a/n: yes this was meant to be a oneshot but tumblr said no to my 46k draft so i split it into two parts. part two will be up tonight or tomorrow!! i also added A LOT while editing because i have no self-control. huge thanks to power thesaurus for enabling the vocabulary overdose. sorry for the long wait and i hope you enjoy <3

a calamity of cosmic proportions had just befallen the inner court—or so the wrenching sobs reverberating through the silk-draped pavilion would have you believe.

a hairpin, delicate as a poet’s ego, had snapped clean in two, its jade heart fractured like the dreams of a dynasty on the wane. the air thrummed with tragedy, thick with the scent of jasmine oil and the faint, acrid tang of ink from a nearby scholar’s overturned pot, as if the universe itself had taken offense at the ornament’s demise.

at the pavilion’s heart, satoru held court like the star of an imperial opera, his presence a spectacle of calculated excess.

“it is truly a heartbreak of craftsmanship,” he intoned, cradling the broken shard as if it were a soldier felled in a war only he had the imagination to mourn. the jade caught the morning light, refracting it into mournful glints that danced across the lacquered floor. “this was no mere ornament, my lady. this—this was a poem carved in bone and stone, an elegy to elegance itself.”

the concubine, lady mei, sniffled with the fervor of a stage heroine, her silk sleeves fluttering like moth wings as she dabbed her eyes with a gold-threaded handkerchief. each sob was a performance, perfectly pitched, as if she’d rehearsed it in front of a mirror. her powdered cheeks glistened with artfully placed tears.

satoru sighed, the sound heartfelt and entirely performative, a maestro playing to an audience of one. he tilted his head just so, pale hair spilling over his shoulder like moonlight cascading over porcelain, catching the light with a shimmer that felt choreographed.

a breeze curled through the open lattice, lifting the hem of his embroidered robes with such enviable timing it seemed less nature’s doing and more the work of a bribed servant. with satoru, both were plausible.

behind him loomed suguru, a study in austere black, hands clasped behind his back with the rigidity of a man bracing for chaos. his expression was carved from stone, all sharp angles and weary resignation, as if he’d been sculpted to endure satoru’s theatrics for eternity. his hair, tied with habitual neatness, let a few rogue strands graze his cheek.

his gaze skimmed the scene, heavy with the exhaustion of a man who’d watched this exact farce, with only slight variations in props, more times than the palace cats had stolen fish from the kitchens.

“perhaps,” satoru declared, raising the jade fragment aloft as if offering it to the heavens for judgment, “we must mourn it properly. a vigil, steeped in moonlight? a commemorative tea ceremony, with cups etched in sorrow?”

“a funeral pyre,” suguru muttered, voice dry as the desert beyond the red cliffs. “i’ll fetch the kindling. maybe some incense to mask the absurdity.”

satoru ignored him with the serene grace of a man who’d long since perfected the art of selective hearing, his eyes never leaving lady mei’s trembling form.

“fear not, my lady,” he vowed, dropping to one knee with the flourish of a knight swearing fealty. he clasped her hands, his fingers cool and deliberate, adorned with a single ring that glinted like a conspirator’s promise. “i shall find a replacement—more exquisite, more divine, more… unbreakable. yes, even if i must scour every silk merchant, every jade carver, every whispering bazaar between here and the red cliffs.”

he let the silence stretch, heavy with portent. lady mei gasped, her breath catching like a plucked zither string. a single tear traced her cheek, glistening like dew on a lotus petal.

mission accomplished. satoru’s lips twitched, the faintest ghost of a smirk, gone before anyone but the narrator could catch it.

behind them, suguru pinched the bridge of his nose with the slow, methodical frustration of a man who knew it would do nothing but give his fingers something to do. his sigh was a silent prayer to deities who’d clearly abandoned him long ago.

when the theatrics finally subsided—lady mei comforted, her handkerchief sodden, the jade fragments swaddled in silk like relics—satoru glided from the pavilion with the poise of a swan who knew exactly how devastatingly beautiful he looked. he trailed perfume, a heady blend of sandalwood and smug self-satisfaction, curling behind him like incense smoke.

suguru followed, a silent shadow with a scowl etched so deeply it might’ve been carved by a jade artisan.

once they slipped beneath a carved archway into a quieter corridor, the performance peeled away like silk robes sliding over lacquered floors. satoru’s spine straightened, the exaggerated flourishes vanished, and he walked with the easy, unyielding grace of a man born to command palaces.

the air here was cooler, scented with wisteria and the faint, medicinal bite of herbs drying in a distant courtyard.

“what?” satoru asked, eyes gleaming with faux innocence as he adjusted the sapphire-studded sash at his waist. “i was being helpful.”

“you were being ridiculous,” suguru replied, his voice flat as the surface of a frozen lake.

“ridiculously helpful,” satoru corrected, flashing a grin that could outshine the emperor’s polished jade throne. he flicked open his fan with a snap, waved it twice, then forgot it entirely.

suguru shot him a sidelong glance, more sigh than stare, the kind of look that carried the weight of a thousand unspoken retorts.

now that the mask had fallen, subtle details sharpened: the glint of satoru’s ceremonial earrings, forged from gold so pure they whispered of plundered kingdoms; the way his sleeves brushed the corridor’s tiles with deliberate drag; his hair, nearly waist-length, swaying like a silk banner, catching latticed sunlight in a cascade of silver.

“a hairpin emergency,” suguru deadpanned. “you skipped a logistics meeting—where we were discussing grain shortages—for a hairpin emergency.”

“it was tragic. deeply symbolic. that hairpin was the fragility of desire itself, suguru,” satoru said, his tone lofty, gesturing with the fan. “a metaphor for the fleeting nature of beauty, shattered in an instant.”

suguru glanced skyward, seeking divine intervention from heavens that had long since stopped answering.

the corridor stretched before them, vermilion pillars rising in regal procession, their surfaces carved with dragons that seemed to smirk at the absurdity below. sunlight filtered through the screens, painting latticed shadows that danced over the tiles.

“and your grand plan to unravel the true nature of court politics,” suguru said, each word measured, “involves… hosting interpretive grief sessions for concubines over broken accessories?”

“the best disguises become second nature,” satoru replies, his wink a fleeting spark in the afternoon light, the sapphire stud in his earlobe catching a glint as he tilts his head. “besides, would you rather i act like a stuffy prince?”

the irony isn’t lost on him—he is a stuffy prince, or will be someday, when his father, whose breath rattles like dry leaves in his chest, finally yields the crown still heavy with the ghost of tragedy.

the late empress’s assassination, when satoru was barely old enough to stumble through palace corridors, had carved a brutal lesson into the imperial family: visibility invites blades. better to cloak the heir in silk and paint him with harmless whimsy than risk another dagger finding its mark.

only five souls in the sprawling palace know the truth: his father, whose sunken eyes track satoru with fading sharpness; the imperial chancellor, whose pinched lips birthed this charade; the minister of justice, whose tribunal and ledgers guard the succession’s fragile legality; suguru, whose shadow clings to satoru with the weight of unspoken oaths; and satoru himself, whose laughter sometimes blurs the line between performance and truth.

the inner court, bereft of an empress dowager, pulses with the consorts’ ruthless ambition, their silk robes whispering of power sharper than any sword. though the emperor weakens daily, these women wage silent wars for his favor, each dreaming of a son to crown her empress should the hidden prince perish.

they know such a prince exists, veiled for safety, but none suspect he flits among them, orchestrating their rivalries with a peacock’s strut and a courtesan’s smile.

the ladies adore their ornamental peacock—his flair for theatrics, his mastery of rouge and kohl, his gossip that slices like a hairpin’s edge. they sigh theatrically in his presence, their voices dripping with the practiced melancholy of lives honed by ambition and cushioned by luxury.

“what a waste,” the third imperial consort murmurs behind her fan, its ivory slats trembling faintly as her jade-green eyes trace the elegant curve of satoru’s throat, where a single pearl pendant rests against pale skin. “if only heaven had been more generous with your... wholeness.”

satoru’s smile blooms, honed over years—a charm that invites secrets, a distance that keeps them safe. his fingers, glittering with rings that snare the light pouring through latticed screens, adjust a fold in his azure robe, the silk whispering like a conspirator. “perhaps heaven knew i’d be too dangerous otherwise, my lady. imagine the chaos if i possessed both beauty and... capability.”

the women titter, their fans fluttering like startled sparrows, their laughter a delicate chime of scandalized delight. he navigates their tempests with a diplomat’s grace, though the irony of wielding statecraft to soothe cosmetic squabbles stings faintly.

lady xiao, her skin glowing like moonlight on snow from some costly powder, leans forward, her gold hairpin swaying as she adopts a conspiratorial whisper. “you simply must settle our debate, master satoru. lady chen insists crushed pearls in face powder yield the most ethereal glow, but i maintain powdered moonstone is far superior.”

“both have their merits,” satoru replies, his tone grave as a scholar’s, though his eyes flicker with amusement only suguru, leaning against a pillar, would catch. he lifts a strand of lady chen’s hair, its ebony sheen catching the light as he studies it with exaggerated focus, his silver bracelet glinting.

“with your warm undertones, crushed pearls would complement beautifully.” he turns to lady xiao, close enough that her breath hitches, her kohl-lined eyes wide. “but for your cooler complexion, moonstone would weave that otherworldly glow you chase.”

the verdict sparks preening—lady chen’s fingers smooth her hair, lady xiao’s fan snaps shut with a triumphant click. satoru sinks back into his cushioned seat, silk rustling like a secret unveiled, accepting their praise with the ease of a man crowned in their vanities.

“though,” he adds, mischief curling his lips as his lashes cast delicate shadows, “true radiance comes from within. perhaps you should consult the palace physicians about inner harmony before fussing over external charms.”

the suggestion, cloaked in earnestness, lands like a jest. laughter erupts, bright and sharp, the women reveling in his knack for dressing insults as wisdom, their painted nails gleaming as they clutch fans tighter.

suguru watches from the garden’s edge, his black robes stark against the pavilion’s vermilion pillars, his face a mask of weary endurance. a stray breeze tugs a dark strand loose from his neat bun, brushing his cheek as his eyes track satoru’s performance with the resignation of a man tethered to chaos.

“master satoru,” lady qiao ventures, her voice honeyed, her lips glistening with rose-tinted gloss as she tilts her head, a jade comb glinting in her upswept hair. “surely you have preferences regarding feminine beauty? purely from an aesthetic standpoint, of course.”

the question is a silk-wrapped trap. satoru’s smile holds, but his eyes sharpen, a flash of the mind destined for thornier battles. his fingers, tracing the carved armrest, pause briefly, the gold ring on his thumb catching a stray sunbeam.

“beauty,” he muses, “is like fine poetry. exquisite verses reveal new depths with each reading. surface prettiness fades, but intelligence, wit, character...” his gaze sweeps their faces, lingering just long enough to flatter, “those transform mere charm into transcendence.”

the answer sates their hunger for praise while baring nothing, a masterstroke they mistake for depth. their fans resume their dance, silk rustling like whispers of approval.

hours might pass thus—satoru weaving through cosmetic crises with finesse—but today, peace shatters like porcelain on marble.

the trouble begins with a silk scarf.

lady yun sweeps into the pavilion, azure silk draped to accent her porcelain skin, the emperor’s favored hue shimmering with intent. her hairpin, a silver crane, gleams as she moves, her eyes cool with triumph. lady mei, in pale lavender, stiffens, her fan halting mid-flutter, her lips tightening beneath their coral stain.

“how... bold,” lady xiang purrs, her smile sharp as frost, her fingers tightening around a jade bangle that clinks faintly. “to wear his majesty’s signature color so prominently. one might think you’re presuming your position.”

satoru’s fingers pause on his teacup, its porcelain cool against his palm, sensing the venom brewing. suguru edges closer, his hand brushing the hilt of a hidden blade, his jaw set.

“presumptions?” lady yun’s laugh chimes, her sleeve rippling as she gestures, revealing a bracelet of sapphire beads. “i wear what his majesty gifted me. perhaps if you spent less time whispering with servants and more earning his favor, you’d grasp the difference.”

the barb cuts deep. lady xiang’s face flushes beneath her powder, her eyes flashing like struck flint. satoru counts three seconds before chaos erupts.

“ladies,” he interjects, rising with a honeyed command, his robe catching the light in a cascade of azure folds, his silver hairpin glinting. “surely we can resolve this without—”

“stay out of this, master satoru,” lady xiang snaps, her voice cracking, her fan trembling in her grip. the dismissal bites, though satoru cloaks his flinch in feigned concern.

lady yun pounces, her nails tracing her sleeve with studied nonchalance. “how refreshing to see your true colors,” she says, her voice silk over steel. “his majesty noted your... common mannerisms lately. perhaps the strain of clinging to relevance frays your breeding.”

lady xiang’s palm meets lady yun’s cheek with a crack that silences the pavilion, her bangle clinking sharply. gasps ripple through the consorts, their fans freezing mid-air, eyes wide with shock. lady yun’s cheek blooms red, her crane hairpin trembling as she touches the mark with delicate fingers, her gaze hardening into something lethal.

“you dare strike me?” she whispers, her voice low, her sapphire beads catching the light like tears. “a daughter of the northern provinces, educated in the capital, marked by heaven with this beauty?”

“beauty fades,” lady xiang hisses, advancing, her lavender silk swaying like a predator’s tail, her hairpin glinting. “but vulgarity is eternal. his majesty will tire of your pretensions soon enough.”

“his majesty,” lady yun counters, her smile venomous, her fan snapping open with a flick, “has tired of your seduction attempts. why else cancel tonight’s private audience? other matters, he said, demand his attention.”

the blow lands. lady xiang falters, her breath catching, her coral lips parting as the truth sinks in—her meticulously planned evening with the emperor, her chance to secure favor, stolen. her bangle clinks again as her hand trembles.

“you scheming witch,” she breathes, lunging with murder in her eyes, her hairpin slipping slightly in her hair.

satoru moves, swift and fluid, his robe whispering as he steps between them, his fan snapping shut with a crack. “my dear ladies,” he says, voice laced with subtle command, “surely such passion belongs in more... productive pursuits?”

his tone halts them, though their glares burn like embers. satoru’s mind races, cataloging lady yun’s intelligence network, lady xiang’s desperation, the shifting sands of favor. his pearl pendant sways as he tilts his head, feigning concern.

“perhaps,” he ventures, his voice smooth as jade, “lady xiang, you wished to discuss that complexion treatment? and lady yun, your poetry recitation tomorrow deserves preparation.”

the suggestion, edged with condescension, reins them in. lady yun smooths her silk, her sapphire beads clinking faintly, her rage cooling into a mask of poise. lady xiang’s smile sharpens, but she nods, her hairpin now askew, betraying her frayed composure.

satoru claps, the sound sharp, his rings flashing. “how marvelous! such spirited discourse invigorates the afternoon. shall we revisit pearl powder versus moonstone? we were on the cusp of brilliance.”

the redirect forces civility, though tension crackles. satoru sinks into his cushions, his silk settling like a sigh, his mind dissecting the consorts’ moves—lady yun’s spies, lady xiang’s fragility, the court’s delicate balance.

as evening shadows stretch across the marble, satoru rises, his movements liquid, his hairpin catching the fading light. “duty calls, my ladies. the third consort awaits my counsel for her evening attire.”

their disappointment flickers, but they turn to tomorrow’s schemes. satoru bows, precise yet playful, his robe trailing like a comet’s tail. suguru falls into step as they leave, silent until the pavilion’s whispers fade.

“exhausting performance, your highness,” suguru murmurs, his dark sleeve brushing a pillar, his bun loosening slightly.

“getting easier,” satoru replies, shedding his theatrics, his posture sharpening, his fan tucked into his sash. “though my future subjects will despair when their emperor knows more about catfights than regiments.”

“your father would say palace politics and battlefields demand the same cunning,” suguru notes, his voice dry, a faint crease at his brow.

satoru’s laugh carries mirth and shadow, his earrings glinting as he strides forward. tomorrow brings more cosmetic crises, more veiled barbs, more lessons in power disguised as powder disputes. the crown prince will hide behind silk and sighs, studying his subjects’ souls one shallow secret at a time.

after all, the best disguises become second nature. and sometimes, the sharpest power lies in pretending you hold none at all.

the palace hummed with a frenetic buzz—not the charming, festival-lanterns-and-rice-wine kind, where moonlight glints off sake cups and laughter spills like cherry blossoms, but the swarming, fretful, everyone's-talking-and-no-one's-hearing kind that screamed someone important was either sick, scandalized, or both.

lucky for the court, it was a two-for-one special: the emperor's favored concubine, lady hua, had taken ill, and the whispers swirling through the vermilion halls were ripe with intrigue sharp enough to cut silk.

it began with fainting spells, delicate as a willow branch snapping under snow. then came the headaches, each one described with the reverence of a poet lamenting lost love.

by the time rumors slithered to satoru's ears, the court physicians had added skin lesions to the list—delicate ones, naturally, because heaven forbid a woman of the inner court suffer anything less than poetic. “female hysteria,” the physicians declared with the smugness of men who'd never questioned their own brilliance, waving it off as a trifle. “probably just summer heat affecting her delicate temperament.”

maybe it was. maybe it wasn't. but satoru was bored—a state as dangerous as a spark in a lacquered pavilion when paired with his curiosity and the kind of power that hid beneath shimmering silk like a blade in a jeweled sheath.

he sprawled across a divan like a cat claiming its throne, pale hair spilling over the brocade cushion in a cascade that caught the lantern light like spun silver. “i want to see her,” he drawled, voice lazy yet laced with a spark of intent, like a cat batting at a moth it fully intended to devour.

suguru didn’t lift his eyes from the scroll he feigned reading, arms crossed over dark robes that seemed to absorb the light, their folds creasing like a storm cloud on the verge of breaking. his hair, bound with a cord of black silk, gleamed faintly in the slanted glow, as if even it resented being tethered to satoru’s orbit. “the emperor hasn’t summoned you,” he said, voice flat, though the faintest twitch of his brow betrayed a patience fraying like a worn thread.

“that’s the charm of playing eunuch,” satoru replied, rising with the fluid grace of a dancer who knew every gaze followed him. his robes—silver threaded with sapphire embroidery, ostentatiously tasteful—shimmered like moonlight rippling across a still pond, the hem whispering against the polished floor like a lover’s sigh. “every door yields if you smile just so and dazzle them with a touch of charm.”

suguru exhaled through his nose, a sound heavy with a thousand unspoken curses, each one honed by years of trailing satoru’s chaos. “your highness, court gossip is beneath your station.”

“nothing’s beneath my station when i’m cloaked as a eunuch,” satoru chirped, swiping a sesame-crusted rice cake from a lacquered tray as he sauntered toward the door. he popped it into his mouth, the seeds crunching faintly, and shot suguru a grin that was equal parts mischief and menace, as if daring the world to challenge him. “it’s half the thrill. haven’t i earned a bit of fun after wrangling the inner court’s tantrums?”

and with that, he was gone, robes flaring behind him like a comet’s tail, leaving a trail of sandalwood perfume and the promise of impending upheaval. suguru muttered a curse—something about peacocks strutting toward their inevitable fall—and followed, because someone had to tether the fool before he plunged headlong into ruin.

what they found at lady hua's quarters was chaos distilled into a single, suffocating room. maids scurried like ants fleeing a crushed nest, their silk slippers whispering frantically against the floor.

court physicians argued in hushed but venomous tones, their elaborate sleeves flapping like indignant birds, silk badges of rank glinting on their chests as they gestured wildly at treatment scrolls. someone—likely a junior attendant—sobbed into a brass basin, the sound muffled but piercing. the air reeked of bitter medicinal herbs, sharp and acrid, tangled with the cloying sweetness of sandalwood incense and the sour undercurrent of barely-contained hysteria.

a breeze from an open screen carried the faint tang of lotus blossoms from the courtyard, but it did little to ease the oppressive weight of the room.

satoru leaned against the doorframe, one hand languidly fanning himself with a jade-inlaid fan, its painted silk fluttering like a butterfly's wing. the other hand rested lightly on the fan's hilt, fingers tracing the carved dragon as if it might whisper secrets.

he looked like a man at the theater, idly amused by a tragedy he had no stake in—and to be fair, he was. his eyes, sharp as a hawk's beneath their lazy half-lids, scanned the room with the casual precision of someone who missed nothing.

then his gaze snagged on something—or rather, someone.

you.

in the heart of the maelstrom, you knelt in the corner like a shadow given form. not beside lady hua—that privilege belonged to the proper court physicians with their silk badges and centuries of inherited authority—but close enough to see, to listen, to absorb every frustrated gesture and dismissive wave of their sleeves.

you weren't dressed like anyone of importance. your outer court servant robes were simple, practical cotton dyed the color of weathered stone, sleeves rolled past your elbows in a way that would scandalize the inner court but served you well in the servants' quarters where actual work got done. your hair was pinned back with a plain wooden stick, not jade or silver, and your hands bore the telltale stains of someone who ground herbs by moonlight when the day's official duties were done.

but oh, how you watched. your eyes tracked every movement of the physicians' hands, cataloged each herb they selected, noted the precise angle of lady hua's breathing.

when one physician mixed powdered deer antler with ginseng, your jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. when another declared her pulse “flighty as a sparrow,” your fingers twitched against your thigh—once, twice, three times, as if counting beats they couldn't feel from across the room.

satoru straightened, the motion so slight it might’ve escaped anyone but suguru, who stood at his side like a storm cloud tethered to a comet. his fan slowed, silk shivering in the pause, as if the air itself held its breath. “who’s that?” he murmured, voice low, curling like incense smoke as he tilted his head, pale hair slipping over his shoulder like a cascade of moonlight.

suguru had already marked you, his arms crossed tighter over his chest, the dark fabric of his robes creasing under the strain. “outer court servant. kitchen work, mostly. cleans the medicine rooms.” each word clipped, as if to dismiss you before satoru’s curiosity took root.

“hmm,” satoru hummed, but his eyes never left you, sharp and gleaming with the delight of a puzzle half-solved. “and yet she’s not scrubbing pots.”

you shifted, angling your body to better observe the lead physician’s fumbling needlework, seeking a pressure point to ease lady hua’s pain. the movement was subtle, practiced—a dancer’s adjustment, born of months spent watching, learning, memorizing from the shadows. your lips moved again, silent but deliberate, and satoru caught the glint of something fierce in your expression, like a blade catching lamplight.

this wasn’t idle curiosity. this was hunger, raw and disciplined, the kind that drove scholars to madness or mastery.

the physician botched his needle placement, and you winced, fingers curling into fists, your silent corrections now a faint whisper of frustration. satoru watched, enthralled, as your hands mimicked the motions—precise, fluid, as if you could thread the needle through her meridians from across the room.

“she knows,” he whispered, more to himself than suguru, his voice alight with discovery.

“knows what?” suguru asked, though his tone suggested he’d already glimpsed the answer and dreaded its consequences.

“that they’re doing it wrong.” satoru’s smile was slow, delighted, like a child uncovering a forbidden game. “look at her hands.”

your fingers danced against your thigh, tracing the exact patterns of needle insertion, herb grinding, pulse-taking—muscle memory honed through countless unseen hours, knowledge that shouldn’t belong to a servant who spent her days scouring medicine bowls. each movement was a silent rebuke to the physicians’ arrogance, a testament to a mind that refused to be confined by her station.

one physician stepped back, wiping sweat from his brow with a silk handkerchief, his voice heavy with pompous resignation. “the lady’s condition defies our current wisdom,” he declared, more concerned with preserving his dignity than her life. “we’ve exhausted all known remedies.”

that’s when you moved.

not with boldness—that would’ve been suicide. instead, you rose from your corner with the fluid grace of a crane taking flight, approached the lead physician with eyes appropriately downcast, and spoke in the deferential tones expected of your rank.

“honored physician,” you said, voice clear yet soft, cutting through the room’s chaos like a bell in a storm, “this humble servant has seen similar symptoms in the outer courts. if it would not offend your wisdom… a kitchen maid last month suffered likewise.”

the physician barely spared you a glance, already dismissing whatever peasant cure you might dare suggest. “female hysteria is commonplace. hardly comparable to lady hua’s refined constitution.”

“of course, honored sir,” you murmured, eyes still lowered, but satoru caught the steel beneath your silk-smooth tone. “yet the maid’s symptoms mirrored these—the headaches, the pallor, the precise pattern of lesions. she recovered fully after a decoction of chrysanthemum, mint, and processed rehmannia root.”

his attention snagged, though he masked it with scholarly disdain. “absurd. such simple herbs could never address a condition of this intricacy.”

you held your ground, voice humble yet unyielding, like bamboo bending in a gale. “your expertise far surpasses my crude observations, naturally. but the maid did recover, and her symptoms aligned so precisely…” you trailed off, the perfect portrait of respectful hesitation, your fingers twitching as if itching to demonstrate.

the physician’s pride warred with his desperation. lady hua’s breathing grew shallower, her skin taking on a waxen pallor that would soon spell ruin for everyone in the room. “these herbs,” he said at last, feigning casual curiosity, “you saw their preparation?”

“this servant cleans the preparation rooms,” you replied, a careful lie wrapped in just enough truth to pass muster. “sometimes the physician’s assistants share their methods while i work.”

satoru watched the performance with rapt fascination, his fan now still, its silk frozen mid-flutter. you weren’t merely suggesting a cure—you were orchestrating the entire scene, playing the physician’s ego like a koto’s strings, submissive enough to avoid offense, knowledgeable enough to be indispensable, desperate enough to seem harmless.

yet your eyes, when they flicked upward for the briefest moment, held secrets sharp enough to cut glass, a mind that danced circles around the men who dismissed you.

within the hour, lady hua sat upright, color blooming in her cheeks like dawn over a lotus pond, the mysterious lesions fading like mist under morning sun. the lead physician accepted congratulations with magnanimous grace, claiming credit for “consulting palace staff to compile comprehensive symptom reports,” his chest puffing like a rooster at dawn.

you had already melted back into the shadows, your work done, but not before satoru caught the satisfied curve of your lips—fleeting, triumphant, gone in a breath.

“fascinating,” he murmured, eyes lingering on the corner where you’d vanished, as if the air still held traces of your presence.

suguru’s expression remained a study in neutrality, though the tension in his jaw betrayed his resignation. “a lucky coincidence. simple remedies sometimes outshine complex ones.”

“hmm.” satoru’s smile lingered, bright and sharp as a freshly drawn blade. “tell me, suguru—what do we know of kitchen maids who memorize advanced medical techniques? who position themselves flawlessly to study court physicians? who move like they’re accustomed to being heeded, not ignored?”

“we know,” suguru said dryly, his voice heavy with the weight of impending trouble, “that you’re about to make this our headache.”

“not our headache,” satoru corrected with a grin. “my amusement.”

because lady hua’s recovery might’ve dazzled the court, but you—you were a riddle cloaked in servant’s robes, wielding knowledge that could heal or harm, navigating the palace with the lethal precision of someone who knew their own danger.

and satoru gojo, crown prince masquerading as eunuch, had just stumbled upon a game far more captivating than court whispers, one he intended to play to its end.

the emperor’s study always smelled faintly of old power—that particular blend of sun-warmed parchment, cedar polish, and something faintly metallic. blood, maybe, or the memory of it. it was the kind of room where even the air seemed to walk softly.

satoru sat across from the emperor with the calm of a man desperately trying not to tap his fingers. he adjusted the fold of his sleeve, eyes flicking toward the desk where his father’s brush moved in careful strokes. his posture was perfect, intentionally so—chin tilted, one knee loosely crossed, silver hair tied back but predictably disobedient with a few strands curling just beside his cheek. his robe, navy lined in restrained gold, sat sharp against the sun streaming through the lattice window. he looked every inch the noble son. all very deliberate.

“father,” he began, and the word felt heavier than it should have. maybe because he hadn’t used it in a while. maybe because he still wasn’t sure which version of the emperor he was talking to today.

no reply. the brush continued its whispered dance across parchment—a list of names, most likely. or death warrants. same difference in the imperial court.

“i’ve been thinking about the medical needs of the inner court.”

still no reaction, just the soft scrape of ink and paper. satoru swallowed the urge to fill the silence with more words and waited instead, watching for the telltale signs of his father’s attention.

then—a twitch of a brow. not much, but it meant he was listening. unfortunately.

“the women,” satoru continued, his voice smooth but softer now. “they’re suffering. quietly, of course. as they always do. they’re afraid to speak about their ailments, or worse, they’ve learned not to bother trying.”

the emperor’s brush paused for just a heartbeat before continuing its careful work.

“because they can’t be examined properly by male physicians, their symptoms are dismissed. attributed to nerves, to wombs, to feminine hysteria.” satoru kept his tone clinical, professional. “real suffering gets reduced to mood swings.”

“and you’ve discovered this how?”

the trap was expected, so satoru smiled—just a little, mostly to himself. “the third consort mentioned it during a conversation about hair ornaments. she gets migraines, told me she stopped letting the court physicians treat her after one tried to give her a mercury concoction and advised her to avoid loud colors.”

he left out the part where he’d actually laughed at the absurdity. she’d joined him. misery loves company, after all.

“she said a servant helped her instead. a woman from the outer court.” satoru watched his father’s face carefully. “i saw her treat the consort myself. her technique was impressive—precise, not palace-trained, but more effective because of it.”

what he didn’t say: you hadn’t spared him a glance during the treatment. your fingers had moved with unbothered certainty, tucking the consort’s hair behind her ear while applying pressure to specific points with your other hand. your eyes had flicked toward him only once, and the look had been unimpressed, functional, dismissive.

it had lit something unfortunate in him.

“you seem very well-informed about this woman.”

satoru inclined his head, letting one finger trail along the edge of the lacquered desk. “i asked around. standard diligence—you know how thorough i can be when something catches my interest.”

“i do,” his father murmured, finally setting the brush down with deliberate care.

satoru let the moment stretch, just enough to suggest sincerity without overselling it.

“she has no political affiliations, no family ties, no suspicious history. she’s been in the outer court six months and caused no disruptions. the only people who mention her are the ones she’s treated, and they talk about her like she’s something they dreamed during a fever—there but not quite real.”

he didn’t mention the late nights he’d spent tracing palace gossip until it led to your name, or how no one seemed to agree on what you looked like, only that you were quiet, clean, and dangerous in the way truly intelligent women often were.

“she’s better than most of our court physicians,” he said simply. “more hygienic too. she washes her hands, makes her patients do the same. revolutionary concept, apparently.”

the emperor gave him a look—hard to read, as always, but with an edge of something that might have been amusement.

“a woman like that, appearing out of nowhere with such skills.”

“suspicious, yes,” satoru agreed readily. “but also exactly what this court needs. what the women deserve. and...” he paused, letting the weight of unspoken words settle between them. “what you need.”

the temperature in the room seemed to shift, though neither man moved.

“you want to bring her into the inner court.”

“i want to give her an official appointment. court apothecary with proper access, recognition, protection.” satoru leaned forward slightly, and the afternoon light caught the edge of his silver hair, framing his face in something almost holy. “she’s worth the risk.”

he waited, watching his father’s expression for any sign of rejection. when none came, he pressed on.

“and there’s another reason.” his voice dropped, becoming something more vulnerable. “your condition hasn’t improved despite everything the court physicians have tried. she might see what they’ve missed, notice something they’re too set in their ways to consider.”

his voice didn’t shake, but it was closer than he wanted. closer than was comfortable.

his father said nothing for a long moment, fingers drumming against the desk in that familiar thinking rhythm satoru remembered from childhood.

“if there’s even a chance she could help...”

“then we should take it.” the emperor’s decision came swift and final. “appoint her. she’ll report directly to you—you brought her to my attention, you can manage her integration into court life.”

relief flooded through satoru like a tide, and he stood quickly, trying not to look as shaken as he felt. “thank you.”

“don’t thank me yet,” the emperor said, and there it was—that familiar edge of knowing amusement. “handling a woman of exceptional skill and mysterious background won’t be simple. especially when there’s personal investment involved.”

satoru hesitated, then offered what he hoped was a convincing lie. “my interest is purely professional.”

his father’s look could have cut glass. “you’ve described her capabilities in detail but haven’t once mentioned her appearance. either she’s remarkably plain, or you’re working very hard not to think about how she looks.”

“i hadn’t noticed.”

“mm.” it wasn’t quite a sound, more like a judgment rendered and filed away for future reference.

“inform the steward of her appointment,” the emperor added, returning his attention to the documents spread across his desk. “and do it properly. if you’re going to gamble on someone, don’t play your hand halfway.”

satoru bowed again, quick and precise, then left the room feeling like he’d been carefully dissected and sewn back together.

the hallway outside hummed with the usual quiet motion of palace life—servants gliding past with tea trays, scribes shuffling along with scrolls tucked into their sleeves, the distant sound of a flute meandering through some half-finished melody. normal sounds, normal sights, but everything felt different now.

you’d be staying. elevated to a position where your skills could be properly utilized, where he could watch you work and maybe, eventually, understand what drove someone with your abilities to hide among the servants.

he tried not to smile as he headed toward the inner court to deliver news that would change everything. tried and failed completely.

the first thing satoru noticed was the crack in your expression—not a chasm, just a flicker, like a lantern’s flame caught in a draft. he was always watching for it, his eyes sharp as a hawk’s, trained to catch the smallest tells in a court where lies were currency and truths were contraband.

that blink-and-you-miss-it smile—the quiet, cautious pride that bloomed when the summons reached you—vanished the instant your gaze landed on him in the receiving hall.

you went still, not with fear but with the kind of disappointment that stings like a paper cut, laced with offense, as if someone had promised you a jade pendant and handed you a wriggling rat instead.

he found it utterly delightful.

“you,” you said, the word a curse wrapped in velvet, sharp enough to draw blood.

“me,” satoru replied, spreading his arms just enough to invite applause, his grin a crescent of pure mischief. his robes today were pale violet, embroidered with butterflies that shimmered like moonlight on water, each thread catching the lantern glow with ostentatious grace.

his hair was twisted into a gold pin, too ornate for a eunuch but perfectly satoru, perched in the grey space where rules bent to his whims. a fine line of kohl rimmed his lashes, accentuating eyes that sparkled with dramatic intent—because if he had to endure the stifling heat and court nonsense, he’d damn well look like a painting while doing it.

the head steward droned on, his voice a monotonous hum about imperial favor and sacred duty, a speech satoru could’ve recited in his sleep.

he didn’t bother pretending to listen.

he was too busy cataloging your betrayals: the faint hitch in your breath, like a zither string plucked too hard; the way your hands folded, knuckles whitening as if gripping an invisible blade; the defiant tilt of your chin, a silent challenge to the world. you were furious, a bonfire masquerading as a lantern, and oh, how you tried to cloak it in courtly composure. but satoru saw the embers, and they thrilled him.

he caught the moment realization struck you, sharp as a needle: this wasn’t just a promotion. this was proximity. to him.

“the inner court welcomes you,” the steward concluded, his voice fading into the hall’s polished silence.

“i’m sure it does,” you said, your tone sugared with venom, each syllable a dart aimed at satoru’s smug face.

once the others dispersed, satoru glided forward, arms tucked within his sleeves, his voice dropping into that soft, insincere purr he saved for spooking cats and bureaucrats. “congratulations,” he said, leaning just close enough to make you bristle. “you’ve ascended. fresh linens, finer herbs, a view of the lotus pond. and, of course, me.”

you blinked at him, slow and deliberate, like a cat deciding whether to swipe or ignore. “is it too late to crawl back to scrubbing pans?” you asked, your deadpan so perfect it deserved its own pavilion.

“don’t flatter yourself,” he said, his grin widening, sharp as a crescent moon. “you’ll still scrub—just not linen. now it’s egos and temperaments, lotus tea for headaches, petals for petty heartbreaks. all the flowers of the inner court, lovingly pruned by your hand.”

“thrilling,” you muttered, the word dripping with disdain, as if you’d rather mop the emperor’s stables. “a promotion and a leash.”

“not a leash,” satoru said, pressing a hand to his chest with a mock gasp. “companionship—unsolicited, exquisitely dressed, and utterly unavoidable.”

and there it was—the faintest twitch at the corner of your mouth, not a smile but a threat, like a blade half-drawn from its sheath. he liked it. no, he adored it, the way it promised trouble as much as it deflected his own.

he lingered a beat too long, eyes glinting like polished jade, before turning and strolling off, his robes fluttering like a butterfly’s wings, as if the world spun on his axis. and maybe, just maybe, it did.

later that evening, purely by coincidence (his words, not truth’s), he found himself drifting past your new quarters. entirely by accident (again, his words). three times, his steps echoing softly on the stone path, each pass a little slower, a little bolder. the fourth time, he stopped.

he waited until the courtyard shadows stretched long, pooling like ink beneath the flickering lanterns that cast gold over the tiles. then, with the humility of a man who’d never known the word, satoru leaned against your doorframe, one hand toying with the edge of a scroll, its wax seal glinting like a conspirator’s wink.

“what,” you said, not turning from the table where you sorted herbs, your voice flat as a blade’s edge.

“i brought a gift,” he said brightly, his tone all sunshine and mischief, as if he’d just unearthed a treasure.

“is it my resignation?” you asked, still not looking, your fingers pausing over a vial of crushed ginseng.

“better. a medical mystery.” he stepped inside, uninvited, and held out the scroll, its parchment crinkling faintly. you didn’t take it, of course. you just stared, expression as unyielding as the palace walls, as if calculating whether a pestle could double as a club.

finally, you snatched it, your movements sharp, and scanned the text with a flick of your eyes. “these symptoms contradict each other,” you said, voice clipped, like you were scolding a particularly dense apprentice.

“i know,” satoru said, leaning against a lacquered cabinet, his sleeve brushing a jar that wobbled but didn’t fall.

“this is fabricated,” you added, your glare pinning him like a butterfly to a board.

“only the illness,” he said, undeterred, his smile a spark in the dim room. “the need for your attention? painfully real.”

you sighed, loud and theatrical, a performance worthy of the imperial stage. satoru mentally awarded it a nine out of ten—solid, but you could’ve thrown in a hair toss for flair.

you unrolled the scroll again, your lips twitching in a scowl as you muttered, “ridiculous.” the word was a dart, but satoru caught it like a prize.

“you’re a parasite in silk,” you said, louder now, tossing the scroll onto the table with a flick of your wrist. “the most useless eunuch in three dynasties, and that’s saying something.”

“flattery will get you everywhere,” he replied, utterly unfazed, his fingers brushing the edge of a clay bowl as he wandered your space like he owned it. “keep going, i’m taking notes.”

“i wasn’t flattering you,” you snapped, finally turning to face him, your eyes blazing like a forge.

“that’s what makes it so charming,” he said, his grin widening, as if your ire was a rare vintage he couldn’t resist savoring.

you shot him a look that could’ve curdled goat milk, then turned back to your work, your fingers moving with the precision of a calligrapher, sorting herbs into neat piles. but you kept the scroll, its corner peeking from beneath a stack of notes, and your muttering continued—snatches of “insufferable peacock” and “why is this my life” drifting like smoke.

satoru prowled your quarters, ignoring the way your gaze tracked his hands, as if you were mentally mapping every pressure point from wrist to neck.

he brushed his fingers over jars, their labels curling at the edges, and peeked into a box of tools, its contents gleaming faintly in the lantern light. he didn’t speak, just watched—the furrow of your brow as you concentrated, the deliberate flick of your wrist as you ground yanhusuo, the rhythm of your work like a silent song.

he didn’t know why he stayed.

or rather, he did, but admitting it felt like stepping into a trap of his own making. you were a puzzle with edges that cut, a contradiction that hooked him deeper with every barb. the faint scent of crushed herbs clung to the room, mingling with the wisp of incense curling from a burner, and it anchored him there, tethered to the moment.

when he finally slipped out, you didn’t look up, hunched over your desk, scribbling notes like you were waging war on the scroll’s nonsense. but as he passed the water basin by the door, its surface caught your reflection—a glare aimed at his retreating back, sharp and searing, like a blade thrown in silence.

it made his whole damn day.

he found suguru by the koi pond, pacing the stone path, hands clasped behind his back like a tutor bracing for a lecture on broken vases. the moonlight glinted off the water, the fish darting like silver needles beneath the surface.

“don’t say it,” satoru said, cutting him off before a word could escape.

“you like her,” suguru said anyway, his voice dry as the desert beyond the red cliffs, each syllable a judgment.

“i said don’t say it,” satoru shot back, tossing his hair with a flourish, the gold pin catching the light like a star.

“and yet, here we are,” suguru said, his gaze flicking to satoru’s face, reading the spark there with the ease of a man who’d seen this play before.

satoru sighed, dramatic and long-suffering, tilting his head to the moon as if it might explain why his heart thrummed like a war drum. “i’m just monitoring a potential threat,” he said, the lie so flimsy it barely held together.

“sure,” suguru said, his lips twitching, not quite a smile. “because that gleam in your eyes screams caution.”

“i’m delightful,” satoru corrected, spinning on his heel, his robes flaring like a dancer’s.

suguru groaned, the sound heavy with the weight of a thousand future apologies. “you’re doomed.”

and he was probably right. but gods, what a glorious disaster to waltz into, with you at its heart—sharp-tongued, untamed, a flame that burned brighter than satoru’s own, and twice as dangerous.

satoru had never been a creature of habit.

routines were for bureaucrats, monks, and men with lives too dull to warrant a second glance. he craved spontaneity, thrived in chaos, relished derailing the meticulously stacked schedules of others like a fox scattering a henhouse.

unpredictability was his dance, disruption his song. so the fact that he now drifted down the same shaded corridor every morning—at roughly the same hour, with the same lazy gait and the same infuriating glint in his eye—was a confession he’d never voice aloud.

not that he’d admit it, even to himself.

his excuses shifted like the seasons. delivering a scroll to a scribe who didn’t exist. inspecting inner court security for threats that never materialized. dodging paperwork that multiplied like roaches in the archives. conducting a surprise audit of herbal stores. critiquing the palace tea for “quality control.” evading a minister whose droning voice on strategy briefings could bore a statue to tears.

each alibi flimsier than the last, but satoru wielded them with the confidence of a man who knew the world would bend to his whims.

really, it was one thing. one person.

you.

he found you as always—elbow-deep in some concoction, sleeves knotted tightly past your elbows, hair pinned in a haphazard bun that threatened to unravel with every movement.

a faint smudge of green—licorice root, perhaps—stained your cheekbone, a badge of your battle against the chaos you wove and tamed.

you were a paradox: a whirlwind of spilled herbs and scattered parchment, yet sharper, more focused than any silk-clad noble posturing in the emperor’s court. you looked like a battlefield medic with a grudge against decorum and a vendetta against wasted time, and it never failed to spark both amusement and distraction in satoru’s usually restless mind.

“you again,” you said, voice dry as crushed ginger, not bothering to lift your eyes from the mortar where you pulverized a root with grim determination.

“you sound shocked,” satoru replied, stepping over the threshold with a roll of his shoulder, his robes—deep cream silk embroidered with winding cranes that shimmered with each step—swaying like mist over a dawn lake.

today’s ensemble was absurdly extravagant for a glorified supply closet, the fabric catching the lantern light in soft ripples. his hair, loosely tied at the nape, let silver strands frame his face, and a delicate trace of plum-red pigment accented the corners of his eyes, a flourish that screamed performance. he was too much, and that was precisely the point.

“i thought we’d settled into a rhythm,” he said, leaning against your worktable, perilously close to your neatly bundled herbs and stacked parchment. “me, you, the tang of crushed roots, and that slow-simmering resentment you wear so well.”

you didn’t answer. instead, you ground the pestle with a force that suggested the root had slandered your ancestors, the bowl rattling faintly under your wrath.

he tilted his head, silver hair catching the warm glow like threads of starlight, his rings—three today, each etched with faint sigils—clicking softly against the table’s edge.

“no one else to pester?” you muttered, jaw tight, your fingers flexing around the pestle as if it might double as a weapon. “no decrees to ignore? no ministers to torment?”

“oh, plenty,” he said, his grin slow and sharp, like a blade unsheathed for show. “but none of them look half as charming when they’re plotting my demise.”

your hand stilled, the pestle clicking sharply against the bowl, a punctuation of pure exasperation. he nearly clapped, delighted by the precision of your irritation.

because it wasn’t just that you disliked him—plenty did, and he wore their scorn like a badge. you didn’t pretend. no groveling, no fawning, no hollow courtesies offered to his eunuch’s guise. your disdain was raw, unfiltered, a silent roar in every glance.

it was refreshing, like a cold stream after too long in the palace’s stifling opulence, and deeply, wickedly entertaining.

he returned the next day. and the day after. each visit a little bolder, a little longer, as if testing how far he could push before you snapped.

sometimes he brought absurdities disguised as inquiries: a scroll detailing a servant who sprouted hives when he lied, complete with fictional case notes. another time, a cracked jade hairpin, its edges worn smooth, which he claimed induced fevers under a full moon’s gaze.

once, he presented a koi scale in a silk pouch, its iridescence glinting like a stolen star, declaring it a rare cure for heartache—just to see if you’d fling it at him.

you did, with the aim of an archer, the scale skittering across the floor as you muttered something about “idiots in silk.” he gave you a mental ovation.

he started noticing things—more than he meant to, more than was wise. you drank your tea standing, spine rigid, eyes flicking to the window like you expected a rope ladder to unfurl. you reused parchment, scribbling notes in the margins of torn festival flyers or crumpled ceremonial edicts, your script tight and precise.

your tools gleamed, arranged like a general’s arsenal, each blade and vial in its place, but your hair perpetually slipped its pins, curling defiantly against your neck until you shoved it back with an impatient hand.

you hummed when you thought no one heard—a fleeting melody, half-forgotten, like a song from a village far from the palace’s red walls. your brows twitched, a subtle dance, when you puzzled over a formula. your lips curled, just so, a heartbeat before you unleashed an insult, as if savoring the barb.

and despite every barbed word, every glare sharp enough to draw blood, you never truly banished him. not really.

“you know,” he said one afternoon, sprawled in the corner of your workspace, one leg tucked beneath him like a cat claiming a sunbeam, his sleeves pooling like spilled cream, “you haven’t thanked me.”

“for what?” you asked, voice muffled as you rummaged behind a bamboo curtain, the clink of vials punctuating your words. “wrecking my mornings like a plague in peacock feathers?”

“for ushering you into the inner court,” he said, tipping his head back against the wall, silver hair cascading over his shoulder like moonlight spilling across snow. the motion was deliberate, a painter’s stroke, and he knew it.

a beat. then the sharp scrape of wood as you slammed a drawer shut, the sound a silent curse. you emerged, clutching a bundle of dried leaves, your glare sour enough to wilt the lotuses in the courtyard.

“right,” you said, each word a blade honed to kill. “my deepest thanks for the promotion i wanted and the permanent shadow it dragged in.”

“shouldn’t you be grateful?” he teased, propping his chin in his hand, rings glinting as he traced the edge of a nearby jar. “i handed you the emperor’s court—prestige, resources, a front-row seat to my radiance.”

you turned to him, slow and deliberate, like a swordmaster sizing up a foolhardy opponent. “and i curse it every dawn,” you said, your voice low, each syllable a spark. “if i’d known you came tethered like a leech, i’d have begged to stay in the outer court, scrubbing pans in peace.”

he clutched his chest, a theatrical gasp, his eyes sparkling with mock agony. “you wound me, truly.”

“not yet,” you muttered, turning back to your leaves, your fingers ripping a stalk with unnecessary force. “but i’m practicing.”

his grin widened, sharp as a crescent moon, and he settled deeper into his perch, as if your scorn were an invitation to stay.

and you let him. not with words, never with warmth, but with the absence of a broom or a thrown pestle. and he kept returning, drawn by the rhythm you’d carved between you—insult, retort, silence. a glance, then another, lingering like a brush of silk. proximity that stretched longer than it should, close enough to feel the heat of your irritation, the weight of your presence.

it wasn’t peace—gods, never peace—but something like understanding, a pattern etched in barbed words and stolen moments. a hum beneath the surface, unnamed, unacknowledged, but growing louder with each visit.

then came the laugh—sharp, unexpected, a single burst when he presented a “case” about a noble who sneezed only during poetry recitals. your eyes crinkled, head tilting back for a heartbeat, the sound bright and unguarded before you smothered it, your face twisting into a scowl as if you’d betrayed yourself. you looked like you wanted to burn the room down to erase it.

satoru stared, too long, too openly, catching the way your cheeks flushed, the way you ducked your head to hide it. he saw you glance at him, then away, quick as a startled bird, and something in his chest tugged—sharp, stupid, undeniable.

he left that day with a thought that prickled like a splinter: he was in deeper trouble than he’d planned, and it was entirely, gloriously your fault.

today’s morning puzzle was more unhinged than usual.

“man experiences nosebleeds only in the presence of caged birds,” you read aloud, your tone so flat it could’ve scraped the lacquer off the palace floors. “and when exposed to lacquerware.”

satoru, sprawled in his usual corner of your workspace like a sculpture no one ordered, blinked with the kind of innocence that fooled no one, least of all you. his robe—warm ivory threaded with golden phoenix feathers—caught the dawn’s light, casting fleeting sparks against the wall like a firecracker’s afterglow. his hair, braided with a defiant thread of red silk (he knew you loathed it), spilled over one shoulder with the precision of a stage cue.

he was every inch the frivolous, silk-draped menace he aimed to be, his rings—two today, etched with coiling dragons—glinting as he propped an elbow on a crate of dried herbs.

“don’t you think there’s a tragedy woven in that?” he asked, voice too chipper for the hour, like a bird chirping before the world had rubbed sleep from its eyes.

“you’re banned from tragedy,” you snapped, shutting the scroll with a crack that made a passing maid jump, her tray of tea wobbling. you tossed it onto the table, narrowly missing a jar of powdered rhubarb, its clay surface dusted with your fingerprints.

this wasn’t his first medical case, nor even the twentieth. he’d stopped counting around the time he concocted a patient who sneezed whenever lies were spoken nearby.

what began as a game—probing your diagnostic skill with obscure, half-invented symptoms—had spiraled into a ritual as absurd as it was unshakable. yet you read every one. scrawled notes in their margins. laced them with insults sharp enough to draw blood. returned them smudged with ink and bristling with barely restrained fury.

he hoarded them like relics.

“you should’ve seen the drafts,” he said, as if that salvaged anything. “the first version had goose feathers and wine fumes. i spared you.”

“if this is your plot to bury me in professional shame,” you said, wrenching open a jar of salves with a force that suggested personal vendetta, “you’re nearly there.”

he tilted his head, a single silver strand slipping free, brushing the curve of his ear like a painter’s afterthought. he watched you move—always with purpose, always taut as a bowstring. you no longer flinched at his presence, but you never softened either. you wielded words like scalpels, keeping him at bay with precision cuts.

he liked sharp things. always had.

at first, the game was straightforward: deliver impossible cases, watch you unravel them, maybe coax a laugh if the stars aligned.

they never did.

you didn’t laugh. but you scowled, rolled your eyes, muttered poetic venom into your mortar as you ground herbs to dust. you called him names with the accuracy of a physician lancing a wound—“peacock,” “nuisance,” “silk-clad calamity”—each one a tiny victory he tucked away like a magpie with trinkets.

“this isn’t a diagnosis,” you muttered now, flipping the scroll open to scrawl furious notes, your brush slashing the parchment like a blade. “this is a poem having a tantrum.”

“you wound me,” he said, pressing a hand to his chest as if your words could be stitched into his ribs. “you’re the only one who’s ever called me poetic.”

“you’re the only fool in this empire whose puzzles come with a musical accompaniment,” you shot back, your brush pausing mid-stroke, ink pooling at the tip.

he grinned, quick and wicked. “you noticed?”

“you brought a flautist last week,” you said, voice flat as a blade’s edge. “he tripped on your sash.”

“he needed the practice,” satoru said, smooth as polished jade, his fingers tracing the rim of a nearby vial, its glass cool under his touch.

you didn’t bother responding, just turned back to your work, sharpening a bundle of dried ginger with a knife that gleamed like a silent threat. the blade’s rhythm was steady, each slice a rebuke to his existence.

he watched it all. the way your hands danced, precise yet restless, as if they could never quite settle. the way your lips pressed thin when you read something particularly absurd, a silent curse forming before you spoke. how your hair, always slipping its pins, curled defiantly at your nape, streaked with ink from fingers too busy to care. how you muttered in a cadence just off-kilter from the palace’s polished formalities, a dialect of frustration and focus.

you were chaos cloaked in competence, a storm bound by will, and he couldn’t look away.

every day, he brought another case. a man who laughed himself into fainting fits during banquets. a servant girl who sleepwalked into the kitchen’s rice stores, waking with flour in her hair. an aristocrat’s daughter who swore her vision flipped upside down every other hour, blaming it on cursed earrings.

he scribbled them late at night, brush half-dry, on balconies between court sessions, once even during a poetry recital where he feigned sleep, his sleeve hiding the ink stains. each case a thread, a tether, an excuse to linger in your orbit.

because you read them. frowned. sighed. looked at him.

and the looking—gods, that was everything. he didn’t need your laughter. he craved what came after: the pause after the sigh, the flicker after the eye-roll, that fleeting moment where you seemed to forget you loathed him, where your gaze held something softer, unguarded, before you rebuilt your walls.

“i should report you,” you said now, your brush scratching the parchment with deliberate force, each stroke a small rebellion.

“for what?” he asked, shifting to prop his chin on one hand, leaning forward like a cat too stubborn to abandon its perch. “creative medicine?”

“for impersonating someone with a shred of sense,” you said, your voice low, each word a dart aimed at his ego.

he made a wounded noise, theatrical and bright, but his smile stretched wider. “i have sense. i just keep it locked away, like a heirloom too fine for daily use.”

you gave him a look, long and withering, that could’ve soured wine. it only made his grin sharpen, his rings catching the light as he tapped the table’s edge, a rhythm to match your knife’s steady cuts.

“you treat patients like mildew treats silk,” you said, tossing the ginger aside and reaching for a vial, your fingers brushing a stray leaf that clung to your sleeve like a conspirator.

he laughed—not the polished chuckle he offered concubines or ministers, but a real one, sharp and sudden, echoing in the cramped quarters like a misfired firework.

your eyes snapped to him, and for a heartbeat, you weren’t just annoyed. not entirely. there was something else, a flicker of surprise, maybe curiosity, gone before he could name it. but it tightened his chest, a knot he couldn’t untie.

he kept bringing puzzles—not for their cleverness, not for their humor, but because they carved a space for him in your shadow. they let him listen to your muttered curses, watch your hands move like a weaver’s, feel the weight of your presence. they let him be noticed, even if only as a thorn in your side.

and maybe they let him be wanted there, if only for the span of a scowl.

“why are you like this?” you asked one morning, your brush stilling mid-stroke, the question dangerously soft, like a blade hidden in silk.

he had a dozen quips ready—flippant, charming, deflecting. but he leaned forward, caught the way a loose strand of hair curled near your temple, ink-smudged and defiant, and said, soft and unguarded, “you look alive when you’re annoyed.”

you froze, your brush hovering, a drop of ink trembling at its tip. then, slowly, you looked up. met his eyes, their blue sharp and unguarded, like a sky before a storm.

he smiled—not mocking, not entirely, just a curve of lips that felt too honest for the game you played.

you threw the scroll at his head. it sailed wide, fluttering to the floor like a wounded bird.

he ducked, barely, laughter spilling from him as he retreated, the sound trailing behind like a comet’s tail. your glare followed, searing, but he caught the faintest twitch at your mouth, a ghost of something that wasn’t quite hate.

later, he sat beneath the south pavilion’s shade, one leg tucked beneath him, the other dangling off the edge like a boy too restless for propriety.

a breeze tugged at the red sash cinched at his waist, lifting it like a lazy flag, as if even the wind knew he was procrastinating. beside him, scrolls—court reports, diplomatic briefs, a poetry contest invitation he’d already singed at the edges—sat ignored, their wax seals glinting like accusations.

he thought of your scowl, your voice, the way your gaze landed on him like a blade seeking a target. everyone else in the court tiptoed around him, offering flattery or fear.

you never did.

and maybe that was why, every day, without fail, he drifted back to your door, armed with another impossible case, another absurd tale. each one a thread to bind him to you, a reason to linger, to disrupt, to be seen.

because the worst part of his morning was the hour before he saw you—empty, quiet, a void where his thoughts echoed too loudly.

and the best part? watching you glare like you wanted him gone, yet never quite forcing him out, your silence a grudging invitation to return.

the scrolls were getting longer.

not just longer—denser, labyrinthine, absurdly ornate. satoru had upgraded to calligraphy brushes dipped in perfumed ink—rosewater one day, sandalwood the next, a faint whiff of osmanthus lingering on the parchment like a taunt.

he was testing how long it’d take before you snapped and hurled something profane, maybe the inkstone itself. the symptoms wove intricate webs, the logic knotted like a courtier’s braid, the footnotes teetering on operatic.

he cited phantom case studies, fictitious physicians from provinces that didn’t exist, and once, with brazen pride, slipped in a forged imperial seal that nearly landed him in front of a magistrate. nearly. that one, he’d written in couplets, each line a smug little bow.

“you’re wasting my time with this drivel,” you snapped, brandishing the scroll like it carried a plague. “don’t you have feathers to preen or mirrors to seduce?”

he was perched, as always, on the low bench by your window, posed like a statue some lovesick noble commissioned and regretted. his posture was too perfect for someone who’d spent half an hour picking a robe to irk you most—storm blue, embroidered with cranes mid-flight, sleeves pooling over his knees like spilled ink, dragging across the floor with every restless shift.

a gold hairpin gleamed in his braid, red silk threaded through it, swaying like a pendulum when he tilted his head in mock fascination. he was a painting overburdened with flourishes, every detail screaming excess.

“your thorns are almost charming,” he said, sipping from a porcelain cup, its rim chipped from a prior visit when he’d “accidentally” knocked it off your table. his boots, still flecked with courtyard mud, left faint smudges on your floor. “like a pufferfish dreaming of cuddles.”

you fixed him with a stare—slow, lethal, the kind that could sour fresh cream or silence a minister mid-rant. the breeze from the open lattice tugged at the scroll’s edge, rattling the ash tray, but you didn’t blink, your fingers tightening until the parchment crinkled.

he beamed, as if you’d serenaded him.

you muttered something under your breath—likely a curse involving his tea turning to sludge, his bones melting to tallow, and a cholera revival tour.

he showed up again the next day. and the day after. and again, undeterred, even after you told the guards to “misplace his map.” they never did, swayed by his bribes of candied lotus and whispered gossip, plus a promise to rank their uniforms’ aesthetics—a scale he invented on the spot, complete with commentary on tassel placement.

each scroll outdid the last. a plague afflicting only left-handed nobles, their sneezes synchronized with lunar phases. a woman who could digest only white foods, weeping hysterically at the sight of lotus root, claiming it sang to her in minor keys. a child coughing poetry—verses from a romantic epic banned by the late empress, each stanza more scandalous than the last. one footnote, scrawled sideways in gold ink, taunted, “solve this with that temper you wield like a blade.”

you unraveled them all, dissecting each with surgical precision. your annotations bled red, sometimes purple for peak offenses, your brushstrokes sharp as a duelist’s thrust.

but somewhere between the sarcastic jabs and hissed curses, your critiques softened—not in tone, never in tone, but in focus. you asked questions, prodded his logic with a gentler hand, your frowns less like thunderclouds, more like passing shadows.

you lingered over his absurdities, as if they were puzzles worth solving.

not that he noticed. of course not.

suguru did.

“twelve visits this week,” he said, voice dry as a desert wind, eyes fixed on the go board where satoru was losing spectacularly for forty-five minutes. “shall i carve you a plaque for her door? engrave it with ‘satoru’s folly’?”

satoru flipped a game piece, then flicked it at suguru’s shoulder, where it bounced off his black robes like a pebble off a cliff. “i’m running an experiment.”

“on what?” suguru glanced up, one brow arched like a drawn bow.

“the effects of sustained hostility and ground herbs on royal composure,” satoru said, his grin a crescent of pure mischief.

suguru’s stare was withering. “findings?”

“unexpectedly delightful,” satoru said, leaning back, his braid swaying like a metronome.

court sessions were crumbling. satoru, once the deity of theatrical boredom—master of mock gasps, swoons timed to derail debates, and insults so sharp they left officials blushing—was drifting.

he missed the minister of rites’ botched couplet, a travesty he’d have roasted for weeks. he forgot to deliver a memorandum to the archives—twice—its wax seal cracking from neglect. tax discussions passed in a haze, his fan unopened, his quips dormant. his eyes wandered, tracing patterns in the ceiling’s carved dragons, as if they held answers he didn’t dare seek.

suguru kept a tally in his meeting notes’ margins: missed snide remarks: five. disinterest level: catastrophic.

the inner court ladies noticed, their eyes sharp as jade pins, their tongues sharper.

they tracked satoru like hawks circling a wayward sparrow, cataloging his absences with gleeful precision. first, he vanished from their mid-morning gossip salons, leaving their tea untouched and their scandals half-shared. then came his bizarre fixation on medical theory, of all things, muttering about rare fungi and diagnostic riddles like a scholar possessed.

“we’ve scarcely seen you,” one lady said during a stroll through the peony courtyard, her fan snapping open like a dagger’s unsheathing, its silk painted with vipers. “has the emperor’s health grown so dire?”

“oh,” satoru said, voice slow and honeyed, “the apothecary’s got a fungus collection that’s positively riveting. almost as captivating as her glare when i nudge her vials out of order.”

giggles scattered like dropped pearls, sharp and knowing. he offered no further explanation, his smile a closed gate.

that afternoon, he swept into your quarters, scroll in hand, bound with red thread, inked in violet on paper too fine for his nonsense—proof it was his worst yet. his hair was half-loose, wisps clinging to his cheek where he’d skipped pinning it, a faint ink smear on his thumb from a late-night drafting frenzy. the scroll bore your name, penned at the top in a flourish that dared you to burn it.

you opened it, scanned the first lines, and your expression could’ve shattered a tea bowl. “this better not rhyme,” you said, voice low, each word a warning shot.

he smiled, too soft at the edges, less smug than something unguarded, like a seam in his silk had frayed. his fingers brushed the bench’s edge, lingering as if to anchor himself, and he watched you read, his gaze catching the way your brow twitched, the way your lips pressed thin.

somewhere beneath the posture, the perfume, the performance, his heart stuttered—a single, traitorous skip.

it was enough to whisper: this was no longer just a game.

he sent a courier three provinces south for a flower that didn’t even bloom this season.

“you dispatched a royal courier to the southern mountains for a sprig of winter jasmine?” suguru asked, voice taut with disbelief, arms folded so tightly it seemed he was trying to cage a migraine. his shadow loomed across the veranda’s polished wood, sharp against the dappled sunlight filtering through the wisteria.

satoru, reclining in the east veranda’s shade, swirled his teacup with a lazy flick of his wrist, the liquid long gone cold and forgotten. “it’s for a case,” he said, shrugging, stretching one leg until his silken robes spilled over the floor like ivory ink, catching flecks of light.

his fan lay discarded beside him, its painted cranes motionless, but his posture screamed decadence: languid limbs, robe slipping to bare the gleam of his collarbone, silver hair a cascade tucked behind one ear, a blue cord woven through for no reason but to catch the eye.

“it’s a seasonal ornamental,” suguru snapped, his boots clicking as he took a half-step forward, resisting the urge to pace. “not medicine. not even symbolic medicine. it’s for perfume, satoru. perfume.”

“depends on the metaphor,” satoru replied, grinning without looking, his gaze drifting past suguru’s scowl to the corridor snaking toward the inner court. his rings—two, etched with lotus vines—glinted as he tilted the cup, letting it catch the light like a conspirator’s signal.

suguru dragged a hand down his face, his sigh heavy enough to stir the wisteria petals scattered nearby. “i’m going to strangle you with that sash.”

“you’d have to catch me first,” satoru said, raising the cup in a mock toast, his grin sharp as a blade’s edge.

he had no intention of explaining. not the three couriers he’d sent in secret, their horses kicking dust across provinces. not the velvet-wrapped parcel one returned, petals still dewed from mountain mist, their fragrance curling like a secret. and definitely not the way your brow furrowed—half suspicion, half awe—when he set the sprig on your worktable, its silk wrapping unfurling like a bribe from a poet.

“this is fresh,” you said, nose wrinkling, holding the jasmine between two fingers like it might bite. “this isn’t local. not even close.”

“i know,” he said, voice bright as festival lanterns, chin propped on one hand as he watched you with the shameless glee of a man too pleased with his own audacity. “gorgeous, isn’t it?”

your glare could’ve sterilized a scalpel. “you’re unbearable.”

“and yet, here i linger,” he said, his sleeve brushing a vial as he leaned closer, just enough to make you stiffen.

“tragically,” you muttered, tossing the sprig onto a parchment, where it landed like a fallen star.

he stayed longer that day—far longer, until the shadows slanted sharp and the afternoon’s warmth bled into dusk’s cool edge. your tea sat untouched, its steam long gone. your sighs grew louder, each one a performance, yet you never shoved him out. he watched you work: arms bare to the elbow, sleeves knotted loosely, hands stained with pigment and resin, moving like the shelves and tables were extensions of your will.

you always faced the window when handling volatile herbs, not for light, he’d learned, but for the breeze, its faint stir cutting the fumes and teasing loose strands of your hair.

he cataloged it all. the way you hummed when focused—fractured, tuneless, like a half-remembered lullaby from a village beyond the palace’s reach.

it wasn’t daily, but frequent enough that he timed his arrivals to catch its fading notes. the way you sorted jars by scent—camphor to the left, ginseng to the right—ignoring strength or tradition. how you cracked your knuckles before mixing tinctures, a sharp pop like a soldier before battle. the pause before you spoke to him, as if weighing which barb would cut deepest.

it was intoxicating, like chasing the edge of a storm.

he crafted excuses to linger: forged dosage errors scrawled on stolen parchment, misfiled records he “discovered” in dusty archives, fake prescriptions only he knew were nonsense. once, he claimed mint sensitivity just to spar with you over its diagnostic merit. he lost, spectacularly, your rebuttal so sharp it left him grinning for hours.

“i’m starting to think you’re a fixture here,” you said one afternoon, not looking up as he sauntered in, uninvited. your hands were buried in a jar of powdered ginseng, your hair falling into your face, dusted with chalk like a scribe’s error.

“don’t be absurd,” he said, claiming the spare cushion by your shelves with the ease of a man who’d never heard the word no. his robe—cobalt blue, stitched with black cranes and storm clouds—pooled around him, dramatic and excessive, its hem brushing a stray leaf you’d missed. “i have other haunts. they’re just less… stabby.”

“and less likely to throw you out?” you asked, flicking a speck of dust from your sleeve, your tone dry as the desert beyond the red cliffs.

“precisely,” he said, his grin a spark in the dim room.

you didn’t laugh, but you didn’t banish him either. and when your hand grazed his sleeve—a fleeting, accidental brush as you reached for a vial—you didn’t pull back. didn’t flinch. the contact, barely a whisper, burned in his mind like a brand.

he was too comfortable now, not just in your space but in your orbit—your rhythms, your silences, the way you tilted your head before a fight, lips pursing when you swallowed a sharper retort. you insulted him with the grace of someone who’d decided he wasn’t worth charming, each barb a masterpiece of disdain.

it was the truest exchange he had all day.

no one else dared. but you? you called him a fungus with delusions of grandeur. you said his robes looked like a peacock mugged by a thunderstorm. you told him his puzzles were “an affront to medicine and common sense.”

and still, he returned. because every insult was a flare, every glance a challenge, every unspoken word a riddle more gripping than any court intrigue.

he told himself it was curiosity. a game. a puzzle to unravel.

but if that were true, why did he measure his day by how long he could linger before you snapped? why did he trace the curl of your handwriting in his mind, the rhythm of your humming, the way you bit your cheek when lost in thought?

and why, when he left, did the world feel a little flatter, the colors muted, like a painting left unfinished?

lately, he wasn’t sure if he was studying you or unraveling himself. each visit chipped away at his excuses, leaving something rawer, riskier, in its place. he caught himself watching not just your hands but the faint scar on your knuckle, the way your eyes softened when you thought no one saw. he noticed how you lingered, too—not in words, but in the way you let him stay, let him disrupt, let him fill the silence with his nonsense.

he was in too deep, and the worst part? he didn’t care.

because every sprig of jasmine, every forged case, every stolen ribbon was a thread pulling him closer to you—and he was too far gone to cut it.

it began with a flower.

well, no. it began with a lie about a flower.

“lunar-affected fever,” satoru said, voice solemn yet dripping with drama, holding a scroll like it was an imperial decree rather than a parchment stuffed with absurdity.

he lounged across your workspace’s threshold, as if the breeze itself had swept him in, robes of slate gray—stitched with pale moons that shimmered faintly—billowing with each subtle shift. his hair, half-tied with a silver pin, caught the filtered sunlight, glinting like spun thread, a few strands curling defiantly against his jaw. “rare as a comet. strikes only under moonlight. fever, dizziness, faint prophetic dreams. possibly contagious.”

you didn’t look up. didn’t pause. just dipped your brush in ink with the precision of a surgeon, your movements steady as stone. “there is no such thing as lunar-affected fever,” you said, voice flat as a pressed leaf, not even indulging him with a sigh.

he tsked, tapping the scroll against his palm like a tutor poised to chide a wayward pupil. “how can you be sure without seeing the flower?”

your head lifted—slow, deliberate, your eyes locking onto his with a glare sharp enough to wither an orchard. your lips pursed, brow twitching, a silent vow of retribution etched in your expression.

satoru’s smile widened, blue eyes sparking with mischief, like a cat who’d just knocked a vase to the floor and called it art.

which is how you found yourself—against logic, reason, and three stern vows to your own sanity—trailing him through the moonlit paths of the imperial gardens, gravel crunching softly under your sandals.

your sleeves were tugged tight around your wrists, knotted to keep them from snagging on stray branches. your hair, pinned in a hasty bun, unraveled in soft curls that clung to your temples, damp from the night’s humidity. you walked in silence, letting the faint whisper of your steps speak for you.

ahead, satoru moved with the effortless grace of someone who owned every pebble, every leaf. the lantern in his hand swayed, its warm glow dancing across the path, painting his silver hair with flecks of gold, like a halo he didn’t deserve.

he glanced back now and then, just to check you were still there. each time, his smirk softened for a heartbeat, a flicker of something unguarded, before he faced forward, humming a tuneless melody under his breath, the sound weaving into the night like a secret.

“you could’ve just asked me to see a flower,” you muttered at his back, your voice low, edged with exasperation.

“and skip the theatrics?” he half-turned, walking backward with infuriating ease, his robes catching the moonlight in ripples. “you wound me.”

the pavilion he led you to crouched in shadow, draped in ivy and curling wisteria, their leaves glistening with dew. moonlight poured through the open beams, silvering the air, catching the faint mist that clung to the ground. the night carried a sharp, green bite of moss, layered with something sweeter, fragile, like a bloom holding its breath.

and there it was: the night-blooming cereus.

its petals unfurled, slow and tentative, as if coaxing itself into existence. the bloom glowed, ethereal, held together by moonlight and whispers, its edges curling like a secret shared in the dark.

“it blooms once a year,” satoru said, voice softer now, stripped of its usual flourish. he stepped beside you, not quite touching, but close enough for the warmth of his presence to brush your skin. “only under a full moon. they call it the queen of the night.”

your lips parted, breath catching, a faint hitch you couldn’t hide. your arms, folded in defiance moments ago, slowly loosened, fingers twitching as if to reach out. your eyes locked on the flower, and for the first time in days, your face shifted—brow easing, mouth softening, the hard edges melting away. you weren’t the court apothecary, nor the wary prisoner of palace games.

you were someone rediscovering wonder, like a child glimpsing a star for the first time.

“beautiful,” you whispered, the word escaping before you could cage it, fragile as the bloom itself.

satoru wasn’t watching the flower.

“yes,” he said, voice barely a murmur, “it is.”

he stared at you, caught in the moonlight’s caress on your cheekbone, the soft curve of your profile. his fingers flexed, not to touch, but to hold the moment—the way your eyes shimmered, the faint flush on your skin, the curl of hair clinging to your temple. he wanted to etch it into memory, to keep it sharper than any painting.

the silence stretched, warm and alive, a fragile bubble of stillness that pulsed with its own rhythm. the night held you both, the cereus glowing between, its petals trembling as if aware of the weight it carried.

then—predictably, perfectly—you shattered it.

“what a waste of my night,” you muttered, spinning away with a dramatic eye-roll, your sleeve swishing like a curtain falling on a play.

but your hands betrayed you.

you reached for the bloom with a reverence that belied your words, cupping it as if it might crumble to dust. when you turned, you cradled it to your chest, fingers curled protectively, like guarding a secret you hadn’t meant to claim.

satoru didn’t tease. didn’t speak. he fell into step beside you, lantern swinging gently, casting slow-dancing shadows that tangled with the gravel path. he stole glances as you walked, catching the way you peeked at the flower—once, twice, like you needed to be sure it was real. your sandals scuffed softly, a counterpoint to his silent steps, and the night seemed to lean in, listening.

he didn’t sleep that night. not properly. he lay beneath his canopy, robes half-discarded, staring at the lattice ceiling as moonlight slanted through, replaying the curve of your lips, the softness in your eyes, the way you’d held the bloom like it was a piece of yourself you’d forgotten. his chest felt tight, restless, like a bird trapped in a too-small cage.

the next morning, he arrived at your chambers as always, leaning in the doorway like he’d been carved for the space, robes of deep indigo shifting with each breath. you didn’t greet him, didn’t look up, your focus buried in a stack of parchment, your hair already slipping its pins, ink smudged on one knuckle.

same sleeves. same scowl. same you.

but when he leaned too close, feigning interest in your notes, his eyes caught it: pressed between the worn pages of your herbarium, nestled beside meticulous entries on sedatives, the cereus. flattened, pale, its glow dimmed but defiant, like a star pinned to earth.

your handwriting, precise and sharp: epiphyllum oxypetalum. blooms once yearly, under full moon. fragile.

he said nothing. didn’t smirk, didn’t tease. but his chest ached, a low, slow throb, tender and mortifying, like a bruise he hadn’t earned.

for the first time in weeks, he forgot to bring a new case. no scroll, no absurd symptoms, no ribbon-wrapped nonsense. he just stood there, watching you scribble, the silence heavier than it should’ve been.

and when you finally glanced up, your eyes narrowing at his stillness, he felt it—a tug, sharp and undeniable, like a thread pulling taut between you.

he didn’t know what to call it. not yet.

but as he left, his steps lighter than they should’ve been, he wondered if you’d noticed the absence of his usual chaos—and if, maybe, you missed it.

it started with kiyohiro, a court eunuch, collapsing in the corridor outside your chambers.

not with flair. not convincingly. just a calculated wobble, a practiced sway, before he sank to the floor with a theatrical sigh, clutching his stomach like the palace kitchens had slipped arsenic into his rice.

“abdominal pain,” he groaned, palm pressed to his navel, eyes fluttering as if scripted. “possibly fatal. i need the court apothecary at once.”

you didn’t flinch. didn’t glance up. the pestle in your hand ground dried peony root against stone, its rhythm steady, unyielding, like a heartbeat ignoring a storm. “eat fewer sweet buns,” you muttered, voice flat as sunbaked clay, handing a tonic to a maid without breaking stride.

it should’ve ended there.

but gossip spreads faster than truth in a palace of whispers. by week’s end, your chambers had become a pilgrimage site for every bored eunuch with a noble title and a flair for drama. a sudden rash? a fluttering pulse? a dizziness that struck only when you entered, your sleeves brushing the air like a challenge?

satoru watched it unfold, his displeasure sharp and simmering. arms crossed, posture a studied nonchalance that screamed irritation, he haunted your doorframe like a specter with a grudge. his robes—too fine for indifference, deep indigo threaded with silver lotuses—shimmered under lantern light, his hair tied with lazy precision, glinting like frost on a winter stream.

“remarkable,” he drawled one afternoon, voice silk laced with venom, as he ushered another swooning eunuch out with a smile that never touched his eyes. “how many eunuchs have fallen mysteriously ill this month?”

you didn’t look up, fingers folding linen cloths with deft flicks. “jealous?”

his gaze snapped to you, blue eyes narrowing. your face was a mask, but your hand paused, just once, on the bowl’s rim, a flicker of defiance. “of what?” he said, voice low, edged. “their fake ailments or their pitiful flirtations?”

“both, it seems,” you said, a smirk tugging your lips, mischief woven into your exasperation. your eyes stayed on your work, but your voice carried that familiar spark, like a blade hidden in a sleeve.

your sleeves were rolled to your elbows, dusted with faint lotus bark, strands of hair slipping from their pins to cling to your jaw, damp with the room’s humid breath. you looked unruffled, impervious to the parade of titled eunuchs feigning ailments to bask in your presence.

satoru, though, was anything but.

not openly. not officially. but he was there—always. every time a noble eunuch swept in with a new complaint, satoru materialized, claiming urgent business nearby. every consultation hosted his lounging form—leaning against a lacquered pillar, fan snapping open with a lazy flick. he never interrupted outright. he just… watched, his comments slicing with surgical precision.

“takamasa, you faint in sunlight?” he asked, voice dripping with mock concern, as the young eunuch clutched a silk handkerchief to his chest.

“yes,” takamasa murmured, voice frail. “it’s terribly inconvenient—”

“curious,” satoru cut in, fan pausing mid-flutter. “weren’t you sprawled in the courtyard yesterday, under midday sun?”

the silence that followed was a masterpiece, heavy and delicious. you didn’t bother hiding your eye-roll, your lips twitching as you ground herbs with renewed vigor.

“you’re absurd,” you told him later, after he’d dismantled enjirou’s complaint of “chronic sighs” with a single arched brow and a quip about fainting goats.

“i’m diligent,” he said, lips curving, his fan tapping his chin. “your time’s too precious for noble fairy tales spun in silk.”

he didn’t say the rest—that he loathed how they looked at you, like your attention was a prize to be won with theatrics, like you were a treasure to be claimed with a well-timed swoon. he hated the way their eyes lingered, as if they could buy your focus with flattery or feigned frailty.

then came the emergency.

a kitchen servant collapsed, breath shallow, sweat beading like dew on his brow. no posturing, no poetry. just raw panic—gasps, shouts, the clatter of a dropped tray. his skin burned under touch, his pulse a frantic stutter.

satoru was already there.

he didn’t knock, didn’t wait. he followed the stretcher into your chambers, sleeves shoved up, hair slipping from its tie, strands catching the sweat on his neck. the usual glint in his eyes was gone, replaced by something taut, focused, like a blade drawn and ready.

you were already in motion.

your face was a mask of calm, eyes sharp as you issued orders—clear, clipped, commanding. this wasn’t the you who wielded wit like a dagger; this was you at war, hands swift and sure, voice steady as stone. you didn’t glance at satoru, didn’t need to. he moved with you, seamless, like he’d studied your rhythm for months.

he passed you cloths, their edges fraying from haste. helped lift the servant onto a cot, his grip steady but gentle. ground herbs under your curt instructions, his fingers quick, precise, remembering how you liked the mortar angled for rhubarb root, its bitter tang sharp in the air.

“you actually care about these people,” he said quietly, voice almost lost in the clink of vials, as he handed you a ladle and wiped the servant’s brow with a damp cloth.

“someone has to,” you said, eyes fixed on your work, your fingers deftly measuring a tincture. “most here see servants as props.”

he didn’t reply, didn’t know how. just kept moving beside you, his sleeves brushing yours in the cramped space, the air thick with bile, heat, and crushed leaves.

the night stretched on. two more servants were carried in—one vomiting, one limp as a rag. the room reeked of sickness and herbs, the floor littered with discarded cloths.

your voice frayed at the edges, your hands trembled once—briefly—before you clenched them steady. your braid had come loose, strands sticking to your sweat-damp neck, but you didn’t pause to fix it.

satoru stayed.

when it was over—when the last fever broke, the last pulse steadied—you collapsed into your chair, limbs heavy, breath ragged. your brush slipped, smearing half-written labels across the desk. your eyelids sagged, your head dipping to rest on the crook of your arm, ink smudging your cheek like a child’s mistake.

he approached softly, his outer robe already in hand, its deep indigo folding over your shoulders like a shield. his fingers hovered above your arm, a moment of hesitation, then pulled back, leaving only the faint warmth of the fabric.

your cheek pressed to your arm, breath slow, lips parted in sleep.

he sank into the chair beside you, not touching, not speaking. he tilted his head back against the wall, eyes closing, his own exhaustion pulling at him. his feet throbbed, his fingers stained with bark and ink, but he didn’t move.

when you stirred at dawn, throat dry, eyes gritty, he was still there—head back, arms folded, mouth slightly open, a faint crease in his brow, like even sleep couldn’t ease his tension.

your voice cracked, raw from the night. “you stayed.”

his eyes opened, slow, steady, like he’d been waiting for you to speak. “someone had to make sure you didn’t drown in your own brews,” he said, voice hoarse but carrying that familiar lilt, a spark of amusement in the ruin of the night.

you looked at him—really looked—and said nothing more. neither did he.

but the silence between you wasn’t hollow.

it was heavy, alive, woven with something new—something neither of you could name, but both felt, like a pulse beneath the skin.

the summons came at dawn.

no pomp, no ritual—just a folded slip passed in the corridor, stamped with the emperor’s seal, its wax glinting like a quiet threat. satoru read it in silence, his face a mask, brows twitching faintly before he slipped it into his sleeve.

he rose from the window seat where his tea sat cold, the morning light catching the sheen of his indigo robes. his movements were fluid, but a weight clung to him—anticipation, not fatigue, heavy as a stone sinking in still water.

his father didn’t call unless it mattered.

and lately, everything mattered.

the emperor’s chambers were dim, morning sun barely piercing the heavy curtains, casting long shadows across lacquered floors. incense curled in the corners, frankincense and cedar weaving a thick, ancient haze, clinging like a memory too stubborn to fade.

satoru stepped inside quietly, his robes—indigo lined with black, unadorned—swallowing the light. his hair, usually a defiant spill, was pulled into a tight tail, no stray strands, no red cord for flair. he bowed low, spine rigid, fluid as a dancer, but his hands clenched too tightly at his sides, knuckles pale against the silk.

“you’re late,” the emperor murmured, voice thin but steady, a thread stretched taut.

“never late,” satoru said, slipping into the chair by the bed without waiting for leave, his tone light but guarded. “just selectively punctual.”

his father, propped against a mound of cushions, gave a faint huff—half breath, half fond rebuke. his eyes, sharp despite their sunken frame, flickered with a spark of the man beneath the crown. his skeletal hand adjusted the jade charm at his wrist, its edges worn smooth by restless habit.

silence fell, heavy, expectant, like the air before a storm.

“whoever she is,” the emperor said at last, gaze drifting to the far wall where a painted crane seemed to watch, “don’t let her pull you from what matters. your coronation looms closer than we planned.”

satoru stilled, his breath catching, a faint hitch he buried beneath a neutral mask. his lashes flicked, the only sign of the jolt beneath his skin. “it’s strategic,” he said, voice smooth, polished. “she fascinates me for reasons i can’t name. i need to know why.”

the emperor turned slowly, his gaze piercing despite the tremor in his fingers as he smoothed his robe’s folds. “is that why suguru says you linger in her chambers like a moth drunk on lantern light?”

satoru’s eyes dropped to the floor, tracing the mosaic of lotuses and dragons, their curves blurring in the dim glow. suguru, his bodyguard, had seen too much—every visit, every scroll, every stolen glance—and carried it to the emperor’s ear. duty bound him to report, and satoru couldn’t fault him, though the sting lingered.

“very strategic,” the emperor added, voice softening, a faint amusement curling beneath the weariness. “suguru tells me you’ve sent couriers across provinces for her. flowers, of all things.”

satoru’s lips parted, then closed, words dissolving like mist. his fingers tightened on the chair’s edge, the wood cool under his grip.

“she reminds me of your mother,” the emperor said, eyes drifting to the ceiling’s carved phoenixes, their wings frozen mid-flight. “sharp-tongued. unyielding. challenged me every day of our marriage. made me a better ruler. a better man.”

satoru’s throat burned, a dry ache he couldn’t swallow. his gaze stayed on the floor, the weight of his father’s words pressing against his chest, fragile and unnameable. he had no reply, no quip to deflect the truth laid bare.

he left with silence draped over him like a second robe, his steps too quiet, his face too blank. guards bowed as he passed, their armor clinking softly, but he didn’t see them, his mind tangled in the echo of his father’s voice, suguru’s report, and you.

that night, he didn’t bring a scroll. no absurd case, no ribbon-wrapped nonsense to make you sigh. he brought flowers.

dahlias, crimson and bold, tied with an ink-dark ribbon, their petals vivid against the muted light of your chambers. dignified, elegant, deliberate—a choice that spoke louder than his usual theatrics.

he entered with a hesitant confidence, like stepping onto a bridge he wasn’t sure would hold. the air carried the familiar bite of herbs and ink, softened by the faint musk of drying parchment. you glanced up from your worktable, sleeves rolled, fingers stained with licorice root, one brow arching in quiet surprise.

“these are for…” he started, holding the bouquet with a care that belied his usual nonchalance, as if the flowers might wilt under a careless grip.

“another fake ailment?” you cut in, eyes narrowing, though a spark of curiosity flickered beneath the suspicion.

his lips curved, soft, not his usual smirk. “just thought they suited you.”

you paused, breath hitching for a moment, your fingers stilling over a vial. then you reached out, your hand brushing his—a flicker of contact, light as a moth’s wing, warm and gone too soon. it was nothing. it was everything.

neither of you moved, not at first. the air held its breath, charged with the weight of that touch.

then you cleared your throat, turned away, busying yourself with a jar that hadn’t moved in weeks, its label curling at the edges. he smiled at your back, eyes tracing the slant of your shoulders, the faint tilt of your head—always left when you were flustered, a detail he’d memorized like a map.

from then on, he brought meals.

not with fanfare. not every night. just often enough to become a rhythm. evenings blurred with your work, and he’d appear, tray in hand, the food simple but warm—soft rice flecked with sesame, miso delicate as a sigh, sweet egg custards you claimed to dislike but always finished, scraping the bowl when you thought he wasn’t looking.

“you don’t have to keep feeding me,” you said one night, chopsticks hovering, steam curling from the rice like a secret.

“and miss watching you eat while insulting my wit?” he said, settling beside you, his knee brushing the table’s edge. “never.”

some nights, words came softly, worn by exhaustion—snatches of court gossip, old memories, musings on the rain like it held answers. other nights, silence reigned, comfortable, heavy with unspoken things.

your chairs drifted closer.

knees brushed beneath the low table. once. then again. neither of you pulled away. his hand rested a little too close to yours. your gaze lingered a little too long. and the quiet between you stayed warm, charged, not innocent, but not yet dangerous.

still disaster bloomed, as it always does, in the quietest breath of night.

the garden held its breath, a rare stillness cloaking the night. the koi pond shimmered under moonlight, liquid silver rippling with each stray breeze, its surface catching the faint glow of lanterns swaying like conspirators. wisteria hung heavy, its scent weaving with damp earth, sharp and fleeting, the air thick with the promise of something about to break.

you walked side by side, sleeves brushing now and then, deliberate in their graze. the concubine you’d treated earlier slept at last, her fever broken, the air in her chambers no longer taut with dread. yet neither of you moved to part, steps slowing as the garden’s quiet conspired to hold you there.

satoru trailed a half-step behind, hands clasped behind his back, his long robe whispering against the gravel, its pale gray hem catching the lantern glow like mist.

moonlight wove silver through his white hair, sharpened the elegant line of his jaw, made him look like a figure etched from starlight. his eyes, glacial blue, flicked to you every few moments—memorizing the curve of your profile, the way your hair curled against your neck, damp from the humid air.

his silence tonight was heavy, careful, like a man cradling a glass too full to spill. “you really don’t rest,” he murmured, voice low, a thread of concern tucked into his usual drawl, barely louder than the wind’s sigh.

you didn’t slow, sandals scuffing softly. “rest is for those who can afford carelessness.”

he huffed, almost amused, the sound soft as a falling petal. “remind me never to share my medical records with you.”

your lips twitched, a ghost of a smile, gone before it could settle.

silence returned, thrumming now, alive with something unspoken—full, heavy with possibility, like a storm gathering just out of sight.

then you stopped.

he nearly bumped into you, catching himself with a soft inhale. you turned, gaze locking onto his, clear and unreadable, a spark of something sharp and startled flickering in your eyes. his breath hitched, chest tightening with a feeling he didn’t dare name.

no script existed for this. no smirking quip, no practiced tease. just a slow, swelling pause, the world narrowing to the space between you.

he leaned in—not a game, not a performance—raw, unguarded, his heart a traitor beating too loud.

his hand lifted, trembling faintly, hovering near your cheek as if afraid to shatter the moment. his eyes searched yours, seeking permission, a sign, anything to stop him.

you gave none.

so he kissed you.

softly at first, reverent, lips brushing yours with the care of someone handling porcelain. his mouth was warm, unsure but honest, and your breath caught—a soft hitch he felt and paused for. his eyes fluttered half-shut, lashes long and pale, his silver hair swaying slightly as he leaned in further.

your lips parted, startled but not retreating, your fingers curling tight at your sides. his hand found your jaw, slow and sure, thumb grazing your cheekbone like he’d memorized it. he tilted his head slightly, shadows shifting along his high cheekbones, his breath mixing with yours. your heart thudded, loud in your throat.

you tilted up, just enough, your mouth moving under his—tentative, then firmer, a quiet answer. the moment bloomed between you, the stillness of the air broken only by the soft brush of silk against silk, the distant sound of wind chimes trembling in the garden. satoru forgot how to think. his mind emptied, breath stolen. the world dissolved into the warmth of your breath, the taste of crushed herbs on your lips, and something sweeter beneath that made his chest ache.

he kissed you again—deeper this time, less cautious, more aching. his hand slid from your jaw to the back of your neck, fingers threading into your hair, holding you there like a secret. his other hand, trembling, hovered at your waist before pulling you in by the small of your back. his lips parted, tongue brushing yours in a slow, exploratory sweep, reverent, like he was afraid to break you.

and you kissed him back.

not immediately, but when you did—it was real. your mouth opened to him, breath shaky, spine stiff but yielding. you leaned forward, just slightly, your hands still curled but not pushing. he tasted you like a prayer, like something sacred, like maybe if he kissed you long enough you’d stay.

then he pulled back, eyes dark and wide, pupils blown, lips red from the kiss. he looked at you as if he couldn’t believe it had happened, as if the world had turned inside out and there you were, still in his arms.

“you—” he breathed, voice hoarse, gaze flicking from your mouth to your eyes, dazed, lost, drunk on something he never thought he could have.

and then he kissed you again.

this time, hungry. this time, like a man stepping into fire knowing full well he’d burn. your lips met his with a gasp, and you let him take you for one heartbeat too long. one second too many.

your fingers twitched. your knees wavered. you wanted to hate him for how good it felt.

and then—you shoved him.

hard.

he stumbled backward, arms flailing like a heron skidding across ice, nearly tripping over the embroidered hem of his robe. he caught himself on a stone lantern with a grunt, robes fluttering around his ankles. his eyes were wide, lips still parted, chest rising and falling like he’d just run a mile.

“have you lost your mind?” you snapped, voice like a blade. your cheeks blazed, your chest heaved, and your glare—gods, your glare could level dynasties.

he blinked, then grinned despite himself. crooked and boyish, maddeningly unrepentant.

“possibly,” he said, breathless.

“i’m not wasting my genes on a eunuch,” you spat, your voice sharp as shattered jade. “no matter how pretty his face.”

satoru froze.

then blinked.

then let out a laugh. not one of those dramatic, hand-over-mouth princely chuckles he liked to use when causing a scene. no, this one was quiet, startled—undignified, even. a breath of disbelief that hiccuped past his lips and got swallowed by the wisteria.

“you think i’m a eunuch,” he muttered, mostly to himself.

you didn’t dignify him with an answer. nor did you stay to argue. didn’t pause for a cutting remark or a dramatic glance over your shoulder. no, the moment he stilled, the moment that too-long silence fell between you like a dropped fan, you turned. spun on your heel and stormed off with the kind of pace that said if you didn’t leave now, you might do something you’d regret—like kiss him again. or worse: ask if he meant it.

which, of course, he did.

still, you muttered as you walked away. low and furious, under your breath, like the words were bubbling out whether you wanted them to or not. he caught fragments. something about hormones. about silk-robed maniacs with too many rings. about eunuchs, eggplants, and the gods forsaking your common sense.

the silence sank teeth into his shoulders. the night air folded around him like silk dipped in ice. his thumb grazed the edge of his bottom lip, slow, like he could rewind the last few seconds through touch alone.

he had forgotten.

forgotten what he was pretending to be. forgotten the rings, the incense, the mask he’d sewn into his skin over the years. he had kissed you like a man—not a prince, not a eunuch, not a myth wrapped in silk and riddles. just a man.

and you had kissed him back.

but the moment shattered before it could be named. your words had carved right through it. not cruelly, not intentionally. that was the worst part. you didn’t know what you’d done. you hadn’t even seen him.

you kissed the lie.

he pressed his hand to his mouth, jaw clenched. it was almost funny. it should have been funny. and maybe in the morning, it would be.

but right now?

right now, he was half-sick with the sweetness of it. with how close he’d come to believing that moment was real. with how much he still wanted it to be. the ache wasn’t sharp, but it was deep—a bruise blooming slow beneath the ribs.

he should have laughed it off. he should have returned to his quarters, poured wine, told suguru something smug and unrepeatable. instead, he just stood there, dumb and dazed and smiling like an idiot.

“she thinks i’m a eunuch,” he said again, quieter this time. and still—still—he wanted you to kiss him again. not because you didn’t know who he was.

but because, somehow, impossibly, you might want him anyway.

he didn’t see you for three days.

not for lack of trying. you were a specter, slipping through locked doors, vanishing into sudden meetings, leaving maids shrugging when he pressed for your whereabouts. even the gossiping servants, usually eager to spill, offered nothing but vague apologies.

in court, he was a shadow of himself. during a trade council, he sat rigid, staring through a minister droning about tariffs, his fingers tracing the same spot on his lips where your kiss had burned.

the room’s incense choked him, too sweet, and when a scribe dropped a brush, the clatter made him flinch, his thoughts snapping back to your startled shove. he nodded at the right moments, but his voice, usually sharp with quips, was dull, his eyes drifting to the window where moonlight might’ve been.

concubines noticed. one wept over a broken hairpin, its jade splintered like her heart, and satoru could only muster a tired, “it’s just a pin.” another sulked over a petty slight—someone had worn her shade of crimson—and he waved her off, words flat: “wear blue instead.” their pouts deepened, but he had no energy for their dramas.

suguru found him sprawled on the pavilion roof, one arm flung across his eyes, the other tossing dried plums at passing sparrows, each throw more despondent than the last. “so,” suguru said, tossing him a rice cracker with no pity, “she hit you with reality?”

“no,” satoru muttered, snapping the cracker in half with the mournful air of a man betrayed by fate. “she pushed me. emotionally.”

suguru’s pause, mid-bite, was louder than words, his raised brow a silent judgment.

the worst part? satoru couldn’t stop replaying it. the shape of your mouth against his, warm and yielding. the sharp twist of your face when you pulled back, eyes blazing with fury and something softer, unguarded.

a week passed. he performed—attended court, smiled on cue, offered wry commentary in meetings, even penned a birthday poem for the favored concubine’s pet nightingale, all wit and charm. but it was hollow.

in a session on border disputes, he doodled your name in the margin of a scroll, then scratched it out, ink smearing like his resolve. a concubine wailed about a lost fan, and he stared through her, muttering, “buy another,” his voice a ghost of its usual spark.

every night, when the palace quieted, his steps led him back to the garden, to the spot where you’d stopped, where he’d leaned in, where the line between strategy and sincerity had dissolved. the wisteria was fading now, petals curling brown, and he stood there, moonlight pooling around him, hand drifting to his lips, still tingling.

the ache wasn’t intrigue. wasn’t curiosity.

it was want—raw, relentless, refusing to fade.

and as he lingered, the irony gnawed deeper: he’d disguised himself as a eunuch to protect his life, only to lose his heart to a woman who thought he had none to give.

the problem began with a scream.

not yours.

hers.

lady mei, daughter of the insufferable minister of war, unleashed a shriek that could’ve cracked the palace jade, scattering birds from the rafters and jolting the court from their jasmine-laced tea. it ripped through the corridors like a war horn, shrill and self-important, drawing eyes and whispers like blood draws flies. by the time satoru caught the rumor, it had spread like ink in water—ravenous, unstoppable, vicious.

poison. hair falling in clumps.

dark magic, they hissed. foreign plots. a witch.

and you—gods, you—stood accused before the tribunal, chin high, jaw forged in iron, wrists bound in red silk that chafed raw welts into your skin. your robe sagged, one sleeve torn where a guard’s grip had twisted too hard, but you didn’t flinch. your lips were a tight slash, face a mask, yet your eyes blazed—defiant, untamed, a storm caged in flesh.

satoru overheard it by chance. or fate. call it what you will.

he’d been pacing the eastern promenade, robe loose at the throat, hair tied with reckless grace, his posture a thin veneer of boredom. two servants lingered by the reflecting pool, their whispers sharp, gleeful, cutting through the spring air. “she cursed lady mei’s beauty cream,” one breathed, eyes wide as lotus blooms.

“no,” the other hissed, leaning in, “a tonic. thins the blood. deadly in excess.”

satoru’s world snapped. his ears roared, a high, searing hum drowning all else. the garden’s lattice blurred, its patterns bleeding like smeared ink. the koi pond burned too bright, the air choking despite the breeze.

his hands clenched, nails carving crescents into his palms, silk twisting in his fists. he spun, robes flaring like a tempest, the blue fabric cracking with each furious stride. court eunuchs scattered as he stormed past, their bows faltering, stunned by the raw fury radiating from him. the usual glint in his eyes was dead, replaced by something glacial, murderous.

suguru caught him at the tribunal wing’s threshold, breathless, hair tied back, sleeves rolled as if he’d sprinted from his post. “your highness,” he hissed, seizing satoru’s arm in a grip that could bruise, “you cannot barge in. your position. your disguise.”

satoru’s head turned, slow, deliberate, like a blade aligning for a strike. rage poured from him, white-hot, unyielding as a forge. “they’re going to execute her over lies,” he snarled, voice low, jagged, each word a shard of flint. “i won’t stand by.”

his body trembled, not with fear but with violence barely contained, his jaw locked so tight the muscle twitched near his ear. his eyes burned beneath his white hair, colder than a winter’s edge, promising devastation.

“think strategically,” suguru urged, stepping in front, voice firm but pleading. “this screams more than justice. it screams you.”

satoru’s breath caught, a sharp stutter. his lips parted, then clamped shut. a beat. another. he exhaled through his teeth, a hiss like a blade drawn from its sheath. “fine,” he bit out. “strategy. but if they touch one hair on her head—”

“they won’t,” suguru said, softer, his gaze tracing satoru’s face, seeing the fractures in his mask. “they won’t.”

satoru didn’t nod, didn’t thank him. he turned, vanishing like a storm unleashed, not to brood but to burn.

he tore through the palace like a wraith on fire. scrolls ripped from shelves, bamboo frames splintering under his grip. records cracked open, pages scattering like ash. his movements were sharp, relentless, stripped of the lazy grace he once wore like a second skin.

servants stammered, spilling secrets under his stare, their voices quaking. he bribed, coerced, lied, threatened—one steward nearly fainted when satoru leaned in, his smile all teeth, voice a silken blade: “care to clarify?”

by midnight, his sleeves were rolled, white linen smudged with ink and soot, his hair fraying from countless rakes of his fingers, strands clinging to his sweat-slick neck. scrolls and witness names littered the lacquered table like battlefield wreckage, his voice raw from demanding testimony. lady mei’s handmaidens trembled under his questions, eyes darting like sparrows before a hawk.

her perfumer tried to flee, only to find satoru waiting by the storage room, leaning casually against the doorframe, voice like frost: “running somewhere?”

he summoned an outer court physician under a false name, tearing through ledgers with brutal precision—red stamps, supplier lists, ingredient logs—until he found it.

mercury.

tucked in an imported skin tonic’s recipe, a whisper of silver in the fine print. enough to shed hair, to bleach skin, to kill in time. he held the vial to the candlelight, its liquid shifting like molten guilt, thick and treacherous. his reflection twisted in the glass—pale, wild-eyed, lips a grim slash, the boy who’d kissed you burned away by rage.

the fury in him cooled, hardened, became something sharper—certainty, cold and unyielding.

he didn’t smile at first.

then he did. not the charming mask, not the courtier’s grin. this was jagged, raw, all teeth and shadow, a predator’s bared edge.

because he had it—the proof, the truth, the blade to cut you free. because no one—not a spoiled heiress, not a scheming courtier, not a whisper cloaked in silk—would touch you.

not while he still drew breath.

his rage didn’t falter, didn’t soften. it fueled him, a fire in his veins as he prepared to storm the tribunal with evidence in hand, the irony of his eunuch disguise a bitter sting. he’d hidden to save his life, only to find his life now hinged on saving yours.

the vial still sat in his palm when the sun began to rise.

dawn crept in, golden and soft, a cruel jest against the storm in his chest—tight, raw, ready to split at the seams. light spilled like syrup across the chaos of scrolls and vials strewn around him, glinting off ink-stained bamboo and glass, but nothing could dull the acid churning in his gut. he hadn’t slept, hadn’t sat, the night consumed by evidence and fury, leaving only the mercury’s cold gleam and the certainty that if he didn’t act, they’d rip you from him.

he didn’t change, just yanked his robe tighter, the pale silk creased from hours of pacing. his hair, tugged back with a frayed black ribbon, was crooked, strands escaping to cling to his sweat-damp neck. his movements were sharp, stripped of flourish, the mask of poise shattered by sleepless resolve.

he strode through the palace corridors with lethal purpose—not the slouch of a court eunuch, not the drawl of the royal fool they took him for. he moved as who he was: crown prince, predator, a blade honed and aimed. his steps struck the tiled floor like war drums, each echo a challenge.

no bowed head, no softened gaze—his outer robe flared with every stride, stark against the morning’s glow seeping through latticed windows. officials turned, startled, as he stormed into the tribunal, a figure cloaked in silk and wrath, moonlit hair twisted high, eyes like shattered ice.

suguru trailed three paces behind, silent, jaw clenched tight enough to crack stone. he moved like a shadow, hand resting on his sword’s hilt—not for defense, but as if ready to drag satoru out if this went too far. his disapproval burned like a brand between them, unspoken but searing.

you were there.

kneeling, silent, spine rigid as jade. your robes were plain, hair hastily knotted, strands fraying against your neck. your wrists, unbound now, rested stiffly in your lap, fingers knotted white. your lips were a taut line, jaw locked, and your eyes—gods, your eyes—had shifted. still clear, still fierce, but now laced with something new: calculation, suspicion, a blade-sharp wariness that hadn’t been there before.

because you’d seen him enter—not as a servant, not as the eunuch you’d assumed, but as a man with too much power in his stride, too much steel in his voice, too much weight in how the court stilled. something didn’t add up, and your gaze cut through him like a scalpel.

satoru’s eyes locked on yours. unwavering, unyielding.

for the first time, in all your barbed exchanges, he couldn’t read you.

“lord satoru,” the minister of justice intoned, voice brittle as dried reeds, “you were not summoned.”

“i rarely am,” satoru replied, smooth but icy, his smile a blade that didn’t reach his eyes. “yet i arrive when it matters.”

he stepped forward, robes hissing across the floor like a drawn sword, and drew a lacquer box—black, polished, lethal—from his sleeve. “i trust the tribunal still cares for truth?”

he didn’t wait for permission, didn’t bow, didn’t blink. his fingers, steady as stone, snapped the lid open.

inside: the vial, sealed, labeled, venomous.

“lady mei has been slathering mercury on her skin,” he said, voice clipped, cold as a winter’s edge. “an imported cream to bleach her complexion. overuse brings tremors, fatigue, hair loss.” he let the last word hang, sharp as a guillotine. “symptoms unrelated to the apothecary’s work.”

he turned to the panel, gaze unblinking, deliberate. “it wasn’t her tincture that poisoned mei. it was mei’s own vanity.”

whispers erupted, spreading like mold. fans snapped shut, silk rustled, discomfort coiling through the court. ministers exchanged glances, some avoiding your eyes, others squirming under satoru’s stare.

“your source?” the minister of justice asked, voice thinner now, authority fraying.

“her handmaidens. her perfumer. her personal effects.” satoru tilted his head, expression a mask of frost. “shall i list the ingredients by name or rank them by toxicity?”

suguru’s glare bored into his back, a silent warning, his tension a pulse in the air. satoru felt it, ignored it.

because the room shifted. your name slid off the pyre.

“the tribunal finds no fault in the apothecary’s conduct,” the minister of justice said, voice tight, reluctant. “charges dismissed.”

you exhaled, a soft release, like you’d held your breath since the scream. your fingers flexed, chin lifted, but your gaze didn’t soften—not for him.

satoru’s shoulders eased, just a fraction, the knot in his chest loosening. but relief was fleeting.

“how convenient,” the minister of justice said, eyes narrowing, voice dripping with suspicion, “that you know so much about a servant’s case. one might think you have a personal stake in this apothecary.”

satoru smiled, slow, calculated, a jagged edge of teeth. “knowledge is my trade.”

“very well, your hi—”

the slip was a whisper, barely there. the silence that followed was a chasm. satoru’s gaze didn’t flinch. suguru’s jaw ticked, a muscle jumping under his skin.

—“master satoru.”

and that was that.

the matter closed.

satoru turned, robes flaring like a storm’s wake, the lacquer box gripped tight, its edges biting his palm. no triumph warmed his chest—only dread, heavy as iron, settling in his bones because he’d stormed in with fire in his veins and too much truth on his tongue.

suguru followed, wordless, his silence blistering, storm-browed and heavy. they didn’t speak as they left the hall, didn’t need to—suguru’s disapproval was a blade at satoru’s back.

but just before satoru crossed the threshold, he turned.

just once.

just long enough to see you, still kneeling, still watching. your eyes weren’t grateful. they were narrow, probing, a scalpel slicing through his facade.

and in that fleeting second, he breathed—not relief, not victory, but the hollow ache of knowing he’d saved you and damned himself.

you wouldn’t thank him. you’d ask questions—the kind that could unravel his lie, his title, his heart.

and gods help him, he’d still do it again.

contrary to what he was expecting, you gave him nothing—that’s the thing about silence—satoru feels it like a blade to the throat.

especially when it’s yours.

it hits him hard—not metaphorical, but literal, a sharp slap to the back of his head from his father the morning after the tribunal, in the locked imperial study where guards stood sentinel and the air reeked of bitter incense and sharper disappointment.

“have you lost your senses?” the emperor snapped, voice a low rumble, the kind that precedes a storm’s break. “you kindized your cover for the court apothecary. do you grasp the risk to everything we’ve built? your coronation looms, and one slip could have the court tearing itself apart with questions.”

satoru stared at the floor, fists clenched, knuckles bone-white, jaw locked until his teeth ached. his ceremonial robe sagged, sash skewed, hair knotted with an ink-stained ribbon, the black fraying at the edges. “i did what was right,” he said, voice steady but tight, each word a stone dropped in defiance.

“you did what was emotional,” his father countered, eyes piercing, seeing too much.

the worst part? he was right. no defense would sound like anything but a confession, so satoru swallowed it, the truth burning like bile.

now, days later, he’s chasing the one he risked it all for, and you won’t even look at him.

your silence is a weapon, surgical, precise. he feels it instantly—the way your shoulders tense when his voice spills into a room, a subtle flinch like you’re bracing for impact. your spine stiffens when he steps too close, a wall rising without a word. your gaze skims over him, light as a stone skipping water, never settling, never sinking. your hands freeze, as if expecting an unwanted touch, your face a perfect mask, blank and unyielding.

it’s not avoidance. it’s retreat—calculated, deliberate, leaving nothing for him to grasp, not even your sharp-tongued barbs.

he first catches it in the herb garden, where you’re crouched among flowering angelica, sleeves rolled, fingers stained green, a smudge of pollen dusting your cheek like gold in the sunlight.

you glance up, startled, then pivot smoothly to the court physician beside you, words clipped, professional, before excusing yourself. you brush dirt from your hands, braid swinging like a snapped cord as you vanish around the corner, leaving the air colder, heavier.

satoru stands frozen, clutching a jar of honeyed lotus he’d meant to give you, its petals already curling, drooping like his hope. he follows—of course he does.

the next day, and the next, he trails you through corridors, across courtyards, into the inner palace’s echoing hush. he memorizes the whisper of your sandals, the way your lips thin when he enters, how you wrap your arms tighter around yourself, even in the summer’s heat, as if shielding something fragile.

you don’t insult him. don’t banter. don’t anything.

your greetings, when they come, are cold, formal, a blade pressed lightly to his throat—polite, practiced, punishing. each one carves deeper than your sharpest quip ever could.

he corners you by the water jars one morning, after mapping your routes like a hunter. his robe is creased from rushing, a loose thread dangling from the sleeve, his hair half-falling from its tie, white tufts framing his temples. he clutches a sprig of purple gentian—regret, he’d learned, hoping you’d read it too.

“hey—” he starts, voice softer than he means.

you look through him, eyes empty, like he’s vapor, insignificant. then you step around, sandals hissing on stone, not rushing, not flinching, gaze fixed ahead, unreadable, distant. you leave him clutching a flower that feels heavier than it should, its petals bruising in his grip.

he staggers, heart lurching, chest hollow with disbelief. not because you’re cold—he’s endured worse. not because you’re sharp—he’s always craved that. but because you’ve erased yourself from the game he loved losing. you’ve left him swinging at shadows, and the absence of your fight is a wound he can’t staunch.

by midday, he slinks into suguru’s quarters, dragging his feet like a scolded child, arms crossed tight as if they could hold his unraveling together. his sash is half-untied, a dark smudge on his collar from spilled ink he didn’t bother to clean. he collapses onto a cushion, graceless as a felled tree, robe tangling at his ankles, a gentian petal stuck to his shoulder, wilted and sad.

“she’s avoiding me,” he declares, voice heavy with the weight of a man mourning a war lost. his hair is a wreck, strands clinging to his neck, the petal fluttering to the floor like a final surrender.

suguru, buried in scrolls, raises a brow, unimpressed. “yes. i noticed.”

satoru flops back, one arm flung across his eyes like a tragic poet. “i’ve been to the medicine hall four times today.”

“i’m sure they loved the interruption.”

“they offered me a foot bath and begged me to leave.”

suguru hums, dry as dust. “reasonable.”

satoru peeks from under his sleeve, the gentian now a crumpled heap beside him. “why?”

suguru sets his brush down, pinching his nose like he’s bracing for a saga. “maybe she’s unnerved by how you stormed the tribunal to save her.”

satoru sits up, indignation flaring. “i couldn’t let them execute her.”

“and that,” suguru says, voice flat, “is why she’s dodging you.”

satoru scowls, raking both hands through his hair, worsening the chaos. “that’s absurd. i saved her. she should be calling me brilliant, handsome, terrifyingly heroic.”

“she should,” suguru says, bland, “but instead, she sees you as a threat.”

“i’m not a threat,” satoru pouts—yes, pouts, lips jutting like a child denied sweets. “i’m charming.”

“you kissed her,” suguru says, blunt as a hammer, “then risked your identity to clear her name. you nearly exposed yourself in the tribunal. if that’s charming, we’re reading different scrolls.”

satoru opens his mouth, then shuts it, the truth landing like a stone. he is dangerous—not to you, never to you, but in the way men are when they want too much, feel too much, when your name in your sharp-tongued cadence has become a rhythm he can’t unhear.

maybe you saw it—the depth of his care, the reckless edge of it. maybe you knew what it could cost in a palace where love is a weakness, where weakness is a death sentence. maybe that’s why you’ve gone silent, because you’ve lived here long enough to know how quickly devotion becomes a noose.

and gods, it hurts.

no one’s ever run from him like this, not with this quiet, cutting precision. he’d rather you scream, call him a peacock, mock his silk robes—anything but this silence, this absence that feels like farewell.

because he’s not ready to let you go—not when your kiss still burns his lips, not when he’d burn the palace down to keep you safe again.

the thing about denial is satoru is incredibly good at it.

he’s practically a master of delusion—an expert in selective optimism, an artisan in pretending everything is fine, especially when it very much isn’t. it’s the first week of your silence, and he’s convinced this is a temporary misstep. a phase. a momentary lapse in your usually impeccable judgment that will surely pass.

surely.

he starts showing up in places he has no business being.

“oh! what a coincidence finding you here… in the herb garden… at dawn… when you always collect morning dew,” he says brightly one morning, attempting nonchalance. he leans far too casually against the wooden trellis, his outer robe slightly askew, strands of silver-white hair glinting with condensation from the early mist.

he even has the audacity to smile like he hasn’t been pacing that path for the last half hour, waiting for you to arrive.

your back is to him. you don’t flinch, but your hand pauses over the mint leaves for a beat too long before moving again. your fingers move with mechanical precision as you snip the stems, pile them into your basket, and keep your gaze locked firmly on the greenery in front of you.

you don’t answer.

he stands awkwardly for another breath, then another, shifting from foot to foot, clearing his throat once—twice—until you finally rise with your basket and brush past him with all the grace of a falling leaf that still manages to cut like a knife. your sleeve doesn’t even brush his. your hair smells faintly of crushed basil and dried chrysanthemum, and the scent follows you as you walk away.

undeterred, satoru escalates.

he appears in the medicinal stores that afternoon, arms folded behind his back like he owns the place. which, in a roundabout way, he technically does. his hair is freshly tied back, his sleeves rolled precisely to the elbow like he might do something useful. he’s even wearing his softer silk robes, the ones he knows don’t intimidate patients.

he produces a small pot from within his robe with the dramatic flourish of a magician mid-performance.

“a rare specimen from the southern provinces,” he announces, eyes sparkling. “white-tipped chrysanthemum. useful for calming fevers, clearing toxins, and healing broken hearts.”

he adds the last bit with a grin that slides a little crooked at the corners. lopsided. hopeful. a little pathetic.

you don’t even look up at first. your hands continue grinding dried rhubarb root into powder, movements efficient, clinical. your brow is furrowed. there’s a streak of ash under your eye from hours near the incense brazier, and your sleeves are dusted with crushed herbs. when you finally glance his way, it’s brief. dispassionate. two seconds of eye contact that make him feel like he’s been dissected and found wanting.

“i have twenty-two of these in the western cabinet,” you say, voice devoid of venom or warmth. “but thank you for the… professional courtesy.”

your bow is precise. and then you’re gone. the hem of your robe whispers against the stone as you turn the corner without a single backward glance.

he stands there in the cool quiet, alone but for the chrysanthemum pot in his hands, which suddenly feels heavier than it should. the silence in the room hums louder now. it presses at the back of his skull. he sets the pot down on the nearest shelf and doesn’t look at it again.

later, he finds himself slouched sideways across suguru’s low table, picking at the edge of a rice cracker he has no intention of eating. his forehead is pressed to the polished wood, arms sprawled out like he’s melting.

“she’s just busy. it’s nothing personal,” he mumbles into the grain of the table.

suguru, who has been dealing with palace politics since before satoru could tie his sash properly, looks at him like he’s watching a fire burn too close to the curtains.

“busy?” suguru echoes, his tone so dry it might as well be powdered bone.

satoru lifts his head a fraction, eyes shadowed under his bangs. “overwhelmed,” he insists, sitting up and tossing the uneaten cracker onto the tray. “the tribunal aftermath, new responsibilities, increased patient load—she’s under a lot of pressure.”

“you stormed a tribunal to save her,” suguru interrupts, setting down his brush with pointed slowness.

“yes, but heroically,” satoru says, arms folding tighter around himself, like he can physically ward off the doubt creeping in. “nobly.”

suguru’s eyebrow rises. high. impossibly high. it might detach from his face and float away like a skeptical spirit.

“look,” satoru mutters, shifting to lie on his back and drape an arm over his eyes like the protagonist of a particularly tragic play, “this is just a bump. a weird, quiet, icy bump. i’ve weathered worse. she’ll come around. she always does. she—she has to.”

he pauses.

“right?”

suguru doesn’t answer. just watches him in silence, eyes narrowing with the kind of older-brother pity that makes satoru want to melt through the floor.

and then he sighs. a long, theatrical sigh that fails to lighten the weight in his chest. because he’s starting to realize this isn’t just a bump.

this is a slow, cold freeze.

and you’re the one pulling the frost line farther back every time he gets close. the air between you grows thinner, colder, until every word he wants to say dies frozen on his tongue before it ever reaches you. and for the first time, he’s afraid that all the warmth in the world might not be enough to melt it.

the thing about desperation is it turns satoru into a mastermind of madness.

week two dawns, and your icy silence is a fortress his charm can’t breach, so he pivots. he schemes. he crafts plans so absurd they’d make court poets weep for their lost dignity. you can’t be mad he saved you—impossible—so this is just a phase, a fleeting misstep he’ll charm into oblivion.

his opening gambit? a theatrical ailment, served with flair.

“my pulse races, i can’t eat, and sleep’s a stranger,” he proclaims one morning, materializing at your workstation like a ghost draped in pale silk, robes pristine but hair gleaming as if he spent an hour brushing it to catch the dawn’s glow. he leans over your table, just close enough for his sleeve to graze a vial, voice dripping with mock woe. “also, my palms sweat when i see… certain people—which is definitely not you!”

the apothecary hall hums with early light, golden rays slicing through lattice windows, casting woven shadows across stone. camphor and dried licorice root scent the air, sharp and heavy. junior assistants shuffle behind, sorting valerian and lotus pods, their murmurs a soft drone.

you’re a statue, unmoved, flipping a ledger page, ink brush scratching measurements with ruthless calm. “sounds like a minor imbalance,” you say, voice a blade, clean and cold. “chrysanthemum tea and more sleep.”

satoru gasps—gasps, hand to chest, staggering back like your words are divine judgment. a pestle clatters from an assistant’s grip, a tea bowl teeters on a shelf, wobbling like his pride. “none of that worked,” he insists, eyes wide, tragic. “it’s chronic. possibly terminal. i need daily checkups. twice daily, for… observation.”

you don’t reply, just pluck a jar of calming ointment from a cabinet and set it on the table’s edge with a thud, not sparing him a glance. he snatches it, clutching it like a sacred talisman, bowing with such reverence his hair spills forward, a silver curtain brushing the floor.

that’s the spark.

what follows is a campaign satoru deems elegant, a symphony of strategy. in truth, it’s a farce teetering on lunacy.

he turns sleuth, all subtle inquiries and innocent smiles. he grills kitchen staff on your lunch habits—bitter plum candies, you love them. he corners a laundry maid about your robes—same deep indigo, always pressed. he charms couriers for your midday haunts—west pavilion, near the koi pond. harmless, he swears, just… research. he scribbles notes, tucked in his sleeve, scrawled between council dronings: tools right to left, hums odd rhythms, hates wasted ink.

he’s not stalking. he’s conducting a study, a meticulous survey of your existence.

“reconnaissance,” he mutters one afternoon, crouched behind a decorative screen in the infirmary’s rear hall, wedged between a linen cart and a scroll of spleen meridians, half-unrolled like his dignity.

it’s a ritual now. daily excuses, each more brazen. a fan “dropped” near your herbs, its silk tassel suspiciously pristine. a scroll “forgotten” on your desk, its contents a poem he swears isn’t his. a comb—his personal seal carved deep, definitely not his—left by your inkstone. a pouch of dried dates, “slipped” from his sleeve, suspiciously your favorite.

he times his returns perfectly, catching the flicker of annoyance in your eyes, the slow sigh as you spot his silhouette. your jaw tightens, lips purse, gaze narrows like you’re diagnosing a plague.

“oh, thank the heavens,” he says one afternoon, kneeling by your table, robes pooling like spilled moonlight, embroidery glinting in the sun. “i feared this comb lost forever.”

“that comb is carved with your seal,” you deadpan, stirring crushed kudzu, steam curling around your face. “you’re the only one here who uses that seal as inner palace manager.”

he gasps, hand to heart. “so it is mine. a miracle.”

assistants exchange glances. one chokes back a laugh, sleeve muffling the sound. another’s eyes roll so far they might never return. you just stir, unamused, the bowl’s steam hiding the twitch of your mouth.

suguru finds him later, crouched behind a silk screen in the medicine hall’s corner, half-veiled by pressure-point charts and an abandoned anatomy scroll.

satoru’s staring at you mixing tinctures, gaze soft as if you’re a rare painting or a storm breaking over mountains. your sleeves are rolled, ginger staining your fingers, brow furrowed as you test the liquid’s thickness. a stray hair slips free, brushing your cheek each time you lean, and he tracks it like a comet.

“are you… spying?” suguru asks, voice teetering between worry and exhaustion.

“reconnaissance,” satoru says, eyes never leaving you. “completely different.”

“how?”

“it’s dignified.”

suguru’s sigh could topple empires. he walks away, leaving satoru to his vigil.

he stays, knees aching, drafts chilling his ankles, even as shift bells chime and servants pass with raised brows and whispered gossip. he can’t stop. watching you work—your precise hands, your quiet focus—is the only time the world feels right, the only time you’re close, even if you won’t see him.

your silence can’t be anger, not when he saved you, not when he was your shield. it’s just… a phase. you’ll crack, throw a barb, maybe hurl a vial at his head. he’d take it gladly.

he’ll keep showing up, unavoidable, until your frost thaws or you snap.

because if he’s in your orbit, you’ll have to see him eventually—right? right?

the thing about humiliation is satoru has no sense of it.

or maybe he feels it but buries it beneath stubborn vanity and desperate theatrics, draping it in silks and timed flourishes like a tragedian clutching a tattered script. he’s not wrong—you can’t be mad he saved you—so he barrels forward, undaunted, a peacock in a storm.

week three crashes in like summer monsoons—heavy, unyielding, impossible to ignore. satoru’s antics scale to operatic madness, each act more brazen than the last.

it begins at a court ceremony, the air thick with incense curling like specters around bored officials’ heads. sunlight seeps through high lattice windows, spilling gold across tiled floors, glinting off jade pins and silk fans fluttering like moth wings. courtiers murmur, voices low, while a servant’s dropped tray earns a hissed rebuke that echoes faintly.

you stand beside the inner palace physician, posture rigid, face a mask, eyes fixed forward, your refusal to see him sharper than any blade.

he notices. gods, he notices.

so he “collapses”—clutching his chest, dropping to his knees with a choked gasp mid-chant, silk robes pooling like melted snow. the sacred hymn stumbles, a musician’s brow arches, but the koto strings hum on. “weakness,” he rasps, voice cracking just enough to sell it, hand trembling as he sways. “sudden… overwhelming…”

you glide to him, linen rustling, herbal scent trailing like a faint curse. kneeling, you press two fingers to his wrist, jaw tight as iron. his pulse? steady as a war drum.

“your hands are so healing,” he murmurs, lips parted, lashes low, a saintly look ruined by the smirk tugging his mouth.

you drop his wrist like it’s plague-ridden.

“get up,” you say, voice flat as slate.

he pouts. “but—”

“up.”

he rises, brushing nonexistent dust from his robes, their shimmer catching the light like a winter lake, regal and utterly shameless.

it spirals from there.

next, the rash. “a mysterious affliction,” he whispers one afternoon, leaning in the apothecary doorway like he’s spilling state secrets. his robes are artfully mussed, a few silver hairs astray for effect, his seal as inner palace manager glinting on his belt. “in places too improper to show anyone else.”

you don’t look up from your mortar, grinding ginseng with mechanical precision. “i trust your medical discretion,” he sighs, hand over heart, theatrical as a funeral ode.

you gesture for a eunuch assistant without a blink. satoru dismisses him in five minutes, claiming a “miraculous recovery,” his grin brighter than the noon sun.

then, the hiccups. “three days,” he tells a dubious herbalist, face grave between hiccups so staged they could headline a festival. “unprovoked. incurable.” they flare only when you’re near, vanishing the instant you leave. “hic—lady rin fainted in the greenhouse—hic—scandalous—hic—heat or a lover?—hic—”

you shove a pressure point chart his way and keep walking. he trails you, hiccuping like a deranged waterfowl, robes swishing in your wake.

he takes to hiding behind potted plants—literal, not figurative. you catch the glint of embroidered silk behind a jasmine bush near the treatment wing. it rustles. he sneezes. you don’t pause. the gardeners are less forgiving; one finds a scarf snagged in a fig tree and mutters about cursed spirits with tacky taste.

a palace maid starts a betting pool on a parchment scrap behind the tea station. by midweek, court ladies wager on his next ailment: lunar migraines, aphrodisiac allergies, silence sensitivity. the tally’s pinned to a beam, fluttering like a rebel flag.

suguru finds him one evening, propped against a doorframe outside the record room, squinting at his reflection in a polished bronze tea tray. “what are you doing?” suguru asks, voice flat as a stepped-on reed.

“finding my best angle,” satoru says, tilting his chin, robes catching the lamplight like liquid frost. “this side’s devastating.”

“why?”

“some of us care about aesthetics, suguru.”

suguru stares three heartbeats, then leaves without a word, sandals slapping stone. satoru sighs, adjusts his sleeve, rechecks the tray. the problem isn’t his tactics—clearly, it’s the lighting.

because you can’t be furious. this is just a phase, a fleeting frost he’ll melt with enough flair. he’ll keep performing, unavoidable, until you laugh or snap—either’s a win.

the thing about pretending is the mask eventually cracks.

week four creeps in like a slow fog—dense, suffocating, clinging to satoru’s bones. his schemes, once fueled by giddy denial, turn brittle, their spark snuffed out. you’re not mad he saved you—surely not—but your silence is a void, and his antics no longer draw your gaze. still, he can’t stop, even as the performance bleeds into something raw, something real.

he spends an afternoon perched in a tree outside your window, teetering on a gnarled branch not meant for a man in layered silk. robes bunch under his knees, snagging on rough bark, his personal seal as inner palace manager glinting at his waist. ceremonial hairpins clink with each shift, the branch groaning under his weight.

petals drift into his lap, mingling with dust and a bold beetle that crawls up his sleeve. he swats it, muttering, as sap drips onto his shoulder, staining the silk. birds mock him from above; a maid below stifles a giggle, scurrying off.

he stays for hours, legs numb, arms clutching the trunk, eyes fixed on the lantern’s warm flicker behind your rice paper screen. a breeze carries distant gossip, the clack of slippers, the faint crash of a dropped mortar from the apothecary wing. he dozes off—chin to chest, cheek mashed against bark, mouth slack, snoring softly, undignified. a sparrow shits on his sleeve and flees.

your window slides open, airing out the stale warmth. he jolts awake, flailing, a squawk escaping as he tumbles—a sprawl of silk and limbs hitting dew-soaked grass with a grunt that echoes through the courtyard. leaves tangle in his hair, a grass stain blooms on his shoulder, a twig juts from his sash. one robe sleeve hangs off, his hairpin crooked.

you stare down.

“i was inspecting landscaping,” he croaks, blinking up, voice raw, throat scraped from days of shouting your name. “root systems. erosion. vital work.”

your eyes narrow. you slide the window shut, the wood’s soft thud louder than any rebuke.

his voice starts failing after that. he calls after you—across training fields, past koi ponds, through garden paths—first hopeful, then frantic, then ragged with need. his throat burns, words slurring, a dry cough haunting quiet moments, like his own body rebels. you never turn, not even when he trips over his sandals, voice cracking on your name.

“you’re overworking yourself,” suguru says one morning, watching satoru prod a congealed pile of rice. the breakfast hall buzzes—teacups clink, servants weave with platters of dumplings and lotus root—but satoru sits still, a ghost in the chaos where he once shone. his robes sag, collar limp, sash half-tied, dark crescents bruising under his eyes. he hasn’t slept, not truly, not in a way that heals.

“i’m fine,” he rasps, voice a brittle whisper, throat raw.

a thread frays from his sleeve, tugged absently for half an hour. a maid swaps his tea for honey water; it sits untouched, steam curling into nothing.

he stops performing—not by choice, but because his body betrays him. the court notices, their amused whispers turning wary. “cursed?” one mutters under the moon-viewing pavilion’s arch. “heartbreak,” an older consort replies, fan slow, knowing, “untreatable by herbs.”

the betting pool withers; no one bets on a man breaking in plain sight.

a young court lady tries teasing him during a scroll signing, giggling about his missing sash. he looks through her, face blank—not cold, just gone. her smile fades, and she retreats, fan drooping.

the emperor summons him. the chamber reeks of aged wood and sandalwood, cicadas shrieking outside, a moth dancing near the lantern.

“your distractions are… obvious,” the emperor says, voice mild over a porcelain cup of spiced tea. “have you sworn to starve?”

satoru blinks slowly, words sinking in late. “i’m capable,” he says, voice fragile, unconvinced.

the emperor sighs, cup clinking softly. “suguru, pinch him when he sighs.”

“gladly,” suguru mutters, already poised by the window.

he pinches satoru at the next council briefing. satoru yelps, startling a western envoy who drops his brush. “sorry,” satoru says, straightening, blinking fast, “muscle spasm. stress. common.”

no one buys it, least of all him.

you pass him in the apothecary hall later, face blank, pace even, tray of powdered herbs in hand, fingers stained with crushed petals. your sleeve brushes his, a fleeting touch that stops his breath, his hand twitching, hoping for your gaze.

you don’t look. not a flicker.

he wonders if he’s fading, if he’s a ghost you never truly saw.

the thing about hitting rock bottom is satoru drags props and a crowd with him.

by week five, even the imperial koi dodge him, one darting away when he slumps over the pond, sighing into its depths like a poet scorned. a servant mutters, “talking to fish again?”

another hisses, “no, monologuing. there’s a difference.” his antics swing from pitiful to deranged, depending on the hour and how close you are before he sneezes. palace staff whisper behind sleeves, watching a tragedy laced with farce unfold in real time.

it starts with rain—a relentless downpour soaking roof tiles, seeping into scroll rooms, turning courtyard stones slick as eel skin. it clings to bones, weighs hair, chills marrow. attendants scurry with parasols, eunuchs huddle under eaves, guards eye the sky, dreaming of indoor shifts. the head gardener slips twice, cursing weather gods with a rake in hand.

satoru lingers outside your quarters.

four hours.

he leans against a wooden post, a drenched statue of damp nobility and sniffles. rain beads on his jaw, dripping onto his robe’s collar, silver hair plastered to his cheekbones like wet silk threads. his soaked outer robe clings, transparent, revealing embroidered underlayers meant for court, not courtyards. his slippers squelch, squishing with each shift. he sneezes every five minutes, loud, pathetic, drawing glances from servants who now reroute entirely.

you open the door—not from pity, but because maids are betting in the side hall, giggling: five minutes more? ten? the cook wagers candied ginger he’ll faint; a laundress bets on a song; the steward swears he saw satoru’s eyelashes blink code.

you sigh, step inside, return with gloves and a cloth mask. your hair’s knotted tight, sleeves pinned, expression sharp enough to carve jade. he coughs, theatrical anguish. “you’re treating me like i’m plague-ridden.”

“you are plague-ridden,” you snap, gloves crackling as you seize his wrist, touch clinical, cold. his skin’s chilled, pulse steady despite his act.

he leans into your grip. you flick his forehead, precise as a dart.

he whines all day, mostly to suguru, who slumps in the physician’s lounge, regretting every choice leading here. an unread scroll lies in his lap, herbal poultice stench thick in the air. outside, birds chirp, mocking the farce within.

“she wore gloves, suguru,” satoru moans, swaddled in three blankets, sipping a garlic-laced brew that reeks of despair. his personal seal as inner palace manager dangles from his sash, glinting dully. “gloves. like i’m a festering toadstool.”

“you’re feverish,” suguru says, eyes on his scroll. “you are a toadstool.”

satoru gasps, rattling a tea set. an attendant flinches, a teacup teeters, caught by a mortified apprentice.

then, self-diagnoses. “nocturnal hemogoblins,” he declares one evening, bursting into your workroom, clutching his side, face pale from sleeplessness and a dusting of tragic powder. “it’s dire.”

you don’t look up from your parchment. “you mean hemoglobinemia.”

he beams. “you spoke to me.”

you freeze, brush hovering, face souring like you bit a rotten plum. you resume writing, silent. he tallies seven words in his head, a victory he celebrates like a war won.

his ploys escalate. rare herbs appear—ones you haven’t seen since southern training, wrapped in silk not from palace stores, their earthy scent lingering in halls. he trails sandalwood one day, golden pollen the next, a perfumed cloud like incense smoke.

“found this lying around,” he says, setting a saffron root sprig on your table, its crimson threads vibrant against wood.

you raise a brow. “saffron root from the western isles… lying around?”

he shrugs, smile strained.

then, disaster. he brings a volatile herb you’ve warned against, cradled in a velvet box like a jewel. within an hour, his face swells—left eye shut, lip ballooned, nose a vivid plum. “i feel… handsome,” he slurs, voice muffled.

you administer antidote with the weary air of someone resigned to fate, humming faintly, maybe to cope. your fingers are deft, grip firm, expression a blank wall. “where’d you get this?” you ask, spreading minty salve with a spatula reeking of despair.

“sources,” he wheezes.

that night, suguru catches him before a mirror tray, rehearsing lines like a doomed actor. a breeze lifts the corridor’s sheer curtain, a moth fluttering past.

“oh! fancy meeting you here, exactly where i knew you’d be!” satoru chirps, smoothing his robe, chin tilted for sincerity—looking haggard instead. “new hairpin? it suits you perfectly!” “your humor theory’s brilliant. also your face. mostly your face.”

suguru sighs, shoulders sagging under satoru’s folly. “gods save us,” he mutters. “he’s full peacock.”

satoru twirls a mugwort sprig, eyes glassy, grinning at his warped reflection. “she’ll talk tomorrow. i feel it.”

suguru doesn’t argue—not when satoru looks like he’s praying to a deaf god.

because rock bottom isn’t the end, not when you haven’t looked at him. he’ll keep performing, props and all, until you see him again.

the thing about spectacle is it spills beyond the stage, especially when you’re satoru—inner palace manager, supposedly useless eunuch, suspiciously well-connected, and now openly consulting marble lions for romance tips.

by week six, palace gossip sheds its humor. giggles behind perfumed fans turn to pity, whispers hushing as he enters, soft glances heavy with concern and secondhand shame. attendants quiet, kitchen staff wince at his approach. he’s no longer the flamboyant eccentric juggling concubine schedules, overseeing embroidery, delivering orchids with a bow. he’s a wilted ribbon snagged on your heel, trailing the apothecary who won’t spare him a glance.

the man who once danced through courtyards now stumbles into furniture, walks into half-shut doors, topples garden lanterns, eyes locked on you. you’re not mad he saved you—impossible—so this is just a phase, he tells himself, even as denial frays.

“i think i’ve forgotten how to swallow,” he declares post-midday meal, voice grave, like he’s diagnosing his own doom. honeyed yam lingers in the air, courtiers’ fans rustling faintly outside in the spring heat.

you don’t look up from your scroll, brush scratching ink. “that’s a tragedy,” you say, dry as dust.

“what if it’s muscular or psychological? some stress-induced esophageal issue?”

“chew slowly. drink water.”

“but what if i choke?”

“then i’ll have peace at last.”

he haunts formal events, a mournful specter five steps behind you—always five, counted under his breath like a lifeline. “one, two, three—damn it,” he mutters, crashing into a eunuch with a hairpin tray when you veer past the lotus fountain. the clatter echoes, pins scattering like stars. three attendants scramble to clean it.

you don’t pause.

his hair, once a silver crown, rebels, strands haloing unevenly, a jade pin perpetually crooked. his robes, once pristine, misbutton, sashes unraveling, trailing like a poet’s failed verse. he’s less courtier, more shipwreck, washed ashore after a botched love letter.

in the east garden, he slumps against a mossy lion statue, sighing so loud the gardener pauses, rake hovering, checking for wounds. “should i go for subtle longing or theatrical suffering?” satoru asks the lion, squinting at its weathered snout. “be honest.”

the lion’s silent. a maid stifles a snort, fleeing.

suguru finds him there—again. “are you talking to rocks now?” he asks, arms crossed.

“he listens without judging,” satoru says, solemn.

“he also doesn’t talk back.”

“that’s the appeal.”

satoru’s decline hits new lows. suguru catches him outside your quarters, face blank, as if willing himself into the stonework.

“you’re groveling for scraps of her attention like a starving dog,” suguru says, voice sharp but steady.

satoru’s head snaps up, eyes flashing, lips jutting in a pout that could shame a spoiled child. “groveling? me? the inner palace bends to my every whim! and soon the empire!” he huffs, crossing his arms, personal seal glinting at his waist. “i’m strategizing, suguru. strategizing! she’s just too stubborn to see my brilliance yet.”

he stomps a foot, robe swishing petulantly, then jabs a finger at suguru. “and don’t you dare call it groveling when i’m clearly executing a masterful campaign of devotion!”

suguru raises a brow, unmoved. “a campaign? you spent three hours yesterday faking heart palpitations just so she’d take your pulse. then you begged for a recheck because ‘it might be irregular.’”

“my heart does race when she’s near,” satoru says, chin high, though his voice wavers, petulance cracking. “that’s a medical fact!”

“it’s called infatuation, your highness, not an emergency.”

“and that swallowing thing could happen to anyone,” satoru adds, puffing his chest, but his shoulders slump, the fight leaking out.

suguru’s gaze softens, concern replacing jest. “this isn’t sustainable, satoru. you’re the crown prince. this behavior—it’s beneath you.”

satoru stiffens, petulance fading to a flicker of dread. “i know my place,” he says, but the lie tastes like ash, heavy on his tongue. his shoulders sag, bravado crumbling under the weight of his secret.

the emperor summons him that evening. the chamber glows dim, sandalwood incense crackling, its nostalgic scent thick in the stillness. tea steams untouched in a porcelain cup, its delicate aroma lost.

“you’re not sleeping,” the emperor says, eyeing him over his teacup, voice calm, not accusatory.

“i’m fine,” satoru lies, sitting rigid, eyes shadowed, nails carving crescents into his palms. his sleeve bears an ink blot, smudged from hours hunched over pointless scrolls.

he’s not fine.

“whoever she is,” the emperor says, pausing, gaze unreadable, “she’s left a mark.”

both of them know who is his father referring to.

the thing about spiraling is you run out of masks to hide behind.

week seven slips in like damp air—silent, heavy, inescapable. no corridor theatrics, no feverish wails, no ailments flung at your workspace. the palace corridors echo emptier, as if bracing for a storm. satoru stops performing, and the silence left screams louder than his boldest quip.

no giggling attendants trail him. no court ladies stage stumbles for his glance. he doesn’t lurk by the apothecary hall, conjuring maladies. he watches—from shadowed walkways, courtyards, corners where he can feign a passing errand. his eyes follow you, a silent question too raw to voice.

in court, his voice fades. once a spark in the dull churn of palace bureaucracy, now he speaks only when called, words brief, humor gone. no jabs at garish sashes, no quips to ease tense silences. he lets the quiet fester. when he skips sparring with the southern envoy—a woman who thrives on his banter—heads turn.

suguru notices, arms crossed in the council chamber, head tilted, eyes asking: what’s happening?

the truth lies at your door.

before dawn, satoru leaves heliotrope bouquets at your threshold—small purple blooms, fragile yet vivid, whispering devotion, unspoken love. not native, not in season, their existence defies reason.

he pulls strings—his authority as inner palace manager, his personal seal flashing in shadowed deals with garden masters and secret merchants. delivered under moonlight, wrapped in fine parchment, stems cut sharp, they’re offerings to a shrine only he tends.

he never signs them, never speaks of them. he waits—behind a painted screen, a corridor curtain, close enough to see your fingers brush the petals. his breath catches. your face stays stone, but he sees: the pause, your fingertips lingering, the faint crease in your brow, swallowing a sigh.

each day, the bouquets grow intricate—heliotrope laced with silk one dawn, wrapped in medical gauze the next, paired with a scrawled line from a physician’s text. the message roars, wordless.

palace staff whisper. some say a ghost leaves the flowers—who rises before the fifth bell? others bet on a noble’s secret suit. a concubine swears a fox spirit’s at work. guards step around the blooms, wary, reverent.

satoru says nothing, just watches, always watches.

at night, he haunts the moonlit garden—where you kissed, where he fractured. barefoot, steps silent on stone, pale hair loose, catching moonlight like spun silver. he murmurs to the koi pond, half-hoping for answers. “she doesn’t hate me, does she?” he asks, voice a breath, hoarse.

suguru finds him there, again. “does she hate me, suguru?” satoru asks, raw, fraying.

suguru pauses, arms folded, gazing at the pond’s still surface, a breeze barely stirring it. “it’s not that simple.”

satoru exhales, shaky, slumping, rubbing his palm against his eye, exhaustion carving every line. “what did i do wrong? besides everything.”

he replays your voice, your teasing eye-rolls, how you’d answer his nonsense yet see him, real. now your tone’s cold, courteous as a blade’s edge, eyes never landing. when he nears, your wall rises, unyielding.

in a corridor, maybe chance, maybe not, you nod politely. something breaks. “don’t worry,” he mutters, bitter, sharp, “i won’t keep you. i know you find me repulsive.”

you stop, head turning, confusion and guilt flickering, but he’s gone before you settle.

his mask flakes—slow, not sudden. he skips meals, nights blur sleepless, small slights spark fury. he snaps at a scribe for smudged ink, slams a door, cracking its frame, over a misfiled scroll. his hands shake reading reports you once marked with sharp notes.

“are you well, master satoru?” a junior physician asks, soft during rounds.

he smiles, too bright, too thin. “never better.”

the court whispers—behind screens, fans—about his silence, his temper, his drift. the inner palace manager, once a dazzling oddity, fades. none suspect his crown prince blood—only suguru, the emperor, the chancellor, and chosen ministers know, their secret guarded tight. but they question his focus, his steadiness.

suguru hears it—every murmur, every doubt—and watches his friend, the empire’s sharpest mind, the boy who made consorts laugh, unravel, thread by silver thread.

because spiraling starts quiet, until it’s a scream he can’t voice.

the thing about shame is that it never arrives alone. it drags longing behind it like a train of silk, heavy and unyielding, and satoru’s learning fast that longing is a damn tyrant, bowing to no one, least of all him.

week eight’s been a fever dream of jagged edges, but now, in a corridor outside the emperor’s chambers—vermilion walls lacquered to a bloody sheen, sandalwood choking the air like incense gone sour, scrolls rustling behind paper screens like whispers of the dead, morning light slicing through lattice to scatter dust motes like ash—satoru gojo is a wreck.

his robe’s crooked, one sleeve slipping, silver hair half-loose, sticking to his sweat-slick neck, dark crescents bruising under his eyes. his breath catches, raw, as regret gnaws his ribs, sharper since last week’s bitter words. your silence, your averted eyes, the way you glide past like he’s a plague-riddled corpse you won’t bother to name—it’s worse than your barbs, worse than fury. it’s absence, and it’s killing him.

you appear, a flicker of your silhouette against the screen, steps soft on the worn runner, scrolls clutched to your chest like a shield. your jaw’s clenched, lips a tight slash, gaze fixed above his shoulder like he’s nothing, air. his heart stumbles, forgets how to beat. he moves too fast, too desperate, a man drowning.

“fancy seeing you here,” he says, breathless, slouching to fake nonchalance. it’s a lie—his voice shakes, hands twisting in his sleeves, fingers knotting silk to hide the tremor. his eyes, bloodshot, cling to you, raw, pleading.

your face doesn’t shift, cold as stone. “i need to pass,” you say, voice clipped, sharp as a blade’s edge, stepping left.

“not until you tell me what i did wrong,” he says, sliding into your path, shoulders hunching, robe swishing like a broken fan. his tone’s too raw, too sharp, betraying the ache clawing his chest.

“i have patients waiting.” you pivot right, scrolls creaking in your grip, knuckles pale.

“they can wait longer.” the words cut, harder than he meant, and he sees it—a flicker in your eyes, anger or hurt, gone before he can name it. “why are you avoiding me?”

you move left. he mirrors. you shift right. he’s there. his robe flares in dramatic waves, a stage actor mid-meltdown, planting himself with the stubborn desperation of a man who’s got nothing left to lose.

your lips press thinner, a muscle twitching in your jaw. “move,” you say, low, a warning that could draw blood.

“not until you look me in the eyes and say you’re just busy.” he drops his voice, rough, tilting his head to catch your gaze, breath unsteady, carrying a tremor of need.

you scoff, eyes dropping to the runner’s frayed weave, and duck under his arm. “i’m not avoiding you,” you lie, voice snapping like brittle wood. “i’m simply—”

“look me in the eyes and say that again,” he demands, voice low, gravelly, arm bracing against the wall, caging you without touching. his sleeve hovers near you, trembling, silk brushing the air like a ghost’s touch.

you pivot. quick. a step to the side, a swerve meant to slide past him.

he steps with you.

you dart the other way—he’s there too, like a mirror with better posture. you try a feint, then a fake-out, then a spin worthy of palace dancers. every time, he matches you beat for beat, fan flicking, robe swishing, like this was all a pre-choreographed tragedy staged just to annoy you.

“are you—are you blocking me for sport?” you hiss, ducking and weaving like a cat trying to escape a curtain.

“i consider it cardio,” he replies, far too pleased.

“you are not—” you lunge left—blocked. “—a door.” you spin right—blocked. “you are—”

he shifts again, one arm rising to lean against the opposite panel, successfully completing his transformation into the world’s most aggravating, smugly-dressed wall.

“damned peacock,” you mutter under your breath, your patience unraveling like a poorly tied sash.

he grins, all teeth and challenge. “is that panic?”

then—fate, that cruel bastard, plays its hand. in his eagerness to perform one final smug pivot, satoru overcommits. his foot catches the embroidered hem of his robe—once regal, now a treacherous coil of silk. a curse, sharp and scandalized, escapes him as his balance betrays him.

his arms flail like a bird startled mid-preen. he reaches—grabs the only thing in reach—you.

the world lurches.

you’re yanked forward in a graceless blur. scrolls burst from your sleeves like startled pigeons. your sandal skids. silk snaps. the floor rises.

you crash atop him, your knees bracketing his hips, robes tangled, your weight knocking the wind from his lungs. one hand braces on his chest, the other—lands on his thigh, then slips higher, dragged by momentum and misfortune—and then time stops.

your hand rests where no eunuch’s should be, pressing against the hard, pulsing truth of his lie. satoru’s eyes snap open, wide as moons, heart slamming, drowning the corridor’s hum, his pulse a wild drum in his throat.

you freeze, breath hitching, eyes widening in slow horror, pupils dilating until they swallow the light. your lips part, a faint gasp, your gaze locked on his lap, then flicking to his face, shock warring with disbelief. your fingers flex, instinctive, the slight pressure a spark that sets him ablaze, raw, unbearable.

his face ignites, crimson flooding ears to throat, sweat slicking his brow, matting his hair. shame burns like a pyre, but longing—eight weeks of it, festering, unspent—flares hotter, primal, coiling tight in his gut. his cock twitches under your hand, a traitor, throbbing, straining against silk, a humiliating pulse he can’t stop, fed by your touch, your horrified stare.

he tries to speak, mouth opening, closing, a fish gasping on dry land. a sound escapes—half-whimper, half-choke, not human, raw with need and mortification, a plea he can’t shape.

“y-you’re—” you start, voice a trembling whisper, hand jerking back like it’s burned, fingers curling into your palm, scrolls forgotten, scattered across the runner.

“late for a meeting!” he yelps, pitch shattering, a glass-breaking wail. he scrambles up, nearly headbutting you, sleeves flailing in a whirlwind of panic. “as are you! very late! we should go! separately! you first! or me! both!”

he shoves himself upright, stumbles, one sandal half-off, toes catching the runner, and crashes into a lantern stand. it wobbles, brass clanging like a mocking gong; he mutters a frantic, “sorry, sorry,” to the metal, voice high, fraying.

he’s gone, fleeing down the corridor like death’s on his heels, robe flapping, silver hair streaming like a comet’s tail. his footsteps echo, uneven, desperate, fading into the palace’s hum, sandalwood trailing like a curse.

he doesn’t stop until he hits the eastern wing’s darkest storage room, a crypt behind a forgotten pantry. dusty scrolls pile like forgotten sins, edges curling in stale, mildewed air. a broom slumps against a wall, bristles choked with cobwebs, spiderwebs veiling the corners, shimmering faintly in the gray sliver of light from a cracked window. the floor’s cold, gritty, biting his knees as he collapses, back slamming the door shut, sealing himself in.

his breath heaves, lungs raw, face buried in his hands, fingers digging into his scalp, tugging silver strands until his scalp stings, sweat dripping down his neck, pooling at his collarbone. shame scalds, a molten wave, but longing—weeks of your silence, your cold eyes, your absence carving him hollow—chokes him worse.

your touch, accidental, sears like a brand, your horrified gaze a knife twisting in his ribs. his cock’s still hard, painfully so, straining against his robe, a throbbing pulse that won’t relent, fed by every thought of you, every memory of your voice, your fire, your fleeting glance that once saw him whole.

he groans, low, broken, forehead pressed to his arm, cursing himself, you, the gods, the robe, the corridor, the whole damn world. his hand twitches, hovering over his lap, resisting, pleading, but the need’s a tyrant, born of eight weeks’ yearning, your sharp tongue, your gaze that cut him alive, your silence that breaks him now. he surrenders, fingers fumbling, shoving silk layers aside, fabric scraping his fevered skin, cool air hitting the heat of his flesh like a slap.

he frees himself, cock heavy, swollen, tip slick with precum that glistens in the dim light, dripping down his shaft, a shameful bead that pools on the gritty floor. he grips himself, a hiss escaping through clenched teeth, the contact a jolt that makes his hips jerk, his breath catching like a sob, raw and ragged. it’s not lust—it’s longing, raw, bleeding, for your eyes that once saw him, your barbs that cut him alive, your touch that burned through his lies.

he strokes, slow, punishing, hand tight, calluses from a hidden sword scraping sensitive skin, each slide dragging a moan, chest heaving, sweat matting his hair to his flushed cheeks, silver strands plastered across his brow, his throat bared as his head tips back, veins pulsing under sweat-slick skin.

he pictures you—your wide eyes, shocked, lips parting as you fell atop him, robe clinging to your frame, the faint herb scent on your skin, sharp and clean. he imagines your breath on his neck, your fingers deliberate, curling around him, guiding him, your voice whispering his name, not in horror but want, low and rough like it was in his dreams.

his strokes quicken, desperate, slick with precum, the wet sound obscene, echoing off dusty scrolls, bouncing in the stale air. his free hand claws the floor, nails scraping grit, fingers digging into cold stone, seeking an anchor as his body shakes, hips bucking into his fist, rhythm frantic, no control left, only need.

his moans spill, raw, unfiltered, bouncing off the walls, a litany of broken sounds. “fuck,” he gasps, voice shattering, “why you?” it’s your absence, your fire, the way you looked at him once, like he was real, now a ghost he chases.

his hand moves faster, rougher, slick and relentless, each stroke a plea for you to see him, to cut him again with your gaze. “please,” he whispers, to you, to nothing, “just look at me.” his vision blurs, tears or sweat, he can’t tell, heat coiling low, a knot tightening, pulling, until it snaps like a bowstring.

he comes hard, a shudder tearing through him, spine arching, hips jerking as he spills over his hand, thick, hot, splattering the gritty floor, staining his robe’s hem, a shameful mark that burns his eyes. his moan’s a broken cry, half your name, half a curse, echoing in the crypt-like room, jagged, raw, filling the air until it chokes him.

he collapses, sprawled across dusty linens, chest heaving, eyes wide, staring at the cracked ceiling, its fissures mirroring his fractured mind. his hand’s still wrapped around himself, slick, trembling, aftershocks fading into a hollow ache, longing unspent, pooling in his gut like poison, heavy, unyielding.

he lies there, time blurring, mildew’s scent thicker now, mingling with his sweat and release, air suffocating, pressing his chest. his hair’s plastered to his face, silver strands streaking his flushed cheeks, robe a tangled wreck, one sleeve torn, another inside-out, silk clinging to his sweat-soaked skin. he’s gutted, undone by his own hand, your touch a memory he can’t unmake, your horrified eyes a wound he can’t close, bleeding him dry.

later, he emerges, robe barely tied, one sleeve dangling, hair damp at the temples, flushed like he’s wrestled a demon and lost. his steps falter, sandals scuffing stone, smile forced, brittle, not touching his bloodshot eyes, dark crescents bruising beneath, cheekbones sharp from skipped meals, skin pale as moonlight gone wrong.

suguru passes him, dark robe pristine, pausing mid-step. “you look like you fought an assassin,” he says, flat, one brow lifting, eyes scanning satoru’s ruin—flushed skin, trembling fingers, sweat-slick hair matted to his neck.

“calisthenics,” satoru chirps, too bright, voice cracking, a pitch too high. “fantastic for circulation.”

suguru’s eyes narrow, lingering on the rumpled robe, the damp hair, the faint bruise on satoru’s knuckles from clawing the floor. “circulation,” he repeats, slow, heavy with doubt, like he smells the lie and the shame beneath it.

satoru hurries off, pace quick, like he’s fleeing a fire he set. his robe flutters, misaligned, dragon’s tail mocking him with every step. he doesn’t dare picture your face, your hand, your horror—not again.

he’s considering faking his death. or switching identities. exile in a fishing village sounds appealing.

(give him two hours. maybe three.)

a/n: LMAO pls don’t mind part one ending here. as i said this is meant to be a oneshot only 🧍🏻‍♀️

taglist: @n1vi @victoria1676 @rannie-16 @satokitten @fwgojos @sanestsanstan @satorusbabyy @simplymygojo @ch0cocat1207 @fancypeacepersona @yamadramallamaqueen @iamrgo @cuntysaurusrex @blushedcheri @achildofaphrodite @yourgirljasmine5 @mrscarletellaswife @satorupi @dayeeter @lovelyreaderlovesreadingromance @mo0sin @erens-heart @slutlight2ndver @yutazure @luvvcho @eolivy @se-phi-roth @gojowifefrfr @00anymous00 @peachysweet-mwah @heyl820 @uhhellnogetoffpleasenowty @weewoowongachimichanga @ssetsuka @etsuniiru @ehcilhc @synapsis @michi7w7 @perqbeth @viclike @shocum @saitamaswifey @dizzyyyy0 @c43rr13s @faeiseavv @beereadzzz @jkslaugh97 @wise-fangirl @tu-tusii @applepi405

[lay-z]

You're the reincarnation of Peitho, the Greek goddess of temptation.

cw: 18+ | sex; cheating; angst; hurt/comfort; fluff; open end

No one could’ve expected this mission to turn out the way that it has after the endless briefings, preparations, and provided intel—but things turned sideways rather quickly and much more dangerous than anticipated—which led to tensions rising within the team.

Now, forced to fall back to a safe house somewhere in the wilderness of Verdansk, TF-141 is waiting for backup, tending to both fatigue and damage as they take turns on sentry duty.

While Ghost and Soap are keeping their eyes out for hostiles outside, patrolling the perimeter, Gaz is sleeping on the couch in the living room, and Captain Price is cleaning his rifle methodically at a wobbly desk in one of the dusty bedrooms upstairs.

At the sound of a timid knock against the bedroom doorframe, his eyes flit up and narrow.

“Come in.” He calls, his eyes lingering for a moment longer on his rifle before shifting over to the younger woman in the doorway.

By the way he hesitated, you can tell that he knew it’s you.

You have noticed that things have become even more tense between you and the Captain since he had that incredibly close call that surely would’ve ended in a rather complicated KIA report if Gaz hadn’t reacted the way he did and pulled him to cover fast enough just a handful of hours ago.

And now everyone is pretending that didn’t happen, which only infuriates you more.

“Captain,” you greet him tersely before clearing your dry throat.

There’s another pause as he patiently waits for you to continue while you’re momentarily distracted by the uncharacteristic slight slump of his broad shoulders and an unfamiliar kind of softness peeking through the usual sternness in his steel blue eyes.

“I just... just wanted to check on you. Make sure you’re okay, sir.”

He gives a soft scoff, setting down the rifle for a moment before he gives you a lazy smirk. “I'm fine, Sergeant,” he pauses for another moment, his smirk wavers into a grimace as he reaches back to rub his shoulder, “just a bit sore.”

Observing his tight grimace as he barely manages to tend to his injuries, you take an involuntary step into the bedroom; ignoring the thought that you’re intruding and clearly crossing those blurry lines you two have been dancing around for months on end now.

Still, the door falls shut after you give it the weakest push, and then your footsteps are nearly silenced by the thin carpet on the floor despite your heavy boots as you approach the queen-sized bed.

“You’re clearly hurt.” The statement is laced with obvious worry that goes beyond a simple superior/subordinate relationship, but you could care less in this moment.

You almost lost him today.

His smirk fades away and he gives a small sigh as he realizes that he can’t just ignore you—or the elephant in the room. John takes a seat on the edge of the bed and reaches for his shoulder to gingerly touch a particularly sore spot.

“Fine. I’m sore as hell, but that’s all.” He murmurs with a wince of pain, pulling his hand back as he tries to dismiss how bad it actually is.

“We've got painkillers for that, y’know.” The sharp remark earns you another gruff huff and you notice how he tries to straighten his shoulders once you take a seat next to him on the bed. Sitting down on one leg, you turn sideways to get a better view on his form.

“Let me at least check if there are any major cuts or scratches that need to be cleaned, okay?”

John sighs once again, clearly exasperated, but he doesn’t protest further, aware that it’s futile. “If you must.” He grumbles, reluctantly giving in, and then he reaches up to take the hem of his shirt; his fingers briefly brushing your knee for a moment as he tries to pull it over his head.

His body is lean and toned from years of military service; a fair amount of scars peeking through dark, coarse body hair along with the faded ink of old geometrical tattoos that look like coordinates. The large muscles of his arms flex as he pulls his shirt off, revealing an ornament of bruises and scratches littered on his buff torso.

“Yes, I must.”

As soon as he rids himself of his sweaty olive green undershirt, you suck in a small hiss as soon as you see the level of bruising on his right shoulder and flank.

“Nasty bruise you got there, sir,” you remark empathically, fingers already itching to touch before you eventually reach out to skim them over the deep bluish–purple marks.

You click your tongue in chide as he flinches away, and you grab a gentle hold on his flexing biceps to keep him steady as you check his skin for other wounds, and you must admit that you almost get lost in the feeling of his warm skin beneath your fingertips. You trace the curve of his back, feel each bump of his vertebrae, the raised skin of marks and old tattoo ink, the way his muscles twitch and quiver, goose bumps breaking out wherever you touch.

There is an imperceptible hitch to his breath, but he doesn’t stop your gentle ministrations.

“Looks mean, but you’re gonna live, John.” You announce casually when he eventually clears his throat as if to snap you out of your sudden trance.

The feeling of your fingertips on his skin is almost addictive—too goddamn pleasant. John can’t help but shiver when your touch grazes over his old and new bruises as well as the sensitive areas of his skin. He tries to focus on anything other than you, but it’s getting more and more difficult, and he lets out a soft laugh at your faux casual tone, trying to mask the fact that he’d really like to have you touch him further.

“Thanks for that enlightening analysis, princess.” The pet name slips out by accident and it rolls off his tongue too damn easy.

You swat at his biceps, purposely avoiding his bruised skin. “Is that the proper way to talk to your amateur nurse, Cap?”

He gives a low laugh at your playful smack, his smirk returning as he lets you inspect his bruises and wounds.

“Well, to be honest, I’m not sure if nurses should get so handsy.” He teases you in return, his smirk growing as he tries to ignore how good it feels to have your hands on him.

“Pfff.” You snort. “I can show you handsy, sir. This is nothing. I was just worried.”

He chuckles again, his dark beard twitching with the motion of his face. “Such thoughtful concern over your superior, hm?” He quips, his eyes trailing over to the closed bedroom door before returning back to you. “Ghost and Soap have guard duty until later in the night. Gaz is gettin' some rest downstairs. We’re basically alone.”

He cringes internally at his own assessment; sounding like a right numpty, though you don’t seem to mind.

“Mhm,” you hum absentmindedly, taking one last look at his back before glancing at him–only to find him already gazing at you, causing your heart to thump harder and your cheeks to warm. “What?”

John doesn’t respond right away, his blue eyes taking a long, lingering moment to drink you in. He takes in just how soft you look in the dim lighting of the bedroom, even still clad in your dirty fatigues. How your thigh is pressed against his the way you’re sitting, and just how perfect your hands look roaming over his bare skin.

He finally takes a deep breath and exhales slowly as he tears his eyes away from you to check out the door again before looking back once more, eventually answering in a soft murmur: “Nothin’.”

Meanwhile, your mind is racing: He’s my captain. He's taken, fucking married. He’s not mine. Not mine. Not mine to take. Not mine to want.

And yet, you almost find yourself pleading as you utter his name pathetically: “John–”

He eyes flicker immediately as you say his name like that—all needy and desperate. He swallows thickly as his heavy gaze lingers on you, taking in your flushed cheeks, parted lips, and how your lashes flutter.

John responds in kind; your name a gravelly murmur on his lips, just as quietly with the same hint of need in his voice.

He shouldn’t. You’re his subordinate and you’re too young. And he’s bloody married.

But he’s a weak man at heart, after all, and his blood is starting to rush and simmer while that familiar tingle starts low in his gut, causing his cock to stir in his cargo pants.

He nearly lost his life today—which wasn’t the first time, but the realization that he’s getting slow is clawing at his shoulders like a heavy burden since it happened.

John takes a deep breath, his bare chest rising and falling as his gaze flickers between your flushed cheeks and soft-looking lips. “You shouldn’t... You shouldn’t look at me that way. You’re my subordinate. I’m married–” He pauses, as if struggling to put his thoughts into words, before he continues: “I’m older than you. I’m your captain.” His voice is barely above a whisper–his way of warning you, of holding back, of convincing himself that this is a bad idea.

Your jaw clenches as his words sink in, settling deep and heavy in your gut and causing your own shoulders to slouch, my chest to ache, your stomach to drop. He’s right, of course, but that doesn’t make the situation better.

Heaving a shaky and long sigh, you glance at the dusty carpet briefly, trying to sort your jumbled thoughts and feelings before closing your eyes.

You’re tired. So fucking tired to pretend that you don’t want him, of having him pretend he doesn’t want you.

Letting your head loll forward, you rest your forehead against his naked upper arm; discreetly breathing in his scent before murmuring: “Then send me away, John. Give me the order and I’ll leave through that door.”

The feeling of your forehead on his bare shoulder makes him shiver, his fingers curling into himself as he tries to fight against the urge to reach out to touch you, to take what he’s been craving for months.. John can feel how exhausted you are—emotionally, physically, and mentally, and it mirrors how he’s feeling. He hates that he’s partly the reason for it, but he doesn’t dare to do anything to change it.

So he just sits there, listening to your words and trying to resist the impulse to wrap his arms around you in comfort.

“You should leave.” His voice is rough, though the usual command in his tone replaced by uncertainty.

You let out a snort, but it’s lacking any humour. This is unfair. Life is fucking unfair.

He smells musky; like three day old sweat, dirt, and stale cigar smoke, and you want to lick his throat, to finally have a taste while you rake your fingers through his thick chest hair.

“That’s not an order, sir,” you sigh, “that’s a bloody suggestion.”

John grits his teeth, his jaw clenches tight. He can’t deny that you have a point—he knows that his attempt at shutting this down is pretty pathetic. He knows it, but he’s not willing to admit it.

“You’re pushing it, Sergeant.” He warns you then, his tone more commanding now as he tries to keep himself from pulling you into his lap and doing something that he’ll most likely regret come morning.

“Get out.”

It’s a right stab to your heart as much as your ego, even though you know he’s doing the only right thing.

And of course, you will leave, hobbling away like a kicked puppy, and you will lick your wounds in some corner far away from him—and you might even finally let Soap lap at your neglected cunt like he’s been half-jokingly asking for until you forget your goddamn feelings for John Price.

Leaning back at once, you straighten up, clearing your throat before getting up from the bed, rolling my sore shoulders—sore from your rifles kickback and weight, sore from keeping your composure since watching your Captain nearly die today.

Perhaps somewhere in your silly, illogical mind, you thought it would change things between you. In a perfect alternate universe, John Price would’ve realized that there’s more to life than duty and survival—and he would be yours.

“Yes, sir. Have a good night, sir.”

John watches you go, his eyes following your every move as you roll your shoulders and clear your throat, slipping back into your role as obedient soldier, his sweet little Sergeant. He’s relieved that you’re finally leaving, he really is—or he desperately tries to make himself believe it.

Yet, there’s a feeling in his chest that says something entirely different. He can’t quite put a name to it, but it’s there none the less.

And it hurts.

“Good night... Sergeant.” He responds, his voice rough and uncharacteristically quiet as he continues to watch you, fighting the urge to call out for you to come back and stay.

And you don’t dare to turn around again before the bedroom door softly clicks shut behind you, leaving you standing by yourself in the semi-dark, narrow hallway of the safe house while your heart is racing, and your throat tightens as you swallow down a myriad of emotions before exhaling a shuddering breath. What the hell were you thinking? Throwing yourself at him like that?

That gruesome pressure returns in your chest and your eyes sting with tears as you lean against the door briefly, desperately trying to get a grip on yourself.

Distraction. Your spine straightens. You’re in desperate need of a distraction before you do something really stupid.

The sound of your footsteps slowly fading away brings an almost eerie feeling to the quiet night.

John remains seated on the edge of the bed, his head in his hands now as he tries to sort through his conflicting thoughts and emotions and will away the chub in his trousers. He’s more than aware that it was inappropriate for him to allow you so close to him, but he can’t deny the powerful urges he felt when you were touching him.

The sound of your sigh as your forehead rested against his bare skin haunts him; the memory of your touch on his shoulders now burned into his mind.

He never questioned it before, how the touch of Annette has never left him as breathless and discombobulated as yours, but perhaps it’s just the near death experience from today that has left his mind, body, and soul in such a bloody frenzy.

You find Soap downstairs, sitting on the tattered couch where Gaz is supposed to be; his head leaned back against the backrest, his canteen clutched tightly as it rests on his thigh.

Picking up on his light snoring, you approach slowly, careful not to startle him.

“Psst, Johnny?” you whisper, nudging the tip of his booth with yours, “Johnny? Aren’t you supposed to be on bloody watch with Lt.?”

Soap’s eyes shoot open at the sound of your voice. He’s a light sleeper as it is, but this mission has made him even more restless, and he rubs a hand over his face, scratching at the stubble at his scarred chin as he glances up at you, his bleary blue eyes narrowing as he tries to figure out what you’re doing here.

“Gaz’s takin’ my shift. What d’ye want?” He rasps out, his deep voice rough with sleep.

“Yeah, he’s a nice lad, innit,” you remark quietly, pondering for a moment as you take in his dishevelled state.

There are black grease smudges on his face, a purple bruise adorning his cheekbone, dark Mohawk looking like a hen’s nest, his tac vest half unclasped, woodland fatigues in disarray. He looks like a proper mess, though you’re not faring any better.

“You look like hell, Tav,” you whisper, mouth curling with a suppressed smile. He snorts, lifting his free hand to flip you off haphazardly. You huff in amusement, shuffling on your feet as you glance back at the stairs that lead to the first floor, and then back at Soap.

“I know you’re tired, but uhm–” Your stomach flutters and you stuff your hands into your pockets to keep them from fidgeting nervously. “Fancy a shag?”

Soap’s thick eyebrows shoot up at your blunt question, his tired expression shifting into one of curiosity and surprise. “A shag, eh?” He chuckles roughly, his lips curling into a wolfish smirk while his previously tired eyes start sparkling with bright glee.

“Cannae say I was expectin’ tha’ one now.” He straightens slightly, sitting up to get a better look at you and you almost shiver under his suddenly molten gaze as he looks you up and down agonizingly slow, before nodding his head in response.

“Aye, ‘m down.”

Exhaling a sigh of relief, some tension finally leaves your battered body.

“Brilliant,” you mutter with a step towards him; taking his canteen, you drink a long swig of the chilled water as if preparing for a marathon, before screwing it shut and holding out your free hand to him invitingly.

“C’mon, then. Don’t want the others to fuckin’ walk in on us.” You try to quip casually, though deep down, it’s a valid fear of yours.

Soap chuckles, and of course he notices your skittish nervousness, though how could he ever decline your offer—especially after a fucked up op like this one.

“Fair point.” He stands up from the couch, his body towering over you as he gives your hand a tender squeeze before he follows you towards the stairs obediently, his hand remaining securely in yours.

The sound of muffled moans and gasps fills the air, mixing with the creaking of the old bedframe and the wet slapping of skin on skin.

Soap has been sitting propped up against the worn out headboard; rough hands tightly gripping around your thighs as you ride his painfully hard dick at a tortuous slow pace, his grunts and curses blending with your soft mewls and whimpers while you roll your hips all sensual in a way Soap never dared to imagine.

He’s always fantasized about you ravishing him like a starved wildcat; scratching and biting as you tell him to fuck you harder—though he doesn’t mind the opposite. Not at all.

However, this is slowly turning into proper torture as you keep edging him—intentionally or unintentionally, he can’t tell; his brain is filled with cotton, his muscles bunched tightly with restraint to keep himself from bouncing you on his cock or fucking up into you with wild abandon. He watches how his cock disappears inside you; your essence creaming around the base of his shaft and matting his pubes as it runs down his sac.

The smell of your combined arousal is heady in the air; stuffing the small bedroom with pheromones and the scent of sex—intoxicatingly so.

Gripping your flesh tighter, his blunt fingernails dig into your soft skin as he growls out a command. “Faster. Fuck, baby–” He licks his dry lips, drinks in the bonnie flush on your cheeks, the hazy look in your eyes, and his chest puffs out. Steamin’ Jesus, you like it. “Go on, ride me faster, princess.”

Your lashes flutter shut, and you almost want to protest at the nickname, a meek attempt to keep yourself from catching anything too emotionally serious, but then Soap’s hand cups your jaw, pulling you back into the here and now with him.

“Look’it me, baby,” he murmurs deeply, his darkened eyes staring up at you in the low, gloomy lighting—a deep shade of indigo the way his pupils are blown.

And you don’t fight it. You let him guide your face down to meet his gaze, your breath hitching in your chest as you meet owlishly big eyes, seeing the raw adoration behind a faint glimmer of something feral and animalistic—like you’re something special and worth looking at, worth wanting, while his reverent touch sends wave after wave of violent shiver down your arched spine.

Then, with his cockhead nudging your cervix and his shaft stretching your sopping walls deliciously, you notice how gorgeous Johnny MacTavish is—especially like this. All debauched and fucked out because of your doing. Fucking hell, no, he’s gorgeous all the time if you’re truly honest with yourself.

A louder, more pathetic moan slips past your lips as your head lolls back when you finally pick up your pace at his encouragement. You’re properly impaled on his fat cock; feeling him in your guts as you ride him mercilessly, hands braced on his broad shoulders while his fingers dig into the fat of your ass. Your tits bounce with each grind, sore muscles clenching with exertion as you pant against his sweaty skin.

“Yeah, fuck... just like that, princess.” Soap murmurs, eyes rolling back as you start bouncing on his throbbing prick with wild abandon. “F-Fuck, so bonnie, baby. Feels s’fuckin’ good, fuckin’ perfect–ngh–” And he grits his teeth, nostrils flaring with sharper breaths, as he feels that familiar pressure in his balls, those electric tingles at the base of his spine.

He doesn’t know what you did, but he’s going to come sooner than he planned to. He forces his eyes to open as you moan his name; the sound causing his cock to twitch inside your tight channel.

And, fuck—

The sight of you is a goddamn fever dream; your body moving on top of him so perfectly, the pretty flush on your cheeks, the way your lips are parted, kiss-swollen because of him, your brows furrowed in pleasure. He can still taste your cunt on his tongue from when he’d sucked your essence off his fingers during foreplay.

You’re a bloody vision—a beautiful, sinful vision.

He tightens his grip on your ass cheeks, breath stuttering at the obscenely wet sound when his cock disappears inside your dripping hole, skins sticky with precum and your slick. His fingers dig deeper into your flesh as he pulls you closer with each movement, bucking his hips to meet your body halfway, to bury himself deeper inside you—desperate to leave his mark, to burn this moment into your memory.

Soon enough, you can feel yourself at the precipice of your own orgasm as you roll your hips more frantically; fucking yourself stupid and using his body while he’s taking what he needs just as desperately in return. He plays with your bouncing tits, slips one hand between your thighs to rub his thumb over your slick, swollen clit, leans in to drag his tongue from the valley between my breasts up the column of your throat before wrapping his bulky arms around your waist and pulling you close enough to capture your lips in a bruising kiss.

“M’gonna come,” you mewl hotly against his lips, legs trembling and nails digging into his meaty muscles as he grins back wolfishly. “Please–”

His lips are messy against yours as he captures your mouth in a fierce kiss, his tongue delving deep as he swallows your moans, licking into your mouth and lapping at your silky tongue like an eager dog, greeting his owner with a wagging tail.

Soap is losing control—control he was trying so hard to keep even before you proposed this.

His fingers slide up your body; from your ass to your hips to your waist, roaming over your sensitive skin with greed. He’s about to tip over the edge, all it take is another fluttering squeeze of your cunt as desire and adrenaline rushes through his veins. In this pleasurable frenzy, he growls out a command: “Cum f’me, princess.”

And you do—you come apart on top of him, your walls clenching and rippling rhythmically around his rock hard cock in a vice grip, and a guttural moan is torn from deep within his chest as he follows your lead and lets go.

His legs jerk, his toes curl against the mattress, and his abs flex under coarse body hair as he spills his load into the condom.

For a moment, neither of you finds the strength nor mental capacity to say anything as you heavily against one another for support. The room quiets at once; silence only broken by your panting breaths as you twitch and writhe with glorious aftershocks.

Then, Soap leans his head back against the headboard, a dull thud followed by a boyish chuckle as he keeps holding you close, your face buried against his shoulder, your quaking body pressed flushed to his. His other hand pets your hair soothingly—a stark contrast to the harsh command he had whispered into your ear moments ago.

“Good girl.” Soap smirks triumphantly as he feels how you relax against him, your muscles gradually easing and melting in his embrace.

His hand continues his gentle ministrations, his touch so gentle as he holds you close, your head resting on his shoulder as your lips skim along his collarbone, causing his flushed skin to pebble with gooseflesh.

“Ye feel better now, princess?” he asks, his voice soft and almost tender, a subtle hint of his Scottish brogue lingering in his words.

You nod slowly. “Better,” you repeat softly, vulnerable, the word coming out slurred.  Pressing a kiss to his collarbone, you pull back with a lazy smile while his cock softens inside you, giving the occasional last twitch whenever you move and squeeze around him.

“Saved me lots of trouble tonight, you could say.”

“Ye’re welcome.” Soap murmurs in response and his arms tighten around your naked body, unwilling to let go just yet. He’s knows what you mean.

He could feel it right from the start, knows about the strange thing between you and the Captain, knows that this was just to take the edge off—a simple distraction, though a welcome one. He can’t quite help it, though—the protective, possessive side of his nature is suddenly rearing it’s ugly head.

It’s no secret that he’s wanted this, wanted you, basically since you joined the bloody task force. And he’d tried, God, he’d tried to shoot his shot with you multiple times now—and it’s the only one he keeps missing despite his sniper skills.

“Don’t fall in love,” he mutters under his breath before cupping the nape of your neck, pulling you even closer before he buries his face into your neck, breathing you in deeply.

Quirking an eyebrow, you let out a sharp snort, though your stomach flutters at his quip.

“I feel like that should be my line, Tav.” Soap is an emotional man—as tough and quick-tempered as he is playful and caring. A right sap that one, if you’re close enough to him.

Soap sighs, shoulders sagging. He wasn’t talking to you.

You drag your bottom lip through your teeth in thought, carding your fingers through his mussed Mohawk. “We’re good, yeah?” you ask, voice genuine, before you pull back slightly to meet his eyes.

They’re nearly shining in the dimmed light—bright and so beautifully blue again now that the cloud of lust has vanished.

Soap hums, his gaze momentarily flickering to your face as you ruffle his short hair with the tips of your fingers. He’s still breathing deep and heavy, his chest rising and falling beneath you in a steady rhythm, and he doesn’t answer your question verbally—instead, he simply grabs your chin with his free hand, angling your face towards his as he leans in for another kiss.

It’s sensual, passionate, and so very... intimate. Perhaps too intimate for the words he forces out next: “Aye, no strings attached, princess.”

The aftercare drags on longer than it should. You know that and he does, too—yet neither of you can help it nor cares.

Eventually, Soap lifts you off his lap carefully, and he sucks in a sharp breath when his overstimulated cock slips out of your abused cunt. He’s quick to grab his shaft at the base, keeping the full condom in place; smacking his lips at the sight at the sight of it—a waste of a perfectly good load.

Meanwhile, you roll over onto the mattress like dead weight, letting out a soft groan and feeling deliciously boneless.

Soap chuckles quietly at the endearing sight of your relaxed body and dopey expression.

His own body is still thrumming with a strange sense of energy, though he’s also feeling rather limp, sated. He rolls the used condom off of his softening cock, knotting it and reaching over to toss it into the open rubbish bin next to the bed before flops down beside you onto the old mattress, inhaling deeply as he stretches out his large frame, sore joints cracking and popping.

“Mmmh, ye’re one hell’uva woman, ye know,” he mumbles, his deep voice even rougher as he reaches out to pull you close with ease, tucking you in and holding you snuggly to his side while his calloused hand starts stroking up and down your back.

“Perhaps Cap should’ve more near death experiences–” He snorts.

Even in his exhaustion, he doesn’t miss how soft and right you feel pressed up against his large, muscular body, your head resting against his bare chest while his heart thuds strong and steady. He could get used to this. He wants to get used to this.

“–if it means ye’re gonna come crawlin’ into m’arms each time.”

Please consider leaving a like, reblog, and/or comment if you enjoyed this and voted. Thanks! :)

[dakusan]

BLOOM UNDER NEEDLES

Tattoo Artist!Hwang Hyunjin x Reader | he’s touched you five times. tonight, he ruins you

🔞synopsis: Tattoo Artist AU. You’ve been friends for years. He’s inked every part of your body except the one he’s dying to ruin. But the second you show up again, hips bare and eyes burning, asking for another piece? He doesn’t just mark you. He fucks it into you. This is possession. This is art. This is obsession.

💌a/n: This one’s for @bemyaehiweloveskz, who sang into my inbox the sweet sounds of "tattoo artist!Hyunjin x reader". You asked. I delivered. We’re doing this first come, first serve, so next Filthy Friday, it is Seungmin's time to shine. So buckle the fuck up. p.s. reblogging = mouth-to-mouth resuscitation p.p.s. yes, you can request the other members, please do. who do you wanna read after Seungmin? p.p.p.s. If this fic made you moan, clench, or whisper “jesus fuck,” you now owe me your spine, one (1) unhinged tag, and a slightly sinful reblog. That's the deal. I don’t make the rules. (I do.)

⚠️ warnings: 18+ | MINORS DNI | EXTREMELY NSFW | Friends-to-lovers tension finally snaps and it’s carnal, needy, and fucking overdue | Oral (f. receiving) | Latex gloves | Spit | Tattoo chair sex | Filthy dirty talk — praise + hunger: “sweetheart,” “good girl,” “let me taste you again.” | Fingering | Thigh gripping | Ass worship | Tattooing as marking kink | Reader on all fours, bent over the chair | Clit attention that makes your brain fog | Aftercare so tender it hurts

📌 Please read responsibly. Hydrate. Stretch.

📍credits: dividers by @cafekitsune

🎧 » Love Talk — WayV « 0:58 ─〇───── 3:53 ⇄ ◃◃ ⅠⅠ ▹▹ ↻

Seoul's early spring was always deceptive—sunlight soft on the surface but the air still kissed your skin cold when you walked too fast. Your coat’s too light, your hands half-numb, but the minute you step into NO SAINT INK, everything warms.

The scent hits you first: incense and antiseptic. Burnt vanilla over sharp alcohol wipes. Clean, familiar. The quiet hum of lo-fi beats weaves through the matte-black interior—half gallery, half hellmouth. Every wall is scattered with framed flash art—some crisp linework, others feral, chaotic sketches with phrases like “Bite Me” and “Pretty Hurts” etched beneath dripping roses.

The warmth isn’t just from the heater. It’s him.

Hwang Hyunjin is hunched over a drafting table toward the back of the studio, black hoodie sleeves rolled to his elbows, ringed fingers smudged with graphite. His hair is tied up—loose bun, strands falling across his cheekbones, lip bitten as he sketches something you can’t see. You pause in the entrance, watching him work.

God, he’s always like this. Still. Focused. A little too beautiful for a tattoo shop that’s home to chaos incarnate (read: Han Jisung) and Felix’s glitter-drenched custom piercings. Hyunjin feels like a walking contradiction—poetic and sharp, serene and volatile. An ink-stained symphony of clean lines and deliberate hunger.

He looks up.

His eyes meet yours instantly, like he felt you enter the room. Not surprised. Just… aware. Like you live inside a part of his brain he never locks.

“Hey,” he says, voice low, soft as velvet over bone. The corner of his mouth quirks—barely a smile, more of an acknowledgment. Like he’s happy to see you but won’t say it unless you ask.

“Hi,” you breathe, stepping inside fully, the door shutting with a soft chime behind you. “Still open?”

“For you?” His pen halts. “Always.”

You snort, dropping your bag onto the client couch. “That’s the cheesiest shit I’ve ever heard.”

He leans back in his chair, arms stretching over his head, hoodie rising to reveal the silver flash of his hip chain. “I save my best lines for Han’s clients. He likes to pretend he’s the shop flirt.”

“And you?”

“I prefer…” He pauses. Tilts his head. “Slow burns.”

There it is—that unspoken thing. You’ve known Hyunjin for years now, back when NO SAINT INK was just a cramped two-room hole above a bakery and he was still an apprentice shading roses on fake skin.

You were his first real client. Small piece. Inside of your arm. Something small.

Since then—five tattoos. All from him. All delicate. Personal. Quiet marks he made on your body with gentle hands and steady breath. And he never once crossed a line. But he always hovered near it.

The way his thumb would linger too long when wiping down ink. The way he’d mutter, “Hold still, pretty,” and your pulse would stutter like a skipped beat. The way he’d sketch flowers that looked suspiciously like the one he placed under your collarbone, and you’d find them in his book months later, unlabeled—but unmistakable.

Still, you stayed friends.

Coffee runs. Late-night ramen. Art gallery detours. Matching silver rings you bought at a flea market once and never really talked about.

And now, standing here again, watching him toss his sketch pad aside like it’s weightless, you feel it—that shift. The quiet knowing. Like the seed of something unsaid is finally cracking open.

“You working on a new piece?” you ask, nodding toward the table.

He shrugs. “Just sketching.”

“For a client?”

His gaze flicks to you. Unblinking. “Not yet.”

There’s something thick in the air now. Not awkward—just dense. Weighted. You clear your throat.

“I, uh…” You hesitate, fingers brushing your wrist. “I wanted to ask you for something.”

His brows raise slightly. “What kind of something?”

You pause.

Then you pull a folded sketch from your pocket. Smooth it out on the counter. His eyes drop to the paper.

It’s a flower. Hand-drawn. A Lily of the Valley—delicate, nodding petals arching off a thin stem. At the base of it, a faint phrase in cursive: “I bloom where I ache.”

He stares for a long moment.

When he speaks, it’s almost reverent. “You drew this?”

You nod.

His thumb traces the corner of the page. “Where do you want it?”

You swallow. “Right here.” You place your fingers at the sharp curve of your hipbone, just beneath your waistband.

Silence.

You can feel the air shift.

Hyunjin doesn’t move for a second. His jaw tightens. When he finally lifts his gaze, it’s slower. He looks at you like he’s taking you in all over again.

“You want me to tattoo you there?”

“Yes.”

A long breath. “Why me?”

You blink. “What do you mean?”

He steps around the counter. Closer. Close enough to smell the cedar on his hoodie, the faint scent of ink that never quite leaves his skin. “You could’ve asked anyone here. Jisung’s the wild one. Felix would pierce your entire soul if you let him.”

You shrug. “I don’t want chaos.”

He raises a brow. “And what do you want?”

You meet his eyes. Slowly. Gentle. “You.”

The pause between you is deafening. Then—his voice, low and frayed. “You can’t say shit like that when I haven’t even touched you yet.”

“You’ve touched me five times.”

“Not like that.”

Not yet, you think. And suddenly, the air feels even heavier.

But then he steps back. Just a little. Just enough to breathe. “Alright. I’ll do it.”

You nod once, pulse thudding.

“Tomorrow,” he says. “After hours. Just us.”

You try to play it cool. “For professionalism?”

His mouth twitches. “No. For focus.”

You arrive before closing.

The sun is already dipping past the horizon, casting long shadows across the alley where NO SAINT INK lives—half-sacred, half-possessed. The neon signs haven’t lit up yet, but the glow inside is warm. Low amber light spills from the studio windows, wrapping the interior in something softer than usual.

You knock once before nudging the door open, a little bell jingling above your head. Your hands are full—an iced Americano in one, a paper bag of pastries in the other.

“I brought bribes,” you call, stepping into the familiar scent of incense, ink, and disinfectant.

From somewhere in the back, you hear him.

“Depends,” Hyunjin says, voice echoing through the curtained hallway. “Are they sweet enough to justify me rearranging my entire night for your hipbone?”

You roll your eyes, smirking as you head toward the front counter. “Don’t act like you weren’t already gonna.”

He appears a moment later, pulling back the curtain with a casual flick—black long-sleeve pushed to his forearms, hair loose today, curling slightly at the ends. His silver earrings catch the light as he moves.

You offer him the coffee.

He accepts it without question, sipping as he glances at the bag. “What is it?”

“Strawberry scones.”

He pauses. Blinks once.

Then, soft and flat: “You’re trying to seduce me.”

You shrug, innocent. “You said you preferred slow burns. I’m just feeding the flame.”

He exhales sharply through his nose. Amused. Maybe impressed. Maybe ruined.

“Come on,” he murmurs, nodding toward the back. “Booth’s ready.”

You follow him through the curtain, until you reach Hyunjin’s space. It’s quieter here.

Dimly lit by a single lamp angled down over the chair. Black walls. Floating shelves with sketchbooks stacked high and carefully labeled bottles of ink arranged like altar offerings. A large framed print of a blooming rose leans against the far wall—your eye catches on the familiar linework.

One of his.

He gestures to the seat. “Make yourself comfortable.”

You do, settling your things on the side table as he rolls on a fresh pair of gloves. The snap of the latex still makes something flicker in your chest.

“Still want the Lily of the Valley?” he asks, voice calm but slightly huskier now. He hasn’t met your eyes yet. Too focused on laying out his stencil materials. Too aware of what’s coming.

You nod. “Still want you to do it.”

That makes his head lift.

His eyes find yours. And this time, they don’t look away.

Slowly, you reach for the hem of your sweatshirt. Tug it off in one smooth motion, leaving you in a cropped tank top and soft cotton shorts. No tights. No barrier. You watch his gaze dip—briefly—to the exposed skin of your upper thighs.

Then you hook your thumbs into your waistband.

“Here okay?” you murmur, sliding the fabric just low enough to reveal the curve of your hipbone—the exact place you want him to mark. The edge of your panties still covers what it needs to. Barely.

His inhale is so sharp you hear it.

“Yeah,” he says after a beat. His voice is quiet. Rough around the edges. “That’s… That’s perfect.”

You try to keep your tone light. “You’ve seen skin before, Hyun.”

“Not like this.”

Your breath catches.

He steps closer, holding the stencil between gloved fingers. His touch is steady when he kneels beside the chair, head tilting slightly to examine the space. But when his hand settles on your waist to hold you still, you feel it.

The difference.

It’s not professional anymore. Not strictly. Not the way it used to be.

His palm is wide. Firm. Anchoring you. But his thumb brushes the hollow just above your hip, a spot he doesn’t need to touch at all. His breath ghosts over your stomach as he positions the stencil, close enough that your skin prickles.

“Breathe for me,” he murmurs. The same words as always.

Only this time—you feel them in your thighs.

You inhale slowly. Exhale.

He presses the stencil gently to your skin. Smooth. Measured. His gaze flicks up once, meeting yours from below, and you swear—just for a second—he looks like he wants to bite.

“There,” he says softly, pulling back to admire his placement. “Check it in the mirror before I commit?”

You nod, rising carefully to your feet. His hand lingers a second too long before letting go.

You step over to the full-length mirror mounted in the corner. Turn slightly. Examine the stencil on your skin—delicate lines, tiny petals, soft cursive nestled against bone. It's beautiful. Quiet and aching and so personal it almost hurts.

He watches you from the chair, arms crossed now, gloves still on, forearms flexed just slightly as he leans back.

“Well?” he asks.

You meet his gaze in the mirror. “It’s perfect.”

“Then lie back for me, angel.”

You lie back on the chair, the black leather cold beneath your skin, even through the thin cotton of your tank. The lamp above casts everything in a halo glow—focused, intimate, like a spotlight trained just on you.

Hyunjin is quiet as he moves around the station. He preps with the same practiced rhythm you’ve seen five times before—ink cap, paper towels, sterile wipes, machine hum warming in the corner. But there’s something different in the air now.

A little too still. A little too loaded.

And then he turns.

Rolls his stool over beside you, knees brushing the base of the chair. He’s sitting close. Closer than he usually does when tattooing you. The heat of him radiates under the low light, hands gloved and resting on his thighs as he looks at you.

At your skin. At the spot where he’s about to mark you.

“You good?” he asks, voice low and a little hoarse.

You nod. “Yeah. Just… aware that I’m in my underwear in your lap basically.”

He snorts softly. “First of all, dramatic. You’re not in my lap—yet.”

Your breath catches. He doesn’t take it back.

You glance down. “I just meant, y’know. This placement. It's a little…”

“Intimate,” he finishes.

You nod once. Slowly.

He leans forward. Just a little. “Does it bother you?”

You blink. “No. Does it bother you?”

He tilts his head, mouth twitching like he wants to smile but won’t let himself. “You think I’m bothered?”

“I think you’re trying very hard to act like I’m just another client.”

That earns a quiet laugh. Low and sharp.

“You haven’t been ‘just another client’ since the first time you asked me to tattoo your collarbone with that stupid flower that made you cry.”

You shove his arm playfully. “It was a sentimental flower, not stupid.”

“It was both. And you cried like I stabbed you in the soul.”

“It hurt!”

“It was a two-inch peony.”

“Shut up,” you grumble, biting back a smile.

He smiles now. Full, real, warm. It fades just slightly as his gaze drags down again, returning to your exposed hipbone.

You feel your stomach tighten when he speaks again—softer now.

“Touching you like this… isn’t nothing.”

You swallow. “So don’t pretend it is.”

He nods. Silent agreement. Then slips back into motion.

He sanitizes your skin first. Cold alcohol on gauze. His fingers brush over your hip as he cleans the area, and even through the gloves, it feels like fire.

“You’re already warm,” he murmurs.

“You’re hovering,” you shoot back.

His laugh is quieter this time. “I have to. This is a sensitive area.”

“Mmm, right. Totally necessary to lean in so close your necklace is touching my stomach.”

He does not, in fact, move away.

Instead, his thumb brushes just below your waistband, fingers spreading gently across your hip as he holds your skin steady. “Stop wiggling.”

“I’m not wiggling.”

“You are.”

“You’re—” Your voice hitches slightly when his palm presses down with more intention. “You’re being a menace.”

“Always.”

He picks up the tattoo machine with his other hand. It buzzes softly to life, a familiar whir that still makes your nerves spike.

He notices. Of course he does.

“You okay?”

You nod.

“You always get twitchy right before the first line,” he says softly, like he’s reciting an old memory.

“You always hold my hand when I do.”

He pauses. Just a beat.

Then—he gently reaches up, slides his fingers between yours, and squeezes once.

You don’t let go.

And then—

“Here we go,” he says quietly.

The needle touches your skin.

Sharp. Hot. Deep. You flinch slightly, but his hand on your hip tightens instantly—not rough, but anchoring.

“There you go,” he murmurs. “Breathe. Just like that.”

The buzz continues, steady and rhythmic as he pulls the linework with impossible control. You force yourself to focus on the sound of his voice instead of the pain.

“You’re good,” he says again, thumb brushing a slow arc into your skin. “Taking it so well.”

You blink hard. “Don’t say it like that.”

“Say what?”

“‘Taking it so well.’ That’s porn voice, Hyun.”

He grins—sharp and unrepentant. “So?”

You glare at the ceiling. “You’re unbearable.”

He leans in slightly, still drawing. “You’re wet.”

Your whole body freezes.

“I—excuse me—”

“Your skin,” he says smoothly, as if he wasn’t just trying to end your life. “It’s damp. Warm. From the alcohol. What did you think I meant?”

“You know what I thought you meant.”

He hums, like he’s pleased with himself. “Interesting.”

You let out a long, slow exhale.

“Still doing okay?” he asks, voice back to low and sincere.

You nod, chest rising and falling. “Yeah. It’s just…”

“What?”

“Hard to stay still when you’re—” You cut yourself off.

His voice drops. “When I’m what?”

Your mouth feels dry. You look down at him. He’s crouched over you, hair falling forward again, neck bent in full concentration. One gloved hand spreads over your hip, holding you down, while the other guides the needle with ridiculous precision. He looks like he’s worshipping your skin. Like this act—this pain—is a form of reverence.

“You’re touching me like I’m yours,” you say before you can stop yourself.

The sound of the machine falters—just a fraction. He doesn’t speak for a second. Then, finally—his voice low and wrecked: “That’s because you are.”

Those words echo.

Not just in your ears—but in your bones. Your breath stutters. Your lips part. You watch him blink, jaw flexing like he hadn’t meant to say it out loud. Like he’s wondering if he can take it back.

You know he won’t. Because he meant it. Because it’s been there—under every lingering look, every playful comment, every time he touched you for just a little too long after finishing a piece.

This has never just been ink.

Not for him.

And not for you.

“Hyun…” you whisper, unsure whether it’s a warning or a surrender.

He doesn't answer right away. Instead, he sets the machine down—gently, slowly, deliberately—onto the tray beside him. The buzz fades into nothing.

His gloved hand is still on your hip.

Still holding you steady. Still not moving.

“I shouldn’t have said that,” he says softly, but his eyes never leave yours. “Not while I’m tattooing you. Not while you’re lying here half-naked and trusting me.”

“But you meant it,” you say.

His jaw tightens. “Yeah.”

The silence between you goes thick again. Almost unbearable.

And then—still seated beside you, still bent low enough that his breath brushes your stomach—he murmurs, “Do you want me to stop?”

You stare down at him. And shake your head. “No,” you breathe. “I want you to finish.”

It’s not just about the tattoo. It never was. Something changes in his face. His pupils dilate. His mouth parts slightly, like he’s tasting the weight of what you just said.

“Okay,” he murmurs.

But when he picks the machine back up, his hands aren’t steady anymore.

The lines are still perfect—Hyunjin doesn’t do less than perfect—but his breath is uneven. His gloved fingers flex harder on your skin, not quite possessive, but close. His knuckles brush the edge of your underwear again and again, and not a single one of those brushes feels like an accident anymore.

“You’re shaking,” he murmurs, like he’s talking to himself.

You’re not sure if he means you or him.

“I’m fine,” you manage.

He hums. Low. “You always say that. Even when I’m breaking you open.”

Your thighs press together involuntarily. You’re certain he notices.

“I’m almost done,” he says. “Just a few more petals.”

You nod, chest rising with shaky breaths. “Okay.”

Hyunjin works in silence for the next few minutes. Only the buzz of the machine fills the air. His jaw is tight, lips parted, eyes flicking from the lines to your face and back.

Your breath stutters every time his fingers press a little deeper into your skin to hold you steady.

He notices. He always notices.

"You need to stay still, baby," he murmurs after a minute, like it costs him to say it gently.

"I'm trying," you whisper.

"I know," he says. "You're doing so good for me."

The pet name lands hard. You bite your lip, trying not to squirm. He grins. Quietly. Like he’s winning.

Another petal. Another clean line.

Your skin stings, but his voice is soothing. Warm. Reverent.

“Almost there,” he breathes, wiping the fresh ink with gentle circles of gauze. “I promise.”

You nod, nails digging into your own palms.

And then—

He stops.

The buzzing dies.

You feel the soft click of the machine being placed down. The final swipe of his gloved thumb wiping excess ink. The moment his hand lingers too long, brushing up toward your waist.

“…Finished,” he says quietly.

You look at him.

His expression is wrecked. Dark eyes, blown pupils, the barest sheen of sweat at his temples. He swallows hard, blinking slowly like he’s holding back a flood.

He pulls the gloves off.

Snaps. Tosses them to the tray.

Then looks at you like he’s still starving.

“Let me clean you up,” he murmurs.

You sit up a little, and his hand immediately comes to your back to support you—too gentle, too familiar. The intimacy of it makes your stomach flip.

You watch him work.

He squeezes out clear cleanser onto a pad, drags it carefully across the ink. Wipes you down like you’re porcelain. Like you’re sacred.

You shiver.

“There,” he says, fingers resting lightly at your waist. “We should wrap it but…”

You blink at him. “But?”

His eyes flick to your mouth. Then to your thighs. Then back to your eyes. “…But I don’t think I can keep my hands off you long enough to give you proper aftercare,” he admits, voice breaking open.

But then Hyunjin blinks, jaw clenched, and suddenly he’s standing. Suddenly he’s all discipline again. You watch in disbelief as he turns, grabs a box of plastic wrap and surgical tape like he didn’t just tell you he wants to ruin you.

You blink up at him, chest heaving, as he cuts a clean piece and starts prepping like this is a normal day.

Is he seriously—

“Lie back,” he murmurs.

You hesitate.

“C’mon,” he says gently. “Gotta protect the art.”

You lie back, narrowing your eyes.

He crouches again, presses gauze delicately to your tattoo, then begins wrapping with the kind of precise tension you'd expect from a fucking surgeon. His fingers glide over your waist as he smooths the film into place—practiced, familiar, infuriatingly neutral.

"You're being professional again," you mutter.

His mouth twitches. “Would you rather I forget how to do my job?”

“I’d rather you remember what you said five minutes ago.”

“I remember everything I say to you.”

He tapes down the final corner of the wrap, hands steady even though you can see the vein twitching in his neck. You can see the way his mouth keeps parting like he’s holding back a groan. His eyes won’t meet yours for more than a second.

And then, like a fucking menace, he clears his throat and reaches for the aftercare sheet.

The goddamn printed paper.

“I know how to—”

“I’m required to go through it,” he interrupts, not looking at you. “So. No heavy workouts. No soaking in water. No scratching even if it itches. Moisturize gently once the wrap’s off—”

You sit up abruptly.

His words die in his throat.

You reach for the collar of his shirt, grab it, and pull him in. You kiss him like you’re done waiting. Like his little show of professionalism just lit a fire under your skin. Like you’re done pretending you’re not his.

His body reacts before his mind can catch up—he lurches forward into you, hands bracing behind your back, and kisses you back like he’s making up for every second he spent pretending he wasn’t about to come undone.

Your legs wrap around his waist on instinct.

He groans into your mouth, deep and unfiltered, like the leash he had on himself just snapped in two.

“You’re such a fucking tease,” you whisper against his lips.

He pulls back, just enough to rest his forehead to yours, breath heavy.

“You think I was trying to stop myself?” he says, voice rough. “No. I was trying to deserve you.”

Your breath catches.

He kisses you again—deeper this time, desperate.

Then he’s standing. Hands sliding under your thighs, lifting you like it’s nothing. You wrap around him, gasping into his mouth as he sets you down on the tattoo chair again—but backwards this time, so your back is to his chest, your legs spread.

“So,” he says low in your ear, voice gone completely to sin now, “how’s your pain tolerance, baby?”

“Why?”

“Because I’m about to fuck you without touching your new tattoo,” he growls. “And I’m not sure if that’s going to make you scream louder… or quieter.”

Your breathing’s uneven. Your skin still stings faintly from the tattoo. And Hyunjin—Hyunjin is standing behind you, hands gripping your hips like he’s trying not to shake.

"Stay still," he murmurs. “You’ll make me lose it.”

“You already have.”

He huffs a breath that sounds like a laugh if it weren’t laced with so much need. Then his hands trail lower—thumbs hooking into your shorts.

He pulls slowly. Too slowly. The fabric drags over your thighs, bunches at your knees. You shift, arching slightly without meaning to, and he groans low in his throat.

"Fuck," he breathes. "Look at this."

His palm smooths over the curve of your ass, fingers spreading wide like he’s cataloguing every inch.

"You’re unreal," he mutters. "Always knew it. But like this?"

The shorts hit the floor.

And you hear it—the hitch in his breath when he sees your panties.

Thin. Soft. Lace-trimmed. They’re slightly pulled up from your earlier writhing on the chair, and now they’re framed perfectly. Your ass is practically spilling out of them.

Hyunjin makes a sound that is not human.

“Oh, baby…” he murmurs, hand splaying fully across one cheek. He squeezes—firm, greedy. “You wore these for me?”

“I didn’t know I’d be bent over in front of you,” you say, voice breathy.

“Bullshit.”

He leans in, lips brushing your lower back, just above the wrap.

“You always knew where this was going,” he whispers. “You’ve been showing me this ass every time you walked into my shop with your little skirts, your cocky smirks—”

A kiss over the curve of your ass.

“I tattoo you with a straight face, and you sit there like I’m not fucking hard the entire time—”

His hand slides lower, palm pressing against your inner thigh. His fingers trail along the hem of your panties, teasing.

“I should rip these.”

“You won’t,” you gasp.

“Oh?”

“You like how they look too much.”

He chuckles—low, dark, reverent. “You’re right.”

And then he does something you don’t expect.

He kneels behind you.

Both hands on your thighs, spreading you gently. His thumbs drag upward, slow, until they reach the curve of your ass again. He groans softly under his breath—visibly, audibly, aching.

Then—

A kiss. Right on your left cheek. Then another. And another. Trailing closer to the centre. “You know,” he murmurs between kisses, “this view might actually kill me.”

His thumbs hook into the waistband of your panties, and pulls them down.

Hyunjin lets out a shaky, reverent breath. His hands grip your thighs harder. His lips are parted, his eyes wild.

“…Holy fuck. You’re dripping. Just for me.”

His voice is guttural—low enough to make your spine arch without thinking. You can feel his breath right there—hot, heavy, reverent.

Then—

Spit.

The sound is sharp. Obscene. You gasp as it hits you—warm and wet, mixing with your slick, sliding between your folds.

“Fuck,” Hyunjin breathes, watching it trail down. “You make me so fucking messy already.”

And then he dives in. No hesitation. No soft teasing. He licks you like it’s instinct, like it’s oxygen, like this is the first and last meal of his entire life. His tongue parts you, slow and deep. He groans into your pussy like he’s overwhelmed by the taste.

“Jesus,” he whispers between licks. “You taste like a fucking dream.”

His hands grip your ass, spreading you wider. His tongue flicks over your clit—once, twice, and you jolt, gasping into the leather chair.

“Keep still,” he mutters, voice wrecked. “Let me enjoy you.”

Then he sucks. Hard.

Your whole body shudders. Your knees nearly give. He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t even slow down. He alternates between long, deep licks and desperate flicks, burying his face in you like he wants to live there. Like he’s tattooing his tongue into your memory.

One of his hands slips down, fingers trailing to your soaked entrance. He groans when he feels how ready you are.

“Holy shit,” he pants. “You’re gonna let me fuck this perfect pussy, aren’t you?”

“Yes—god, yes,” you whimper, pressing back against him, dizzy from pleasure.

His fingers press in—two at once, slow but deep. Your walls clench around him, and he curses under his breath.

“Already so fucking tight,” he groans. “Can’t wait to stretch you out on my cock, baby. But first—”

He curls his fingers. Licks again. And you scream. It’s filthy. It’s divine. It’s Hyunjin with a mouth full of you, humming like he’s high off the taste, dragging you toward the edge faster than you can take.

“Don’t hold back,” he says against your cunt. “I want you to cum all over my face.”

You don’t even answer. You can’t. You’re too far gone. Your thighs start to tremble, hips twitching uncontrollably, and he knows.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, tongue relentless. “That’s it, pretty girl. Let go for me. Cum for me.”

And with one more curl of his fingers and one more harsh suck on your clit—

You do.

You break. Hard. Shaking, moaning, collapsing forward against the chair as your orgasm rips through you. You gasp his name, legs trembling, slick dripping down his chin.

But he doesn’t stop.

He keeps going. Licking you through it. Kissing you through the aftershocks. Fingers still inside you, soothing, teasing, owning every wave of it. When you finally lift your head, panting, dazed, and weak in the knees—he pulls back just enough to look up at you. His lips are slick. His eyes are dark. His chest is heaving.

“You’re even prettier when you fall apart,” he whispers.

Then he licks your juices off his bottom lip—

And stands.

You see the outline of his cock in his jeans—thick, hard, straining.

He steps forward, rubbing against your ass, groaning into your shoulder. “Now,” he says, voice wrecked. “I’m going to fuck you so deep, the next time you come in for ink, you’ll still be dripping from this.”

His hands fumble with the button of his jeans, curses falling from his lips like prayers.

“Fuck, fuck—why are these so tight today—”

You glance back, dazed and flushed, still bent over the chair, legs weak from his mouth.

He finally shoves them down, briefs included—and there he is.

Long. Thick. Red at the tip. Veins tracing the sides. So hard it curves slightly, twitching with every heartbeat. Your mouth parts involuntarily. He catches your gaze.

“You staring?” he says, breathless.

“Obviously.”

He smirks—then hisses when his own hand wraps around the base, pumping once to relieve the pressure.

“I’ve dreamed about this,” he mutters, stepping closer, cock dragging over your ass, your soaked thighs, your still-sensitive folds. “Bent over my chair… ink still fresh… wrapped like a fucking gift—”

You whimper as he grinds against you, the head of his cock smearing pre-cum along your skin.

“—and all mine.”

He strokes himself once more, then lines up—sliding the tip through your slick folds, teasing your entrance.

You jolt.

“Still sensitive?” he asks softly.

You nod.

He leans down, voice curling around your ear.

“Good.”

And then—

He pushes in. Slow. Deep.

Your breath catches hard. He’s thick—stretching you inch by inch, until the pressure is so full, so overwhelming, it blurs the edges of your vision.

“Fuck,” he groans, gripping your hips, fingers sinking into your waist. “You’re so tight I could die.”

You moan, forehead pressing into the leather. “Move, Hyunjin—please—”

He pulls out halfway—

Then slams back in.

Your cry echoes through the studio.

“Sound so pretty,” he pants, setting a rhythm—deep, deliberate thrusts that hit every nerve-ending you didn’t know you had.

Every time his hips meet your ass, your body jolts.

“You were made for this,” he mutters. “Made for me.”

One hand slips around your waist, sliding between your legs again, fingers finding your clit with pinpoint accuracy.

“Hyunjin—!”

“That’s right, baby,” he growls. “Take it. Take all of me.”

He pounds into you harder—louder now, the slap of skin on skin obscene in the quiet room. His name spills from your lips over and over, useless and raw and desperate.

The tattoo stings with every motion—but you don’t care. You’re fucked open and filled and god, he’s not stopping. You look back over your shoulder, dizzy, ruined.

And Hyunjin’s eyes are locked on your face—wild. Starved. Obsessed.

“I’m not done,” he says, voice barely human. “Not till you cum on my cock. Not till I fuck my name so deep into you it echoes.”

His fingers rub faster. His thrusts get rougher. And then—

Everything snaps.

You cum again—louder, harder, legs shaking, walls pulsing around him like a vice.

“Holy fuck,” he shouts, cock twitching—

And then he’s spilling into you, deep and hot, hips stuttering, breath caught in his throat.

For a moment, the only sound is your breathing. The ruin. The afterglow. His cock still buried inside you. His arms wrapping around your torso as he leans in and presses a kiss to your back.

“Worth every second I waited,” he whispers.

You laugh—wrecked and glowing. “Told you you’d break the chair.”

“Worth it,” he grins.

Then: “Round two?”

You snort. “Gimme ten minutes and a juice box.”

He kisses your shoulder. “Done.” He kisses again, again, and again. “You okay?” he whispers.

You nod slowly. “Better than.”

He chuckles under his breath, one arm tightening around your waist. “I could stay inside you all day,” he murmurs. “But we’d destroy the whole damn shop.”

You feel him pull out—slowly, carefully, letting you feel every inch retreat until your body clenches one last time in protest.

A gasp escapes your lips.

Hyunjin groans softly behind you. “Don’t do that,” he warns. “I’m already thinking about round two.”

You give him a breathless laugh and he grins. Now pulling up your panties, still bunched halfway down one thigh. He slides them up slowly, smoothing the lace back into place, pressing a kiss to your right cheek as he finishes.

Next come the shorts. He helps you step into them, then pulls them up gently, carefully over your still-tender skin. He pauses at your waistband. Fingers resting there. Holding.

“Let me see it,” he whispers.

You glance back, confused.

“The tattoo.” he clarifies, voice soft.

You shift your hip toward him, tugging the waistband down just enough.

He crouches again.

One hand cradles your thigh. The other touches just above the wrap.

His eyes go soft.

“I can’t believe I finally got to mark you,” he says, almost to himself. “Right here. Where no one else gets to touch.”

You watch him trace the wrap with two fingers, reverent. Then—

He kisses the corner of it. Barely-there. Sacred. You feel your heart stutter. He looks up at you—flushed, hair a mess, lips swollen, eyes absolutely feral with devotion.

“Come home with me,” he says.

Your breath catches. “Hyunjin—”

“I’m not done with you,” he murmurs. “I need to see that tattoo in the morning light. Need to kiss every part I didn’t get to tonight. Need you in my bed. On my sheets. Wearing nothing but your bruises and my name.”

You stare at him. Then lean down. And kiss him. Soft. Slow. Final.

“Yeah,” you breathe. “Okay. Let’s go.”

You wake up to the feeling of his fingers on your hip.

Not just touching—tracing. Careful. Curious. Worshipful.

The morning light spills through the blinds in lazy stripes, painting the sheets in pale gold and soft gray. You’re lying on your side, half under the duvet, one leg bare and bent—perfectly exposing your hip. The wrap is still on.

Hyunjin is shirtless, hair an absolute mess, lips kiss-swollen and pink. His chain dangles forward as he leans down to look closer, one hand brushing back your shirt to keep it out of the way.

You blink sleepily. “You’re staring.”

He doesn’t even pretend to deny it.

“Can’t help it,” he murmurs. “I know I just did this, but I still can’t believe it’s mine.”

You snort. “You mean mine.”

His gaze flicks up.

“No,” he says softly. “I meant what I said.”

He leans in. Kisses just beside the wrap. “You let me mark you,” he whispers. “Right where I’ve always dreamed.”

You feel your stomach flip, heat blooming down your spine. “You’re being sappy,” you mumble, hiding your face in the pillow.

He grins. “You love it.”

His fingers trail lower. Along your thigh. To the dip just before it curves into your ass.

You squirm. “Hyunjin—”

“Let me see how sore you are,” he says, voice suddenly lower, throatier.

He lifts the covers. Exposes both legs. His eyes darken at the sight—faint bruises from where he held you. Scratches on his arms from when you clung to him.

And then—he kisses your thigh. Slow. Open-mouthed. Lingering. “I want to put another one here,” he says.

You blink. “Another what?”

“A tattoo,” he says. “Something small. Hidden. Right where only I get to see it.”

He slides lower, kissing your inner thigh now. His hair brushes your skin. His breath is hot.

You shiver. “Hyunjin…”

His mouth pauses a breath away from your cunt. Then: “Or maybe I’ll just taste you again first. Remind you who you belong to before we start sketching.”

You moan—already soaked, already clenching.

But he just smirks.

“You want it, don’t you?” he murmurs. “Want to be mine in ink and sweat and everything else.”

You nod, voice wrecked. “Yes. Fuck, yes.”

He lowers his head again. “And you will be,” he whispers. “One mark at a time.”