#lighted coffered ceiling | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

sixeyesonathiel · 17 days ago

Text

love is tangled (literally)

pairing — prince satoru x princess reader

synopsis: prince satoru gojo has everything—unmatched beauty, terrifying competence, and seventeen government-funded mirrors dedicated to his face. but when royal life starts feeling a little too flawless, he sets out on a solo quest for romance, adventure, and maybe something meaningful beyond his reflection. what he finds in a cursed tower isn’t quite what he expected—but then again, neither is he. a fluffy, ridiculous fairytale about vanity, hair problems, and the kind of love that sneaks up on you between sword swings and dramatic monologues.

tags -> fairy tale, crack treated seriously, romantic comedy, fluff, banter, attempt at humor, gojo satoru is a hopeless romantic, reader has impossibly long hair, sukuna is a very tired dragon, whirlwind romance, dramatic rescues and poor life choices

wc — 27k | gen. m.list | read on ao3?

a/n: dropping whatever's rotting in my docs except the fics with actual updates pending 😭 please put the pitchforks down i might have undiagnosed adhd 🥀

prince satoru gojo had been blessed by the gods with a face that could make angels weep and demons convert to righteousness.

his hair defied the very concept of ordinary platinum—each strand seemed to hold captured starlight, shifting between pearl and gossamer depending on how the light struck it, like silk spun from winter dreams. when he moved, it flowed with him like liquid mercury, catching shadows and illuminating them, making even the palace servants pause mid-step to witness something that shouldn’t exist in the mortal realm. it fell in waves that seemed to have their own gravitational pull, drawing the eye and holding it captive until people forgot what they’d been doing in the first place.

his eyes were stranger still—not simply blue, but the color of frozen lightning, pale as morning frost yet sharp enough to cut glass. they held an otherworldly luminescence, as if someone had taken pieces of the sky just before dawn and given them the audacity to think. when he blinked, it was like watching stars being born and dying in the same breath. when he focused that gaze on someone, they often forgot their own names.

at this particular moment, he was conducting his morning ritual of existing magnificently in front of his favorite mirror—a floor-to-ceiling masterpiece of polished silver that had been specifically commissioned because regular mirrors simply couldn’t contain his radiance without cracking. three previous mirrors had actually shattered from the sheer overwhelming nature of his reflection, leading to what the royal glaziers had termed “the great mirror crisis of last tuesday.”

“truly exceptional work today,” he murmured to his reflection, tilting his head to examine the sharp line of his jaw. the movement sent his hair cascading over one shoulder like spilled moonlight, and he couldn’t suppress the satisfied curve of his mouth. “the people should really send thank-you notes for this kind of visual experience.”

he adjusted his posture slightly, watching the way the morning light played across his features. even his most casual movements held an unconscious elegance that made court painters weep with frustration—no canvas could capture the way he simply existed in space, the fluid grace that seemed to bend reality around him.

satoru had been born into wealth so obscene it was practically a war crime against poverty. his kingdom’s treasury didn’t just overflow with gold—it hemorrhaged the stuff. the royal coffers were supplemented by what his particularly creative advisors had dubbed the “emergency satoru shrine maintenance program,” a mirror tax that funded the constant upkeep of the seventeen shrines dedicated to his beauty scattered throughout the realm. pilgrims came from neighboring kingdoms just to gaze upon his portrait, often leaving offerings of flowers and perfume.

“it’s very fair and reasonable,” he’d announced during the tax implementation, his fingers moving with unconscious grace to adjust a strand of hair that had dared to fall out of perfect place. “beauty this transcendent requires proper worship. i’m really doing them a service by existing where they can witness it.”

the royal council had nodded along because, frankly, they’d all been a little hypnotized by the way sunlight caught the angles of his face during the announcement. two of them had actually walked into walls afterward, still dazed by the experience.

but here was the thing that made satoru’s existence both a blessing and a curse: he was devastatingly, impossibly good at everything. not just competent—transcendent. it was almost offensive how effortlessly excellence flowed from him like water from a spring.

sword tournaments had become a joke after he’d won the first one by accident. he’d shown up fashionably late, still adjusting his hair from the wind, and proceeded to move through opponents like he was choreographing a ballet. his blade work was pure poetry—each strike flowing into the next with liquid grace that made grown men weep at the sheer artistry of it all. he’d defeated the kingdom’s greatest swordsman while literally not paying attention, his gaze fixed on his reflection in his blade’s surface.

“it’s not my fault they move so slowly,” he’d said afterward, not even breathing hard, his hair still perfectly arranged despite the athletic exertion. “i was just trying to make it look nice.”

by the third tournament, they’d stopped inviting competitors. watching him fence was less like witnessing a battle and more like observing a dance choreographed by the gods themselves. the kingdom’s sword masters had collectively retired, claiming they could never again lift a blade without feeling inadequate.

archery? he’d won that competition while blindfolded, claiming he could “feel where beauty needed to go.” the arrows had formed a perfect heart shape in the target. horseback riding? his mount had actually refused to let anyone else ride it afterward, apparently spoiled by the experience of carrying someone so magnificent.

the fashion circuits had declared him their eternal champion after he’d shown up to a royal gala wearing robes that seemed to be cut from captured clouds. the fabric moved around his frame like morning mist, shifting between silver and white and something that didn’t have a name yet. he hadn’t even tried particularly hard—just thrown on whatever looked appropriately magnificent—but the collective gasp from the crowd had been audible from three kingdoms away. several ladies had fainted. one duke had proposed marriage on the spot.

“i don’t understand why everyone’s so surprised,” he’d said, genuinely puzzled by the reaction. “this is just what i look like.”

the royal tailors had wept openly, knowing they’d never create anything more perfect than what he’d worn that night. fashion houses across the continent had since changed their entire aesthetic to chase after something that came naturally to him.

then there were the perfume sponsorships. three different houses had begged him to endorse their fragrances, and honestly, he’d barely needed to do anything. just existing in the same room as their products had been enough to sell out their entire stock. “eau de satoru,” one particularly bold company had named their signature scent, though he’d politely declined to officially endorse something so obviously inferior to his natural aroma.

music? he’d picked up a lute once at a court gathering and accidentally composed what historians would later call “the most hauntingly beautiful melody ever created.” he’d just been absentmindedly plucking strings while looking at his reflection in a nearby goblet. the piece had made the entire court weep, and he’d set the instrument down with a casual “oh, that’s nice” before wandering off to find a better mirror.

painting? his casual sketches had been mistaken for masterpieces. dancing? his natural grace had redefined what movement could be. poetry? his impromptu verses had made the kingdom’s greatest bards consider changing careers.

which was the problem, really. satoru had conquered everything worth conquering, mastered every skill worth mastering, and looked absolutely devastating while doing it. the result was a bone-deep, soul-crushing boredom that not even his own reflection could cure.

he traced one finger along his jawline, watching the gesture in the mirror with the same fascination others might reserve for watching shooting stars. even his own movements entranced him—the way his hand moved with unconscious grace, fingers long and elegant as they mapped the perfect angles of his face.

“there has to be something,” he mused aloud, his voice carrying the kind of melodic quality that made birds pause their songs to listen. “some grand adventure worthy of this masterpiece.”

because beneath all the vanity, all the self-importance and justified arrogance, satoru was a hopeless romantic. he’d read every epic poem, every tale of knights and quests and true love, and somewhere in his perfectly sculpted chest beat the heart of someone who genuinely believed in fairy tale endings. he wanted to be the hero of his own story, not just the beautiful prince who looked good in tapestries.

he wanted someone to rescue. someone to fall in love with. someone who would look at him and see not just devastating beauty, but a soul worth loving.

late at night, when the mirrors couldn’t see him, he’d sometimes wonder what it would be like to meet someone who could match his magnificence. someone who could make his heart race the way his reflection made others’ hearts stop. someone who could see past the perfect exterior to the person beneath who desperately wanted to matter for more than just his looks.

not that he’d ever admit that to anyone. his image had to be maintained, after all.

“perhaps,” he said to his reflection, “i should commission a quest. something with proper dramatic potential.”

he moved away from the mirror, beginning his morning routine with the kind of unconscious elegance that made even simple tasks look like performance art. first, the selection of his outfit—always a carefully considered choice that looked effortlessly perfect. today he chose robes of pale blue silk that seemed to shimmer with their own inner light, the color bringing out the impossible shade of his eyes.

then came the hair ritual. not that his hair ever truly needed tending—it seemed to style itself in whatever way would look most magnificent—but he enjoyed the process. the careful brushing, the subtle adjustments, the way each strand fell exactly where it should. it was meditative, in a way, this daily celebration of his own perfection.

breakfast was served in the morning room, where seventeen different mirrors had been strategically placed to catch the light at various angles throughout the day. satoru ate with the same unconscious grace he brought to everything else, each movement of his hands somehow elegant and purposeful. even the way he lifted his cup to his lips was poetry in motion.

“your highness,” one of his advisors ventured, entering with a stack of papers. “the morning reports.”

satoru waved a dismissive hand, not looking up from his reflection in the silver serving tray. “anything actually interesting?”

“the usual, sire. tribute from the eastern provinces, requests for royal appearances, several marriage proposals from neighboring kingdoms...”

“boring,” satoru sighed, finally lifting his gaze. the advisor immediately stumbled slightly, still not quite immune to the full force of those impossible eyes. “anything with dragons? quests? damsels in distress?”

“i... no, your highness. nothing of that nature.”

satoru slumped elegantly in his chair, managing to look devastatingly beautiful even while displaying disappointment. “how am i supposed to have a proper love story if nothing interesting ever happens?”

the advisor blinked, clearly not equipped for this particular royal crisis. “perhaps... you could create your own adventure, sire?”

“create my own...” satoru’s eyes lit up with sudden interest. “that’s... actually not terrible advice.”

he stood with fluid grace, his robes settling around him like they’d been personally arranged by the gods themselves. each movement was unconsciously elegant, from the way his hand brushed against the table to the subtle tilt of his head as he began to plan.

“i need to think,” he announced, which was code for “i need to stare at myself in various mirrors until inspiration strikes.”

satoru made his way to the palace gardens, where a particularly lovely reflecting pool awaited his attention. the water was always perfectly still, creating a mirror-like surface that captured his image with crystalline clarity. he settled gracefully on the marble bench beside it, gazing down at his reflection with the same intensity others might reserve for solving complex mathematical equations.

the problem was that he’d already done everything a prince was supposed to do. he’d mastered combat, politics, arts, and sciences. he’d charmed foreign dignitaries, inspired poets, and accidentally caused several minor international incidents just by existing too magnificently in public. what was left?

love, of course. true love. the kind of earth-shattering, world-changing romance that would be worthy of someone like him. but how did one find true love when one was already perfect? what could possibly be dramatic enough, challenging enough, romantic enough to deserve his attention?

he was contemplating this dilemma when he heard voices drifting from the courtyard beyond the garden walls. satoru’s ears—perfectly shaped, naturally—perked up with interest. gossip was often tedious, but occasionally it contained the seeds of something more entertaining.

he moved toward the sound with fluid grace, each step unconsciously elegant. the afternoon light caught his hair as he approached the garden’s edge, creating a halo effect that would have made religious painters weep with envy.

“heard about the cursed tower to the north?” one voice was saying, rough and weathered like an old soldier’s.

“the one with the dragon?” another replied, this one higher, probably a servant. “they say there’s a beautiful princess trapped inside, but the beast’s never let anyone near. killed every knight who’s tried.”

satoru’s reflection in a nearby fountain suddenly became infinitely more interesting. his eyes widened slightly—just enough to make them catch the light like captured stars—and his lips curved into the kind of smile that could launch a thousand ships and probably sink them too, just for the drama of it.

“cursed tower,” he breathed, the words carrying the weight of divine revelation. his fingers unconsciously moved to smooth down his hair, though it was already perfect, the gesture more instinctive vanity than necessity.

his mind began to race, spinning possibilities like silk. a cursed tower. a dragon—presumably fearsome and terrible. a princess who had been trapped away from the world, completely unprepared for the earth-shattering experience of meeting him.

this was it. this was exactly what he’d been waiting for.

he could practically see it now: the dramatic rescue, the grateful princess falling instantly and completely under his spell, the kingdom celebrating not just her freedom but the sheer romantic perfection of the whole affair. it would be a story worthy of his magnificence, a tale that would be told for generations about the prince so beautiful he could charm dragons and so heroic he could rescue princesses with nothing but his devastating good looks and impeccable sword work.

satoru turned from the fountain, his robes settling around him like they’d been personally tailored by the gods themselves. each movement was unconsciously elegant, from the way his hand brushed against the fountain’s edge to the subtle tilt of his head as he began to plan.

“a quest,” he announced to his reflection in the water, because even his most private thoughts deserved an audience this beautiful. “a solo mission of destiny.”

he paused, considering the logistics. bringing anyone else would just ruin the lighting anyway. this was clearly meant to be his moment, his story. companions would only dilute the dramatic impact of his heroic arrival. besides, what dragon could possibly resist his charm? what princess could fail to fall in love at first sight?

his reflection seemed to nod in agreement, and satoru’s smile widened into something that could have powered the sun itself. finally, an adventure worthy of his attention. finally, something that might actually be interesting.

he was already imagining the princess—probably lovely in that delicate, ordinary way that would make his own beauty shine even brighter by comparison. she’d been trapped for so long, isolated from the world, that she’d probably never seen anything as magnificent as him. the shock alone might make her faint right into his arms. he’d catch her, naturally, with the kind of effortless grace that would make the gesture look like choreographed poetry.

the dragon would be fierce, of course, but dragons were notoriously susceptible to beauty. he’d probably only need to remove his traveling cloak and let his natural radiance do the work. the beast would be so stunned by his magnificence that it would forget to be threatening.

satoru moved toward his chambers, each step a study in unconscious elegance. he’d need the perfect outfit for this quest—something that would look appropriately heroic while still showcasing his natural radiance. perhaps the white and gold ensemble that made his hair look like spun starlight, or the midnight blue that brought out the impossible color of his eyes.

“perfect,” he murmured, catching sight of himself in another mirror as he passed. “absolutely perfect.”

and for the first time in months, prince satoru gojo wasn’t bored.

this was his moment. his time. his destiny.

it was time to fall in love.

the palace sleeps in that peculiar way that only places of immense wealth can manage—silently, expensively, and with the kind of peace that comes from knowing all your enemies are either dead or too intimidated to try anything. satoru’s chambers occupy the entire east wing, because naturally they do, and the moonlight streaming through his floor-to-ceiling windows catches on surfaces that cost more than small countries.

the bed itself is a work of art, carved from a single piece of white oak that supposedly once sheltered a forest goddess. the sheets are silk so fine they feel like water against skin, dyed the exact shade of midnight that makes his hair look like captured starlight. his pillows are stuffed with down from birds that only molt once every seven years, and the mattress was crafted by artisans who took a blood oath never to make another like it.

he’s supposed to be asleep. instead, he’s staring at his reflection in the ornate mirror positioned strategically across from his bed, watching the way shadows play across his features in the silver light. his hair spills across his pillow like captured starlight, each strand seeming to hold its own luminescence. even rumpled with sleep, even at this ungodly hour, he looks like something carved from moonbeams and impossible dreams.

the mirror itself is a masterpiece—hand-blown glass so perfect it makes reality look slightly disappointing by comparison, framed in silver that was mined from mountains that no longer exist. he’d commissioned it specifically for this angle, because even his unconscious moments deserve to be witnessed by something beautiful.

“this is ridiculous,” he murmurs to his reflection, though whether he’s referring to his beauty or his current state of sleeplessness remains unclear. probably both. his voice carries that particular quality it always does in the deep hours of night—softer somehow, more intimate, as if he’s sharing secrets with the darkness itself.

the quest calls to him from where he’s hidden the hastily scrawled details beneath his silk sheets—a dragon, a tower, a princess who’s probably devastatingly beautiful but not quite as beautiful as him because that would be cosmically unfair. it’s exactly the kind of adventure that ballads are written about, the kind that establishes legendary status, the kind that he’s been unconsciously preparing for his entire life.

he’d heard about it three days ago, whispered rumors in the servants’ quarters that had somehow made their way to his perfectly shaped ears. a tower that no one could approach, a dragon that had never been defeated, a princess whose beauty was supposedly legendary. the kind of quest that princes dream about, the kind that separates the truly extraordinary from the merely exceptional.

and satoru has never been merely anything.

he slides from his bed with liquid grace, bare feet silent on marble floors that reflect his movement like a dark mirror. his nightclothes—because even his pajamas are tailored silk—whisper against his skin as he moves toward his wardrobe. the fabric shifts around his form like it’s grateful for the privilege of touching him, and he supposes it probably is.

his wardrobe is less a closet and more a temple to sartorial perfection. three walls of his dressing room are lined with clothing that represents the finest craftsmanship from seven different kingdoms. his everyday wear hangs alongside formal court attire, battle gear next to silk pajamas, each piece carefully maintained by a staff of six who consider their work a sacred calling.

choosing an outfit for dragon-slaying requires careful consideration. this isn’t just about practicality—though he needs to be able to move, to fight, to look devastatingly heroic while doing both. it’s about the story that will be told afterward, the songs that will be sung, the paintings that will be commissioned. he needs to look like destiny made manifest, like the answer to every maiden’s prayer and every dragon’s nightmare.

he runs his fingers along the various fabrics, feeling silk slide against his skin like liquid moonlight, wool that’s softer than most people’s dreams, leather that gleams like polished obsidian. each piece tells a story, holds memories of victories and conquests and moments when he’d looked so beautiful that reality itself had seemed to pause to admire him.

the midnight-blue cloak goes on first, settling around his shoulders with the weight of expensive fabric and good tailoring. the material whispers against his skin as he fastens the silver clasp—a piece of jewelry that cost more than most people’s annual income, shaped like a crescent moon and studded with diamonds that catch light even in darkness. the cloak itself is a masterwork, woven from silk that was supposedly blessed by moon nymphs and dyed with ink from creatures that exist only in the deepest parts of the ocean.

he watches himself in the mirror as he adjusts the drape, making sure it falls just so across his shoulders, creating the perfect silhouette. the deep blue makes his skin look like porcelain touched with starlight, and his hair—god, his hair—seems to glow against the dark fabric like captured moonbeams.

his pants are leather, but not just any leather. they’re made from the hide of some creature that lived in the spaces between dreams, supple and strong and the exact shade of midnight that makes his legs look impossibly long. they fit like a second skin, tailored to showcase every line of his form while still allowing for the kind of movement that separates legendary swordsmen from corpses.

the shirt beneath is silk so fine it’s almost weightless, a pale blue that echoes the color of his eyes when he’s feeling particularly dangerous. it’s cut to hug his torso in all the right places, with sleeves that somehow manage to be both practical and elegant, ending in cuffs that are secured with buttons carved from some rare mineral that pulses with its own inner light.

his boots—those impossible white leather creations that cost more than most people see in a lifetime—slide on with practiced ease. they’re not just footwear; they’re a statement. crafted by an artisan who spent three years learning the secrets of working with hide from creatures that exist only in winter storms, blessed by seven different cobblers who swore oaths of perfection, and enchanted with protections that would make them suitable for walking through fire, water, or the petty jealousy of lesser princes.

he catches sight of himself in the mirror and pauses, struck by his own reflection. the outfit transforms him from merely devastating to absolutely legendary. he looks like he stepped out of a painting, like the answer to every prayer whispered in the dark, like the kind of prince that stories are built around.

“absolutely devastating,” he whispers to himself, and means it completely. his voice carries that particular satisfaction that comes from being exactly as magnificent as you think you are.

his sword comes next, that masterwork of steel and magic that’s never failed him, never let him down, never made him look anything less than absolutely perfect while wielding it. the blade itself was forged from metal that fell from the stars, folded and refolded until it achieved a perfection that mortal steel could never match. the hilt is wrapped in leather that once belonged to a creature of legend, and the pommel is a stone that contains a fragment of the first light ever created.

when he draws it, the blade hums with power, responding to his touch like it’s been waiting for this moment. light seems to gather along the edges, not harsh or overwhelming, but subtle and beautiful, like moonlight made solid. it weighs nothing in his hand, perfectly balanced, an extension of his will made manifest.

he slides it into its sheath with the soft whisper of metal against leather, and the sound is somehow both peaceful and dangerous, like a lullaby sung by something that could kill you without effort.

sneaking out of the palace is almost insultingly easy. the guards who patrol the endless corridors have been trained since childhood to serve the royal family with absolute discretion, which means they’ve developed the useful skill of selective blindness when it comes to certain activities. they nod respectfully as he passes, their eyes skating over his adventure attire with practiced indifference.

“good evening, your highness,” they murmur, as if princes regularly wander the halls in full battle regalia at three in the morning. as if this is perfectly normal behavior for someone who’s supposed to be sleeping peacefully in his ridiculously expensive bed.

satoru inclines his head with the kind of regal grace that makes even casual acknowledgments look like royal decrees. his hair catches the torchlight as he moves, and he catches several guards stealing glances at his profile as he passes. he pretends not to notice, but files the information away for future reference. even his stealth missions are opportunities to be admired.

the palace corridors stretch endlessly in all directions, lined with tapestries that tell the stories of his ancestors’ victories and paintings that capture moments of historical significance. his footsteps echo softly on marble floors that reflect his movement like dark water, and every surface seems designed to showcase his passage.

he’s walked these halls his entire life, but tonight they feel different. tonight, he’s not just a prince moving through his domain—he’s a hero beginning his legend. the distinction matters more than he’d expected.

the stables smell of hay and warm horses, leather and the peculiar comfort that comes from creatures who exist solely to serve human ambition. lanterns cast pools of golden light across the cobblestones, and the soft sounds of sleeping animals create a symphony of peaceful contentment.

reginald—his pristine white stallion who’s probably more beautiful than most people’s wedding days—occupies the largest stall, naturally. the horse is a work of art in his own right, bred from lines that stretch back to the first horses that ever carried heroes into legend. his coat gleams like fresh snow even in the dim light, and his mane falls in perfect waves that would make court ladies weep with envy.

“hello, gorgeous,” satoru murmurs, running his hand along the horse’s neck. the animal’s coat is silk under his fingers, warm and alive and perfect. reginald nickers softly at his approach, pressing his massive head against satoru’s chest with the kind of affection that speaks of years of partnership.

they make quite a picture together—the impossibly beautiful prince and his equally magnificent steed. satoru has commissioned seventeen different paintings of them in various poses, and every single one looks like it belongs in a temple dedicated to aesthetic perfection.

“ready for an adventure?” he asks, his voice carrying that particular warmth he reserves for creatures and people he actually cares about. it’s a softer tone than his usual princely projection, more intimate, more real.

saddling reginald is a ritual he’s performed thousands of times, but tonight it feels ceremonial. the leather is supple under his hands, worn smooth by years of use but still strong enough to carry them through whatever lies ahead. the bridle gleams with silver fittings that catch the lantern light, and the saddle blanket is embroidered with the royal crest in thread that costs more per yard than most people make in a month.

when he swings up onto reginald’s back, the motion is fluid and graceful, the kind of mounting that makes riding look like poetry in motion. his cloak settles around him perfectly, and his hair falls across his shoulders in a way that would make angels weep with inadequacy.

they set off into the night with the kind of quiet confidence that comes from being absolutely certain of your own magnificence. reginald’s hooves beat a steady rhythm against the cobblestones, then the dirt road that leads away from the palace and toward whatever adventure awaits.

the ride begins gloriously. satoru sits his horse with the kind of natural grace that makes riding look like an art form, his posture perfect, his hands gentle on the reins. his cloak streams behind him like captured midnight, and his hair moves with the wind in a way that suggests even the elements are conspiring to make him look magnificent.

the countryside passes by in a blur of sleeping villages and moonlit fields, forests that whisper secrets to the wind and hills that roll away into darkness. the night air carries the scent of growing things, of earth and sky and the promise of dawn still hours away.

for the first hour, everything is perfect. satoru feels like he’s living inside a ballad, like he’s become the hero of his own story in the most literal sense. reginald moves beneath him with the smooth gait of a creature born for greatness, and together they cut through the darkness like a comet streaking across the sky.

it’s when the landscape begins to change that things start to go sideways. the solid dirt road gives way to something more questionable, and the sweet scent of growing things is gradually replaced by the muddy smell of stagnant water and decomposing vegetation.

“oh,” satoru says as they crest a hill and the swampland stretches out before them, an endless expanse of churning mud and twisted trees that looks like the earth’s attempt at creating something deliberately unpleasant. “that’s... unfortunate.”

the bog extends as far as the eye can see, a landscape of brown water and suspicious bubbles, of plants that look like they’d rather be left alone and sounds that suggest things are moving beneath the surface. it’s exactly the kind of terrain that heroes are supposed to traverse without complaint, the kind of obstacle that builds character and proves worthiness.

it’s also exactly the kind of terrain that pristine white horses want nothing to do with.

reginald takes one look at the swamp, then at his immaculate coat, then back at the swamp. his ears flatten against his head, and he makes a sound that, if horses could speak, would translate to something like “absolutely not.”

“come on,” satoru coaxes, his voice taking on that particular tone he uses when he’s trying to convince someone to do something they obviously don’t want to do. it’s the voice he uses on court advisors when he wants to implement ridiculous policies, on tailors when he wants impossible alterations, on mirrors when he wants them to reflect him from more flattering angles. “it’s just a little mud. we’re on a quest.”

reginald’s response is to take three deliberate steps backward, his hooves finding purchase on solid ground with the kind of determination that suggests he’s made his decision and will not be swayed by princely charm or royal decree.

“reginald,” satoru says, his voice climbing toward something that might, in someone less dignified, be called a whine. “you can’t be serious. it’s just dirt. very wet dirt.”

but reginald is completely serious. he tosses his perfect mane, fixes satoru with the kind of look that horses give when they think their riders are being unreasonable, and then—with the kind of dignity that only extremely expensive animals can manage—turns around and begins walking back toward the palace.

“reginald!” satoru calls, his voice reaching levels of incredulity that would make his voice coaches weep with despair. “reginald, you can’t just leave me here!”

but reginald absolutely can and absolutely does. his white tail swishes with what looks suspiciously like satisfaction as he picks up speed, transitioning from a dignified walk to a determined trot, clearly intent on returning to his comfortable stall and his breakfast of oats that cost more than most people’s entire meals.

satoru watches his magnificent steed abandon him with the kind of betrayal that cuts deeper than any sword wound. this was not how the ballads were supposed to go. heroes don’t get ditched by their horses. heroes don’t find themselves standing alone at the edge of disgusting swampland while their noble steeds decide that comfort is more important than glory.

“this is unacceptable,” he announces to the empty air, his voice carrying that particular edge that means he’s about to do something dramatic. the words echo across the bog, bouncing back from twisted trees and stagnant water with the kind of persistence that suggests even the landscape is mocking him.

but satoru is nothing if not adaptable. if his horse won’t carry him through the muck, he’ll simply have to find another way. magic, after all, is what separates princes from peasants, heroes from wannabes, legends from footnotes.

his hands rise, fingers weaving through the air with practiced precision, and magic responds to his call like it’s been waiting for this moment. the spell builds around him, invisible but powerful, lifting him from the ground with the kind of casual defiance of physics that makes magic users insufferable to be around.

his boots rise three inches from the earth, hovering just above the surface of the mud with the kind of elegant suspension that turns necessity into art. his cloak settles around him perfectly, because even his magic has aesthetic sensibilities, and the faint glow that surrounds him makes him look like he’s been touched by starlight.

“much better,” he murmurs, taking his first floating step toward the tower. the magic holds him steady, carries him forward with the kind of smooth motion that makes walking on air look as natural as breathing.

the swamp is a study in everything satoru finds personally offensive. the mud bubbles with the kind of enthusiastic grossness that suggests things are living and dying and decomposing beneath the surface, all while emitting sounds that belong in nightmares rather than royal quests. twisted trees rise from the murky water like the skeletal fingers of buried giants, their branches draped with moss that hangs like tattered curtains in a haunted theater.

the air itself seems thick with moisture and unpleasant possibilities, and every breath tastes like stagnant water and decomposing leaves. there are sounds coming from the deeper parts of the bog—splashing, slithering, and the occasional call of something that probably used to be a bird but has since decided to become an agent of psychological warfare.

satoru floats through it all with the kind of serene grace that comes from being absolutely certain that none of this can touch him. his magic holds him steady, carries him forward with the smooth motion of someone who’s decided that physics are merely suggestions. his boots remain three inches above the worst of it, pristine white leather unblemished by the chaos beneath.

“this is the most disgusting place i’ve ever seen,” he announces to a particularly offensive patch of bubbling muck, his voice carrying the kind of authority that makes even inanimate objects feel judged. “and i’ve been to diplomatic dinners.”

his reflection in the scattered pools of clearer water continues to confirm what he already knows—that he looks absolutely magnificent while being mildly inconvenienced by apocalyptic terrain. his hair moves with the humid breeze in a way that suggests even the atmosphere is trying to create more flattering angles for him, and his cloak billows dramatically despite the fact that he’s moving at a pace that could generously be called “leisurely floating.”

he’s been traveling for precisely forty-seven minutes (he’s been counting, because even his suffering must be documented for future ballads), and his reflection in every puddle he passes only confirms what he already knows: he looks devastatingly beautiful while being mildly inconvenienced by the worst landscape design in recorded history.

the thought of the ballads that will be written about this moment sustains him through the worst of it. he can already hear the verses about the prince who was too beautiful to touch the ground, who floated through the cursed swampland like a vision of divine perfection, who faced the bog of despair with nothing but magic and unshakeable confidence in his own magnificence.

“the prince did cross the swamp of doom,” he murmurs to himself, working out the meter, “his beauty bright as flowers in bloom, his magic strong, his spirit light, he floated through the darkest night...”

it’s not his best work, but it’s a solid foundation for whatever court poet gets assigned to immortalize this adventure. he makes a mental note to commission someone with actual talent once he gets back to the palace with his rescued princess and his well-earned legendary status.

the deeper he goes into the swamp, the more the landscape seems designed to test his resolve. the trees grow closer together, their branches reaching toward him like they’re trying to snag his cloak or tangle his hair. the water grows murkier, and things move beneath the surface with the kind of sinuous grace that suggests they’re either very large or very hungry.

satoru maintains his composure through all of it, his jaw working in that particular way it does when he’s annoyed but trying to look heroic about it—a slight tightening at the corners, his lower lip pushed out just enough to suggest noble suffering without actual ugliness. his hands remain steady on the invisible currents of magic that carry him forward, and his posture stays perfect despite the fact that he’s essentially walking on air through a landscape that looks like it was designed by someone with a personal vendetta against beauty.

“this is ridiculous,” he mutters to a particularly offensive patch of swamp, his voice carrying that melodic quality that makes court ladies swoon and his enemies hesitate just long enough for him to kill them. “i’m a prince, not a... a trudger through primordial soup.”

a sound from somewhere deeper in the bog responds to his complaint—something between a growl and a laugh that suggests whatever lives in these waters finds his predicament amusing. satoru’s eyes narrow with the kind of disdain usually reserved for poorly mixed cocktails and people who think they’re better looking than he is.

“excuse me?” he calls toward the source of the sound, his voice carrying the kind of imperial authority that’s been making people nervous since he learned to talk. “did you just laugh at me?”

the response is another sound, definitely more laugh than growl this time, followed by a splash that suggests something large just moved closer to his position. satoru’s hand moves automatically to his sword hilt, fingers wrapping around the grip with the kind of practiced ease that’s kept him alive through seventeen assassination attempts and one very awkward dinner party.

“i’ll have you know,” he announces to the swamp in general, “that i am prince satoru of the realm of eternal spring, heir to the throne of unending summer, and widely considered to be the most beautiful man in seven kingdoms. possibly eight, depending on how you count the disputed territories.”

the splashing stops, as if whatever lives in the bog is considering this information. satoru takes this as his cue to continue floating forward, his magic carrying him with the kind of steady determination that suggests he’s not about to let swamp creatures delay his appointment with destiny.

“i’m on a quest,” he adds, in case the bog’s residents are interested in context. “dragon slaying, princess rescuing, the usual heroic activities. very important work.”

the silence that follows feels almost respectful, and satoru allows himself a small smile of satisfaction. even bog monsters, apparently, recognize quality when they see it.

he continues his journey through the swamp with renewed confidence, his magic holding him steady above the worst of the terrain. the landscape gradually begins to change as he moves deeper into the cursed territory—the trees grow taller and more twisted, the water becomes darker and more still, and the air itself seems to thicken with the weight of old magic and older stories.

it’s when the mist begins to roll in that satoru knows he’s getting close to something significant. the fog moves with the kind of purposeful flow that suggests it’s not just weather but atmosphere, the kind of dramatic environmental effect that shows up in all the best legends.

“finally,” he murmurs, his voice carrying a note of satisfaction that suggests he’s been waiting for exactly this kind of ominous atmospheric development. “proper quest ambiance.”

the mist swirls around him as he moves, parting before his passage like it recognizes royalty when it sees it. his hair seems to glow in the pale light that filters through the fog, and his cloak moves with the kind of fluid grace that makes even simple movement look like choreography.

and then, rising from the mist like a challenge made manifest, the tower appears.

the tower, when it finally deigns to appear through the mist, is aggressively vertical. satoru stops mid-stride, his head tilting back in a way that showcases the elegant column of his throat, and his eyes—those impossible pools of summer sky trapped in winter ice—narrow with the kind of disdain usually reserved for poorly mixed cocktails.

“that,” he announces to absolutely no one, “is disrespectfully tall.”

his cloak, midnight-blue silk that cost more than most people’s houses, billows dramatically behind him as he approaches the base of the tower. the fabric moves like liquid shadow, every fold calculated to make him look like he’s perpetually walking into a fierce wind even when the air is perfectly still. his hand, pale and long-fingered in a way that suggests he’s never done manual labor in his life (because he hasn’t), rises to cup around his mouth.

“let down your hair!” he calls, his voice projecting with the confidence of someone who’s never been ignored in his life. “my love! your one true destiny arrives!”

he strikes a pose while waiting—one hand on his hip, the other still raised toward the tower, his profile turned at the exact angle that makes his cheekbones look like they could cut glass. his hair catches the dim light filtering through the clouds, each strand seeming to glow with its own inner fire.

silence.

satoru’s perfectly sculpted eyebrows—and they are sculpted, he pays a very talented woman to maintain them twice weekly—draw together in the faintest suggestion of a frown. his lips, naturally the color of winter roses, purse slightly.

“hello?” he tries again, his voice carrying just a hint of petulance now. “hot prince outside. do you want to be saved or not?”

more silence.

the frown deepens, creating a small crease between his brows that he immediately smooths away with two fingers. vanity, thy name is satoru—and he’s perfectly fine with that assessment.

“this is...” he pauses, searching for words grand enough to match his indignation. “this is incredibly rude.”

when the tower continues to ignore him with the audacity of inanimate stone, satoru’s expression shifts. his jaw sets in a way that’s gotten him into trouble since childhood—determined, stubborn, and absolutely convinced of his own righteousness. his hand moves to the ornate sword at his hip, fingers wrapping around the hilt with practiced ease.

“fine,” he says, his voice dropping to that dangerous whisper that court advisors have learned to fear. “we’ll do this the direct way.”

he kicks the door.

not pushes. not tries the handle. kicks, with enough force to splinter the ancient wood into a shower of fragments that somehow manage to avoid his pristine appearance entirely. his leg extends in a perfect line, boot connecting with wood in a way that would make his old combat instructor weep with pride. the door explodes inward with a sound like thunder, and satoru steps through the destruction he’s created with the casual grace of someone walking into a ballroom.

his cloak swirls around him as he enters, sword drawn and glowing with that particular light that means he’s channeling just enough power to look impressive without actually trying. his hair settles around his shoulders like spun moonbeams, and his eyes sweep the interior of the tower with the kind of sharp assessment that’s kept him alive through seventeen assassination attempts and one very awkward dinner party.

what he finds is... not what he expected.

instead of chains and despair, there are teacups. dozens of them, scattered across every available surface in a riot of mismatched patterns. blankets nest in every corner like colorful birds, creating a landscape of soft comfort that speaks of long afternoons and lazy mornings. books lie open on their spines, pages marked with strips of fabric torn from what might once have been very expensive curtains.

and in the corner, looking for all the world like he’s contemplating the existential weight of his own existence, sits a dragon.

not a fearsome dragon. not a terrible dragon. just... a dragon. sighing. audibly.

satoru blinks, his sword wavering slightly in his grip. his mouth opens, then closes, then opens again—a remarkably fish-like expression that he’s never made before and hopes never to make again.

“gods, finally,” the dragon says, his voice carrying the weight of someone who’s been waiting for a very long time for something very specific to happen. “take her. she’s your problem now.”

satoru’s brain, usually so quick to process and categorize threats, stutters to a halt. his eyes, wide and bewildered, fix on the dragon’s face—which is surprisingly expressive for something covered in scales.

“uh,” he says, with all the eloquence of a man whose world has just tilted sideways. “you’re the dragon?”

“i used to be terrifying,” the dragon—sukuna, though satoru doesn’t know that yet—continues, shifting his massive bulk with the resigned air of someone who’s given up on maintaining his fearsome reputation. “now i’m her designated footrest.”

satoru’s gaze follows the dragon’s meaningful look toward a pile of blankets that he’s only just now realizing might contain a person. his grip on his sword tightens, more from confusion than aggression.

“her...” he starts, then trails off as sukuna shifts again, apparently trying to get comfortable on the stone floor.

it’s then that sukuna makes his fatal mistake. he breathes—just a normal, everyday breath, but it’s slightly too loud, slightly too close to satoru’s position. and satoru, trained since childhood to react to any perceived threat with immediate and overwhelming force, moves.

his sword flashes through the air in a perfect arc, light trailing behind the blade like a comet’s tail. his body follows the motion with deadly grace, every muscle working in perfect harmony to deliver exactly the kind of strike that’s made him legendary in three kingdoms and mildly infamous in a fourth.

the blade passes through sukuna’s neck with the whisper-soft sound of steel through silk.

“wait—” sukuna starts to say, his eyes widening with the sudden realization that maybe, just maybe, he should have been more careful around the obviously dangerous pretty boy with the glowing sword.

but it’s too late. his head separates from his shoulders with a soft thud, and his massive body crumples to the ground with the kind of finality that suggests this particular dragon won’t be bothering anyone ever again.

satoru stands frozen for a moment, his sword still extended, his hair drifting around his face like a silver halo. his eyes, wide with surprise, stare at the decidedly dead dragon at his feet. his mouth opens in a perfect ‘o’ of shock, and for just a moment, he looks exactly like what he is—a very pretty, very powerful, very young man who’s just accidentally committed dragon manslaughter.

“oops,” he says, his voice small and uncertain in a way that would probably make his enemies reconsider their opinion of him as an untouchable force of nature.

the silence that follows is broken by a rustling sound from the blanket pile, and satoru’s head snaps up with the kind of sharp attention that suggests he’s very much aware that he’s just killed someone’s... pet? guardian? really large, scaly roommate?

this, he thinks as he watches the blankets shift and move, might be more complicated than he anticipated

the silence stretches like pulled taffy, sticky and uncomfortable. satoru stands there, sword still humming with residual energy, the dragon’s ashes settling around his boots like expensive glitter. his hair catches the dim tower light—not silver, not platinum, but something more like captured starlight given weight, each strand moving with its own lazy arrogance as he turns his head toward the pile of blankets in the corner.

he’s breathing slightly harder than he’d like to admit, not from the fight (please, that was barely a warm-up) but from the sudden realization that he’s actually done it. he’s in the tower. he’s slain the dragon. he’s about to meet his destiny, and his reflection in the grimy window shows him looking appropriately heroic, if a bit ash-dusted.

“did you kill my lizard?”

the voice emerges from what he initially assumed was a very committed fort-building project. blankets shift, revealing glimpses of fabric that might once have been a nightgown but now resembles something a particularly fashionable hermit would wear.

satoru’s first thought is that you sound remarkably unconcerned for someone whose guardian dragon just got dramatically murdered. his second thought is that your voice has a quality to it—something honey-thick and sleep-rough that makes his chest do an odd little flutter.

“lizard?” he repeats, and his voice cracks slightly on the word. he clears his throat, rolling his shoulders back into what he knows is his most dashing pose. “that was a dragon. a fearsome, terrible dragon that i—”

“he made decent soup,” you interrupt, and satoru watches in fascination as more of you emerges from the blanket fortress. “with those little herbs that make your nose tingle.”

you surface slowly, like a very reluctant periscope, and satoru’s brain performs what can only be described as a complete system reboot.

because your hair—good gods, your hair—spills around your shoulders in waves that seem to have their own gravitational pull, cascading down your back in a waterfall that shifts with every movement. it pools around you like liquid silk, spreading across the stone floor in ripples that catch the light and hold it hostage. there’s so much of it, more hair than should be physically possible for one person to possess, and it seems to go on forever, disappearing into the shadows behind you like some kind of textile infinity.

satoru, who has spent his entire life being the most beautiful thing in any room, finds himself momentarily speechless. his fingers tighten around his sword hilt—not from nerves, obviously, but because the weapon suddenly feels foreign in his hands when faced with the reality of you.

“dragon,” he corrects automatically, though his voice has gone slightly hoarse. he gestures vaguely at the ash pile with the kind of theatrical flourish that usually makes people swoon. “i slayed it. for you. very heroically.”

the movement is unconsciously graceful, like everything he does, but there’s a slight tremor in his fingers that he pretends doesn’t exist. his usual confidence—that unshakeable certainty that he’s the main character in everyone’s story—wavers like a candle in wind.

you sit up fully now, and satoru watches in fascination as your hair drags across the stone floor like liquid silk with delusions of grandeur. it’s not just long—it’s long long, the kind of length that suggests magic or madness or both. he can see it trailing behind you, disappearing into the far reaches of the tower, and his mind immediately begins calculating the logistics of this situation with the kind of panicked efficiency usually reserved for military campaigns.

“he was cranky,” you explain, stretching with the kind of elegant boredom that could make grown men weep. your arms rise above your head, spine arching like a cat discovering the concept of leisure, and satoru’s breath catches in his throat. “kept getting woken up by knights screaming and horses neighing and that one guy who kept singing off-key ballads at three in the morning.”,

the way you stretch makes something flutter dangerously in satoru’s chest. he’s seen beautiful things before. he is a beautiful thing. but this feels different, like looking at art that hasn’t been created yet, like witnessing the exact moment a star decides to shine.

“oh no,” he thinks, watching you yawn with the kind of casual devastation that should come with a warning label. “she’s hot. and completely unimpressed with me. this is it. this is the one.”

because you’re looking at him—actually looking at him—with the kind of mild interest someone might reserve for a particularly shiny rock. not awe, not breathless admiration, not even basic human attraction. just... mild curiosity, like he’s a puzzle that might be worth solving if you’re bored enough.

it’s intoxicating.

“you’re shiny,” you observe, tilting your head in a way that makes your hair shift and cascade like a waterfall. then, with devastating casualness, you add, “you got food?”

satoru’s mouth opens, closes, opens again. his reflection in the tower’s grimy windows shows him looking perfectly composed—jaw sharp enough to cut glass, eyes that blue-white color of lightning right before it strikes, hair falling across his forehead in artfully disheveled waves—but inside, his thoughts are performing some kind of interpretive dance about destiny and tragic romance and the way your voice sounds like honey mixed with mild irritation.

“i’m...” he starts, then stops. his usual repertoire of charming introductions—the practiced smile, the perfectly timed hair flip, the way he can make his voice go all low and intimate—feels suddenly inadequate. “i’m your true love?”

he says it like a question, which is unprecedented. satoru gojo does not ask questions about his own magnificence. he states facts. he declares truths. he does not stand in towers looking like a confused angel while a sleepy princess destroys his worldview with casual indifference.

“okay,” you say, and his heart does something aerobatic.

okay. just like that. like being someone’s true love is as simple as agreeing to try a new type of tea. satoru has had people write sonnets about the curve of his smile, commission sculptures of his profile, start wars over the honor of braiding his hair, and you just... say okay.

“but are you strong enough to carry me down twelve flights of stairs?”

satoru blinks. once. twice. his brain is still trying to process the fact that you said ‘okay’ to being his true love with the same energy someone might say ‘okay’ to trying a new sandwich.

“what—”

“because i’m not walking.” you settle back into your nest of blankets, and satoru realizes with growing horror and fascination that your hair isn’t just long—it’s impossibly long. he can see it now, trailing away from you like a river, disappearing into the shadows of the tower’s far corners. some of it is braided with what looks like ribbon, some of it twisted into loose coils, and all of it seems to have a life of its own, moving with each breath you take like it’s responding to some invisible wind. “those stairs are terrible. all stone and sharp edges and making you use your legs like some kind of peasant.”

“how much hair do you have?” satoru asks, temporarily derailed from his romantic crisis by the sheer logistical impossibility of your follicular situation. his eyes trace the seemingly endless length of it, watching how it catches the dusty light filtering through the tower’s windows.

“enough,” you say vaguely, as if the laws of physics are merely suggestions. “so? carrying me?”

satoru stares at you. at your hair. at the way it seems to stretch on forever like some kind of beautiful, impractical disaster waiting to happen. his mind is already running calculations—weight distribution, center of gravity, the aerodynamics of navigating narrow staircases while carrying someone whose hair could probably be used as climbing rope.

but beneath all that practical thinking, something else is happening. something that feels dangerously close to the kind of romantic nonsense he’s always secretly craved but never admitted to wanting. because you’re not asking him to slay another dragon or prove his worth through combat or compose poetry about your beauty. you’re asking him to carry you, to be useful in the most basic, intimate way possible.

“yes,” he says, and his voice has gone soft in a way that would make his mirror panic. “yes, i am.”

you study him with the calculating look of someone determining if a chair is sturdy enough to hold weight. your eyes trace over his frame with the kind of practical assessment that makes him feel both exposed and oddly pleased.

“prove it.”

satoru’s sword clatters to the ground, forgotten. he moves toward you with the kind of fluid grace that makes waterfalls jealous, but his eyes keep flicking to your hair, watching the way it ripples and shifts with every small movement you make. it’s hypnotic, the way it catches the light, like looking at the surface of water disturbed by wind.

“you sure you trust me?” he asks, and there’s something almost vulnerable in the way his head tilts, hair falling across his forehead like scattered moonlight. “i mean, we literally just met, and i did murder your... pet lizard.”

“dragon,” you correct with a slight smile that does terrible things to his composure. “and sukuna was getting annoying anyway. he kept hogging the good blankets and breathing smoke whenever i tried to read.”

the casual way you dismiss the dragon’s death should probably concern him, but instead, satoru finds it oddly charming. you’re not traumatized or weeping or clinging to him in gratitude. you’re just... pragmatic. like having your guardian dragon accidentally murdered is a mild inconvenience rather than a tragedy.

“you read?” he asks, because of course that’s what his brain latches onto. “in a tower? with a dragon?”

“what else was there to do?” you shift forward, preparing to be lifted, and satoru tries not to think about how your hair is going to complicate literally everything. “it’s not like i had a social calendar.”

“no visiting princes? no rescue attempts that actually worked?” satoru’s voice has taken on a teasing quality that surprises him. usually, his flirting is more calculated, more performative. this feels almost... natural.

“oh, there were attempts,” you say, and your smile turns slightly wicked. “but sukuna was very good at the whole ‘terrifying dragon’ thing. lots of screaming. lots of running. one guy fainted before he even got to the door.”

“tragic,” satoru murmurs, and then his arms slide beneath you with practiced precision. the weight of you settles against him like a missing piece clicking into place, and he marvels at how perfectly you fit in his arms, how your warmth seeps through his shirt and makes his chest feel too small for his heart.

“comfortable?” he asks, his voice rough around the edges.

instead of answering, you do something that completely obliterates his composure: you curl into him, one hand fisting in the fabric of his shirt, your cheek pressed against his collarbone like you belong there. your hair spills over his arms, and he can smell something that might be lavender or maybe just the particular scent of someone who’s been living in a tower for too long.

“you’re very warm,” you murmur, already half-asleep. “and you smell like expensive soap and poor life choices.”

satoru laughs—actually laughs, not the practiced sound he uses for courts and crowds, but something real and slightly hysterical. “poor life choices?”

“rescuing princesses from towers,” you explain drowsily, your breath warm against his throat. “very high mortality rate.”

“good thing i’m perfect,” he says, adjusting his grip and trying not to think about how your hair is already trailing behind them like some kind of magnificent, impractical train. he can feel the weight of it, the way it shifts and moves with each step he’ll need to take, and he’s already mentally mapping the best route down the tower stairs.

“are you?” you ask, tilting your head to look at him. “or just very, very vain?”

for a moment, satoru considers lying. considers giving you the practiced response he’s perfected over years of court functions and public appearances. but there’s something about the way you’re looking at him—not impressed, not disapproving, just genuinely curious—that makes him want to tell the truth.

“both,” he admits, and the honesty surprises him. “definitely both.”

you smile then—something small and genuine and absolutely devastating. “good. vanity’s more interesting than perfection.”

satoru stands there for a moment, holding you in a tower full of ash and faded tapestries, and thinks that maybe this is what all those love songs were trying to explain. not the dramatic declarations or the sword fights, but this: the weight of someone who chooses to trust you, who curls into your arms like they’re exactly where they’re supposed to be.

“ready?” he asks, though he’s not sure he is.

“no,” you say, settling more firmly into his arms. “but carry me anyway.”

and so satoru—prince of mirrors and maker of poor life choices—begins his descent, your impossible hair trailing behind them like a river, wondering when exactly his perfectly planned rescue mission turned into something that feels dangerously close to falling in love.

the first few flights go smoothly. satoru's boots find purchase on stone worn smooth by centuries of footsteps, each step deliberate and measured. his shoulders burn pleasantly with the effort of carrying you, and he finds himself cataloging every detail of this moment: the way you've gone boneless in his arms, the soft puffs of your breath against his throat, the impossible silkiness of your hair where it brushes against his hands.

your hair, he's beginning to realize, is going to be a problem.

it trails behind them like a living thing, catching on stone edges and doorframes, creating a continuous whisper of silk against stone that follows them down the spiral staircase. satoru finds himself having to pause every few steps to carefully extract strands from crevices in the wall, his movements becoming increasingly careful as he navigates around the growing tangle.

“this is fine,” he mutters to himself, stepping over a particularly thick section of hair that's somehow wound itself around a loose stone. “this is romantic. this is—”

his foot catches on a trailing strand, and he stumbles, grip tightening on you instinctively.

“careful,” you murmur without opening your eyes, and there's something almost fond in your voice. “you're very graceful, but hair is treacherous.”

“how do you usually manage all this?” satoru asks, genuinely curious as he carefully untangles another section from what appears to be a small crack in the wall.

“very carefully,” you say. “and with a lot of help from sukuna. he used to carry the end of it when we moved around the tower.”

satoru glances back at the seemingly endless trail of hair and feels something that might be panic flutter in his chest. “the end of it?”

“mmm.” you're already drifting back toward sleep, completely unconcerned about the logistical nightmare your hair is creating. “it's about fifty feet, i think. maybe sixty. hard to measure when you're trapped in a tower.” fifty feet.

satoru does some quick mental math and realizes that means your hair is currently dragging behind them like the world's most beautiful and impractical anchor. every step he takes, every turn of the staircase, is creating new tangles, new snags, new opportunities for disaster.

“this is love,” he tells himself firmly, carefully extracting a particularly stubborn strand from a gap between stones. “this is romance. this is—”

a section of hair catches on a protruding piece of iron, and the sudden resistance nearly sends him tumbling backward. he catches himself with reflexes honed by years of sword training, but the jolt wakes you up.

“what's wrong?” you ask, blinking up at him with sleepy concern.

“nothing,” satoru says through gritted teeth, still trying to free the trapped hair without dropping you. “just, uh, architectural difficulties.”

you peer over his shoulder and seem to grasp the situation immediately. “oh. yeah, that happens a lot. you have to kind of... wiggle it.”

“wiggle it?”

“the hair. it gets caught on everything. you learn to work with it.”

satoru wiggles the hair. it comes free with a soft whisper of silk, and he resumes his careful descent, now hyperaware of every strand trailing behind you.

by the time you reach the halfway point, satoru is beginning to sweat. not from the exertion of carrying you—that part is actually quite pleasant—but from the constant vigilance required to navigate your hair through the narrow staircase. it's like trying to move through a maze while dragging a silk river behind him.

“how are you doing?” you ask, apparently sensing his growing tension.

“fine,” satoru says automatically, then catches himself. “actually, no. your hair is...” he pauses, searching for diplomatic phrasing. “it's very beautiful. and very long. and it's turning this rescue into a logistical nightmare.”

you're quiet for a moment, and satoru immediately regrets his honesty. this is supposed to be romantic, not practical. princes don't complain about inconvenient hair during dramatic rescues.

“i know,” you say finally, and there's something almost apologetic in your voice. “i'm sorry. i know it's a lot.”

“no,” satoru says quickly, “no, it's not—i mean, it is a lot, but it's also—”

he trips over another section of hair and has to catch himself against the wall, careful not to jostle you in the process.

“it's fine,” he finishes weakly. “i can handle it.”

you study his face for a moment, then seem to come to some kind of decision. “do you have a knife?”

“what?”

“a knife. or a sword. something sharp.”

satoru's free hand goes instinctively to the dagger at his belt. “yes, but why would you—”

“we're cutting it.”

the words hit him like a physical blow. “we're what?”

“the hair. we're cutting it off.”

“but—” satoru's voice cracks slightly. “but it's so beautiful. and long. and it's probably magical or something.”

“it's impractical,” you say matter-of-factly. “and it's making you sweat, which is ruining your whole ethereal prince aesthetic.”

satoru wants to argue, wants to insist that he can handle it, that carrying you and your impossible hair is just another challenge to overcome. but then he feels another strand catch on something behind them, and the gentle tug threatens to unbalance him entirely.

“okay,” he says quietly. “okay, we can cut it.”

you nod and gesture for him to set you down on the narrow stone steps. satoru does so reluctantly, immediately missing the weight of you in his arms. you gather your hair in both hands, pulling it forward so that it pools around you like a lake.

“here,” you say, indicating a spot roughly at shoulder length. “cut it here.”

satoru draws his dagger with hands that tremble slightly. the blade gleams in the dim light, sharp and deadly and somehow wrong for this purpose. “are you sure?”

“i'm sure.”

but when he raises the knife, he hesitates. your hair is so beautiful, so impossibly long and silky and you. cutting it feels like destroying something precious, something that can't be replaced.

“i can't,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper. “what if you regret it?”

“satoru,” you say gently, and the way you say his name makes his chest feel tight. “it's just hair. it'll grow back.”

“but what if it doesn't? what if it was magical hair and cutting it breaks the spell and—”

“then we'll figure it out,” you interrupt, and your voice is so calm, so certain, that some of the panic in his chest begins to settle. “together.”

satoru looks at you—really looks at you—and sees no regret in your eyes, no hesitation. just trust. complete, unwavering trust in his ability to do this one thing for you.

he cuts the hair.

the blade slices through the silk strands like they're made of air, and suddenly there's so much less of it. what falls away pools around them in drifts, and what remains barely brushes your shoulders, framing your face in soft waves that make you look somehow both younger and more elegant.

“there,” you say, running your fingers through the shortened strands. “much better.”

satoru stares at the severed hair scattered around them, and before he can stop himself, he's gathering up one long strand, wrapping it carefully around his fingers.

“what are you doing?” you ask, watching him with amused curiosity.

“keeping it,” he says, and his voice is rough with emotion he doesn't quite understand. “as a... memento.”

“a memento?”

“of this moment. of...” he gestures vaguely at the hair, at you, at the impossible situation you’re in. “of the sacrifice you made for me.”

you stare at him for a long moment, then burst into laughter. “satoru, it's hair. i'm not dying for your cause.”

“it's symbolic,” he insists, still carefully coiling the strand. “and it's beautiful. and it smells like you.”

“you're ridiculous.”

“i'm romantic.”

“you're romantically ridiculous.”

satoru carefully tucks the strand of hair into his shirt pocket, right over his heart, and feels something settle in his chest. when he looks up, you're watching him with an expression that's equal parts exasperated and fond.

“ready to continue?” you ask, extending your arms toward him again.

“ready,” he says, and lifts you back into his arms. the difference is immediately noticeable—no trailing hair to catch on stones, no constant whisper of silk against the walls. just you, warm and solid and perfect in his arms.

the rest of the descent passes in a blur of soft conversations and comfortable silences. you doze against his shoulder, occasionally waking to make sleepy observations about the architecture or to point out interesting patterns in the stone. satoru finds himself talking to you even when you're asleep, his voice low and rambling as he works through his thoughts out loud.

each step downward sends a subtle vibration through his chest where you rest, and he finds himself adjusting his breathing to match yours—shallow when you're deeply asleep, deeper when you stir. the weight of you in his arms has become as natural as his own heartbeat, and he catches himself flexing his biceps slightly whenever you shift, testing his own strength not out of vanity but out of genuine concern that he might somehow fail you.

“i'm not just carrying you,” he murmurs as you pass a particularly narrow window that lets in a shaft of golden afternoon light. the beam catches in his hair—strands the color of fresh snow touched by winter sunlight, each strand so fine it seems to absorb and reflect light simultaneously. “i'm carrying our future. our destiny. the weight of true love itself.”

he pauses, letting the words hang in the air like an incantation. there's something profound in the way the light falls across your sleeping face, turning your skin luminous and soft. satoru's chest swells with the kind of pride that feels almost religious—he is the chosen one, the hero, the prince who gets to carry the sleeping princess toward their happily ever after.

“your voice is loud,” you mumble without opening your eyes, your breath warm against the hollow of his throat. “shh.”

the criticism hits him like a physical blow, and heat creeps up his neck in a way that has nothing to do with exertion. satoru gojo, prince of the realm, beloved by mirrors and citizens alike, has been shushed. by a sleepy princess who smells faintly of dragon smoke and old books.

he loves it.

satoru blushes—actually blushes, pink spreading across his cheekbones like watercolor on wet paper—and lowers his voice to barely above a whisper. but he doesn't stop talking. the words pour out of him like water from a broken dam, soft and continuous and necessary.

he tells you about his kingdom, about the gardens where peacocks strut between fountains that sing different melodies depending on the hour. his voice takes on a dreamy quality as he describes the way morning light turns the palace walls into sheets of gold, how the mirrors in the great hall reflect not just images but somehow capture the very essence of beauty itself.

“the library has books that smell like vanilla and old leather,” he whispers, his lips barely moving as he navigates a particularly steep section of stairs. “and there are reading nooks with cushions so soft you sink into them like clouds. you'll love it there—i can already picture you curled up with a book, hair falling over your shoulder like a silk curtain.”

he pauses, realizing he's been planning your future in his palace without asking, but the way you make soft, sleepy sounds of acknowledgment makes his heart do something acrobatic in his chest. each tiny noise you make—a hum of agreement, a sigh of contentment—sends warmth shooting through his veins like liquid sunshine.

“the bed i'm going to have commissioned for you,” he continues, his voice growing more animated despite the whisper-soft volume, “it'll be so large it'll need its own zip code. maybe its own weather system. silk sheets the color of moonlight, pillows stuffed with down from swans who died of old age and contentment.”

you shift against him, nuzzling closer to his neck in a way that makes his breath catch. “that sounds excessive,” you mumble, but there's affection in your voice.

“i am excessive,” satoru says proudly, then immediately moderates his tone when you make a soft sound of protest. “excessively devoted to your comfort.”

when you finally reach the bottom of the tower, satoru's legs are trembling—not from exhaustion, but from the sustained effort of carrying you while maintaining perfect posture. he would rather die than let you notice any weakness, any hint that carrying you has been anything less than effortless.

he pushes open the heavy wooden door with his shoulder, and the hinges groan like something ancient and tired. the sound echoes through the tower above them, a final goodbye to the place that held you captive and him apart from his destiny.

cool evening air hits his face like a blessing, carrying with it the scent of wild roses and something that might be rain gathering on the horizon. the forest stretches before them, all silver bark and leaves that shimmer like scattered coins in the dying light.

“it's beautiful,” you breathe, and satoru realizes with a start that this might be the first time you've seen the outside world in months. your eyes are wide and wondering, reflecting the dusky sky like dark mirrors.

the observation hits him with unexpected force. while he's been living in luxury, attending festivals and tournaments and having his portrait painted by the kingdom's finest artists, you've been trapped in a tower, seeing only stone walls and narrow windows. the injustice of it makes something fierce and protective unfurl in his chest.

“not as beautiful as you,” he says automatically, then immediately wants to kick himself for such a terrible line. the words taste stale in his mouth, like something he's said a thousand times to a thousand different people.

but you don't seem to mind the triteness. “that's awful,” you say, but you're smiling—a small, genuine curve of lips that makes his heart skip like a stone across water.

“i know.” the admission comes easily, surprising him. usually he defends his charm with the righteousness of the truly vain, but something about your gentle teasing makes him want to be honest instead.

“you should work on your flirting.”

“i'll add it to my royal duties,” he says, and the image of himself studying pickup lines with the same intensity he applies to swordplay makes him grin.

you laugh, and the sound echoes off the tower walls like music—bright and clear and so genuinely delighted that satoru feels it in his bones. he starts walking, carrying you toward the forest path that will eventually lead them home, and each step feels like a promise.

the journey to his kingdom is supposed to take three days on horseback. on foot, carrying a princess with recently shortened hair and a tendency to find everything mildly amusing, it takes considerably longer.

not that satoru minds. if anything, he finds himself deliberately slowing your pace, taking longer routes, stopping to rest more often than necessary. his internal compass, usually so precise and goal-oriented, seems to have developed a preference for scenic detours and extended lunch breaks.

every moment he spends carrying you feels precious in a way that surprises him. he's used to instant gratification, to getting what he wants when he wants it. but this—this slow journey through dappled forest light, with you warm and trusting in his arms—feels like something worth savoring.

you seem to sense his reluctance to rush, and you don't complain about the extended timeline. instead, you point out interesting things along the way with the enthusiasm of someone discovering the world for the first time.

“mushrooms that look like tiny umbrellas,” you say, gesturing toward a cluster of fungi growing on a rotting log. “birds with unusually bright plumage”—a flash of cardinal red against green leaves. “cloud formations that remind me of various household objects”—a cumulus formation that does, indeed, look remarkably like a teapot.

satoru finds himself seeing the world through your eyes, noticing details he's walked past a thousand times without really seeing. the way morning mist clings to spider webs, turning them into strings of diamonds. the particular quality of light that filters through leaves, green and gold and alive. the sound of his own footsteps on the forest floor, steady and sure, carrying you both toward you future.

“stop,” you say suddenly on the second day, just as satoru is navigating around a fallen log with the kind of graceful precision that would make his dance instructor proud.

“what's wrong?” his voice immediately takes on the tone of someone prepared to face down dragons, bandits, or particularly aggressive squirrels.

“mushroom,” you say, pointing to a small cluster of fungi growing on the side of a tree. “they're cute.”

satoru stares at the mushrooms, which look exactly like every other mushroom he's ever seen—brown caps, pale stems, the general appearance of something that might be edible if you're very brave or very stupid. “they're... mushrooms.”

“cute mushrooms,” you correct, and there's something in your voice that suggests this distinction is important. “look at their little caps. they're like tiny hats.”

“you want me to stop so you can look at mushrooms?” there's no judgment in his voice, just genuine curiosity. this is a new experience for him—being asked to pause not for his own comfort or convenience, but for someone else's whim.

“yes.”

satoru stops. he stands there, holding you in his arms while you examine the mushrooms with the kind of intense focus most people reserve for great works of art or particularly challenging math problems. his arms don't even tremble—all those years of sword training and physical conditioning have prepared him for this exact moment, even if he didn't know it at the time.

he watches your face as you study the fungi, noting the way your eyes narrow slightly in concentration, the small furrow that appears between your brows when you're thinking. there's something endearing about your complete absorption in something so simple, so easily overlooked.

“okay,” you say finally, settling back against his chest with a satisfied sigh. “we can go now.”

this happens seventeen more times over the course of the day. mushrooms, interestingly shaped rocks, a butterfly that lands on satoru's shoulder with the confidence of something that recognizes true beauty when it sees it, a stream that makes particularly pleasing sounds as it flows over smooth stones.

each time, you ask him to stop with the same casual authority, and each time, he does. no questions, no complaints, no subtle suggestions that you should perhaps maintain some sense of urgency about reaching the palace.

by the third day, satoru has developed a complex relationship with mushrooms. he finds himself scanning the forest floor constantly, looking for fungi that might catch your attention. when he spots a particularly colorful cluster growing on a rotting log—caps the color of sunset, stems pale as fresh cream—he stops without being asked.

“mushrooms,” he announces, and there's genuine pride in his voice, like he's presenting you with a gift he's personally crafted.

you peer at them with the serious expression of a scholar examining ancient texts. “ooh, those are nice ones. very... mushroomy.”

“mushroomy?” satoru's eyebrows—pale as his hair but perfectly shaped—rise slightly.

“it's a technical term,” you say with the kind of matter-of-fact delivery that makes him want to laugh and kiss you simultaneously.

satoru doesn't point out that 'mushroomy' is definitely not a technical term. instead, he files away this information about your preferences and continues walking, already planning to have the palace gardeners cultivate the most interesting mushrooms they can find in the royal gardens. maybe an entire greenhouse dedicated to fungi. maybe a mushroom conservatory with guided tours.

the mental image of himself giving diplomatic visitors a serious lecture about the artistic merits of various mushroom species makes him grin.

on the fourth day, you wake up from a nap and immediately zero in on something that makes satoru's chest puff with pride like a peacock displaying its finest feathers.

“your arms,” you say, poking at his bicep with the kind of scientific curiosity usually reserved for interesting specimens. your finger is warm through the fabric of his shirt, and the casual touch makes his skin tingle. “they're very... substantial.”

“substantial?” satoru tries not to sound too pleased, but his voice definitely goes up an octave, bright with barely contained excitement. the word 'substantial' bounces around in his head like a compliment he wants to frame and hang on his wall.

“muscular. strong. good for carrying princesses.” you say this like you're conducting a professional evaluation, but there's something in your tone that suggests approval.

“i have an excellent fitness regimen,” satoru says, and his voice is practically vibrating with enthusiasm. “sword training every morning at dawn—well, after breakfast, because i'm not an animal. horseback riding through the royal forests. swimming in the palace pools, which are heated to exactly the right temperature for optimal muscle development.”

he pauses, then adds with the kind of earnest intensity that most people reserve for discussing matters of life and death: “i'm very committed to physical excellence.”

“it shows.” the words are simple, delivered with the casual tone of someone commenting on the weather, but they hit satoru like a physical blow.

he nearly trips over his own feet, and only his excellent balance—trained through years of dance lessons and sword work—keeps him from stumbling. the casual way you say it, like it's just an obvious fact rather than the kind of compliment he's been fishing for his entire life, makes his heart do something impossible and athletic.

he's received countless compliments on his appearance over the years. poets have written verses about his beauty. artists have begged to paint his portrait. mirror salesmen have offered him lifetime discounts in exchange for testimonials.

but somehow this simple acknowledgment of his strength, delivered in your sleepy, matter-of-fact voice, feels more meaningful than all the poetry ever written about his face.

“you think i'm strong?” he asks, and his voice has gone slightly breathless, like he's just finished a particularly challenging workout.

“obviously.” you shift in his arms, settling more comfortably against his chest. “you've been carrying me for four days without complaining.”

“i would never complain about carrying you.” the words come out fierce and immediate, like a vow.

“even when my hair was trying to strangle you?” there's laughter in your voice, but also something softer, something that might be affection.

“especially then. that was just... additional challenge. character building.” satoru's grip on you tightens slightly, possessive and protective. “i'm basically a hero now. a hair-wrestling champion.”

you laugh, and the sound vibrates through his chest in a way that makes him want to purr like a very large, very satisfied cat. “you're ridiculous.”

“i'm devoted,” he corrects, and his voice has gone soft and serious.

“you're devotedly ridiculous.”

satoru grins, and the expression is so bright it could power a small city. “i'll take it.”

on the fifth day, you encounter bandits.

satoru is in the middle of explaining the complex political implications of his kingdom's mirror tax—a subject he finds endlessly fascinating and which he's certain you'll find equally compelling—when three men step out from behind a cluster of trees, weapons drawn and expressions appropriately menacing.

“stand and deliver,” the leader says, which satoru finds disappointingly cliché. couldn't they have come up with something more original? something with flair?

“deliver what?” satoru asks, genuinely curious. he tilts his head slightly, hair catching the afternoon light like spun silver. “i don't have a wagon. or a cart. or any visible goods.”

“your money, obviously.”

“oh.” satoru considers this with the kind of thoughtful expression he usually reserves for choosing between different shades of blue for his formal wear. “i don't carry money. i have people for that.”

the concept of handling his own currency is as foreign to him as the idea of washing his own clothes or cooking his own meals. he's a prince. he has staff for such mundane concerns.

“then give us the girl.”

the words hang in the air like a curse, and satoru's entire demeanor shifts. the casual amusement vanishes from his face, replaced by something cold and sharp and infinitely more dangerous. his arms tighten protectively around you, and when he speaks, his voice carries the kind of authority that makes grown men reconsider their life choices.

the change is instantaneous and complete. one moment he's a vain, chattering prince discussing tax policy; the next, he's something lethal and focused and absolutely uncompromising.

“no.”

“no?” the bandit leader seems genuinely confused by this response, as if the concept of refusal is entirely foreign to him.

“absolutely not.” satoru's voice is soft and pleasant, but there's steel underneath it—the kind of quiet certainty that comes from never having been denied anything important in his entire life.

the bandits exchange glances, clearly not prepared for this level of calm refusal. they were probably expecting panic, or at least some kind of negotiation. instead, they're facing a prince who looks like he's discussing the weather while simultaneously radiating the kind of danger that makes smart people back away slowly.

the leader steps forward, raising his sword in what's probably meant to be a threatening gesture. “listen, pretty boy—”

he doesn't get to finish the sentence.

satoru moves with liquid grace, shifting you to his left arm while his right hand draws his sword in one smooth motion. the blade emerges from its sheath with a whisper of steel, and the afternoon light catches the metal and throws it back in brilliant flashes that seem to slice through the air itself.

his movements are economical, precise, beautiful in the way that perfectly executed violence can be. there's no wasted motion, no unnecessary flourish—just pure, efficient lethality wrapped in aristocratic elegance.

when satoru speaks, his voice is soft and infinitely more terrifying than any shout. “you will not touch her. you will not look at her. you will not breathe in her direction.”

he pauses, and his smile is beautiful and terrible, like sunlight on a blade. “you will turn around and walk away, and you will pretend this conversation never happened.”

“or what?” the bandit's voice has lost some of its earlier confidence, but he's committed now, pride and desperation warring in his expression.

satoru's smile widens, and there's something almost pitying in his expression. “or i'll kill you.”

the words are delivered with the same casual tone he might use to discuss the weather or comment on the quality of the local mushrooms. there's no heat in them, no anger—just simple, matter-of-fact certainty.

the fight, such as it is, lasts approximately thirty seconds.

satoru never puts you down, never loosens his grip on you, never even breathes particularly hard. he simply moves through the three bandits like they're made of paper, his sword tracing elegant arcs through the air that end with decisive, final results.

his footwork is perfect, weight shifting smoothly from foot to foot as he dances around their clumsy attacks. the sword in his hand moves like an extension of his own body, cutting through the air with the kind of precision that comes from years of training and natural talent.

when it's over, he sheathes his sword with the same fluid grace he used to draw it, and continues walking as if nothing happened. his breathing is steady, his grip on you unchanged, his expression returning to its usual pleasant neutrality.

“that was impressive,” you say, and your voice is warm with genuine admiration that makes something glow in satoru's chest.

“you saw that?” satoru asks, pleased and surprised. he'd been so focused on protecting you that he hadn't been sure you were paying attention.

“i saw you spin-kick someone while holding me. that takes serious core strength.” there's something almost awed in your voice, and satoru preens under the praise like a cat in a patch of sunlight.

“i have excellent core strength,” he says, and his voice is bright with barely contained pride. “years of training. proper nutrition. dedicated conditioning.”

“clearly.”

satoru is quiet for a moment, processing the compliment, then asks with the kind of hopeful vulnerability that makes him seem younger than his years: “did you think it was cool?”

“very cool.”

“would you like me to reenact it later? in case you missed any of the finer details?” the offer is made with complete sincerity, as if staging elaborate fight recreations is a perfectly normal part of courtship.

“absolutely.”

satoru grins and picks up his pace slightly, already planning the elaborate recreation he'll perform once you make camp for the night. maybe he'll add some extra flourishes, some additional spinning. maybe he'll provide commentary on his technique while he demonstrates.

on the sixth day, you start braiding flowers into his hair.

it begins innocently enough. you’re walking through a meadow that stretches endlessly in every direction, carpeted with wildflowers in shades that seem almost too vibrant to be real. the air is thick with the scent of growing things and morning dew, and somewhere in the distance, satoru can hear the melodic trill of larks announcing the day.

you ask satoru to stop so you can examine a particularly vibrant patch of blooms, and he sets you down carefully—his arms protesting the loss of your weight in a way that surprises him with its intensity. there's something about the way you fit against him, the perfect distribution of your weight across his chest and arms, that makes carrying you feel less like a burden and more like a privilege. when you're not pressed against him, he feels strangely hollow, as if some essential part of himself has gone missing.

you immediately begin gathering flowers with the kind of focused intensity that makes him want to watch you forever. your movements are economical and precise, each gesture serving a purpose he doesn't fully understand but finds utterly captivating.

satoru finds himself cataloging the way you move: the precise curl of your fingers around delicate stems, never crushing or bruising the tender green flesh; the small furrow that appears between your brows when you're concentrating, creating a tiny vertical line that he wants to smooth away with his thumb; the way you unconsciously bite your lower lip when examining each bloom for perfection, leaving it slightly swollen and darker than usual.

he should be bored by this mundane task, should be tapping his foot with impatience the way he does when courtiers drone on about trade agreements and tax legislation. his attention span has always been notoriously short for anything that doesn't directly involve his own reflection or the admiration thereof. but instead he feels oddly mesmerized, drawn into your quiet ritual with a fascination that borders on obsession.

there's something almost sacred about the way you handle each flower, turning it in the light to examine the delicate veining of its petals, testing the flexibility of its stem with gentle pressure. you reject more blooms than you keep, discarding anything that doesn't meet your mysterious standards with the kind of ruthless perfectionism that satoru recognizes in himself.

“what are you doing?” he asks, settling onto the grass beside you with the fluid grace of someone who's never had to consider whether his movements look elegant—they simply do.

“making you beautiful,” you say absently, threading the stem of a small white flower through your fingers with the kind of practiced ease that speaks of long hours spent in similar pursuits.

satoru's chest does something strange and fluttery at the casual certainty in your voice. “i'm already beautiful,” he says, because it's true, because mirrors have never lied to him, because the entire kingdom pays taxes just to maintain shrines to his face.

“more beautiful,” you correct, not looking up from your work.

“is that possible?” the question slips out before he can stop it, and there's something almost vulnerable in the way he asks it. as if, for the first time in his life, he's genuinely uncertain about the answer.

you look up at him with a small smile, and satoru feels his breath catch at the way the afternoon light catches in your eyes. “we're about to find out.”

you gesture for him to turn around, and satoru complies with the kind of immediate obedience that would shock anyone who knows him. he settles cross-legged on the grass with his back to you, his spine straight and shoulders relaxed in a way that showcases the elegant line of his neck.

he can feel your fingers in his hair, working through the pale strands with gentle precision, and the sensation is so intimate that he has to close his eyes. satoru gojo has had his hair touched by countless servants, stylists, and admirers, but this feels different. reverent. personal in a way that makes his chest tight with something he can't name.

his hair—the color of winter morning frost caught in the first rays of dawn, of pearl dust scattered across black velvet, of starlight given weight and substance—falls in soft waves past his shoulders. it moves like liquid silk when he turns his head, each strand catching the light in a way that seems almost supernatural. he's always been secretly proud of its texture, the way it feels like spun moonbeams between his fingers, cool and smooth and impossibly soft.

seventeen different products go into maintaining its impossible silkiness, a routine so elaborate it requires a dedicated servant and forty-seven minutes every morning. there's the cleansing oil infused with essence of morning glory, the conditioning treatment made from unicorn tears and crushed pearls, the leave-in serum that costs more than most people's annual income. each step is performed with religious devotion, because satoru's hair is not merely hair—it's a work of art, a testament to the heights of human beauty, a national treasure that deserves nothing less than perfection.

but somehow, the way you describe it makes all of that seem almost trivial. as if the true magic of his hair has nothing to do with products or maintenance, and everything to do with the way it moves and breathes and exists in the world.

“your hair is like touching moonlight,” you murmur, and your voice is soft with concentration, each word barely above a whisper, as if speaking too loudly might break the spell you're weaving. “like holding pieces of captured starlight.”

satoru's throat goes dry, and he has to swallow twice before he can speak. people have written poetry about his hair, composed songs that are sung in taverns across the kingdom, started wars over the right to see it catch the light just so. the royal treasury receives weekly donations from citizens who simply want to contribute to his hair care fund. but no one has ever described it like that—like something magical and otherworldly, like something precious beyond mere beauty.

the words settle into his chest like warm honey, golden and sweet and utterly intoxicating. he's heard thousands of compliments about his appearance, but this feels different. personal. as if you're seeing something in him that no one else has ever noticed, something that exists beyond the careful cultivation of his image.

“seventeen different products,” satoru says automatically, then immediately regrets it. the words sound crass and commercial after your ethereal description, and he winces at his own tactlessness. “i mean—”

“of course there are.” you sound amused rather than judgmental, and satoru relaxes slightly at the warmth in your voice. “it's very soft. like silk, but alive.”

alive. satoru turns the word over in his mind, trying to understand why it affects him so deeply. his hair has been called many things—lustrous, magnificent, divine—but never alive. as if it's something that exists beyond mere vanity, something that breathes and glows with its own inner light.

satoru feels you working flowers into his hair—small white blooms that feel like silk against his scalp, their petals cool and smooth, and something that might be baby's breath, delicate as lace and twice as precious. you weave them through the strands with the kind of artistry that suggests long practice, your fingers moving with confident precision as you create patterns he can't see but can feel in the gentle tug and twist of each placement.

your fingers are gentle against his scalp, occasionally brushing against the sensitive skin behind his ears in a way that makes him shiver and lean unconsciously into your touch. the sensation is unlike anything he's ever experienced—not the professional ministrations of his servants, who touch him with careful reverence, nor the grasping hands of admirers who want to possess rather than cherish.

this is different. intimate. your fingers move through his hair like you're mapping uncharted territory, learning the texture and weight and movement of each strand. you pause occasionally to smooth down a particularly stubborn section, your touch so careful and reverent that satoru finds himself holding his breath, afraid that any sudden movement might break the spell.

every now and then you pause to examine your work, your breath warm against the back of his neck as you lean in to adjust a flower or smooth a wayward strand. the proximity makes satoru's pulse quicken in a way that has nothing to do with exertion and everything to do with the way you smell—like morning dew and wildflowers and something indefinably sweet that makes him want to turn around and bury his face in your hair.

he wonders if you can feel the way his pulse quickens whenever your fingertips graze his neck, if you notice the way his breathing has gone soft and shallow with contentment. he's never been particularly good at hiding his reactions—his face has always been an open book, every emotion written clearly across his features for the world to see. but with you, he finds himself hoping that his transparency is endearing rather than embarrassing.

the flowers you choose are all white and cream, with occasional touches of the palest yellow—colors that complement rather than compete with his natural coloring. you work with the focused intensity of an artist, stepping back occasionally to examine your progress before diving back in with renewed purpose.

“hold still,” you murmur when he starts to turn his head, and satoru freezes immediately, suddenly hyperaware of every breath and heartbeat. “almost done.”

the command shouldn't affect him the way it does—satoru gojo takes orders from no one, has never been particularly good at following instructions that don't align with his own desires. but something about the gentle authority in your voice, the way you speak to him like he's precious cargo that deserves careful handling, makes him want to obey.

“there,” you say finally, sitting back to admire your work, and satoru immediately misses the warmth of your hands. “perfect.”

satoru reaches up to touch the flowers, feeling the delicate petals against his fingertips. they're cool and smooth, with that papery texture that speaks of wild growth and morning dew. “how do i look?”

“like a fairy tale prince who's been blessed by forest spirits,” you say, and there's something wondering in your voice that makes satoru's heart skip.

“is that good?” he asks, and he hates how uncertain he sounds. satoru gojo has never been uncertain about his appearance—it's the one constant in his life, the one thing he's always been able to rely on.

“very good,” you confirm, and the quiet conviction in your voice settles something anxious in his chest.

satoru feels heat climb up his neck, spreading across his cheekbones in a way that would be visible if you were looking at his face. he's grateful that you can't see his expression from this angle, can't witness the way his composure cracks at your simple praise.

“you don't have to stop,” he says quietly, the words barely above a whisper.

“stop what?”

“the... the flowers. i like the way your hands feel in my hair.” the admission feels monumental, like confessing to some shameful weakness. satoru gojo, prince of the realm, reduced to begging for gentle touches like a starved animal.

you're quiet for a moment, and satoru's stomach clenches with the fear that he's revealed too much, shown too much of the desperate need that lives beneath his polished exterior. then your fingers return to his hair, working through the strands with renewed purpose, and he nearly sags with relief.

satoru closes his eyes and lets himself sink into the sensation—the gentle tug of your fingers, the soft whisper of flowers being woven into his hair, the quiet sounds of the meadow around them. birds call to each other in the distance, their songs weaving together into a symphony that seems designed specifically for this moment. the breeze carries the scent of growing things and distant rain, and somewhere nearby, he can hear the gentle buzz of bees moving from flower to flower.

his breathing evens out, becomes deep and rhythmic, and he feels a strange rumbling in his chest that he doesn't immediately recognize. it starts low and quiet, barely perceptible, but gradually grows stronger until it's a steady, satisfied purr that seems to originate from somewhere deep in his ribcage.

the sound surprises him with its intensity. he's never made a noise like that before—has never even known he was capable of it. it's the kind of sound that belongs to creatures of comfort and contentment, to cats sprawled in patches of sunlight and dragons curled around hoards of treasure. not to princes who pride themselves on their composure and dignity.

but he can't seem to stop it. the rumbling continues, betraying his utter contentment with a honesty that makes him feel exposed and vulnerable. it's as if his body has decided to bypass his brain entirely, expressing his happiness in the most primitive way possible.

the realization that he's purring—actually purring like some sort of overgrown house cat—should mortify him. satoru gojo, prince of the realm, heir to a throne and a legacy of dignity and grace, reduced to making animal noises because someone is playing with his hair. the scandal would be delicious if it ever got out. his enemies would have a field day with the knowledge that their untouchable, perfectly composed prince could be reduced to purring with a few gentle touches.

but somehow, he can't bring himself to care. the sensation is too pleasant, too addictive, too perfect to worry about dignity or reputation. for the first time in his life, he's experiencing something that feels more important than his image.

“satoru,” you say softly, and your voice is laced with barely contained amusement.

“mmm?” the sound comes out as more of a purr than actual speech, and satoru's eyes snap open in horror.

“you're purring.”

“i'm what?” satoru's voice cracks slightly, and he can feel his face flushing with embarrassment.

“purring. like a very large, very vain cat.”

satoru listens to himself and realizes with mounting horror that you're right. there's definitely a low, rumbling sound coming from his chest, something that sounds suspiciously like contentment made audible. it's the kind of sound that has no place in the throat of a dignified prince, the kind of involuntary response that belongs to house cats and not to royalty.

“i don't purr,” he says, though the evidence suggests otherwise. even as he speaks, the rumbling continues, betraying him with its steady, satisfied rhythm.

“you're purring right now,” you point out, and satoru can hear the grin in your voice.

“that's... that's not purring,” he protests weakly. “that's... satisfied breathing.”

“satisfied breathing?” you repeat, and now you're definitely laughing.

“it's a thing,” satoru insists, though he knows he sounds ridiculous. “it's a perfectly normal princely response to... to hair maintenance.”

you laugh, and the sound is bright and delighted, ringing across the meadow like silver bells. “you're ridiculous.”

“i'm not ridiculous, i'm—” satoru starts to protest, but the words die in his throat when you lean forward and press a soft kiss to the top of his head, right where you've woven a crown of white flowers into his hair.

the gesture is so tender, so unexpectedly affectionate, that satoru's breath catches in his throat. no one has ever kissed him like that—not with passion or desire, but with simple, overwhelming fondness. as if he's something precious and beloved, worth cherishing for reasons that have nothing to do with his face or his title.

“you're ridiculous,” you repeat, but your voice is warm with fondness, thick with an emotion that makes satoru's chest feel tight and strange. “and i like it.”

satoru turns around to face you, and whatever you see in his expression makes your eyes widen slightly. he knows what he must look like—flower crown askew, cheeks flushed with something that has nothing to do with the warmth of the afternoon sun, eyes wide and vulnerable in a way that has nothing to do with his usual calculated charm.

he looks young and surprised and completely besotted, his carefully maintained composure cracked wide open to reveal something raw and honest underneath. his lips are slightly parted, as if he's forgotten how to breathe properly, and there's a dazed quality to his gaze that makes him look like he's been struck by lightning.

the flowers in his hair catch the light as he moves, creating a halo of white and cream that makes his skin look luminous and his eyes seem even brighter than usual. petals cling to his shoulders and collar, evidence of your gentle ministrations, and there's something almost ethereal about the way he looks—like a fairy tale prince who's been blessed by forest spirits, just as you said.

but it's not just his appearance that's changed. there's something different in the way he holds himself, a softness that wasn't there before, as if your touch has smoothed away some of the sharp edges that come with a lifetime of being admired from a distance. he looks approachable in a way that's completely foreign to his usual regal bearing, human in a way that makes your heart skip.

“what?” you ask, and your voice is soft with concern, as if you're afraid you've done something wrong.

“nothing,” he says, but his voice has gone rough around the edges, thick with emotions he doesn't know how to name. there's wonder in his tone, and something that might be gratitude, and underneath it all, a kind of desperate affection that makes your chest tight. “just... thank you. for the flowers.”

the words are inadequate, he knows. they don't capture the magnitude of what he's feeling, the way your simple gesture has shifted something fundamental inside him. but they're all he has, and he hopes you can hear the sincerity in his voice, the way his usual glibness has been replaced by something more genuine.

“you're welcome,” you say simply, and the easy acceptance in your voice makes something in satoru's chest crack open like an egg, spilling warmth and light into spaces that have been dark for too long.

you sit there for a moment, looking at each other in the golden afternoon light. satoru can feel the flowers in his hair, can smell their subtle fragrance mixing with the scent of your skin and the warm earth beneath them. he thinks this might be the most perfect moment of his entire life—not because of how he looks or how others perceive him, but because of this quiet intimacy, this gentle acceptance of all his ridiculous vanity and need.

then you sneeze.

the sound is small and delicate, barely more than a soft “achoo” that seems almost musical in its lightness. but it makes you wrinkle your nose in the most adorable way, your entire face scrunching up like a disgruntled kitten. your eyes water slightly, and you rub at your nose with the back of your hand in a gesture that's so unselfconsciously cute that satoru feels his heart skip and stutter like a broken record.

there's something endearing about the way you try to make the sneeze dainty, as if you're concerned about disrupting the romantic atmosphere with something as mundane as allergies. even your sneeze is considerate, satoru realizes with a rush of affection so intense it makes his chest ache.

“sorry,” you say, wiping your nose with the back of your hand, and your voice is slightly congested already. “flower allergies.”

the words hit satoru like a physical blow, and he stares at you with growing horror. “you're allergic to flowers?”

“just a little,” you say, and your attempt at nonchalance is undermined by the way you're already starting to sniffle. “it's not serious.”

but satoru can see the signs now that he's looking for them—the slight redness around your eyes, the way your nose is already starting to turn pink, the subtle congestion that's creeping into your voice. you're trying to hide it, trying to minimize your discomfort, but he can see the truth written clearly across your features.

“but you just spent twenty minutes putting flowers in my hair,” satoru points out, and there's something almost incredulous in his voice. the realization is hitting him in waves—first the shock, then the guilt, then a kind of overwhelming tenderness that makes him want to wrap you in silk and protect you from every allergen in the known world.

“it was worth it,” you say simply, as if suffering for his vanity is the most natural thing in the world. as if your comfort is a small price to pay for his beauty, as if making him happy is worth any amount of personal discomfort.

the casual way you dismiss your own suffering makes satoru's chest tight with something that might be anger if it weren't so thoroughly mixed with guilt and self-recrimination. he thinks of all the times he's prioritized his appearance over everything else, all the ways he's been carelessly selfish without even realizing it.

but more than that, he thinks of you—sweet, patient, selfless you—choosing to suffer in silence rather than deprive him of something that makes him feel beautiful. the gesture is so generous, so utterly without expectation of reward, that it makes him feel simultaneously humbled and unworthy.

satoru stares at you—at your slightly red nose and watery eyes, at the way you're trying to hide your discomfort behind a smile—and feels something shift in his chest. something fundamental and irreversible, like a door opening in a room he didn't know existed.

“we should go,” he says, already reaching for the flowers in his hair with hands that aren't quite steady.

“no,” you say quickly, catching his wrist in your smaller hand. your fingers are warm against his skin, and satoru can feel his pulse jumping beneath your touch. “leave them. they're beautiful.”

“but you're allergic—”

“i'll be fine. besides, you look like a fairy tale prince. it would be a crime to undo all that work.”

satoru wants to argue, wants to insist that your comfort is more important than his appearance, but the way you're looking at him—like he's something precious and beautiful and worth suffering minor discomfort for—makes the words stick in his throat.

“okay,” he says quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. “but if you start sneezing again, the flowers come out.”

“deal,” you agree, and your smile is radiant enough to make satoru's chest ache.

he gathers you back into his arms, lifting you with the same effortless grace he's always possessed, and you immediately curl into him. your nose presses against his collarbone, and satoru can feel your breath warm against his skin. the position makes him want to protect you from every allergen in the world, to wrap you in silk and keep you safe from anything that might cause you discomfort.

the flowers in his hair tickle slightly when the wind catches them, petals brushing against his neck and shoulders in a way that makes him hyperaware of their presence. but he finds he doesn't mind. if anything, he likes the reminder that you cared enough to make him beautiful, even at the cost of your own comfort.

as you walk, satoru finds himself studying your face with the kind of intensity usually reserved for his own reflection. he catalogs the way your eyelashes cast shadows on your cheeks, the slight flush that spreads across your nose from the flower allergies, the way your lips part slightly as you breathe. you're beautiful in a way that has nothing to do with mirrors or products or careful cultivation—beautiful in the way that growing things are beautiful, natural and uncontrived and utterly captivating.

on the seventh day, something changes.

satoru wakes before dawn, which is unusual for him—he's always been more of a 'luxury suite and breakfast in bed' kind of prince. his usual routine involves waking at precisely nine-thirty, allowing his servants to present him with his reflection in three different mirrors while he determines which angle best showcases his morning glow.

but something has pulled him from sleep, some subtle shift in the world around him that makes him instantly alert. his senses, honed by years of sword training and an almost supernatural awareness of his own beauty, pick up on the wrongness immediately.

you're still sleeping in his arms, face peaceful and relaxed, and for a moment he just watches you breathe. there's something about the way you look in sleep—younger somehow, more vulnerable—that makes his chest feel tight with protective instinct. your hair fans across his chest like spilled silk, and he can feel the steady rhythm of your heartbeat against his ribs.

then he realizes what woke him. you're warm. not just warm, but warm—feverish in a way that makes him immediately concerned. your cheeks are flushed with something that has nothing to do with embarrassment, and when he touches your forehead with the back of his hand, your skin feels like it's burning.

panic rises in satoru's throat, sharp and immediate. he's never been particularly good at caring for others—his entire life has been structured around being cared for, pampered and protected and attended to by armies of servants. but the thought of you being sick, of suffering while he sleeps obliviously beside you, makes something primal and desperate claw at his chest.

“hey,” he says softly, shaking you gently with hands that aren't quite steady. “wake up.”

you stir but don't open your eyes, making a small sound of protest that goes straight to his heart. the sound is weak and congested, nothing like your usual clear voice, and satoru feels his stomach clench with worry.

“tired,” you mumble, burrowing deeper into his chest with the kind of unconscious trust that makes satoru want to fight dragons and move mountains and do whatever it takes to keep you safe.

“i know, but you're burning up. i think you might be sick.”

“not sick,” you insist, though your voice is thick and congested in a way that contradicts your words. “just... flower allergies.”

satoru frowns, his gaze automatically going to the flowers he still wears in his hair. they're wilted now, petals browning at the edges, but they still release their subtle fragrance into the air around them. “this is because of the flowers, isn't it?”

“maybe a little,” you admit, and the casual way you dismiss your own suffering makes satoru's chest tight with something that might be anger if it weren't so thoroughly mixed with guilt.

“why didn't you tell me it was this bad?” he asks, and there's something almost desperate in his voice. the idea that you've been suffering in silence, that his vanity has caused you actual harm, makes him feel sick.

“because you look pretty,” you say simply, and the honesty in your voice makes him want to do something drastic and romantic like challenge the concept of allergies to single combat.

the words hit him like a physical blow. you've been suffering—actually suffering—so that he could maintain his appearance, so that he could indulge his vanity for a few more hours. the realization makes him feel small and selfish in a way that's completely foreign to his experience.

instead of dwelling on the guilt, he immediately begins removing the flowers from his hair, working carefully to avoid disturbing you any more than necessary. each bloom he discards feels like a small betrayal, a piece of beauty sacrificed, but your health is infinitely more important than his vanity.

his fingers work through the strands with the same precision he usually reserves for his morning grooming routine, but there's nothing self-serving about this. each flower he removes is an act of care, a small sacrifice that feels more meaningful than any of the grand gestures he's performed in his life.

“better?” he asks once the last flower is gone, and his voice is rough with concern.

“you didn't have to do that,” you say, and there's something almost sad in your voice that makes satoru's chest ache.

“of course i did. you're more important than flowers.” the words come out fierce and certain, and satoru is surprised by how much he means them.

“but you looked so beautiful,” you protest weakly, and satoru can hear the genuine regret in your voice.

“i always look beautiful,” satoru says matter-of-factly, though his voice is gentle. it's not boasting—it's simply stating a fact, the same way he might observe that the sky is blue or that water is wet. “but you only get one respiratory system.”

you laugh, then immediately start coughing, and the sound is harsh and painful in a way that makes satoru's protective instincts kick into overdrive. he holds you closer, one hand rubbing soothing circles on your back until the coughing subsides.

“we need to get you to the palace,” he says, already calculating distances and travel times with the kind of strategic thinking usually reserved for diplomatic negotiations. “the court physicians will know what to do.”

“i'm fine,” you insist, though the way you're breathing—shallow and slightly labored—suggests otherwise. “just need to rest.”

“you can rest when we get home,” satoru says, and the word slips out before he can stop it.

“home?” you repeat, and there's something soft and wondering in your voice.

satoru freezes, realizing what he's said. the palace has always been his residence, his domain, the place where he exists in his full glory. but he's never thought of it as home—home implies warmth and belonging and the kind of emotional attachment that has nothing to do with mirrors or marble floors.

“i mean, the palace,” he corrects quickly. “when we get to the palace.”

“home,” you repeat, and there's something soft and wondering in your voice. “i like the sound of that.”

satoru's heart does something impossible and gymnastic, a complex tumbling routine that leaves him breathless and slightly dizzy. the idea of you thinking of his palace as home, of the two of you sharing a space that's defined by belonging rather than beauty, makes him feel warm in a way that has nothing to do with fever.

“yeah?” he asks, and his voice is smaller than he intended.

“yeah,” you confirm, and the simple certainty in your voice makes satoru's chest feel tight with emotion.

he adjusts his grip on you, pulling you closer against his chest, and starts walking with renewed purpose. home. the word feels right in a way that surprises him, like something he's been waiting his whole life to say.

the next day, you wake up feeling better—not perfect, but the congestion has cleared enough that you can breathe normally. satoru notices immediately, of course, because he's been watching you sleep with the intensity of a concerned parent, cataloging every breath and checking your temperature with obsessive frequency.

“how do you feel?” he asks, and his voice is rough with relief and exhaustion. he hasn't slept properly in twenty-four hours, too worried about your condition to do more than doze fitfully.

“better. your shoulder makes an excellent pillow,” you say, and there's something almost shy in your voice that makes satoru's chest warm.

“i've been told i have very comfortable shoulders,” he says, and some of his usual confidence returns now that you're clearly improving.

“by who?”

“my mirror, mostly,” satoru admits, and he can feel heat creeping up his neck at the confession.

you laugh, and the sound is clear and bright, no longer muffled by congestion. “your mirror has opinions about your shoulders?”

“my mirror has opinions about everything. it's very comprehensive.” satoru's voice is warm with affection—not just for you, but for the mirror that's been his constant companion for so many years.

“what does it say about your carrying technique?”

satoru perks up immediately, his natural vanity reasserting itself in the face of your obvious recovery. “it says i have excellent form. natural grace. born to carry princesses.”

“your mirror is very supportive,” you observe, and satoru can hear the smile in your voice.

“it's a good mirror,” he says seriously, as if mirrors can be judged on their moral character rather than their reflective properties.

you shift in his arms, settling more comfortably against his chest, and satoru thinks he could walk like this forever. carry you from kingdom to kingdom, stopping to admire mushrooms and fight bandits and listen to you make sleepy observations about the world around you.

the thought surprises him with its appeal. satoru gojo, who has never wanted for anything, who has been the center of attention and admiration his entire life, finds himself craving nothing more than this simple intimacy—the weight of you in his arms, the sound of your breathing, the way you fit against him like you were made to be there.

“satoru,” you say quietly, and your voice is soft with something that makes his pulse quicken.

“mmm?”

“thank you.”

“for what?” he asks, though his voice has gone rough with emotion.

“for carrying me. for removing the flowers. for... everything.”

satoru's steps slow, and he looks down at you with an expression that's soft and wondering. your words hit him somewhere deep and vulnerable, in a place that has nothing to do with his appearance or his status.

“you don't have to thank me for that,” he says, and his voice is barely above a whisper.

“i want to,” you insist, and the quiet conviction in your voice makes satoru's chest feel tight.

“it's my job. my honor. my...” he trails off, searching for the right word, the one that will encompass everything he feels when he looks at you.

“your what?”

“my pleasure,” he says quietly, and something in his voice makes you look up at him with sudden attention.

the word hangs in the air between them, heavy with meaning. not duty or obligation, but genuine joy. the kind of bone-deep satisfaction that comes from doing exactly what you're meant to do, from finding your purpose in the service of someone you care about.

“satoru—” you start, and there's something breathless in your voice that makes his heart skip.

“i need to tell you something,” he says, and his voice is serious in a way that makes your heart skip. “i know this is fast. i know we've only known each other for a week. but i—”

“you talk too much,” you interrupt, and before he can respond, you're leaning up to kiss him.

the kiss is soft and tentative at first, barely more than a brush of lips, but then satoru makes a sound that's half gasp, half groan, and suddenly you're pressed closer together, the kiss deepening with desperate intensity.

satoru stops walking entirely, his arms tightening around you as he kisses you back with the kind of focused devotion he usually reserves for his reflection. but this is different—this is about you, about the way you taste and feel and the small sounds you make when he deepens the kiss.

you taste like morning and possibility and something that might be forever, and satoru thinks dimly that he could live off this feeling alone. his entire world has narrowed to the press of your lips against his, the way your fingers curl in his hair, the soft gasp you make when he traces the curve of your mouth with his tongue.

when you finally break apart, you're both breathing hard, and satoru's eyes are wide with wonder and disbelief. his lips are swollen and his hair is mussed, and he looks completely undone in the most beautiful way.

“that was...” he starts, then stops, apparently at a loss for words.

“awful?” you suggest, but your voice is breathless and your lips are swollen and you're looking at him like he's something precious and rare.

“perfect,” he says reverently, and his voice is thick with emotion. “absolutely perfect.”

“even though i taste like flower allergies?”

“especially because you taste like flower allergies,” satoru says, and there's something so sincere in his voice that it makes your heart ache.

you laugh, and the sound is bright and delighted, ringing across the countryside like a promise. “you're ridiculous.”

“i'm in love with you,” satoru says, the words tumbling out before he can stop them. “completely, hopelessly, dramatically in love with you.”

the confession hangs in the air between you, raw and honest and terrifying in its vulnerability. satoru has never said those words to anyone—has never felt the need to, has never met anyone who made him want to offer up his heart like a gift.

“good,” you say, and your smile is radiant enough to make satoru's chest ache. “because i'm in love with you too.”

“even though i'm vain and ridiculous and talk too much?”

“especially because you're vain and ridiculous and talk too much,” you confirm, and the easy acceptance in your voice makes satoru feel like he could conquer kingdoms.

satoru grins, and the expression is so bright and joyful that it makes your heart skip. his entire face transforms when he smiles like that—not the practiced charm he shows the world, but something genuine and unguarded and completely devastating.

“so what happens now?” he asks, and there's something almost shy in his voice.

“now you carry me home,” you say simply, and the word feels natural and right in a way that surprises you both. “and we live happily ever after.”

“just like that?”

“just like that,” you confirm, and your voice is warm with certainty.

satoru adjusts his grip on you, pulling you closer against his chest, and starts walking again with renewed purpose. the palace is still a day's journey away, but he finds he doesn't mind. every step he takes carrying you feels like a step toward your shared future, toward a life full of mirrors and meadows and the kind of love that makes fairy tales seem reasonable.

“hey satoru,” you say as you crest a hill that offers a distant view of gleaming spires and golden domes.

“yeah?”

“next time, let's take a carriage.”

satoru laughs, bright and joyful, and the sound echoes across the countryside like a promise. “deal.”

in the distance, the palace gleams in the afternoon sun, waiting for you to come home.

satoru arrives at the palace gates like he’s returning from conquering entire continents rather than a single tower, his hair catching the afternoon light in ways that make the guards forget their duties. the strands move like liquid moonlight, each piece seeming to have learned the art of dramatic timing from its owner, floating and settling with an almost sentient awareness of how devastating they look against his skin. his eyes—those impossible depths that seem to hold winter storms and crushed jewels and something far more dangerous than either—scan the courtyard with the lazy confidence of someone who’s never doubted his own magnificence.

look at them all staring, he thinks with satisfaction, adjusting his grip on you slightly so the afternoon sun hits his profile at the perfect angle. as if they’ve never seen a prince carry his beloved before. though to be fair, they’ve probably never seen it done with quite this much style.

and there you are, draped across his arms like the world’s most expensive silk scarf, your hair spilling over his forearm in cascades that make his breath catch even though he’s carried you for miles. you’re wearing his cloak because apparently your tower wardrobe consisted of “sleeping gown” and “slightly different sleeping gown,” and the deep blue fabric pools around you like liquid starlight, making you look like some sort of celestial being who’s decided to grace the mortal realm with your presence.

“you know,” you murmur against his chest, your voice still thick with the remnants of the nap you took somewhere between the haunted forest and the royal gardens, your breath warming the silk of his shirt in a way that makes him want to purr, “most people would be tired after carrying someone for three hours.”

satoru’s grip tightens almost imperceptibly, his fingers pressing into the soft fabric at your back with just enough pressure to remind himself that you’re real, that this isn’t some elaborate daydream his vanity has conjured up. “most people aren’t devastatingly handsome princes with supernatural strength and perfect bone structure.” he says this with the same tone other people might use to discuss the weather, completely matter-of-fact, because in his mind it simply is fact. his eyes drift down to where your lashes rest against your cheek like tiny dark brushstrokes, and he thinks—not for the first time—that whoever designed your face had clearly been showing off. probably the same artist who did mine, he muses, excellent taste all around.

you crack one eye open, catching him staring, and there’s something infinitely amused in your gaze that makes his chest do something complicated and warm. “are you admiring yourself or me?”

“both,” he admits without shame, his smile pulling at the corners of his mouth in that way that makes diplomatic envoys forget their own names and occasionally walk into walls. “it’s called multitasking.” and i’m exceptionally good at it, he adds silently, just like everything else i do.

the palace doors swing open before you reach them, because even the servants have learned that when prince satoru approaches carrying his beloved, obstacles simply remove themselves or face the consequences of disrupting such a perfectly choreographed moment. he glides through the entrance hall with the fluid grace of someone who’s never questioned whether he belongs anywhere, his footsteps silent on the marble floors that reflect his image in fractured, crystalline pieces. even broken reflections of me are beautiful, he notes with satisfaction, truly, i am a work of art.

“satoru,” you say, and the way you pronounce his name—lazy and fond and just a little exasperated—makes something warm unfurl in his chest like a flower blooming in fast-forward. it’s strange, he thinks, how his name sounds different when you say it. when others say it, it sounds like worship or fear or calculation. when you say it, it sounds like… like coming home. “you can put me down now. we’re inside.”

he pauses mid-stride, looking down at you with those eyes that seem to hold entire winter storms, and for a moment his perfect composure wavers. the thought of putting you down, of not having you in his arms, of losing this excuse to hold you close—it’s almost physically painful. “but why would i do that?”

“because walking is a thing normal people do?” you suggest, but there’s no real insistence in your voice, and satoru latches onto that like a lifeline.

“we’ve established i’m not normal people.” his voice carries that particular brand of arrogance that should be insufferable but somehow isn’t, probably because he’s saying it while looking at you like you hung the moon and personally arranged the stars and maybe threw in a few nebulas for good measure. “and you’re certainly not normal people. normal people don’t make dragons into footrests.” normal people also don’t look at me like i’m actually worth looking at instead of just pretty to look at, he thinks, but that’s a thought too complex and vulnerable for him to fully process right now.

you laugh, and the sound makes his chest vibrate in a way that’s probably not medically advisable but feels better than any compliment he’s ever received. “sukuna wasn’t that bad. he just had boundary issues.”

“he tried to eat me.” satoru’s eyebrows draw together in that way that somehow makes him look like a particularly attractive storm cloud, all dramatic shadows and beautiful devastation.

“he was cranky. you try being stuck in a tower for fifteen years with someone who refuses to learn basic conversation skills.” you shift in his arms, and the movement makes your hair catch the light streaming through the tall windows, creating a sort of halo effect that makes satoru’s thoughts stumble over themselves.

his expression shifts, confusion flickering across his features like sunlight through moving water. “what do you mean refuses to learn conversation skills?”

“the last prince who tried to rescue me spent four hours explaining his horse’s bloodline. the one before that wanted to discuss tax policy.” you settle more comfortably in his arms, your head finding that perfect spot against his shoulder, and satoru feels something possessive and warm curl in his chest. “you’re the first one who’s actually interesting.”

the compliment hits him like a physical force, and he has to resist the urge to preen visibly. interesting. not beautiful, not magnificent, not devastatingly attractive—though he’s certainly all of those things—but interesting. it’s a word that implies depth, substance, the kind of thing that can’t be achieved with good bone structure and perfect hair. the kind of thing that suggests you see something in him beyond his reflection. instead of preening, he lets his smile grow slow and devastating, the kind that makes his reflection in the hallway mirrors look like something carved by artists who understood that beauty could be a weapon. “interesting,” he repeats, savoring the word like expensive wine, rolling it around on his tongue like he’s trying to understand its full flavor. “i prefer magnificently captivating, but interesting works.”

more than works, he thinks, it’s the best thing anyone’s ever called me. the realization is startling enough that he almost stumbles, caught off guard by the sudden intensity of his own feelings.

you roll your eyes, but you’re smiling too, and satoru thinks that your smile might be the first thing he’s ever seen that could compete with his own reflection for his attention. it’s a dangerous thought, the kind that suggests his entire worldview might be shifting, but before he can examine it too closely, you’re speaking again.

“where exactly are we going?”

“our room.” he says it casually, but there’s something almost possessive in the way his arms tighten around you, like he’s trying to claim you through proximity alone. the words feel strange in his mouth—our room, not his room, not the room, but our room. when did he start thinking in terms of ‘our’ anything? “i had them prepare something special.”

“define special.” there’s wariness in your voice now, the kind that suggests you’ve learned to be suspicious of his grand gestures.

“you’ll see.” he grins, and it’s the kind of expression that has historically preceded either something wonderful or something catastrophic, sometimes both.

the journey through the palace corridors gives satoru ample opportunity to catch his reflection in every polished surface, and he’s pleased to note that carrying you somehow makes him look even more magnificent than usual. the way your hair spills over his arm like liquid silk, the contrast of your skin against his, the peaceful expression on your face—it’s like someone designed the perfect portrait of royal romance and decided to make it three-dimensional. we look like we should be immortalized in marble, he thinks, or at least in a very expensive painting.

“you’re doing it again,” you murmur without opening your eyes, and there’s something almost affectionate in your exasperation.

“doing what?” he asks, though he knows exactly what you mean. he’s been checking his reflection in every mirror, every polished surface, every slightly reflective piece of armor you’ve passed.

“admiring yourself. i can tell because you get this little smile that means you’re pleased with how you look.”

satoru’s step falters for just a moment, caught off guard by the observation. he prides himself on being unreadable when he wants to be, on maintaining perfect control over his expressions and reactions. the fact that you’ve catalogued his smiles, that you can read him well enough to distinguish between different types of self-satisfaction, is both thrilling and terrifying. “i don’t have a little smile.”

“you absolutely do. it’s different from your regular smile. your regular smile is all teeth and ego.” you pause, and he can feel you studying his face even with your eyes closed. “your little smile is… softer. like you’re seeing something you actually like instead of just something you know looks good.”

the observation hits him strangely, settling in his chest like a stone dropped in still water, sending ripples through thoughts he’s never bothered to examine before. he’s never thought about the difference between liking how he looks and just knowing he looks good. it’s an uncomfortable realization, the kind that makes him want to change the subject or deflect with humor or maybe just stare at himself until the feeling passes. liking implies choice, preference, actual emotion beyond mere acknowledgment of objective fact.

instead, he finds himself saying, “maybe i’m not just admiring myself.” the words come out quieter than he intended, lacking his usual performative confidence.

“oh?” there’s something almost teasing in your voice, but gentle too, like you’re handling something fragile and don’t want to break it. “what else could the great prince satoru possibly find worth admiring?”

he stops walking entirely, right there in the middle of the corridor lined with portraits of his ancestors, and looks down at you with an expression that’s somehow both completely confident and utterly vulnerable. it’s a look that would probably break several hearts if anyone else saw it, but right now it’s only for you. “you,” he says simply, and for once there’s no performance in it, no awareness of how the words sound or how they make him look. “you’re the most beautiful thing i’ve ever seen, and i’ve seen a lot of beautiful things. including myself. extensively.”

extensively might be an understatement, he thinks. he’s probably spent more time looking at his own reflection than most people spend sleeping, but you—you’re different. you’re beautiful in a way that makes him want to look at you instead of at himself, which is saying something considering his previous priorities.

you blink up at him, and satoru watches color bloom across your cheeks in real time, a soft pink that spreads like watercolor on wet paper. “that’s…” you start, then stop, then start again, and he finds himself holding his breath waiting for your verdict. “that’s either the most romantic thing anyone’s ever said to me, or the most conceited.”

“both,” he says with a grin that’s pure sunshine, the kind of smile that could probably power a small city. “i’m multitalented.” and modest, he adds silently, don’t forget modest.

“you’re ridiculous.” but there’s no heat in it, only fond exasperation and something that might be love.

“i know,” he agrees, and starts walking again, pleased with himself on multiple levels. there’s the usual satisfaction of saying something clever, but underneath that is something newer and more complex—the pleasure of making you blush, of seeing that soft expression cross your face, of being the cause of your happiness instead of just a witness to it. “you love it.”

“i love you,” you correct, so casually that it takes him three steps to process what you’ve said.

when it hits him, he stops so abruptly that you actually bounce a little in his arms, and for a moment his perfect composure completely abandons him. his eyes go wide, lips parting slightly in shock, and if anyone else saw him right now they’d probably think he’d been struck by lightning. “you what?”

“i love you,” you repeat, looking at him like this is the most obvious thing in the world, like you’re telling him the sky is blue or that he’s beautiful. “you’re vain and dramatic and you killed my dragon roommate, but you carried me down twelve flights of stairs without complaining and you braid flowers into your hair when you think no one’s looking. of course i love you.”

satoru stares at you, his mouth opening and closing like he’s trying to remember how words work. this is completely outside his area of expertise. he knows how to be adored, how to be desired, how to be envied and feared and admired. he knows how to make people fall in love with the idea of him, with his beauty and his power and his carefully constructed charm. but loved? actual love, the kind that sees his ridiculous vanity and finds it endearing instead of annoying? the kind that notices small details like flower braids and interprets them as something sweet rather than further evidence of his narcissism?

she knows about the flowers, he thinks, momentarily panicked. when did she see the flowers? was i not being careful enough? do other people know about the flowers? but then the rest of her words sink in, and the panic is replaced by something warm and overwhelming and completely foreign.

“i…” he starts, then stops, running his tongue over his lower lip in a gesture that’s unconsciously nervous. his usual confidence has deserted him entirely, leaving him feeling strangely vulnerable and exposed. “i love you too.”

the words feel strange in his mouth, not because they’re untrue but because they’re so much more real than anything he’s ever said before. usually when he speaks, he’s performing, even if it’s just for an audience of mirrors. every word is chosen for maximum impact, every phrase crafted to create a specific impression. but this is just… honest. terrifyingly, wonderfully honest.

i love you, he thinks, testing the words in his mind. i love the way you look at me like i’m more than just a pretty face. i love how you’re not impressed by my titles or my power or my perfectly sculpted cheekbones. i love that you made friends with a dragon and turned him into furniture. i love that you let me carry you not because you need to be carried but because you can tell i need to carry you.

you reach up and touch his face, your fingertips tracing the line of his cheekbone with the kind of reverence usually reserved for religious artifacts or priceless artwork. “good,” you say softly, and your voice is warm and satisfied and completely free of surprise. “now can we please go see this special room? i want to take a nap, and your arms are very nice but i prefer horizontal sleeping.”

satoru laughs, the sound bright and genuine and completely free of his usual calculated charm. it’s the kind of laugh that makes servants pause in their duties and guards forget their posts, not because it’s beautiful—though it is—but because it’s real. “demanding little princess.”

“lazy little princess,” you correct, settling back into his arms with a contented sigh. “there’s a difference.”

“mm.” he resumes walking, but there’s something different in his stride now, something looser and more natural. the constant awareness of how he looks, how he moves, how others perceive him—it’s still there, but it’s quieter now, background noise instead of a constant roar. “i like lazy. lazy means you’ll stay.”

the words slip out before he can stop them, more vulnerable than he intended, and he feels heat rise in his cheeks. smooth, satoru, he thinks, very princely. very confident. definitely not needy at all.

“where would i go? you’ve seen my tower. the decorating was terrible and the company was scaly.” you pause, considering. “though sukuna did make surprisingly good soup.”

“you could go anywhere,” he says, and there’s something almost vulnerable in his voice, a thread of uncertainty that he usually keeps buried beneath layers of arrogance and charm. “you’re not actually trapped here. you know that, right? you could leave whenever you want.”

the thought terrifies him more than he wants to admit. he’s used to people staying because they have to, because he’s their prince or because they want something from him or because leaving would be politically complicated. but you? you could walk out tomorrow and there would be nothing he could do to stop you except ask you to stay, and asking feels impossibly vulnerable.

you’re quiet for a moment, and satoru finds himself holding his breath without meaning to, his steps slowing as he waits for your response. the silence stretches between you, filled with the soft sound of his footsteps on marble and the distant chatter of servants going about their duties.

then you shift in his arms, turning to look at him more directly, and there’s something in your expression that makes his chest feel tight with hope and terror in equal measure.

“satoru,” you say, and his name sounds different when you say it now, weighted with something that makes his heart stutter in his chest. “i spent fifty years in a tower with a dragon who snored and a window that only showed the same three trees. do you really think i’d give up a palace with a prince who carries me everywhere and looks at me like i’m the most beautiful thing in the world?”

relief floods through him so suddenly that he almost stumbles, his grip on you tightening as if he’s afraid you might disappear if he doesn’t hold on tight enough. “when you put it like that…”

“besides,” you add, and there’s something almost mischievous in your voice now, “someone has to keep you humble.”

satoru’s eyebrows shoot up, and he looks down at you with an expression of mock offense. “i’m plenty humble.”

“you literally have a mirror tax.”

“that’s just good economic policy,” he protests, but he’s grinning as he says it. “the mirrors need maintenance. it’s not my fault i’m so beautiful that they get more use than average.”

you laugh, and the sound echoes off the corridor walls in a way that makes everything feel lighter, brighter, more alive. “see? you need me.”

and the thing is, satoru realizes with a clarity that’s almost painful, he does. not because he needs someone to worship him or validate his beauty or even to provide an audience for his magnificence. he needs you because you make him feel like himself instead of just like his reflection. you make him want to be interesting instead of just beautiful, clever instead of just charming, worthy of love instead of just admiration.

you make me want to be better, he thinks, and i’ve never wanted to be better before because i thought i was already perfect. it’s a humbling realization, the kind that would probably shatter his ego if it weren’t wrapped in so much affection and acceptance.

“here we are,” he announces, stopping in front of a set of ornate double doors that definitely weren’t there yesterday. the wood is carved with intricate patterns that seem to shift and dance in the light, and the handles are shaped like sleeping crescents that fit perfectly in his palm.

you blink at the doors, then at him, then back at the doors. “did you… have these doors installed while we were gone?”

“i may have sent a message ahead,” he says, and he looks pleased with himself in that way that suggests he’s done something he considers especially clever. his eyes are bright with anticipation, and there’s a nervous energy in the way he holds himself that suggests your approval matters more than he wants to admit. “i wanted everything to be perfect.”

perfect for you, he thinks, because you deserve perfect things and i want to be the one who gives them to you.

he shifts you in his arms so he can open the doors with one hand, and the gesture is so smooth and practiced that you wonder if he’s been planning this exact moment since the day he decided to rescue you. the doors swing open with barely a whisper, revealing…

“satoru,” you breathe, and he knows immediately that he’s succeeded in whatever he was trying to do, because your voice has gone soft and wondering and completely amazed.

the room is enormous, because of course it is—satoru has never done anything halfway in his life and he’s not about to start now. the ceiling soars above you, painted with soft clouds and golden stars that seem to twinkle in the afternoon light. windows stretch from floor to ceiling, each one perfectly positioned to catch the sun at different times of day, ensuring that the room is always bathed in flattering light. but the centerpiece, the thing that makes your breath catch and your eyes go wide, is the bed.

it’s less a bed and more a small continent of silk and velvet and probably enough pillows to supply a small army. the frame is carved from white wood that gleams like pearl, and the canopy above is draped with fabric that shifts from deep blue to silver to gold depending on how the light hits it. there are pillows everywhere—small ones for decoration, large ones for comfort, some that seem to exist purely because they’re beautiful. the whole thing looks like something from a fairy tale, which is probably appropriate considering the circumstances.

“you said you were tired,” he says, and there’s something almost shy in his voice, a vulnerability that sits strangely on someone usually so confident. “so i thought… maybe we could be tired together?”

together, he thinks, like a real couple. like people who choose to share a space and a life and all the small moments in between. the idea is still new enough to make his chest feel tight with possibility.

you stare at the bed, then at him, then back at the bed, and satoru finds himself holding his breath again, waiting for your verdict. “this is the most extra thing i’ve ever seen.”

his face falls slightly, and he looks down at you with something that might be disappointment. “too much?”

“absolutely too much,” you agree, but you’re smiling as you say it, and the smile transforms your entire face. “it’s perfect. you’re perfect. this is all completely ridiculous and perfect.”

satoru’s answering smile is so bright it could probably be seen from space, and he carries you to the bed with renewed enthusiasm. the bed, which requires climbing actual stairs because apparently he’s incapable of doing anything halfway, accepts you both with a softness that feels like being embraced by a cloud.

when he finally sets you down on the silk coverlet, you immediately sink into softness that seems to mold itself around you, supporting you perfectly while somehow making you feel weightless. “comfortable?” he asks, and he’s hovering slightly, like he’s not sure what to do with his hands now that they’re not full of you.

“very,” you say, and then you pat the space beside you with a smile that makes his heart do something complicated and wonderful. “now get over here. all this carrying has been very impressive, but i want to cuddle.”

satoru doesn’t need to be told twice. he settles beside you with the fluid grace of someone who’s never been awkward a day in his life, and you immediately curl into him like it’s the most natural thing in the world. he wraps his arms around you, pulling you close until you’re practically lying on top of him, and thinks that this might be the most perfect moment of his life.

“this is nice,” you murmur against his chest, your voice already getting sleepy again. “much better than a tower.”

“much better than an empty palace,” he agrees, and he means it. the palace has always been beautiful, filled with priceless artwork and perfect furnishings and mirrors that reflect his magnificence back at him from every angle. but it’s never felt like home. home, he’s learning, is not a place but a person, and that person is currently using his chest as a pillow and looking at him like he’s something precious.

home, he thinks, testing the concept. i never thought i needed a home. i thought i just needed a stage. but this—your weight against him, your hair tickling his chin, the soft sound of your breathing—this feels like coming home after a long journey he didn’t even know he was on.

“satoru?” your voice is soft, already half-asleep.

“mmm?”

“next time you decide to rescue a princess, maybe check if she actually wants to be rescued first.”

he laughs, the sound rumbling through his chest in a way that makes you smile against his shirt. “noted. though i think i’m retired from the princess-rescuing business.”

“oh? why’s that?”

“because,” he says, pressing a kiss to the top of your head and breathing in the scent of your hair, “i found the only princess worth rescuing.”

you make a sound that might be laughter or might be disgust, but you’re smiling when you lift your head to look at him. “that was terrible.”

“that was romantic,” he protests, but he’s grinning as he says it.

“that was terrible and romantic,” you correct, and your eyes are soft with affection. “just like you.”

satoru’s grin softens into something more genuine, more vulnerable. “i love you too.”

and there, in a bed that’s probably visible from space, surrounded by enough luxury to fund a small kingdom, prince satoru finally understands what it means to be truly, completely, ridiculously happy. not the shallow satisfaction of admiring his own reflection, not the brief pleasure of being admired by others, but the deep, lasting contentment of being known and loved and chosen by someone who sees all of him—the vanity and the insecurity, the genuine kindness and the performative charm, the loneliness he’s carried like a secret and the love he’s finally learned to give.

outside, the sun sets over the kingdom, painting the sky in shades of pink and gold that stream through the enormous windows and make everything look like it’s been touched by magic. the mirror tax gets raised again the next morning, but nobody complains because the prince looks so content that even the royal accountants find themselves smiling.

and if sometimes the palace staff hear laughter echoing from the royal chambers, and if sometimes that laughter is followed by the sound of someone saying “you’re so vain” and someone else responding “i know, isn’t it wonderful?”—well, that’s just the sound of happily ever after.

in the weeks that follow, satoru discovers that being in love is remarkably similar to being obsessed with his own reflection, except infinitely better. he still checks his appearance in every mirror, but now he’s thinking about how you’ll react when you see him. he still preens when people compliment his beauty, but he’s more interested in the way you smile when he walks into a room.

he starts carrying you to all his royal duties, claiming that you’re his “emotional support princess” and that he simply cannot function without you nearby. the royal council learns to conduct meetings around the sight of their prince holding his beloved like she’s made of spun gold, and visiting dignitaries quickly discover that the fastest way to earn satoru’s favor is to compliment not just his appearance, but yours as well.

“you’re spoiling me,” you tell him one morning when you wake up to find that he’s had the servants bring breakfast to bed along with a single perfect flower that he’s somehow woven into your hair while you slept.

“good,” he says, and he’s already fully dressed and perfectly groomed because he’s apparently one of those people who wake up looking like they’ve been personally styled by angels. “you deserve to be spoiled.”

you stretch languidly, and satoru’s attention catches on the way the morning light hits your face, turning your skin golden and making your eyes sparkle like jewels. “most people would get tired of carrying someone around all day.”

“most people aren’t me,” he points out, settling back onto the bed beside you with that fluid grace that makes everything look like a dance. “and most people don’t have arms specifically designed by the gods to hold perfection.”

“your arms were designed by the gods?” you ask, laughing.

“everything about me was designed by the gods,” he says with complete sincerity. “i’m basically a religious experience in human form.”

you roll your eyes, but you’re smiling as you curl back into his side. “you’re ridiculous.”

“i’m magnificent,” he corrects, “and you love me for it.”

“i love you despite it,” you say, but there’s no heat in the words, only fond exasperation.

“tomato, tomahto,” satoru says cheerfully, and then he’s kissing you, soft and sweet and with the kind of reverence that makes you think maybe he’s right about the religious experience thing.

when he pulls back, you’re both smiling, and the morning light streaming through the windows turns everything golden and perfect and exactly like a fairy tale ending should be.

“so,” you say, settling more comfortably against him, “what’s the plan for today? more royal duties where you carry me around like a particularly elegant accessory?”

“actually,” satoru says, and there’s something almost shy in his voice, “i thought we could just… stay here. for a while. maybe all day.”

you look up at him in surprise. “what about your schedule? your meetings? your extremely important mirror tax business?”

“they can wait,” he says, and he’s looking at you with an expression that’s soft and vulnerable and completely genuine. “i want to spend the day with you. just us. no audience, no performance, just… this.”

this, he thinks, this quiet intimacy that i never knew i wanted. this feeling of being completely myself with someone who loves me for it.

“okay,” you say softly, and your smile is radiant. “just this.”

and so you do. you spend the day in your ridiculous, wonderful bed, talking and laughing and discovering all the small ways that love can be both ordinary and extraordinary. satoru learns that you hum when you’re content, that you have strong opinions about the proper way to arrange pillows, and that you make the most beautiful expressions when you’re concentrating on something.

you learn that beneath all his vanity and dramatics, satoru is funny and kind and surprisingly thoughtful. you learn that he really does braid flowers into his hair when he thinks no one is looking, and that he does it because his mother used to do it for him when he was small. you learn that he’s been lonely for much longer than he’s been willing to admit, and that your presence in his life feels like waking up from a dream he didn’t know he was having.

by the time the sun sets, painting your room in shades of amber and rose, you’ve created something new between them. not just love, but partnership. not just attraction, but understanding. not just romance, but home.

“i love you,” satoru murmurs against your hair as you drift off to sleep in his arms, and this time the words come easily, naturally, without any performance or calculation.

“i love you too,” you whisper back, and your voice is warm with contentment and satisfaction and the kind of happiness that comes from being exactly where you’re supposed to be.

outside, the kingdom sleeps peacefully under a blanket of stars, and somewhere in the distance, a night bird calls out a song that sounds remarkably like a lullaby. the mirror tax will be raised again tomorrow, but tonight, all is well in the palace of the vain prince and his beloved princess.

and if the mirrors throughout the palace reflect not just satoru’s beauty but his happiness, not just his perfection but his joy, not just his image but his love—well, that’s just the way fairy tales are supposed to end.

1K notes · View notes