#replies .˚ the gentle art of making enemies

[fushitoru]

chapter 9: the embers a bridgerton au

pairing ⸺ duke!satoru gojo x fem!reader

summary ⸺dearest gentle reader, a new season is upon us as the ton gets ready for a season filled with drama, heartbreak, and passion. after being crowned diamond of the season, heir to a dukedom mr. satoru gojo⸺only looking to marry just to secure his inheritance⸺has his sights set on you, the easiest (and most obvious) option. later, when you catch his saying unsavory things about you on a terrace when he least suspected it, you swear to never marry gojo. as london's fashionable set goes through yet another wedding season, will there be hope for scandalous gossip, hate, and thinly veiled insults, or will we witness blooming love and passion?

genre/warnings ⸺ enemies to lovers, bridgerton au, angst, fluff, eventual smut, suggestive, jealousy, misogyny, regency era au, gojo being infuriating, reader also being infuriating, both of them are clueless honestly, all they do is bicker 💀, some historical inaccuracies, mentions of sex work

chapter summary ⸺ sukuna takes you on an excurion into town at night, where you both meet a stranger that gives you illustrative insight into gojo. on the other hand, satoru has to suffer his best friend's most terrible plan as of date (10k).

a/n MWAHAHAHA i'll see you at the end :) thank you for my beta readers @/angelina7890, @/purplegemadventures, @/hellowoolf, and @/sinn-clair for helping me salvage bridgerton!gojo efknwekfnw

also note that the warnings have been updated.

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Dearest Reader,

It seems that the Gojo name has once again stirred the waters of the ton—quite literally, this time. If you were not present at Surrey Park, then you have surely missed a sight that will be etched in the minds (and no doubt dreams) of many a young lady for weeks to come.

⸻ LADY WHISTLEDOWN’S SOCIETY PAPERS

The rhythmic sound of the carriage wheels against the dirt road filled the silence as you sat between Choso and Sukuna, gazing out of the small window. The events of Surrey Park, particularly the lake incident, replayed in your mind with an insistence that made your temples throb. You clenched your hands tightly in your lap, as if the sheer tension in your knuckles could chase away the image of Lord Gojo, drenched and smirking as though he hadn’t just caused your heart to stutter in ways you loathed to admit.

“What a ridiculous display,” Sukuna muttered, crossing his arms as he leaned back against the seat, his tone conveying pure disapproval. “That man cannot seem to go a day without making a spectacle of himself. I wonder if he has any sense of propriety at all.”

You tore your gaze from the window, startled from your reverie. “I hardly think it was his intention to fall into the lake,” you said, though your voice lacked conviction. The memory of Gojo's intense gaze before he walked away was still fresh, leaving you both flustered and confused.

Sukuna raised a brow, a sardonic smile tugging at his lips. “Intentional or not, it is yet another reason why I cannot fathom what you—or anyone, for that matter—ever saw in him.”

You could not help but think Sukuna’s dismay was not deserved; after all, the man had fallen into the lake in defense of you. Thus, it was not as easy for you to color it obscene and vulgar as easily as Sukuna.

 “Sukuna,” Choso interrupted with a stern look, though his tone was mild. “Let us not belabor the point. What matters is that our sister is no longer tethered to that man. Speaking of which”—he turned to you, his expression softening—“how fares your progress with Duke Nanami? Has he hinted at a proposal?”

You hesitated, shifting uncomfortably under your eldest brother’s watchful gaze. “He is... cordial and kind,” you replied after a pause, your voice measured. “Our conversations are pleasant, and he is undoubtedly a man of good character.”

Choso frowned slightly, clearly unsatisfied with your tepid response. “But is he inclined to offer for you?”

“I suppose,” you murmured, clasping your hands tighter in your lap. The truth, however, was far from what you conveyed. Despite Nanami's quiet, unwavering presence, your thoughts seemed to stray perpetually toward another—toward Lord Gojo, who could unsettle and vex you in equal measure with a single look or word. The mere memory of him emerging from the lake, every detail exaggerated by the sunlight, made your heart flutter treacherously.

Sukuna’s sharp eyes darted toward you, narrowing slightly as he leaned forward. “You suppose?” he repeated, his tone skeptical. “You are not typically this indecisive, Sister. Tell me, where exactly does your mind wander?”

You stiffened, heat creeping up your neck as you struggled to mask your turmoil. “I am simply... weighing my options,” you replied carefully, returning your gaze to the window to avoid his probing stare.

For a moment, Sukuna studied you in silence, his lips pursed in thought. But he said nothing more as the carriage finally pulled into the familiar drive of your family’s estate.

Once the carriage halted and Choso helped you alight, the three of you headed into the Itadori manor. However, as soon as you crossed the threshold, Sukuna’s hand lightly touched your elbow, indicating that you should linger behind. As Choso continued on to go to his study and fell out of earshot, you turned to him, a questioning look on your face.

“Sister,” he began, his voice low but not unkind. “Would you care to join me on an outing to town this evening? I have... matters to attend to, and I thought you might find it of interest.”

“An outing?” you asked, turning to him with curiosity. “What kind of matters?” 

Sukuna’s smirk widened, his expression almost conspiratorial. “Let us call it a meeting of minds. A discussion on the state of affairs, if you will.”

Your heart quickened with excitement at the prospect. If you recall correctly, you have no plans of balls or any outings with the tons tonight, and you longed to engage with something outside of the season’s mundane practices ever since Gojo had similarly taken you into town. Sukuna had been long gone, and this ritual of yours—sneaking into town to experience political meetings—you had long been deprived of.

“I would be delighted,” you replied, unable to keep the enthusiasm from your voice.

“Good,” Sukuna said, a rare note of approval in his tone as he squeezed your arm lightly. “Then prepare yourself for something far more stimulating than insipid dances and idle chatter.”

The moon’s light shone over the two cloaked figures that were you and Sukuna. As the both of you sneaked towards an apparent meeting point that Sukuna had pre-established, your heart raced—not from fear, but from the thrill of doing something forbidden.

The brisk air bit at your cheeks as the sound of the faint crunch of gravel accompanied you both while creeping across the street.

"Keep up," Sukuna whispered, casting a glance over his shoulder. His expression held that mischievous glint you had come to recognize all too well, as though he relished dragging you into his escapades.

 “I am keeping up,” you shot back, pulling your hood further over your face. “I only hope you know what you’re doing.”

He chuckled softly, the sound low and unbothered. “Always.”

Soon enough, you spotted a modest carriage tucked behind a grove of trees, its lanterns dimmed to avoid attention. A figure stood waiting beside it, cloaked and hooded, though far more relaxed than someone trying to avoid detection. Sukuna approached the man with an ease that spoke of familiarity, slapping him on the shoulder as though they were old friends.

“Toji,” Sukuna greeted, his voice carrying a note of camaraderie.

“Toji?” you repeated under your breath, squinting your eyes as you studied the man. He was broad-shouldered, with an air of roughness about him that immediately set him apart from the polished gentlemen of the ton. His sharp eyes flicked to you briefly before returning to Sukuna, clearly unimpressed by the effort you’d gone through to remain inconspicuous.

“This the sister you’ve been talking about?” Toji asked, his tone casual as he nodded in your direction.

“Indeed,” Sukuna replied, smiling as he gestured toward you. “Miss Itadori, meet Toji Fushiguro, a man of many talents.”

“Many talents?” you echoed, shooting Sukuna a skeptical look. “And which talents are we referring to, exactly?”

Toji let out a low laugh, shaking his head. “She’s got a sharp tongue, your sister. I like her.”

You narrowed your eyes at the stranger, unsure whether to feel flattered or annoyed, but Sukuna merely grinned, ushering you toward the carriage. “Come on, we’ve got places to be.”

The interior of the carriage was cramped, but warm, the faint scent of leather and smoke lingering in the air. Toji climbed in after you, settling into the opposite seat with the practiced ease of someone who’d spent many nights in carriages like this one. Sukuna took his place beside you, leaning back as though this were the most natural thing in the world.

“You’re very familiar with him,” you remarked to Sukuna, your tone edged with suspicion. “I’d like to know why.”

Toji answered for him, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Your brother and I go back. He’s got a knack for finding himself in interesting situations, and I’ve got a knack for getting him out of them.”

“Is that so?” you said, arching a brow amusedly at Sukuna. “I can’t say I’m surprised.”

Sukuna shrugged, entirely unbothered. “Toji’s got connections. And besides, Sister, you’ll be thanking me soon enough for dragging you into this.”

But you were not one to be fooled. You narrowed your eyes, prying deeper into your brother’s words. “What type of connections?”

He sighs, shaking his head and complaining, “Ah! Enough of that. Aren’t you curious as to where we’re going?”

Your skepticism could not be quelled with a dismissive remark, but you waved it aside anyway, acquiescing. “Fine, but do not think I will rest on the matter.”

Toji, who had been silent thus far, chuckled quietly, his sharp gaze flickering between you and Sukuna. “She’s got your measure, Sukuna. You’re not squirming out of this one so easily.”

“Never does,” Sukuna muttered under his breath before changing tack. “Alright, alright. Since you’re so eager to discuss weighty matters, tell me this—are you familiar with Wollstonecraft’s latest work?”

Your brow furrowed as you tried to recall. “The Vindication? Of course, I’ve read it. Why?”

“Then you’ll have some context for what you’re about to hear,” Toji said. His voice was measured, but there was a weight to it that made you sit up a little straighter. “This isn’t just idle talk—it’s about education, equality, and liberty. Ideas that don’t sit well with those who benefit from keeping things as they are.”

Sukuna nodded, his expression uncharacteristically serious. “It’s more than philosophy, though. These people are living it. Fighting for it.”

Your pulse quickened as the conversation took a turn you hadn’t anticipated. You leaned forward slightly as you met Sukuna’s gaze. “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised,” you began, your voice tinged with both curiosity and eagerness. “Wollstonecraft’s arguments are bold, yes, but they’re also deeply practical. Education as the foundation of equality—what could be more sensible? Yet, it threatens the very structure of society.”

Toji gave a low chuckle, his sharp gaze resting on you with renewed interest. “Well said. And what do you make of it, then? The notion that the world might be turned on its head by ideas like hers?”

Your lips curved into a small, wry smile. “I think the world could use a little turning on its head. Though, I imagine the aristocracy would sooner go to war than concede such ground.”

“That they would,” Sukuna agreed, his tone almost amused. “But it’s not just the aristocracy. The changes Wollstonecraft envisions—education for all, women stepping into the public sphere—these ideas challenge everyone who’s comfortable with the way things are.”

“Which is precisely why they’re so powerful,” you replied quickly, your excitement bubbling over. “People cling to the status quo out of fear, but fear is not insurmountable. Surely, with the right voices, the right leaders, minds could be swayed.”

Toji smiled faintly, his expression unreadable. “Optimistic, aren’t you? Most would say such change requires more than just words. Sacrifices must be made.”

“I’m not naïve, Mr. Fushiguro,” you said, straightening your posture. “I understand that revolutions—whether in thought or action—carry a cost. But is that not the mark of true progress? To be willing to bear the burden for a better future?”

Sukuna exchanged a glance with Toji, the latter’s smirk deepening. “She’s quite the firebrand, isn’t she?” Toji remarked.

“She always has been,” Sukuna replied with a shrug, though the faintest hint of pride flickered in his tone. “Keeps me on my toes.”

You ignored their banter, your thoughts racing ahead to what lay in store. “This meeting,” you pressed, unable to keep the excitement from your voice, “who will be there? What will be discussed?”

Sukuna held up a hand to forestall your questions. “Patience. You’ll hear it all soon enough. But I’ll tell you this much—it’s not just talk. These people are doing what others only dream of.”

Toji nodded, his expression growing somber. “There are risks, of course. The kind of risks that come with challenging the very fabric of society.”

You nodded, your resolve solidifying. “I’m not afraid of risk. Ideas like these are worth fighting for.”

Toji studied you for a long moment, his gaze heavy with unspoken thoughts. Finally, he leaned back and crossed his arms. “You might just survive this night, after all.”

The carriage hit a slight bump in the road, jostling all of you, but it did little to break the energy that now thrummed in the small space. The shadows outside grew longer as the journey continued, but your mind was alight with thoughts of what awaited—a world of bold ideas and uncertain promises, one you were eager to step into.

The rest of the ride was quiet, save for the occasional jostling of the carriage over uneven terrain. When you finally arrived, Toji stepped out first, scanning the area before motioning for the two of you to follow. You found yourself in what appeared to be a modest meeting hall, the murmur of voices already audible from within.

Toji pushed open the door, revealing a room filled with a mix of people—some finely dressed, others in simpler attire, all seated in clusters, engaged in quiet but intense discussion. It was clear you had entered a space where class distinctions mattered little, united by a common cause.

“This,” Toji said, his voice low but firm, “is where the real work happens. You wanted to see it, didn’t you?”

You glanced at Sukuna, who gave you a reassuring nod, and then back at Toji. “Lead the way,” you said, your curiosity outweighing your reservations.

The smell of pipe smoke wafted through the air, accompanying the noise of friendly claps on backs, low murmur of conversation, the scrape of chairs against the floor, and a warped sort of revelry that was present in the room. The place was almost like a tavern, and as you, your brother, and Toji made your way through the wooden tables filled with people, ongoers showed familiarity with Sukuna. The contrast with how he conducted himself here and the demeanor he adopted at balls was almost comical; whereas ladies of the ton would get an uncongenial countenance, Sukuna was even grunting in response to some of the greetings he received. It was truly a marvel to perceive, indeed.

While Toji directed you both towards an empty table for the sake of your privacy, you could hear tidbits of conversations, murmurs, and bold declarations alike surrounding you.

“Evening, Sukuna,” a burly man called out, raising his glass in acknowledgment. Sukuna responded with a grunt and a nod, his lips twitching in what might have been a hint of a smile.

As Toji directed you to an empty table near the back of the room, your ears caught snippets of conversation from the surrounding tables.

“I find Burke’s assertions about women rather daft,” a woman sniffed, her voice tinged with disdain. “To claim that their sensibilities preclude them from education—it’s an insult, not an argument.”

A man seated beside her chuckled, shaking his head. “Indeed. The irony is that these so-called rational men are the ones most ruled by their passions when challenged.”

At another table, a younger man spoke with fiery conviction. “It’s not just about reforming laws—it’s about changing the very way we think about liberty and who truly earns it.”

“And it’s not solely for the falsely-refined, immoral, and narcissistic rich; As Wollstonecraft mentioned, they are weak, artificial beings, spreading their corruption though the whole mass of society.”

You couldn’t help but smile faintly at the exchanges, the fervor and intellect on display so different from the superficial chatter of the ton. Toji and Sukuna, however, seemed unfazed, as though this kind of discourse was nothing new to them. You, on the other hand, were very excited; while Sukuna had taken you out on such excursions often, the extent of it was visiting restaurants in common clothes, and eating freshly baked bread and pastries. This was an entirely different scene, and every time someone echoed your thoughts—before, captive on your diary’s pages—out loud, your heart was set aflutter. 

However, you were a bit wary about fully joining the discussion. While you were undeniably confident that you would be able to keep rapport with those debating, you weren’t fully aware of Toji’s position within the ton. Sukuna may have his trust, but you’d rather not risk joining in; after all, if Toji even were to spread the word about your scandalous…hobbies, Sukuna would not be entirely opposed to you leaving the season without finding a husband, as he’s made clear before.

Once seated, Toji leaned back in his chair, resting his elbows on the armrests as you and Sukuna followed suit.“Quite the crowd tonight,” he remarked, his voice low as his sharp eyes scanned the room. “Seems the common folk are growing bolder.”

Sukuna grinned, leaning back in his chair as though he were entirely at ease. “It’s about time, isn’t it?”

You settled into your seat, your hands resting lightly on the edge of the table as you absorbed the atmosphere. The snippets of conversation, the passionate speeches, the clinking of mugs—all of it painted a vivid picture of a world far removed from the ballrooms and drawing rooms you had grown accustomed to. And yet, there was something undeniably captivating about it.

“What do you think?” Sukuna asked, his tone teasing as he leaned closer to you. “Not quite the spectacle of a ball, but it has its charm, doesn’t it?”

You glanced at him, your lips curving into a faint smile. “It’s… different,” you admitted, your gaze returning to the dais where the speaker was now gesturing animatedly. “But perhaps that’s what makes it so compelling.” 

As you turned, you now noticed that Toji was observing you thoughtfully and you tilted your head, giving him a questioning look, to which he spoke up, “Well,” his tone light but probing, “discussion aside. How has the glittering world of the ton treating you, Miss Itadori? I hear you’re the diamond of the season. Must be quite the... adventure.”

You offered him a polite, practiced smile. “It has been... illuminating,” you said delicately. “The season has certainly provided its share of experiences.”

“Ah, I see,” Toji drawled, leaning back in his chair and giving you a look that suggested he saw through your carefully crafted response. “Illuminating. That’s a word people use when they’re too polite to say what they really mean.”

Sukuna snorted, clearly enjoying your discomfort. “She’s being diplomatic, Toji. If you really want to know what she thinks, let me tell you—she’s been dodging proposals left and right while trying not to throttle certain lords.”

Your lips parted in indignation, but Sukuna held up a hand to stop you before you could protest. “Don’t deny it, sister. We both know I’m right.”

Toji chuckled, his eyes gleaming with amusement. “Ah, now this is getting interesting. So, who’s the thorn in your side, then? Every diamond has one.”

You stiffened slightly but maintained your composed tone. “I wouldn’t say anyone is a thorn, per se. There have been... challenges, certainly, but nothing out of the ordinary.”

“Gojo,” Sukuna said bluntly, earning a glare from you. “The thorn is Gojo.”

Toji’s brows shot up. “Satoru Gojo? The golden boy himself? Well, that’s a surprise. What’s he done to earn your ire, Miss Itadori?”

You hesitated, unsure of how much to divulge, but Sukuna, ever the instigator, jumped in. “He courted her, dropped her, and now he’s lurking in the background like some lovesick pup.”

Toji let out a low whistle, shaking his head. “Ah, that boy. Always knew he’d trip over his own arrogance one day.”

“Arrogance,” Sukuna muttered, “doesn’t even begin to cover it.”

Toji smirked, swirling his glass thoughtfully. “Let me give you some advice, Miss Itadori. The one you hate, the one who gets under your skin, makes your blood boil? That’s usually the one worth keeping around.”

You scoffed, but it was half-hearted; you were intrigued. Straightening in your chair, you probed lightly, “And why, pray tell, would I want to keep someone who vexes me so terribly?”

“Because,” Toji said, leaning forward, his tone uncharacteristically serious, “the ones who challenge you are the ones who see you. Really see you. And from what I’ve heard, Gojo’s stuck around, hasn’t he? Defended you when it counted?”

You frowned, your mind flashing back to the lake incident, his swift intervention, the way he had looked at you—like you were the only person in the world. “That’s hardly enough to excuse his behavior,” you said, though your voice lacked its usual conviction.

Toji grinned knowingly. “Conflict like this doesn’t fizzle out quietly, Miss Itadori. Mark my words—this will blow up sooner or later. And when it does, when Gojo realizes he’s been an idiot and comes crawling back, what are you going to do?”

Your breath hitched at the thought, and you quickly dismissed it with a wave of your hand. “He won’t. He’s far too stubborn for that.”

“Maybe,” Toji conceded with a shrug, though his expression suggested otherwise. “But if he does, you’d better know what you want, because boys like Gojo don’t grovel often.”

Sukuna huffed, crossing his arms. “Well, I’d rather she find someone who isn’t an arrogant prick.”

“Maybe,” Toji said again, his tone calm but firm. “But sometimes it’s the arrogant pricks who surprise you the most.”

You shook your head, unwilling to entertain the notion any further. “This is all highly speculative and entirely unnecessary. Lord Gojo and I are... nothing.”

Toji’s words hung in the air, and though you tried to focus on the speaker at the front of the room, the uneasy stirring in your chest remained. Sukuna’s watchful gaze burned into the side of your face, and after a long moment of silence, you turned back to Toji, unable to resist asking the question that had been gnawing at you.

“How is it,” you began cautiously, your tone laced with both curiosity and a hint of suspicion, “that you seem to know Lord Gojo so well?”

Toji leaned back in his chair, his lips quirking in an almost imperceptible smirk. Sukuna let out a low chuckle, crossing his arms as he observed the exchange, clearly entertained. You really wanted to shoot a dirty glare at both of them, but you persisted, your gaze insistently honing on Toji.

“What makes you think I know him?” Toji asked, his voice carrying that frustratingly unhurried cadence that suggested he was enjoying your discomfort.

You narrowed your eyes, unwilling to let him deflect. “Because you speak of him with far more familiarity than most. And because you called him an ‘arrogant prick’ with such conviction that it could only come from experience.”

Toji laughed at that, a low, amused sound that rumbled from his chest. “Sharp as ever,” he remarked, glancing briefly at Sukuna, who rolled his eyes. “Fine, if you must know—I’ve known the boy since he was barely out of leading strings. My father did lots of business with his, as almost all families of the nobility do business with the Gojo dukedom. And for a time, I was … well, let’s say I was observing the business practices of the family.”

You blinked, surprised by the revelation. “Oh? Anything of note?”

Toji shrugged, his expression now unreadable at the mention of his family. “Gojo and I… crossed paths more than a few times.” He then snorted, now shaking his head at what seemed a ridiculous memory. “The boy was only four and ten when he was attending those meetings with the rest of the noble families, while the rest of the men in that room were at least two and twenty.”

“Ah.” You didn’t exactly understand how to analyze this; while you’re no stranger to the fact that Gojo was conditioned for the title of duke since his childhood, courtesy of Mrs. Tanaka, you were fazed by it every time.

“And,” Toji snorts, continuing, “the child would be the most ridiculous sight. Sometimes it felt that he was so enamored by the sound of his own voice that he hardly cared what the meeting was about.” Toji smirked, leaning back in his chair, arms crossed as if reliving the absurdity of the memory. “He’d sit there, bold as brass, making ridiculous suggestions—most of which were promptly dismissed, mind you—but he always had this way of... commanding attention.”

You raised a brow, trying to picture a fourteen-year-old Gojo confidently holding court among seasoned men of business and nobility. The image was surprisingly easy to conjure. “And no one thought to put him in his place?”

Toji let out a short laugh, shaking his head. “Oh, they tried. Believe me, they tried. But the boy’s wit was sharper than most men in that room. Even when he was wrong—and he often was—he’d somehow twist the conversation to make it seem like he was the only one making sense. Drove them mad.”

You couldn’t help but smile at the thought, though it was accompanied by a pang of irritation. Of course, Gojo had been insufferable even as a boy.

“He sounds as impossible then as he is now,” you muttered, earning a chuckle from Sukuna.

Toji tilted his head, a glint of something more serious in his eyes now. “Impossible, yes. But also... determined. Even back then, you could tell he had a weight on his shoulders. He wanted to prove something—to himself, to his family, to everyone in that room. I’d wager that’s still true.”

You frowned, mulling over his words. “And what exactly does he have to prove? He’s already a duke-to-be, with wealth, power, and influence beyond what most could dream of.”

Toji regarded you for a moment, his gaze steady. “Sometimes, those with the most are the ones who feel they have the most to lose. And the most to prove.”

Your chest tightened at the implication, but you quickly shoved the thought aside. “Well,” you said, forcing a lightness into your tone, “it seems Lord Gojo has always been consistent in his… unique qualities.”

Toji’s smirk returned, though there was a knowing edge to it. “That he has. But don’t mistake consistency for simplicity. That boy is a maze, and only a fool would think they’ve figured him out.”

You opened your mouth to respond but were interrupted by Sukuna’s low, dry voice. “Why are we wasting breath on that prick? We’re here for a reason, aren’t we?”

Toji laughed again, a deep, unbothered sound, and gestured for you both to follow him deeper into the meeting hall. “Fair enough. Let’s see if we can find you two a seat before you start debating the virtues—or lack thereof—of Lord Satoru Gojo.”

The sun was low on the horizon, casting the sky in a fiery orange glow as the two men rode side by side along the quiet trails bordering the Gojo estate. The rhythmic clopping of hooves on the dirt path filled the silence, punctuated by the occasional snort or whinny from their steeds. Satoru’s white steed carried him with its usual grace, while Geto’s dark horse moved with a steady, confident gait.

It was indeed a rare moment of calm. Before the season started, these silences would undoubtedly be filled with Geto’s mentions of gossip and business deals, in which investment in the Americas ended up being a damp squib. However, it seems that with the season has come Geto’s new target: his best friend himself, Satoru. And Satoru knew that this moment of calm was before the storm: Geto hopping on his arse.

And indeed, Geto, ever the opportunist, was not one to let peace linger for too long. His lips quirked into a smirk as he glanced sideways at his lifelong friend.

“So,” Geto began, his tone far too casual to be innocent, “why’d you defend her yesterday?”

Satoru groans inwardly; ever since that night of the ball after the Gojo house party, Suguru had been observing him amusedly. It even seemed that Nanami was taking interest in Satoru’s recent affairs; every conversation at White’s had seemed like Kento and Suguru were in collusion together, and it made Satoru very wary. However, outwardly, he continued, his gaze fixed ahead. “Who?” he asked, feigning ignorance. 

Geto snorted. “Don’t play coy with me, Satoru. You know exactly who I mean—Miss Itadori. The lady you so gallantly saved from a rather damp fate.”

Satoru shrugged, leaning slightly forward in his saddle. He would be the air of nonchalance if Suguru didn’t know the subtle signs: his jaw clenching and his posture a bit too tight. “She was being pushed into a lake. Anyone would’ve done the same.”

“Ah,” Suguru drawled, his smirk widening. “Anyone. Of course. But it wasn’t just anyone, was it? It was you.”

“I was simply nearby,” Satoru replied coolly, though his grip on the reins tightened, the leather creaking faintly under his fingers.

Suguru let out a hum, as though he were considering his next move in a chess match. “Nearby? Satoru, you could’ve been halfway across the field, and you’d still have found some excuse to swoop in. It’s rather unlike you to involve yourself in such... trivial matters.”

Satoru’s jaw clenched briefly, but he said nothing.

“You stopped courting her, didn’t you?” Geto pressed, his tone light but with a sharp edge, something almost teasing yet with something to prove. “And yet, here you are, defending her honor like a knight in shining armor. I can’t imagine how she feels about all this... conflicting behavior.”

Satoru scoffed, finally cutting a glance at his friend. “I doubt she thinks of it at all.”

“Hmm,” Geto mused, humming prolongedly. His voice was dripping with skepticism as he drawled, “I doubt that.” 

“I do not see how that is my issue,” Satoru responds bluntly, quelling the irritation inside him at being probed so…closely like this.

To Satoru’s reprieve, Geto had no immediate response. The two rode in silence for a moment, the quiet broken only by the rustling of leaves and the soft sounds of their horses’ hooves. Suguru, however, was far from finished, and Satoru felt that he was going to burst a vein. 

“For someone who has the ton at his feet—every mama scheming, every daughter swooning—you sure are paying a lot of attention to one particular lady,” he said, leaning back slightly in his saddle. “A lady you supposedly have no interest in.”

This was enough. “Drop it, Geto,” Gojo said, his tone low and warning.

But Suguru wouldn’t have earned the title of being Satoru’s closest friend—and now it seemed, his greatest enemy—without crossing his boundaries further, pushing them in, and pulling at his strings. He wasn’t fettered in the least. He tilted his head, a glint of amusement in his dark eyes. “You know, it’s almost as if—dare I say it—you’re catching feelings.”

The words hit Gojo with the force of a thrown gauntlet, and for a moment, it felt like the air had been knocked clean out of his lungs. His fingers tightened around the reins instinctively, the leather biting into his gloves as his horse came to an abrupt halt. His pulse spiked, not from exertion but from something he refused to name. It spread through him like wildfire—hot, uncontrollable, and unwelcome.

Catch feelings? 

At some point, Satoru was afraid he had. Holding your unconscious body in his arms and foolishly pretending to be your husband in some childish attempt to play house—but no, Satoru does not have space for a mere thing like feelings. No, more like mere infatuation that he was sure would have died out by ending your courtship. 

But when he had been replacing the flowers by your bedside for the nth time, gazing upon your unconscious form once more, he had felt a sort of panic and lack of control. An unbidden feeling bubbled up inside of him, one that he quickly grew to realize, in the days leading up to the house party and you being roused from your state, that it was dangerous.

It’s an idea he’s instilled in himself since he was just a youth, and it’s a law he follows. Love and duty mustn’t cross paths; the covenant of marriage was a duty, a means to uphold the dukedom and his family’s legacy. To cross it with something like mere infatuation over how your eyes widened whenever Satoru said something outrageous, the traces of the smile you contained talking to other foolish suitors, the feel of your surprise when he walked closer to your chair, how dangerous it was for him to be alone with you in the library at night…it would certainly destroy him and the truths that he, Satoru Gojo, based his life upon.

His mind raced to rationalize, to shove the notion of feelings, something deeper than infatuation and a mere fancy, into some dark corner where it could wither and die. What nonsense. It wasn’t feelings. It couldn’t be. It was...what? Irritation? Protectiveness? The natural response of any honorable man when a lady’s dignity was insulted?

Yet, the memory of you standing by the lake crept unbidden into his mind—your face caught between fury and disbelief, the sunlight glinting off the strands of your hair that had escaped their meticulous arrangement. 

And that damnable dress—how it had dared to hint at the curves he had so traced uncountable times his dreams with his hands, with his tongue—

He could still hear your biting words, sharp and unrelenting, even as they softened into something more vulnerable when no one else could hear.

His stomach twisted. No.

His voice was clipped as he snapped at Geto, desperate to redirect the conversation. “You’re starting to pry into matters that don’t concern you.”

But Geto’s smirk didn’t falter, and Gojo hated him for it. It was as if his oldest friend could see every crack forming in his carefully constructed facade, every thin thread of composure threatening to unravel.

“You could make a fine living consulting mamas on the ton’s gossip, you know,” Gojo continued, the words escaping him with uncharacteristic sharpness. “Perhaps even advising them on matchmaking strategies. Should I make introductions for you?”

The deflection was weak, and he knew it. His heart was still racing, his chest tight as if the very idea Geto had planted was a parasite sinking its teeth into his carefully guarded resolve.

Feelings. For you.

Impossible.

And yet, as Geto’s smirk grew wider, his eyes alight with amusement, Gojo realized with a sinking dread that he wasn’t entirely sure anymore.

Geto grinned, unbothered by the sharpness in his friend’s words, and appeared ignorant of the visceral reaction Gojo just had to the notion. “Oh, I don’t need introductions. I’ve already got your whole life figured out, Satoru.”

Gojo rolled his eyes, nudging his horse forward again. “She’s not anything special to me. That’s all there is to it.”

The silence that followed Geto’s pointed observation stretched longer than Gojo would have liked. It hung heavy in the cool evening air, punctuated only by the occasional snort of their horses and the crunch of hooves on gravel. Gojo didn’t dare look at his friend, his jaw clenched tightly as his mind raced. Catch feelings. The words echoed, taunting him as if Geto had struck a nerve he hadn’t even realized was exposed.

Gojo swallowed hard, eyes fixated blankly on the trees in the surrounding scenery, silent as his usual sharp wit suddenly dulled. His silence wasn’t the confident kind that usually unsettled others—it was uneasy, charged, the kind that gave too much away. He shifted in the saddle, his posture stiff, betraying the internal battle raging within him.

But Geto noticed. He always noticed.

And when Gojo finally glanced sideways at him, Geto’s expression had transformed. His dark eyes sparkled with a glint of pure mischief, his lips curving into a grin that promised trouble. It was as though he had just uncovered a hidden treasure—Gojo’s discomfort, his tells, his unwillingness to admit what they both knew.

“Oh,” Geto said, dragging the word out like a cat savoring the moment before pouncing on a mouse. His grin widened, a wicked gleam overtaking his features. “Oh, this is rich.”

Gojo scowled, his face flushing despite himself. “What now?” he snapped, though his voice lacked its usual commanding edge.

Geto didn’t answer immediately, his gaze sweeping over his friend with an almost theatrical sense of revelation. He leaned slightly forward in his saddle, the reins in one hand as his other gestured toward Gojo as if presenting him to an invisible audience.

“I’ve got it,” Geto said, his tone deceptively casual, though the glint in his eyes betrayed the mischief bubbling beneath. “If she’s not anything special, as you’ve so eloquently put it, then we can visit the brothel tonight. Right?”

Gojo’s head snapped toward him, his jaw tightening further, but before he could respond, Geto continued, his voice laced with false innocence. “Think about it—a little distraction, a reset, if you will. It’ll clear everything up for you, including how you’re feeling.”

The silence that followed wasn’t simply quiet—it was a palpable stillness, thick with tension. Geto’s grin only grew as he watched Gojo’s reaction—or lack thereof. His friend had frozen, the reins slack in his hands as he stared straight ahead, his profile bathed in the amber glow of the setting sun.

“What’s the matter?” Geto pressed, his voice practically dripping with faux innocence. “You’re not hesitating, are you? After all, if she means nothing to you, there’s no reason not to go.”

Gojo hesitated for a fraction of a second too long, and Geto pounced on it.

“You’ve got something to prove, don’t you?” he teased, leaning slightly toward Gojo. “Come now, Satoru. Let’s see just how unaffected you truly are.”

And then, like a man trying to prove something—to himself, to his friend, to the world—Gojo finally spoke, his tone clipped, almost defiant. “Fine.”

But Geto wasn’t fooled, and Gojo knew it. He could feel the weight of his friend’s amusement, his sharp gaze cutting through every layer of pretense Gojo had built around himself. And for the first time in a long while, Gojo felt like he was losing control of the narrative.

Geto’s grin widened, triumphant. “Good. Let’s make an evening of it.”

The carriage ride was tense, at least for one of its occupants. Gojo sat stiffly on one of the plush seats, his legs stretched out in front of him, though his right knee bounced incessantly—a restless, nervous tick that betrayed the calm expression he worked hard to maintain. His hands gripped the edge of the seat, his fingers curling into the fabric as he stared out of the window, his pale blue eyes unfocused.

“This,” Satoru finally said, his voice cutting through the heavy silence like a knife, “is a truly foolish idea.”

Across from him, Geto reclined with the ease of a man completely at peace with his choices, one arm slung casually over the back of the seat. He raised an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “Then why are you here, oh wise one?”

Satoru shot him a flat look, though the movement was stiff, lacking his usual flair. “Because you said so. And because if I didn’t, you’d never let me hear the end of it.”

Geto chuckled, tipping his head back against the carriage wall. “Indulging your closest friend for once in your life—what a burden.” He then sighed, as if truly wounded and continued to lament, “You’ve never once gone with me—or rather, anyone—for an excursion to the establishment.”

Satoru didn’t dignify that with a response, his gaze flickering back out the window. The city rolled by in a blur of dim lantern light and shadowed alleys, but he barely registered it. The air in the carriage felt stifling, pressing down on him despite the open window beside him. His jaw clenched as his thoughts raced, looping over the same nagging feeling that had been gnawing at him since Geto suggested this ridiculous outing.

“I don’t even go to brothels,” Satoru muttered, almost to himself. This was truly a foolish idea.

Geto hummed amusedly, crossing his arms and leaning back. “So you’ve said. But everyone indulges now and again, even you.”

Satoru turned his head sharply to glare at him. “It’s not a fancy of mine.”

Geto leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees as he grinned. “Not your fancy? What, women? Or fun in general?”

“Brothels,” Satoru snapped, though the edge in his voice lacked conviction. “They’re… I don’t know, pointless. The whole idea is dunce-like. Superficial company cannot satisfy me. I find the banter found in of these establishments lacking conviction, and if I wanted such artificial banter, I would have found it in the balls of the ton. I have never found engaging conversation with any of the ladies of the ton,” except for you, “and I daresay it would not be an oversight to observe that I would not get the company I desire at a brothel.”

“And yet here you are,” Geto quipped, gesturing grandly to the carriage they occupied.

Satoru sighed heavily, his leg bouncing more insistently now. It seemed as if the foolishness of this idea had cast a cloud over his heart, never truly leaving him and permeating him in a sense of anxiousness, as if something was truly amiss. “Just this once. I fear that you may never stop troubling me if I do not.”

“As if I’d believe that.” Geto laughed, leaning back again, clearly enjoying his friend’s discomfort.

When the carriage finally came to a halt, Satoru felt a sinking sense of dread settle in his chest. He stepped down with an unusual stiffness, his body tense and his movements robotic, as though he were forcing himself to go through the motions. The chill of the evening air hit him, but it did little to ease the heat creeping up the back of his neck.

Geto followed close behind, his hand coming down heavily on Satoru’s shoulder in a gesture that was equal parts encouragement and teasing. “Relax, Satoru. It’ll be fun,” he said, his tone almost sing-song as he gestured toward the entrance of the establishment ahead.

Satoru gave him a tight-lipped smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “I’m sure,” he replied dryly, though the tension in his shoulders made it clear that he was anything but.

As Geto led the way, Satoru lingered a step behind, his feet dragging just enough to make his reluctance palpable. He couldn’t shake the gnawing sense of unease, the quiet voice in the back of his mind telling him that this was a mistake. And yet, here he was—following Geto into the lion’s den, his heart pounding with a mix of dread and something else he couldn’t quite name.

Suguru and Satoru’s footsteps resound on the wooden floorboards. Feminine perfume wafts through the air, but Satoru finds it a bit too strong. Unbidden, the memory and trace of your scent of sandalwood flashes through his mind, but before he can linger on the memory of your scent got stronger the closer his nose inched to the delicate arch of your neck, Suguru stops in front of him, talking to a woman at the counter. 

As if second nature to Geto, Suguru flirts with the madam in charge of the finances, but to Satoru, it goes in through one ear and out the other. He’s too busy observing the tacky decorations and abundance of flowers that seem to surround the place and the halls he can peer into. And there are women.

They crowd by, some loitering by their doors and peering at the pair that just walked in. They giggle to each other in groups, no doubt wishing that Geto may choose them today, but Satoru knows that it would not be the case, for he hears Suguru murmur something along the lines of the usual girls. While some of them are enraptured by Geto, there are just so many eyes on him.

He’s undoubtedly someone they haven’t seen before; he doesn’t look too young, one that would end the whole session too early. Gojo feels eyes on him, salaciously trailing up his body, but he is unfazed by it. It is rather the prospect of being in a room alone, of having to touch or being touched that has, for some reason, him nauseous for a reason he is yet to figure out. So he attributes it to the waste of coin, for he is sure not to take any enjoyment.

“Satoru, move along this way,” Geto waves him into the hallway he’s walking towards, now that he has sorted out the details with the madam. Begrudgingly—but not before running a hand down his face in exasperation—Satoru follows. It’s almost amusing how whoever Geto gazes upon seems to faint, his siren eyes carrying an allure to them that even makes these ladies shy. Satoru, on the other hand, keeps his gaze trained on the ceiling and traces the detail and design of the crown molding.

When it appears that Geto has finally found the room he intended for, he opens the door and walks into it.

The atmosphere inside the room was surprisingly plush, though it carried the same overpowering floral scent as the rest of the establishment. A low-burning lantern cast a warm, flickering light over the deep reds and golds of the furnishings, creating an almost intimate glow. 

Suguru strode in first, his posture relaxed and his expression bordering on smug. He let out a low whistle as he surveyed the room. “Nice, isn’t it? I always tell them to reserve the best for me.”

Satoru followed reluctantly, his hands shoved deep into his coat pockets. He barely glanced at the room’s opulence, his focus instead on staying as close to the door as possible without actually leaving. “I suppose it’s marginally better than the hallway,” he muttered, his tone as dry as ever. 

Suguru smirked, unbothered by his friend’s sour mood. “Come on, Satoru, don’t sulk. We’re here to unwind.” He dropped onto the sofa with a contented sigh, stretching out his arms along the backrest. “You’re supposed to sit, you know.”

Satoru raised an eyebrow, leaning against the doorframe instead. “I’m fine right here, thanks.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Suguru groaned, motioning toward the empty seat beside him. “Just sit down before you ruin the ambiance completely. I won’t tell anyone you’re enjoying yourself—promise.”

Reluctantly, Satoru peeled himself away from the door and took a seat at the far end of the sofa, as far from Suguru as the furniture allowed. He sank into the velvet sofa with all the enthusiasm of a man preparing for execution, his long legs stretched in front of him, his arms folded stiffly across his chest. He tried to laze back, be the appearance of equanimity, but inside he was anything but.

“See? That wasn’t so hard,” Suguru teased, pouring two glasses of wine from a decanter on the side table. He slid one across the table toward Satoru, who eyed it skeptically before finally picking it up.

“This is still a waste of time,” Satoru muttered, swirling the wine in his glass but not drinking it. His gaze wandered toward the window, though the heavy drapes blocked any view of the outside.

Suguru leaned back against the sofa, crossing one leg over the other as he sipped his wine. “You say that, but you’re here, aren’t you? Deep down, you must’ve been at least a little curious.”

“Deep down,” Satoru said, casting Suguru a sideways glance, “I fear I may be losing what little sense I have simply by remaining in this room.”

Suguru laughed, a deep, rich sound that filled the room and echoed as if to haunt and taunt Satoru. “You’re impossible. But I’ll give it ten minutes. You’ll relax. You always do.”

Before Satoru could retort, there was a soft knock at the door. Suguru’s smirk widened, and he set his glass down, rising to answer it. “Ah, perfect timing.”

Satoru tensed, his fingers tightening around the stem of his glass. He leaned back slightly, watching as Suguru opened the door with all the confidence of a man who owned the place. When the door swung open, two women entered with an air of familiarity and charm, their laughter light as they greeted Suguru.

“Back so soon, Mr. Geto?” one of them purred, her hair bouncing with each step. Her gaze lingered on Suguru, enraptured as though she could see no one else. His friend has that effect on women, Satoru supposes. He’s definitely no stranger to it.

 “As if he could stay away,” added the other, her blonde hair catching the warm light as she smiled, all charm and sweetness.

Suguru offered a roguish grin, gesturing broadly to the room as he drew his legs apart impossibly wider. He was truly the epitome of a man relaxed and in bliss. “Ladies, your wit does me a disservice. I couldn’t possibly keep myself from such delightful company.”

The two women giggled, each draping herself over Suguru’s shoulders with the familiarity of longtime favorites. Their laughter chimed softly, though Satoru barely heard it. He was too busy trying to reconcile the absurdity of this situation with his growing discomfort.

“And who’s this?” the blonde asked, her curious gaze flickering toward Satoru, who sat at the far end of the sofa. His unease must not have been apparent to anyone but Suguru, because in Gojo’s periphery, he saw the other girl in between him and Suguru turn her head in surprise, as if she truly hadn’t noticed him but definitely seemed to like what she saw. Soon, she was moving out of Geto’s space and inching herself closer next to Gojo’s seat on the chaise, but Satoru kept his eyes trained on Suguru, awaiting his response to the blonde.

“Oh, that?” Suguru quipped, waving a hand in his direction as though introducing an unruly pet. “That is Satoru, a dear friend of mine—and a woefully inexperienced one at that.”

Satoru shot him a withering glare but said nothing, his lips pressed into a smirk as if to mask his unease and instead show amusement, an air of nonchalance.

“Do be kind to him,” Suguru added with a knowing smirk. “He’s not accustomed to such pleasures as these.”

The other woman rose with a soft laugh, gliding across the chaise with practiced elegance. “Then I shall endeavor to make him feel at home.”’

As she settled beside Satoru, he felt a strange prickle of apprehension, a sense of something amiss. Then he turned his head, and his breath caught in his throat.

It was you.

Or at least, it felt like you. The resemblance was so striking it bordered on cruel—the shape of her face, the curve of her lips, the lashes framing her warm eyes. She even smiled like you, though this smile carried a polished charm that felt foreign, detached.

“Good heavens,” she murmured, her voice light and lilting. “You’re dreadfully tense, aren’t you? Let me help you with that.”

Her words might as well have been spoken in another language, for they barely reached him. Satoru was still staring, his mind spinning as the room seemed to shrink around him. She shifted closer, the scent of her perfume—a cloying blend of florals—filling the space between them. It made his stomach turn, but not because it was unpleasant. No, it was wrong. It wasn’t your scent.

The memory of sandalwood hit him like a punch to the chest, unbidden and consuming. The delicate trace of it, how it lingered faintly whenever you passed by, how it deepened when he leaned closer, just enough to catch it at the hollow of your throat—

Her touch drew him back abruptly. Her fingers skimmed lightly along his arm, trailing upward to rest against his chest. “You must relax, sir,” she tittered, her tone teasing but soothing in equal measure. “Let me ease your troubles. There’s no need to hold yourself so tightly.”

But Satoru barely felt the pressure of her hand. Instead, all he could feel was you—the ghost of your touch from the salacious dream he’d had not long ago, a dream that had plagued him since. You, standing in his room in nothing but your night shift, your figure outlined faintly by the moonlight filtering through the window. He remembered how his hands had reached for you in that dream, the warmth of your skin beneath his palms, the sound of your breath catching as he—

“Sir?” Her voice broke through the haze, soft and curious. Her brow furrowed slightly as she tilted her head to meet his gaze. “Are you unwell?”

He blinked, forcing himself to focus, though it felt like dragging his mind out of quicksand. His throat worked, but the words caught. “I’m fine,” he managed, though the stiffness in his tone betrayed him.

Across the room, Suguru observed the exchange with a smirk, his chin resting lazily on his hand. “You’ve got your work cut out for you, I’m afraid,” he drawled, his amusement clear. “The man’s wound tighter than a clock.”

The woman beside Satoru laughed softly, oblivious to his inner turmoil. “No matter,” she said brightly, her hand trailing further across his torso. “We’ve ways of loosening even the most stubborn. You ought to be at ease, my lord,” she teases, “I have no aim to bite you.”

But Satoru wasn’t paying attention. His mind was still back in that dream, with you. It was an image he couldn’t shake, no matter how much he tried. And as she leaned closer, her hand pressing lightly against his chest, his thoughts screamed louder than ever: What am I doing here?

The woman’s touch began to drift lower, her hands brushing over his hips, and Satoru’s entire body went rigid, as though struck by lightning. A peculiar kind of heat climbed up his neck—not the kind born of desire but something closer to panic.

His chest felt tight, his breath shallow. The air in the room seemed to shrink, pressing down on him from all sides. Her laughter, sweet and tinkling, rang in his ears, but it sounded muffled as if he were underwater. He couldn’t do this—not with her, not with anyone. Not when her face, her scent, and even her touch were so painfully wrong. It was truly uncanny, something that put Satoru too much at unease

He knew he must get out of there.

In one sharp motion, Satoru stood. The movement startled the woman, her hands falling away as she looked up at him with wide, confused eyes. Similar to when you both tripped at the stream, you looking up at him, your bosom close to his—

“Sir?” she asked, tilting her head, her voice laced with surprise.

Satoru offered a dazzling smirk, one that didn’t quite reach his eyes but was charming enough to serve its purpose. He gently took her hands in his, his fingers curling lightly around hers as he raised them to his lips. His kiss was featherlight, fleeting, and entirely calculated.

“My dear,” he began, his tone smooth as silk, though a faint tremor lay hidden beneath it, “while I deeply appreciate your gracious efforts, I am afraid I must take my leave. A rather urgent matter at home has just crossed my mind.”

She blinked, startled and unsure of what to say. “But—”

Satoru stepped back, his smirk widening as he released her hands with a flourish. “Do forgive my abrupt departure. You’ve been nothing short of delightful.” He inclined his head toward her in a courtly gesture, his gaze flicking briefly to Suguru, who was now watching him with one brow arched in amused disbelief.

“Geto,” Satoru said, his voice tight but steady, “it seems I must bid you adieu. Do enjoy yourself. You appear to be in good company.”

Suguru leaned back, his arms draped lazily over the back of the sofa, an almost predatory grin tugging at his lips. “You’re leaving already, Satoru? The night’s barely begun.”

“Oh, but the night is full of pressing demands. I fear I have just remembered a pending task in my ledgers expected to be resolved tomorrow” Satoru replied breezily, though his legs were already moving toward the door. “Another time, perhaps.”

Before Suguru could respond, Satoru slipped out of the room, shutting the door behind him with an almost frantic speed. The sound of his boots echoed down the hallway as he strode quickly toward the exit, his pulse racing as though he were fleeing some great calamity.

By the time he stepped outside into the cool night air, his heart was pounding, and his chest felt like it might burst. He inhaled deeply, letting the chill fill his lungs as he tilted his head back to look at the sky. The stars above were cold and distant, but they steadied him.

“Good grief.”

As the door clicked shut behind Satoru, Geto’s smirk deepened, his gaze lingering on the spot where his friend had stood moments ago. The tension in Gojo’s shoulders, the too-tight smirk that barely concealed his panic—it had all been immensely entertaining. Geto couldn’t help but feel a flicker of satisfaction. For all his bluster and charm, Satoru Gojo was, at his core, so damn oblivious to the raging currents inside of him. 

He sighs inwardly, now excited. He couldn’t wait for the theatrics that would occur soon, for his friend was a ticking time bomb—one to explode very soon.

He leaned back further into the sofa, stretching his arms along the backrest as he glanced at the two women beside him. The blonde was frowning slightly, clearly perplexed by Satoru’s abrupt departure, while the one that had approached Satoru was still staring at the door, her lips parted as if to call him back.

“Don’t fret, my darlings,” Geto drawled, his voice low and smooth as honey. He shifted slightly, letting his arm curl around the blonde’s shoulders, his hand resting lightly at the nape of her neck. “Our dear Lord Gojo is... a complicated man.”

The blonde huffed, crossing her arms in mock indignation. “He didn’t even stay long enough for a proper introduction. Was it something I said?”

“Not at all,” Geto assured her, his thumb brushing lightly against her skin. “He’s simply overwhelmed by beauty. I’m afraid he’s not accustomed to the kind of attention you so graciously bestowed upon him.”

The other woman’s pout melted into a soft laugh, her earlier confusion replaced by amusement. “Well, that is rather charming, in its own way.” Geto turns his eyes away from the blond to look at the other lady and has to bite his cheek to stop the laugh from coming in. 

He truly did a good job of describing your features to the madam when requesting her.

“Indeed,” Geto said, his smile widening as he turned his attention fully to them. “But let us not waste another thought on him. I, for one, am most delighted to remain in your company.”

His words seemed to ease whatever tension lingered, and the two women exchanged a glance before smiling in unison. The blonde leaned into him, her fingers trailing lightly over the fabric of his coat. “You’re far more gracious than your friend,” she murmured, her voice taking on a playful lilt.

“I do try,” Geto replied, his tone teasing as his other hand came to rest on the woman—the one previously attending to Satoru—’s knee. “And if I may be so bold, I’d say we’ve quite the opportunity here—one we shouldn’t waste.”

She comes closer to him, remarking while looking up at him through her lashes, “I would say you’re rather right.”

With that, the three met passionately in an exchange of limbs, certainly making do…even with the lack of a certain white-haired duke-to-be.

prev. the lake | next. the art gallery

general masterlist | series masterlist

a/n HEY BRIDGERTON!GOJO POOKIES HOW ARE WE!! this chapter was sooo messy for gojo lmaooo. we're sooo close to the slow burn arc ending and this was a biiiggg epiphany for geto. now comes the next stage of the plan 😈

one thing i also wanted to clarify (and make sure everyone noticed) was that we got the reason why gojo dropped reader. he got a lil crush and got scared :( a lot of people have been asking me about it, and a lot of people were already commenting their theories, which nailed it completely on the head. whether surprised or not, i hope it makes sense :3

also idk if this goes without saying but if you didn't like that gojo agree to go to the brothel / dont agree with sex work / dont like that geto indulges / yadda yadda pls dont make it my problem <3 im just writing what was common at the time, it's not indicative of my views on anything

gojo after realizing the woman looked like you

reblog and comment to let me know ur thots! :3

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THE ART OF THE DEAL | harry castillo x you

{ part two: VALUATION ERRORS>>

wc: 6,7k | rating: 18+ for eventual smut | Harry Castillo x You | FALSE RELATIONSHIP

summary: you don’t believe in love. neither does he. that’s the only thing you agree on. after swearing off romance, you’ve built a quiet life in art preservation and avoiding anything resembling vulnerability. but when Harry Castillo, arrogant, infuriating, and stupidly rich, proposes you pretend to be his fiancée for the sake of getting his overbearing mother off his back, you’re thrown. but the money is good and with your detached views on romance and love, you make the perfect polished, commitment-free partner. It’s just a deal; cold, clean and temporary. but pretending to be in love with a man you can’t stand has a way of making you feel things you promised yourself you’d never feel again. especially when he starts looking at you like you're more than just a line item in a contract. And worst of all? You start looking back

the MC female character is YOU. she is not named and barely described physically aside from being able bodied and having hair long enough to grab.

tags/warnings: false relationship, mentions of materialists film, smut, enemies to lovers. i will add more tags as they become relevant.

THE ART OF THE DEAL | PART ONE | TERMS AND CONDITIONS

The restaurant is fairly quiet, the music playing in the back is dim. It's the kind of place that takes months to get into, but one mention of his name and his table for two is ready in an hour. It's a perfect setting for romance, for love 

Except Harry Castillo doesn't believe in love.

Not at his age. 

He couldn't, not after her.

Melissa. The girl he'd been slavishly devoted to his entire college experience. The one he overheard at a frat party months before graduation calling him pint-sized to a group of tittering girls. 

"But the sex is decent and he's loaded, so I'll put up with him." 

Put up with him. Like he was an annoying pet. He broke up with her that night, tears in his eyes, a hole in his heart and the engagement ring from his mother still in his pocket. 

When he told his younger brother the next morning over coffee at his apartment he'd just shrugged. 

"That's how it is for guys like us." 

And that was supposed to be a comfort? How? 

And as his date, a thirty year old art curator sits across from him now, rambling on about the things she'd seen recently at work, the people she'd talked to, the daily minutia of her life, Harry finds his attention drifting. 

Not to anyone in particular, that isn't his way of operating. He'd always been a one woman man his whole life. Relentlessly monogamous. But he's bored, the conversation manufactured as if she's reading from cue cards. 

His mind drifts to the kitchen with Lucy, the conversation, the admittance that he didn't think he was capable of love. 

"You will. It'll be easy," Lucy had said. 

This doesn't feel easy. But then again what did Lucy know? She didn't even know what she wanted. He shifts in his seat when he hears his name being gently cooed by the girl across from him. 

"Pardon?"

She fingers the stem of her wine glass anxiously. She's clearly worried she's doing something wrong. 

"I asked if you've been using Adore for long?" 

"I've never actually used a dating service before," Harry replies politely. "You're my first." 

Her cheeks tinge pink, eyes downcast, the very picture of demure supplication.  

"Hopefully your last," she says with a gentle smile. 

She's very soft. Everything from the fabric of her clothing to her voice is soft. 

He offers a low chuckle, a rich sound. He knows that he's a catch, a proclaimed "unicorn" from his matchmaker at Adore. He knows the looks he gets aren't just for looks, but for his sizeable bank account. 

And his mother has been very firm. She wants him to marry and he hates to disappoint her. 

"You're almost fifty, Harry. It's inappropriate to be single at this age." 

The woman across from him is traditionally beautiful, but what woman isn't at thirty? She has smooth unblemished skin, light voice. Botox at the forehead, lips plump from injections. 

It's all tastefully done but what remains is nothing of true interest, nothing that sets her apart from the millions of women he sees in New York every day. 

But she's smart, she's accomplished, she comes from money, she'd understand his world. 

"Would you like a second date?" He asks as he walks her to her front door later that night. 

His driver is idling at the curb, keeping the car warm against the New York autumn chill. 

She beams at him, eyes sparkling. 

"I would love that."

"He's perfect."

"No one is perfect, Gemma,” you remind her gently. Everything you do with Gemma is gentle because she's a gentle creature, long limbed, big dark blue eyes, auburn hair, like a doe come to life. "He's just a man." 

"A perfect man," she swoons, coming to stand opposite your desk. "Rich, six feet, amazing hair and body. Smart, kind." 

"And he's straight?"

"Ha ha." 

You smirk before going back to photographing the small miniature portrait in front of you on the desk. A new acquisition, a piece from the 1700's. A coup for the gallery. 

As the art preserver here at The Chapel Gallery you work in the back rooms of the gallery, in a part of the building the visitors never see. Back here the light is colder, whiter, and everything smells faintly of varnish, aging wood, and linen.

The floor is concrete, scuffed from decades of furniture being dragged across it. You’ve stopped noticing. There’s a tall window, but it’s been treated with a UV filter that dulls the sun to a diffused gray-blue haze. Still, it’s enough.

 You like the quiet of it. The way it catches in the dust floating over a stretched canvas. The hush. Your own breathing. The gentle hum of the fume extractor overhead.

Gemma is the exception. Bouncy, sweet, colorful. You like her in your space. Gemma showed up on her first day in heels too loud for the old gallery floors, holding a latte and a dozen questions about framing protocols, and you liked her immediately for admitting she could never do your job. There was respect in her voice when she said it. 

You'd bonded immediately over a love of Henry Ossawa Tanner and ethnical restoration. You moved quickly to lunches together, and then drinks after work and then a casual friendship that you appreciate in a city that feels cold. She loves to visit you in this space bringing coffee or baked goods, the two of you talking about everything from Rembrandt to The Real Housewives. 

And now she stands in front of you, phone in hand showing you a picture from what you can only assume is Google. 

"Isn't he handsome?" 

He looks like any other rich guy to you. They all start to blend into a mix of fancy watches and stiff hair after a while. 

"Sure." 

Your tools rest in their tray; scalpels in their tray, cotton swabs in jars, solvents labeled in your handwriting. Everything with its place. Everything under control. The paintings arrive with their wounds and histories, and you restore them with a loving hand. 

Gemma doesn’t interrupt, not exactly, but her presence changes the air. She’s lighter, glossier somehow. You hear the quick staccato of her heels before you see her. Always rehearsing the next exhibit, the next acquisition, the next donor she’ll have to charm.

 Her voice echoes through the storage corridor when she’s on a call, naming names you don’t recognize. Its collectors, old professors, gallery patrons who write checks large enough to get their opinions framed.

You prefer the paintings because they don’t perform. They don’t flatter. They don’t lie about what time has done to them.

Sometimes she asks what you think of a piece. You don’t always answer. When you do, she listens in that serious way of hers, her lips slightly parted, like she's memorizing the shape of your opinion even if she’s already decided on hers. It works, mostly. You restore. She sells and curates.

You move behind the canvas while she moves in front of it.

"What does he do?"

"Private equity." 

You hold in a groan. He's just like every other guy she's dated. All rich, all handsome, all in finance and all the most boring men on the planet. You can feel her eyes still on you and you know what she's going to say before she says it. You brace yourself. 

"When are you going to try dating again?"

"Never."

Your sweet, hopelessly optimistic co-worker leans on your work table, big eyes sad. "The divorce was six years ago. When are you going to try again?"

"When men stop being assholes so..." you put on a faux pondering look, "never?" 

She giggles, a bit nervous about her date, a bit tickled by your seriousness. "Don't you miss sex?"

You look over at her innocent face, amused. You're only a few years older than her but you feel like you've lived a lifetime in comparison. 

"I have sex, Gem. Sex isn't the issue. It's living with a man that doesn't appeal to me. And I'm not gay, though I wish I was, so romance isn't really an option anymore." 

You weren't always this way when it came to love. But it was a classic case of Boy meets girl. Girl falls for boy. Boy and girl get married. Boy cheats. Boy gets girl new pregnant. Girl moves on. 

You wish it wasn't such a fucking cliché. 

You think of you phone in your pocket. The message from earlier. You scowl. Gemma's phone beeps and she swipes to open the message, her face breaking into a beam. 

"He's here," she says, going on her tiptoes and bouncing. "He's coming down here to get me! You can see him!" 

She looks completely elated and there's a small, secret part of you that misses that. The excitement of a first date. Just then a gurgle sounds and she gets a strange look on her face, blanching before placing a palm over her stomach. 

"Oh fuck." 

Gemma has what she calls a reactive stomach. Which basically means that she has to aggressively empty her bowels when she gets anxious. 

"I'll tell him you're freshening up," you tell her, making a shooing motion. She casts you a thankful look before rushing off to the loo. 

You shake your head, mouth curled into a smile. She is ridiculous at times but you really do adore her. You go back to photographing the miniature portrait, excited to get to work on bringing the original color back from underneath all that grime.

The sound of footsteps grabs your attention. You glance up to see a tall man with dark wave hair that curls under his ears and large expressive eyes. He's dressed well and in one arm holds a large bouquet of pale yellow roses. 

"Hello." 

He smiles politely at you, plump lips curling under a perfectly manicured beard.

Harry Castillo. 

"Gemma just went to freshen up," you tell him with a motion to one of the desk chairs. "She'll be back any second."

"Great." 

He doesn't move to the chair. Instead he moves deeper into your workroom, eyes casting from one piece to the next. He places the bouquet onto one of the empty tables before surveying the exhibit you just finished restoring. 

He stops in front of a small, clay pot, clearly taken with it. Despite it being behind protected glass you wince when his face nears it.

"Do you mind stepping back from the artifacts? Everything here is incredibly delicate." 

Harry nods unbothered, hands behind his back. "Understood." 

He finds himself intrigued by what you're photographing with such focus. His legs carry him to the side of your desk. You're so invested in the task at hand you don't even hear him near. 

"Rosalba Carriera." 

You almost drop the camera. "What?"

"That's a Rosalba Carriera isn't it?" Harry looks puzzled. "I'm sure of it. My family owns several." 

You hold in a scoff of disgust. Of course his family would buy up art and keep it for themselves. You stare over your shoulder at him, your expression cold. Men like this make you want to scream. Money, looks, arrogance. He has it all in spades. 

"I love pastel painting," Harry continues, thrown off by your muted response.

He thought you'd warm to him and his art knowledge. He's been told he's charismatic, but the longer you derisively stare at him the more he's concerned he's been lied to all his life. You're like a cat; back arched, claws extended. Everything about you screams back off and so he does, eyes trained on yours. 

"Yes," you finally offer when he stands on the opposite side of your workspace. "It is a Rosalba Carriera. One of her earliest." 

Harry can see that the entire portrait is grimy with age. The edges torn in spots. He can't imagine taking something like that and making it beautiful again. 

"Restoration and preservation seems like such tedious work," Harry hums. 

He winces when he sees your jaw tic. He said the wrong thing. Fuck. Tedious wasn't the word he wanted to use. He'd meant labor intensive and exhausting with having so many hours spent over such detailed pieces. 

But he feels out of his element, trying to appear in control of the conversation. But the way your eyes dig into him has him feeling exposed. 

You don't even lower your camera when you reply. 

"No more tedious than telling rich people how to spend their money." 

That's an arrow to the gut. Despite being good at his job there is always the lingering thought that what he does is frivolous. That all the money in the world can't make him a good person. 

He can change his legs, his clothes, his home, but at the end of the day he's still that awkward boy overhearing his girlfriend saying she put up with him.

You put him back there, back to the party that smelled of stale beer and hairspray. The night his life changed, where he changed, where he saw the ugliness in perfection. 

And for that, he immediately dislikes you. 

He frowns, irritated by this serious woman behind the desk and the way she turns her attention back to the portrait, as if he's nothing, as if he's not even good enough to glance at. 

You want him gone. He wants to be gone. 

"I'm ready," Gemma announces with a flustered laugh, coming around the corner in her flouncy dress. You and Harry exhale in relief. 

"Great," Harry says extending an elbow. He can't wait to escape this suffocating space. 

He can't wait to be away from you

Your apartment is on the smaller side, but it does its job. You make decent money. Not enough for some penthouse at the top of a skyscraper but it's got a cozy vibe, something that makes you feel settled. It's a third floor walk up and by the end of the day you're usually exhausted. 

Above everything, you love that it's yours. You picked the paint, the decor, the pillows. Every part of this space is you. 

Not him.

You toss your bag onto the hook by the door and start the toaster oven. You worked late and you have a real craving for that shitty lasagna from the supermarket that you grew up on. 

You grab it from the freezer, Popping ventilation holes into the plastic and pop it into the oven. As you set the timer and heat you laugh to yourself when you realize how different your meal is from Gemma's this evening. She's probably throwing back lobster and farm to table veal. 

With Harry.

What a stupid fucking name. 

You can't help but be annoyed by his presence today, but if you're honest your bad mood started this morning at work after receiving a text from an old friend. Well, not a friend deal, more and emotional vulture. 

I hope you're doing okay. 

Huh? 

I saw the pregnancy announcement on J's timeline. I'm so sorry hun xx

You hadn't even bothered writing back. 

Harry had just been an additional irritant. Bad place bad time. Reminding you of the lifestyle Jarrod always aspired to.  

You used to own a nice place outside Manhattan with your ex-husband Jarrod. A place with quiet neighbours and tall ceilings. A place that he furnished saying that he had an eye for home design. 

He made decent money, but it was never enough. You both worked and he loved to live lavishly. When he found out about your secret account that has been the beginning of the end. 

And the irony is his new wife doesn't even work. But she's young and shiny and maybe that's what he really wanted all along, he just wasn't honest about it. 

But if you're honest you were checked out that last year of your marriage. How could you forgive him after his reaction to-

The ding of the oven catches your attention. You go to pull out the lasagna, hissing when the lip of the grill catches your wrist and the entire container goes toppling over onto the floor. 

Sauce pools over the mushed meal of cheese and pasta. You swear, throwing the pan into the sink with a frustrated cry. 

Today fucking sucks. 

Dinner is delicious. Better than the last time Harry was here with Lucy. Or the time before with Bianca. Or the time before that with Gretchen. It's his favorite steak house and he always rents the back room out when he dines here. It's quieter that way, the service more dedicated. 

Harry watches his date delicately eating her salad. But his mind is still back in that gallery basement, back on the woman who irritated him. 

What was her problem?

Harry dabs at the corner of his mouth with his napkin. He speaks lightly, eyes down as he adjusts his cuff. 

"I'm glad we could do this again." 

"Me too." 

Gemma stares at him with the practised air of a woman that was born beautiful, who went to an Ivy League, who comes from money and expects the best. 

She's a good match. And he's so tired of looking. 

"Tell me more about your job," he insists after another sip of wine. 

"It's not very glamorous," she replies sweetly. Again that picture of demure innocence that's starting to grate on him. "Not like your job." 

"I assure you private equity is pretty dull." 

"I suppose it's similar to your job in that we both act as bridges between consumer and creator. But I've taken on some curating as well. That's my real passion. I love it because it's shaping what people experience when they walk into a gallery or museum."

"That doesn't sound boring."

Gemma looks delighted by that response, her eyes sweeping across his forearm, watching the gold ring he wears tapping against the glass. 

"I guess not. Right now I’m working on curating a show on post-war artists who were overshadowed in their time, mostly women and artists of colour. It's the new piece my co-worker is photographing. She'll be busy pouring over that for the next few months." 

Harry nods, not particularly interested in hearing more about you. But Gemma is on a roll, comfortable with the topic of you since nothing else is coming to mind.

“I'm worked about the funding though,” she says, delicately spearing a piece of endive, “my co-worker says not to worry about it, but I can’t help it. I’m a worrier.”

Harry nods, smiling with practised warmth. The kind of smile reserved for clients and vaguely familiar faces at weddings. 

“Your co-worker seems…” he lets it drift, then adds almost idly, “focused.”

Gemma nods, chewing quietly. “She is. Especially when a new piece comes in. She’s been handling a lot lately. We lost funding for her assistant, so she’s doing everything herself.”

“That sounds unsustainable.”

“She doesn’t really complain,” Gemma says, smoothing her napkin. “But I think it’s been wearing on her. She hides it well.”

“She’s lucky to have you, then.”

Gemma smiles at that, pleased by the compliment, even if it’s only adjacent.

“She’d never say it, but I think she appreciates the support.”

Harry feigns a moment of thought, fingers absently trailing the stem of his wineglass. He can't agree. You seemed perfectly passionate enough to insult him the second after meeting him. 

“She was a bit aloof,” he murmurs. 

Gemma gives a small, quick laugh. “She’s not always like that. She’s very funny, very blunt. She just doesn’t warm up to people easily. Especially not people who act like...well....”

She catches herself and Harry lifts an eyebrow, amused. "Act like what?”

“Like they own the room.”

He smirks. “Guilty, I suppose.”

“No,” Gemma says quickly, almost apologetic. “Not you exactly. It's just, she’s careful with new people.”

Harry leans in slightly, voice low. “You two are close?”

Gemma lowers her eyes, just for a second. “We work well together. She’s so funny and so brilliant. And yeah, a little intense. But she makes the gallery better.”

He nods, slow and thoughtful. There’s something in the way Gemma speaks about you. Respect, yes, but also a sort of nervous admiration. He files that away.

“And she said not to worry?” he prompts gently, circling back.

“Mhm,” Gemma says, dabbing the corner of her mouth. “She always says that. About donors, pieces, my love life…” she trails off, laughing a little.

“Oh?”

“She doesn’t really believe in matchmaking,” Gemma adds. "Honestly, I don't think she believes in romance anymore full stop. But she told me that worrying will just make it worse and that I should enjoy the ride." 

That doesn't surprise Harry in the least. The scraps of information presented to him about you paint the picture of a woman invested in her work. He saw no wedding ring and judging by the late hour he came to retrieve Gemma and you working away, he can only surmise that you likely don't have a partner waiting at home. 

"But I worry about her sometimes. She hasn't dated anyone since her divorce and it's like she's given up." 

Harry lifts his glass, his voice flat. “Really?”

“Yeah,” Gemma says, gently setting hers down. “I worry that she doesn’t believe in love anymore. I mean she told me as much. Since her divorce, it’s all been very cynical.”

That catches. Just for a second. Something shifts behind Harry’s expression. It's something small, almost imperceptible. But Gemma, watching, mistakes it for amusement.

“She calls dating a mutual performance of delusion,’” she adds with a grin, hoping he’ll laugh.

He doesn’t. Not really. He smiles, but it’s distant. His fingers are lightly tapping the base of his wine glass. “She said that?”

“Mhm.”

“And what do you think?”

Gemma blinks, caught off-guard. “I think she’s been hurt. And when people get hurt badly enough, they try to feel superior to what they’ve lost.”

Harry nods, but he’s not really nodding. His mind’s moved. You’re in it again, your sharp voice, the disinterest that wasn’t just rudeness, but something colder. Something he recognizes in himself under all the pretense. 

“Interesting,” he murmurs.

Gemma brightens slightly, mistaking it for approval of her. “But I still believe in something lasting. I mean, why else go to all this trouble, right?”

He looks back at her, as though just now returning to the conversation.

“Right,” he says, softly.

As if just realizing they've devoted the last ten minutes of their date to talk about her co-worker, Gemma turns coy. 

"But enough about that. Tell me, what is your family like? You have a brother, any other siblings?"

Harry smiles again, this time slower. Something has become very clear to him and like anyone working in private equity he knows he needs to conduct a little due diligence before moving forward. 

"Everything was delicious, the most delicious steak I've ever eaten!" 

It’s three days later and Gemma is regaling you with her latest Harry saga and you're fighting to show even passive interest. The two of you are having coffee at the cafe across from the gallery, your favorite place to relax. 

"He kissed my hand. My hand! Like something out of a romance novel." 

"Cute." 

"And he was so sweet; he took me to Central Park and did the whole carriage ride thing." 

"Fun." 

"Didn't you think he was handsome?"

"Sure." 

You offer the odd word, knowing that she's barely even registered you're there. To her you're just a willing audience 

You barely registered the man if you're honest. He seemed haughty, walking around your workplace as if he owned it. 

"And he really knows his artwork," Gemma continues. "I didn't expect someone in finance to be so knowledgeable about more obscure artists."

"Mhm." 

You remember his tailored presence, the faint perfume of old money and self-assurance. The way he looked at you like not with interest, but a kind of calculation.

"He rented out the whole back of the restaurant. We had private servers, a special menu." She's practically floating. 

"So he's new money," you say acerbically. It comes out more bitter than anticipated. "Old money is quiet, new money is loud."

"For your information he is old money," she says giving you a pointed look. "His parents started the family firm."

"So he didn't even earn his money or position himself."

"Obviously there's no winning with you today. Why are you being so shitty about him?"Gemma asks, cheeks pinking in irritation. 

'I'm sorry," you answer, feeling embarrassed. "I've just never been really comfortable with people that have that kind of money. You are, you grew up like that and it's what you want in a partner."

Gemma is in a snit now. "So now I'm shallow?"

"Not at all," you insist truthfully. "If you were ugly, do you think Harry would have asked you for a second date?" 

She's quiet and blushing further. "No. I guess not." 

I nod. My point exactly. 

"You are just two people coming together who want something from the other. It's as pure and honest as any part of a functional relationship."

The two of you are quiet, fingers tracing the lip of the plate from the scone the two of you shared.

"Well, I hope we go out again," Gemma says with a bright look. "I mean, if I'm honest, I didn't feel a huge connection, but he's so good on paper. Handsome, rich, tall, charming." 

"But do you actually enjoy his company?"

Gemma looks at you as if you've sprouted a second head. "What does that have to do with anything?" 

"Gemma," you admonish, "you're always telling me about how you want to find love and be swept off your feet." 

"I do," she insists, "I just think we have a choice in who we love and my choice should take certain things like looks and money into account. I’m thirty, I want kids, and I want stability." 

You want to tell Gemma that she’s capable of having all of those things on her own if she really wants. But you know that it’s not just that. She wants the cache of a partner up the social ladder.

“Well, then I hope this works out for you,” you say sincerely. “And if not, trying to find someone who knows about art preservation.”

By the time you reach your apartment your stomach is rumbling. You skipped lunch to work on some of the finer detailing on the portrait.  You think of the all night deli across the corner and its beckoning croissant sandwiches and make your decision quickly. You throw your sketchbook into your bag. 

The night is chilly and you pull your jacket to your chin. In true New York fashion you don't smile at anyone, you keep your head down; you ignore the fact that you're still upset about the memory of Jarrod.  

You duck into the deli, cheeks and nose chilled. The place isn't busy, not at this hour. A few night owls linger at some of the tables, tapping away on their laptops, a tired man behind the counter raising a nod your way over their phone. 

"A number two and a coffee."

You take a number and a seat, bringing out your sketchbook as you wait. The music playing is rhythmic, quiet, but relaxing. You should thank the serious looking man behind the counter for his choice in tunes. 

The door opens behind you as you debate the menu. You've been curious to try the avocado turkey on rye. 

"Number two," you tell the man with confidence. "And a coke. Thanks." 

"That’ll be $8.66."

You reach into your pocket for your wallet but an arm has come around you to place a fifty on the counter. 

"I've got it." 

The man at the till takes it without question but you whip around, shocked at the random act of kindness. Familiar brown eyes swim into view and your surprise turns to irritation. 

"You."

Harry gives you a dimpled smile. "Good Evening.”

The man at the till tries to give Harry his change but he just shakes his head, a light lift of his hand and the man pockets his large tip. You know you're scowling at this pathetic display of charitable giving. It's easy to give away money when you have so much of it. 

"I can afford my own dinner."

"I know," Harry says.

You think about paying the amount you were going to, but the man at the till is heading over to another customer to answer a question. Harry continues standing there looking at you with interest. That same calculating look you've seen in him before. 

Fine. If this idiot wants to pay for your sandwich you'll let him, considering his appearance has now dampened your mood. 

"Thanks," you mutter his way, taking a table number and slinking away into a nearby booth.

You open your sketchbook, dutifully ignoring the annoying Harry still at the counter, speaking with the man behind the till.  

You're shocked when you hear the guy laugh, a low chuckle. You've been coming to this deli for months and you've never seen the guy crack a smile, let alone laugh. 

Probably hoping for another big tip. 

You hold in an eye roll and begin to sketch lightly. Your mind is driven to darkness today. Black spiky limbs reaching for the sky. 

A can of soda is placed on the table by your elbow, accompanied by a low voice.

"Forgot this."

Fuck. You sigh lightly before taking the can from him, murmuring your thanks. When he lingers, watching you pop the tab you attempt to be cordial. This is Gemma's potential boyfriend after all. 

"This doesn't really seem like your scene."

You're not looking at him when you speak. You're taking a sip of the fizzy drink, nose wrinkling a moment when the carbonation tickles your nose. 

Harry stands next to the booth like an awkward waiter, holding an espresso on a saucer. He's dressed in slacks and a charcoal sweater, a tweed jacket over top. He went to an effort, not that you’d know because you're still not looking at him. 

"I like sandwiches as much as the next guy." 

What he doesn't tell you is that his driver was pulling up to your apartment building when he saw you exit, looking agitated. When you walked into the deli he thought it was a perfect excuse. Much better than his original idea of just showing up at your home with a proposition. 

"Okay."

Harry looks amused, not offended by your cold reception. He was ready for it He watches you go back to your sketching, letting the moment stretch. You don't seem to be upset by his presence. 

The sandwiches arrive, both placed unceremoniously onto the perpetually stained tabletop. Harry motions to the chair opposite you at the table. 

"May I sit?"

You raise your head from your sketches, casting an eye around the fairly empty deli. "There are lots of open tables."

Harry looks amused, not offended by your cold reception. Almost like he was ready for it. "It's not a matter of space, more the company." 

He watches you wrestle with this before lifting one arm in a casual shrug.  

"Knock yourself out."

He suppresses a grin, sliding into the booth opposite you. He can't remember the last time - if ever - he was in a tiny eatery like this with its cheap menus and yellowed floors. 

He watches you take a bite of the sandwich in one hand, the other still furiously sketching away. He watches you for several moments and eventually you feel those big brown eyes on your face and you glance up to see his sandwich untouched. Why is he here?

Harry glances down at the greasy sandwich, hiding a sneer. He wouldn't feed this to his worst enemy. 

"Do you need something?"

You're looking at him with anticipation, as if you're scared of what he might say. 

"I wanted to know if you'd be interested in an exchange of services," he says coolly. "A barter." 

This is how he is in the boardroom; this is how he commands the people he works with. Blunt, forward, confident, charming when he needs to be, but ruthless he just as easily. 

The pencil stills on the page, your nose wrinkling. "With you?"

"Mhm."

He watches the way you blink at him, head tilting slightly. 

"I don't need financial advice and according to Gemma you could buy out the entire gallery, so I don't really get what you want from me."

You feel strangely trapped by him here in the booth. You could slide out and run but would you make it? As if sensing your unease, Harry shakes his head slowly. Fingers lifting from the table briefly.  "You don't have to say yes." 

"I probably won't."

He smothers a chuckle. Gemma was right, you are blunt and you are funny.

"My mother wants me to marry," Harry tells you. "The sooner the better."

"And you're a Mama's boy?" 

He smirks. "Maybe a little." 

"Gross." 

You lean back to take a sip of coffee, eyes peering at him over the rim. "I thought you had a matchmaker?"

He shifts in his chair. "I do." 

"So then why are you here talking to me?"

The eraser of your pencil taps on your sketchbook, tap tap tap. Harry shuffles, one arm over the back of his chair affecting casual interest. 

"Because I want to hire you. I want you to pretend to be my girlfriend for the next several months because I believe it would be mutually beneficial to us both." Harry takes a sip of his espresso now, secretly amused when you drop the pencil.

"Excuse me?" You blink rapidly, lashes fluttering. "What the fuck are you talking about? You're dating Gemma."

"I went on two dates with her."

"She likes you."

"She likes my status, not that I begrudge her for it. But after two dates it’s clear that she wants a husband who will cherish her, who’s every waking thought will be about her. That's not me."

You're quiet because you know he's right. As much as Gemma liked his money, the things she liked most about her dates with Harry was the places he took her, the romance. How he held her hand on the carriage ride, how he listened about her job. Little, beautiful moments. 

Harry takes advantage of your stunned response. "Gemma is a lovely girl, but not a good match for what I need."

"And you think I'm what you need? I don't even like you." 

You stare at this man with his expensive watch and clothes and haircut. He even smells expensive. 

"You're intelligent, confident, attractive," Harry lists these things not with the affection of a lover, but an appraiser at an auction. 

"So is Gemma."

"Yes, but she's also looking for a true relationship, for love. And I can't give that to her."

"Why not?"

"I don't think I'm capable of it." He regards you with a tilt of his head. "I'm selfish, I like my job, I enjoy my own company, I'm driven and I'm not very romantic."

"You're very honest," you say, almost impressed. Almost. 

"I find it saves time to be direct." 

He watches your eyes survey him, appraising him like you would a piece of artwork needing to be restored.  

"Gemma said you took her to dinner at Mastros. Then to central Park for a horse drawn carriage ride." 

"I did."

"And that didn't seem romantic to you?"

"I know it was romantic," he replies. 

"Then why do you say you're not romantic?"

Harry leans back in the booth, drink forgotten. He points at your open sketchbook. "You know how to draw. Are you DaVinci?"

"Obviously not. No." 

"No," Harry agrees with a nod. "But you know enough about art from study. You know proportions without thinking about it. If someone random asked you to draw them a cow you could do it."

"Sure."

"It would mean nothing to you, but it would look like a nice image of a cow at the end. The person would walk away happy with their picture. But you wouldn’t feel attached to the sketch nor the process. It’s no different than how I approach romance. I know what it looks like, I’m happy to give it.”

You fall quiet, arms crossing. You've never thought about romance like that. So route. 

"I've already spoken to Natalia at Adore," Harry continues. "She's setting Gemma up with two of my friends I talked into joining. They're younger and richer and hopeless romantics. Gemma will be just fine." 

You don't know how you feel about that, the way he speaks about it makes it feel like something akin to prostitution. 

"She wants romance and love along with status," Harry reminds you. "Both of those men fit the bill and either one of them would die to date a woman like her." 

"But not you." 

"No. Not me." 

The eraser of your pencil taps on your sketchbook, tap tap tap. "What's in it for me?" 

"You'd be paid very well." 

He sees the hesitation in you now. The way your eyes jerk to the side as you digest his offer. 

"How well?"

Harry takes a piece of paper folded from his pocket. He came prepared. He slides it across the table, biting back a grin when your eyes bulge open. 

"You're not serious." 

"I am." 

Anyone else would have used computer paper, but not Harry Castillo. He used heavy card stock; the amount written in thick black ink with what you're sure was a fountain pen.

"How long would this charade go on for?"

"Six months." 

"Six entire months?" You make a disgusted face. "No. No chance."

You go back to your sketching, the subject clearly closed for you. You toss the piece of paper towards him, forgotten so easily. Harry sucks in a sharp breath of air through his teeth. Rejection always stings. 

"I'll double it." 

Your eyes rise up to his. "What?"

"The amount on that paper. I'll double it." 

Harry watches the way your eyes round, lips parting. He can't deny he enjoys shocking you. He watches you slump into the booth, your eyes darting back and forth between the table and the amount on the page.

"There must be other women you could ask." 

"None that don't want love or commitment."' Harry takes another sip of his espresso before it clinks back into place on the small saucer. "Gemma told me your views on romance and that's when I knew this would work." 

You sit for several moments debating the exorbitant sum on the paper and the year of your life you won't get back. But this kind of money is life changing. 

You look at Harry, really looking at him. "Don't you want to find a girlfriend? A real one?"

"I thought I did," Harry shrugs. "I attempted it. But I don't think it's something I really need. And from what I gather, that isn't what you desire either." 

He's right. But still you hesitate, fingering the thick paper.This could be a lucrative venture couldn't it? A chance to erase debt and start a life you've only dreamt about? And it's only a year. A year could go by fast. 

But a year of secrecy, of false affection. 

"Are we... Are we allowed to find company outside the fake relationship?" 

He raises a brow. "Company?"

"Sex," you state flatly. "Unless you think this amount means I'll be your personal concubine?"

It's almost endearing watching his cheeks flush. "I don't need to pay for sex." 

"Just for a fake girlfriend." 

You watch the twitch at the corner of his mouth, a smirk. Touche. 

"Sex is not required, of course. I would only request that company outside our arrangement be as discreet as possible." 

"That seems fair." 

Harry raises a brow, intrigued. "So you're agreeing?"

"I'm thinking about it." 

Harry nods, standing and buttoning his dark blazer. You have a lot to think about and he doesn't want to rush you. He needs commitment not a lukewarm agreement. He slides over his business card. 

"My number is on the back. I'll wait for your decision, whatever it may be." 

He sticks his hand out like it's a business deal and you take it with a little smile, amused. You shake briefly and he stands the purpose of this meeting over. He gives you a dimpled smile.

 “I hope to hear from you soon.”

He knows he will.

[sixeyesonathiel]

03 | kill switch

pairing — target!satoru x assasin!reader

synopsis : a professional assassin accepts a job to eliminate an ordinary high school teacher—only to find her target is gojo satoru, a man who eats gas station sushi with religious devotion and nearly dies walking to work. as days pass, she finds herself less concerned with completing the job and more preoccupied with why someone would want this disastrous man dead. or: when your target's worst enemy is himself and your professional detachment keeps slipping every time he almost gets hit by a bus.

tags — no curses au, crack treated seriously, dark humor, fluff for all the wrong reasons, assassin & target dynamic, self-destructive disaster man, implied nerdjo, satoru is a great teacher, moral ambiguity, reluctant caretaking, food aggression (affectionate), chaotic neighbors, near-death hijinks, emotional constipation, eventual smut, happy ending. art by @Leimiruu.

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satoru wakes before his alarm.

not because of nightmares. not out of necessity. just—awake. it’s new. the apartment’s dim, quiet, the light from the blinds splitting the room into pale stripes across the floor. the hush feels wrong, like the world’s holding its breath, but today his chest isn’t caving in. his thoughts aren’t clawing at him. he lies still, watching dust spiral in the soft morning light, blinking slowly, like the world’s decided to be gentle for once.

so he moves.

he tries. brushes his teeth, the mint stinging his tongue awake. lingers at the mirror, splashing cold water on his face—it wakes his skin, doesn’t shock it. finds a shirt that matches his pants, no faint whiff of regret. throws on a dark, structured jacket he forgot he owned, its clean lines surprising him.

he stares at his reflection. white hair tamed with damp fingers, not a complete disaster. his skin’s less ghostly. he skips the glasses, pops in contacts—an echo of vanity he hasn’t touched in weeks. the guy staring back feels unfamiliar, like he’s borrowed someone else’s face.

he listens at the door. catches the faint click of yours. keys jangle. shoes scuff lightly. he waits. five heartbeats. six.

then he opens the door.

you step out just as he does. the timing’s suspicious, but you don’t call it out. you blink once, eyes dragging over him—shirt, jacket, hair that’s not a total mess. a flicker of alarm crosses your face, so quick it’s barely there, swallowed by your usual mask. your mouth flattens, like you’re locking the reaction away.

he pretends not to notice. his grin creeps up, slow and boyish.

“morning,” he says, stretching the word like he’s tasting it, his voice calm in a way that feels rehearsed.

“…morning,” you reply, clipped and quiet. your arms cross, not against the cold but like you’re holding something in. your eyes flick to your door, then the floor. your fingers twitch around your bag’s strap, then still.

at the bus stop, the wind carries the promise of rain, though the sky’s dry. satoru digs in his jacket pocket, producing two candy bars with a crooked smile, like he’s unveiling a treasure.

“breakfast of champions?”

you raise an eyebrow, unimpressed, your scowl sharp enough to cut. instead, you reach into your tote and pull out a compact lunchbox—rice with seasoning, tamagoyaki, vegetables sliced with surgical precision, fruit arranged like art. you don’t offer it right away, just start eating, chopsticks moving with quiet efficiency.

his eyes track every bite, wide and hungry, like a dog eyeing a steak.

“seriously?” he says, the candy bar drooping in his hand, forgotten.

you sigh, long and suffering, like he’s a stray you’ve reluctantly adopted. you shift a portion of the meal into a separate section and shove it toward him, eyes avoiding his. “eat before you collapse and make me do actual nurse work.”

he lights up like you’ve handed him the moon. takes the container with both hands, reverent, and plops onto the bench beside you. he eats slower than usual, savoring each bite, the tamagoyaki melting on his tongue. it’s more than food—it’s care, sharp-edged and hidden, and his chest hums with it.

on the bus, the crowd presses you shoulder to shoulder. he leans a little too much with each turn, his jacket brushing yours. his fingers graze your coat once, twice, like he’s testing something. your posture’s ramrod straight, your scowl fixed on the window.

“so, where’d you learn to cook like that?” he asks, voice light, teasing.

your reflection in the glass barely moves. “does it matter?”

“curiosity’s not a crime.”

“depends who you ask.”

your voice is flat, a door slammed shut. he doesn’t push, just hums softly, eyes drifting to the window. your reflections sit side by side, blurred in the morning haze.

at school, his walk’s different—spine straight, shoulders back. he stands taller, like he’s shrugging off a weight. a pair of second-years whisper as he passes, one nudging the other, wide-eyed. he tucks his hands into his jacket pockets, chin up, like he’s someone new today.

in the classroom, he’s sharper, more present. the chalk squeaks as he scribbles equations, his hands moving with a rhythm that pulls the students in. he cracks a joke about digimon evolving into calculus, and the class laughs, real and unforced. a girl raises her hand, hesitant, and he kneels beside her desk, explaining with a patience that surprises even him.

“it’s just patterns playing tag,” satoru says, drawing a star on her notebook. she smiles, small but real, and he feels it—a flicker of something worth saving.

during lunch, he’s halfway to the convenience store when you appear, cutting him off like a shadow with a mission. you thrust a fresh bento into his hands, your movements sharp, like you’re delivering a court summons. “figured you’d eat trash again,” you say, voice flat, like you’re commenting on the weather, not admitting you packed it yourself.

he stares, then breaks into a grin, all teeth and boyish charm, holding the bento like it’s glass. “you’re gonna spoil me,” he says, voice warm, teasing.

“don’t get used to it,” you snap, fast and sharp, eyes flicking to his shoes, avoiding his face. your fingers twitch, like you’re fighting the urge to yank the bento back.

they eat in the nurse’s office, the overhead light humming faintly. the window’s cracked, letting in the rustle of leaves and a damp breeze. your desk is a model of order—pens aligned, papers stacked. his side of the table’s a warzone: crumbs, a tipped-over water bottle, chopsticks askew. 

he talks through a mouthful of rice, waving his hands, recounting a faculty room fiasco involving nanami and a jammed copier. your scowl deepens, but you don’t stop him, just poke at your food with a chopstick.

“you ever think about quitting?” he asks suddenly, mid-bite, rice clinging to his lip.

you look at him like he’s asked if the sky’s made of knives. you blink once. “every day.”

he snorts, a quick, bright sound. “same.”

“but you’re still here.”

“so are you.”

you go quiet, picking at a slice of tamagoyaki. a stray grain of rice sticks to your chopstick; you flick it away with a sharp twist. he watches, waiting, then leans forward, voice softer. “they’re not just names on a roster. my students. they’re messy. terrified. but honest. they remind me what’s worth saving.”

your mouth tightens, but you don’t speak, just glance at him, quick and sharp, like you’re measuring something.

he adds, almost to himself, “i don’t know if that’s hope. but it’s something.”

the air’s heavy, dense with unspoken things. not uncomfortable, just charged.

“what, you think i’m just a pretty face?” he says, grinning, trying to lighten it.

“i think you talk too much when it’s quiet,” you reply, flat but without venom.

he laughs, a bubble of sound that lingers a beat too long, tasting strange—pleasant, unfamiliar. then the guilt hits, a ripple across his face. his smile falters, jaw tightening, eyes flicking to the bento. you see it, your chopsticks pausing, but you don’t comment, just stab your food harder.

the bell rings. he lingers, fingers tracing the bento’s edge. “thanks. for this. really.”

“don’t make it a habit,” you mutter, but your voice wavers, just a hair.

in class, a student trips over a backpack, scraping their arm. it’s minor, but satoru jumps at the chance, offering to walk them to the nurse’s office with a grin that’s anything but subtle. he’s not even pretending to be casual, his steps too eager, jacket swinging.

you meet his eyes when the door opens, your expression flattening, suspicious, like you smell a scheme. you don’t ask questions, just motion the student to a chair. your hands move with steady precision, cleaning the scrape, pressing gauze with a focus that’s almost surgical.

satoru leans against the doorframe, head tilted, watching the way your brow furrows, the way your fingers hesitate before snapping the first-aid kit shut.

“you’re good at this,” he murmurs, voice soft, like he’s stumbled on a secret.

“it’s not complicated,” you say, brushing him off.

“seems like more than basics,” he presses, a teasing lilt creeping in.

you pivot fast, changing the subject. “you like teaching? really?”

he nods, exhaling slowly. “yeah. even when it sucks. some of them light up in these small ways. like the world hasn’t crushed them yet. makes me think… maybe it’s not too late.”

your jaw clenches faintly, but you don’t respond, just busy yourself with the kit, fingers flexing against the desk. he looks softer in this light, too real, and you pause, just for a second, before turning away.

by sunset, the school grounds glow with soft orange light, gentler than the world deserves. they walk home together again, no decision made, just habit. their pace syncs without effort, bags swinging in tired rhythm. they slow near the convenience store, the neon sign buzzing faintly.

satoru drifts toward the entrance, a bounce in his step, like he’s already tasting sugar. “relax,” he says, hands raised in mock surrender as you stop, arms folded, scowl locked in place. “just grabbing ice cream. want some?”

you eye him, skeptical, your mouth twitching like you’re fighting a traitor smile. “no. i’m making dinner,” you say, voice flat but edged with something that sounds like a challenge.

he pauses, one foot in the store, head turning back. “you sure? it’s the good kind. mochi bits and everything.”

you sigh, long and theatrical, like he’s personally testing your patience. “fine,” you mutter, eyes narrowing. “you can come over for real food. but don’t touch anything.”

his eyes light up like a kid handed a sparkler. “really? you’re a lifesaver. literally. i was gonna try cooking tonight.”

your face twists in genuine horror, eyes wide, like he’s threatened arson. “definitely don’t do that,” you snap, voice sharp enough to stop him mid-step.

he laughs, a bright, unfiltered sound, trailing you all the way to your door, his jacket flapping with each step.

inside your apartment, he looks around like he’s wandered into a forbidden temple. takes in the layout, the faint spice in the air, the spotless counters. his eyes land on your knife collection, mounted on the wall, blades glinting under the light. “oh?” he whistles, stepping closer. “fancy.”

before you can stop him, he lifts one, balancing it in his palm with an ease that’s unnerving, flipping it with casual dexterity. “nice blade,” he says, grinning, all teeth.

you snatch it back, your scowl lethal. “careful with that,” you snap, fingers brushing his, the contact sharp and electric.

he raises his hands, still grinning. “i know my way around sharp objects.”

you don’t reply, just point to the kitchen, your eyes daring him to try something. he follows like an eager puppy, watching you move—precise, measured, no wasted motion. you dice onions with a rhythm that’s almost musical, the knife’s click against the board steady as a metronome.

“want to help?” you ask, more out of habit than expectation.

“yes,” he says, too fast, practically bouncing.

you hand him a bell pepper and a knife—duller, safer than the rest. he fumbles it, somehow turning the pepper into a mangled mess of uneven chunks, wrong sizes, weird angles. you stare, then take the knife from him without a word, pointing to a stool. “sit. stay. don’t touch anything.”

he surrenders, hands up, plopping onto the stool with a dramatic sigh. “understood, chef.”

he watches, chin propped on his hand, as you move like you’ve done this forever. “where’d they find a nurse who cuts vegetables like a benihana chef?” he mutters, half to himself.

you don’t answer, but the corner of your mouth lifts for a split second, a flicker he catches and clings to.

dinner smells like a dream—soy, ginger, something warm and grounding. he eats like he’s been starved for years, praising every bite with the enthusiasm of a game show host. “this is art,” he says, mouth full, pointing at the plate. you snap at him to stop talking with food in his mouth. he doesn’t, just grins wider, a grain of rice stuck to his cheek.

when it’s done, he insists on helping with the dishes. “i break it, i wash it,” he declares, rolling up his sleeves like he’s about to perform surgery.

“you haven’t broken—”

crash.

a plate hits the floor, shattering into jagged pieces. he stares at it, betrayed, like the plate had a personal vendetta. “i swear it slipped,” he says, voice cracking, eyes wide with horror.

you exhale through your nose, but his twisted expression—genuine, comical panic—makes it hard to stay mad. you clean it up in silence, your scowl softer than it should be.

at the door, he hesitates, hand on the knob. “thanks for… everything. not just the food. it’s been a while since…” he trails off, lips pressing together, the weight of what he doesn’t say hanging heavy.

you wait, silent, your eyes steady but not pushing.

he smiles, small, a little crooked, a little sad. “see you tomorrow,” he says, slipping into his apartment.

he leans against his door, heart still thudding, and thinks about the egg he cracked into his ramen last night. the bento you shoved at him today. the dinner you didn’t have to share. his stomach’s full, his chest warmer, and he wonders if this is what it feels like to want to stick around.

it’s friday and satoru wakes to the sound of rain.

no alarm. no nightmares. just the soft patter against his window, pulling him from sleep like a gentle nudge. his eyes open to a room bathed in gray, the kind of light that makes everything feel hushed, like the world’s still half-asleep. his body feels lighter, like the weight on his chest has shifted, not gone but quieter. he stretches, joints popping, and catches the faint scent of damp earth through a cracked window.

it’s new, this waking without a fight, and he lets it linger, rolling onto his side to watch the rain streak down the glass, each drop chasing the last.

he drags himself up, feet brushing the rug, its frayed edges tickling his toes. brushes his teeth, the mint sharp, almost too much. splashes water on his face, cold enough to make him hiss, but it sharpens his edges, pulls him into the day. digs out a blue shirt, crisp, no stains, and pants that don’t clash.

slips on that dark jacket again, its clean lines giving him a borrowed sense of purpose. runs a hand through his white hair, damp from the sink, taming it into something less chaotic. skips the glasses, pops in contacts, his blue eyes too bright, like they’re daring the world to look back. he glances at the mirror. the guy staring at him feels like a stranger, but not a bad one.

he steps to the door, ready to sync with your rhythm, but freezes. there, on his doorstep, sits a breakfast container, small and precise, like it’s been placed with intent. a note’s taped to it, your handwriting sharp as a blade: “eat this, not sugar.” 

satoru’s grin blooms, wide and stupid, a warmth spreading in his chest like someone’s lit a match. he cradles the container, its weight a quiet promise, and takes it inside. pops it open—rice with furikake, tamagoyaki folded just right, cucumber slices carved with surgical care. it smells like your kitchen, like care wrapped in a scowl, and he thinks, she’s gonna kill me with kindness first.

he’s yanking on his shoes, container under his arm, when he realizes his keys are still on the counter. “shit,” he mutters, doubling back, nearly tripping over a stray sock. he fumbles the lock, heart ticking like a countdown, and bolts out, hoping to catch you. the hallway’s empty, your door shut tight, a silent taunt. he curses, long legs eating up the stairs as he sprints to the bus stop, rain speckling his jacket.

he spots you through the bus window, seated, arms crossed like you’re guarding a fortress. he scrambles aboard, sliding into the seat next to you with a huff, the container bouncing in his lap. your eyes flick to him, then the food, your scowl twitching like he’s a problem you didn’t sign up for.

“morning,” he says, voice bright, already digging into the breakfast, chopsticks clumsy but eager. rice sticks to his fingers, and he shoves tamagoyaki in his mouth, chewing with a grin that’s half food, half joy. “thanks for this. you’re saving my soul here.”

“don’t choke,” you snap, eyes on the window, your tone sharp but fraying at the edges, like you’re fighting something soft. your fingers twitch against your bag, knuckles white, and he wonders if you’re strangling your own nerves.

he laughs, cheeks puffed, nearly dropping a cucumber slice on his jacket. “no promises,” he says, winking, his contacts catching the light, making his eyes glow like a neon sign.

the bus lurches, and he steadies the container, still eating, savoring the tamagoyaki’s warmth, the way it tastes like your hands—steady, precise, a little too perfect. he glances at you, your stride flashing in his mind, the way you diced that pepper, your medical know-how, the knife collection that could arm a small militia. a wild thought sparks—could you be the assassin he hired? you, with your lethal glare, your surgical cuts, your knack for showing up exactly when he’s about to crash?

he freezes, chopsticks hovering, rice falling onto his lap. then he snorts, loud and obnoxious, shaking his head like he’s trying to dislodge the idea. no way. you? the assassin?

he laughs again, muffled by tamagoyaki, his eyes crinkling as he looks at you, your scowl now a full-on frown. you’re out here feeding him breakfast, fussing over his bruises, leaving notes like a grumpy mom. an assassin wouldn’t do that. they’d, what, poison the rice? stab him with the chopsticks? he’s so far gone for you—those sharp eyes, that twitchy mouth—that he can’t even see the red flags waving like parade banners.

“nah,” he mutters to himself, grinning as he mumbles to himself, “you’re just too cute to be a hitman.” he thinks it’s the funniest thing, his heart doing a stupid flip, oblivious to the irony.

“what’s so funny?” you ask, voice flat, eyes narrowing like you’re ready to dissect him.

“just… wild imagination,” he says, too fast, shoving more rice in to dodge the question. “thought you might be a secret ninja or something.” he winks, leaning closer, like he’s sharing a joke, and your huff is so sharp it could cut glass.

“idiot,” you mutter, turning back to the window, but he catches the faintest flush on your cheeks, and his grin widens, rice stuck to his chin.

at school, he’s a pest, popping into the nurse’s office between classes with excuses flimsier than tissue paper. first, it’s a “splinter” that’s just a speck of lint. you roll your eyes, flicking it off with a scowl that’s more amused than you’ll admit. “stop wasting my bandages,” you snap, but your fingers linger when you press a band-aid on his finger, and he beams like he’s won the lottery.

next, he’s “checking the thermometer” for no reason, leaning on your desk, chattering about a student who drew a digimon on their homework. he tests you, dropping bait like breadcrumbs. “y’know, i sometimes leave my apartment door unlocked,” he says, watching your face.

your head snaps up, eyes blazing. “are you brain-dead?” you bark, voice sharp enough to slice. “lock your damn door. anyone could walk in and—” you cut off, jaw tight, like you’ve said too much.

he laughs, bright and unhinged, hands up in surrender. “okay, okay, i’ll lock it! promise!” his heart’s racing, not from fear but from the way you care, like his survival’s your personal vendetta. no assassin here, he thinks, just a nurse who’d probably kill him herself if he got hurt.

satoru gojo is a little too smitten, ultimately blind to the dots connecting—your knives, your timing, your strength.

he tries again during lunch, lounging in your office, bento in hand, mentioning how he “sometimes jaywalks like it’s mario kart.” your death glare could vaporize him, and he cackles, nearly choking on rice. “crosswalks, got it! you’re gonna save me from myself!” he’s teasing, but there’s a flicker of disappointment—he wanted a mystery, but you’re too busy keeping him alive to be his killer.

relief washes over him, warm and confusing, because he’s enjoying this—you, your scowls, your food—more than anything in months. guilt creeps in, cold and sharp, as he remembers the hit. the real assassin’s out there, and what if you get caught in the mess? his grin falters, eyes drifting to your desk, where your pens are lined up like soldiers.

satoru tries to pushes it down, but it lingers. in afternoon classes, he’s off, quieter, the chalk squeaking too loud, his jokes landing flat. a student asks about integrals, and he explains, but his eyes keep slipping to the window, rain now falling in sheets. his students whisper, noticing, and he tosses a star on a notebook to distract them, but it feels hollow.

he’s thinking about suguru’s laugh, shoko’s voice, the blood on his hands, the hit he ordered. you, with your breakfast note and lethal glare, stuck in the crossfire.

he’s so distracted he doesn’t notice a student’s pencil roll off a desk until it hits his shoe. he picks it up, handing it back with a forced grin, but his fingers shake. the bell rings, and he lingers, pretending to organize papers that are already a mess, rain drumming against the windows. he drifts to the nurse’s office, not with an excuse this time, just a need to see you. you’re restocking gauze, your movements precise, and you glance up, scowl ready.

“no injuries?” you say, suspicious, like he’s here to waste your time.

“just visiting,” he says, leaning on the doorframe, jacket damp from the rain. “you’re stuck with me.”

you huff, but your eyes soften, just a flicker, and he clings to it, his heart doing that stupid flip again. he wants to ask about the knives, the cooking, the way you move like you’ve got secrets, but he doesn’t. instead, he watches you work, the rain outside a steady rhythm, and thinks, i’m in so much trouble.

on the bus home, he’s silent, staring at the floor, thoughts a tangled mess. rain streaks the windows, blurring the world, and his jacket’s soaked, clinging to his shoulders. you notice, your scowl softer, almost hesitant. “you okay?” you ask, voice low, like you’re not sure you should care.

he forces a smile, crooked and thin. “just tired. brain working overtime,” he says, rubbing his neck, the lie heavy on his tongue. your fingers twitch, like you want to reach out, but you don’t, just nod, your eyes flicking back to the window.

the bus hums, rain loud, and he feels it all—suguru’s ghost, shoko’s static, the hit he ordered, you, your shoulder brushing his, the breakfast still warm in his stomach. he wants to tell you, to spill it all, but the words stick, caught in his throat like a bone.

at the apartment building, he hesitates outside your door, rain dripping from his hair, pooling on the floor. the hallway’s dim, the bulb flickering like it’s mocking him. “can i ask you something weird?” he says, voice softer, his contacts making his eyes too raw, too open.

you cross your arms, wary, but nod, your scowl tight. “go ahead.”

he shifts, hair flopping, damp and messy. “if you knew someone who was… not in a great place. who maybe didn’t want to be around anymore. what would you tell them?”

your eyes narrow, searching his face like it’s a wound you need to stitch. something shifts, a flicker you bury fast. “i’d tell them whatever they’re going through isn’t permanent,” you say, voice steady but sharp, like you’re daring him to argue.

he looks away, swallowing hard, throat tight. “what if it is, though? what if some things you just can’t come back from?”

you’re quiet, your fingers twitching against your bag, rain loud in the silence. then, “i’d tell them to wait anyway. just to see. because sometimes good things happen when you least expect them.”

satoru meets your eyes, vulnerable, raw, like he’s letting you see too much. the moment stretches, heavy, the rain a steady drum. he breaks it with a laugh, shaky and forced. “deep talk for a friday. sorry about that.”

he retreats to his apartment, door clicking shut, and leans against it, heart pounding. the breakfast container sits on his counter, empty but warm, like the egg he cracked into his ramen, the bento you keep shoving at him.

he thinks about dinner at your place, the knife you snatched back, the way you scowled when he broke the plate. he lies awake, rain loud against the windows, thoughts spiraling—you, the hit, suguru’s laugh, shoko’s voice, the blood he can’t wash off. he wonders if he’s made a mistake—hiring the assassin or letting you in. he doesn’t know which one’s worse, but your note’s still on his counter, and he’s starting to want to stick around.

day twelve is a saturday, and satoru wakes to a battering ram on his door, like someone’s trying to storm his apartment.

he lurches off the couch, where he crashed in yesterday’s clothes, jeans crumpled, shirt half-untucked, a pizza box yawning open on the coffee table, grease stains like a map of bad decisions. his place is a disaster—socks slung over a lamp, a digimon mug wobbling on ungraded papers, a lone chopstick under the couch. the knocking’s merciless, each thud a spike in his skull. 

he stumbles to the door, tripping over a game controller, pale strands a fluffy catastrophe, spiking like he’s been zapped. he yanks it open, squinting into the hallway’s glare, and there you are, grocery bags bulging, eyeing him like he’s a walking health violation.

“put some pants on,” you say, gaze scraping over his mess—creased shirt, bare legs, a single sock dangling from his ankle. your scowl’s sharp, but your lips twitch, like you’re wrestling a laugh. “we’re teaching you to cook something that won’t torch your place.”

satoru blinks, lips curling into a sleepy grin, slow and crooked, like he’s just been handed a golden ticket. “a cooking date?” he drawls, leaning against the doorframe, voice gravelly, one eyebrow waggling like he’s starring in a cheesy drama.

your face flushes, a quick burst of red you try to smother with a snap. “it’s not a date,” you hiss, gripping the bags until the plastic groans. “it’s survival training. you’re a one-man fire hazard.”

he laughs, bright and wild, the sound ricocheting off the walls. “two minutes,” he says, shutting the door, still grinning like you’ve dared him to a cage match. he rummages through his closet, tossing aside a stained hoodie and a pair of neon shorts, and pulls out a black tee, tight enough to flex his frame, and jeans that don’t scream neglect. runs a hand through his hair, taming it into something less apocalyptic, and pops in contacts, his blue eyes flashing with mischief.

he catches his reflection—damn, he looks good, like he’s ready to charm you into forgetting his kitchen sins, even on three hours of sleep.

he steps into your apartment, and it’s like crossing a border—counters spotless, air laced with ginger and sesame, your knife collection gleaming on the wall like a silent threat. you’re unpacking groceries, movements sharp, like you’re dismantling a trap. he leans against the counter, arms crossed, smirking. “ever been told you’re kinda bossy?”

you don’t look up, just shove a cutting board at him. “chop these,” you say, pointing to carrots, onions, a bell pepper. “and don’t make me regret it.”

he salutes, mock-serious, and grabs a knife, holding it like he’s about to carve a turkey with a chainsaw. “this good?” he asks, voice thick with fake innocence, watching you sidelong.

you freeze, eyes narrowing to deadly slits. “are you trying to bleed out?” you snap, stepping close, and before he can blink, you grab his hand, adjusting his grip with a precision that stops his breath. your fingers are warm, steady, and he feels the contact like a jolt, his grin softening, eyes locked on yours, contacts making them too bright, too open.

“you really care if i lose a finger, huh?” he murmurs, voice low, leaning closer, testing the space you’ll allow.

you yank your hand back, muttering, “blood’s a pain to clean,” but your cheeks are pink, and you turn fast, fussing with a bag of rice like it’s your new religion. he laughs, warm and real, the sound filling the kitchen, catching you both off guard.

the cooking lesson’s a circus, but it pulls through. his carrot slices are a massacre, chunks instead of cuts, and he burns the rice, the bottom a charred confession.

you sigh like he’s personally betrayed you, but the stir-fry’s edible, steaming with soy, garlic, ginger, peppers still crisp. he spills soy sauce, swearing it “ambushed” him, and you scowl, wiping the counter with a rag, your movements so precise he can’t help but stare, a dreamy sigh slipping out.

you’re slicing scallions for garnish, knife a blur, each cut perfect, and he thinks, that’s wifey material right there—look at her, running my kitchen like a queen. he’s too smitten to clock the lethal speed, the way you wield the blade like it’s part of you.

“stop staring,” you snap, not looking up, but your lips twitch, and he grins, rice sticking to his cheek as he shovels a bite. you don’t tell him to wipe it, and he counts it as a win, eating like it’s his last meal.

afternoon hits, and the sun’s a gift, cherry blossoms drifting like pink confetti, air sweet with spring and cut grass. satoru suggests a park nearby, voice light but eyes hopeful, like he’s sneaking in a date without the label. you pause, then nod, grabbing a light jacket, your scowl softer, almost a smile.

you walk side by side, steps syncing, the path dusted with petals, grass brushing your ankles. the silence is warm, easy, but he’s buzzing with questions, curiosity sharp as a blade.

“so, what’s your deal?” he asks, hands in his pockets, jacket flapping. “life before you landed here. spill something.”

you stiffen, just a flicker, fingers tightening on your jacket’s hem. “not much,” you say, voice clipped, eyes on the path. “moved a lot. worked. ended up here.”

he tilts his head, grinning. “that’s it? c’mon, give me a vibe. international spy? professional assassin? runaway princess?”

you choke, a sharp gasp you mask with a dry laugh, eyes darting away. “yeah, i kill people for money on weekends,” you say, sarcasm dripping, but your fingers twitch, a tell he’s too charmed to catch.

satoru laughs, loud and bright, blind to the red flags waving like parade banners. “knew it,” he says, eyes sparkling. “those knives? total assassin vibes. bet you’ve got a secret vault under your place, full of ninja stars.” he’s teasing, but he’s half-serious, staring like you’re a mystery he’s dying to crack. to him, your deadly precision’s just wifey material—who else could keep his life in line with that kind of skill?

you pivot fast, voice sharp. “your turn. why teaching? you don’t strike me as the ‘inspire kids’ type.”

he lights up, hands waving, petals catching in his hair. “my students are chaos,” he says, voice warm, “half-terrified, half-too-honest, but when they get it—when some kid lights up over a dumb equation—it’s like proof the world’s not all shit.” he shrugs, eyes soft, and you watch, your scowl easing, like you’re seeing something worth saving.

a soccer ball rockets from nowhere, kids shouting across the park. you snatch it mid-air, one-handed, without flinching, reflexes sharp enough to cut glass. satoru’s jaw drops, a dreamy sigh escaping as he leans on a tree, practically swooning. who catches like that? he thinks, heart skipping. she’s gonna keep our kids alive, running the house like a pro. he’s too gone to clock the assassin-level skill, just marveling like you’re his future.

“nice catch,” he says, voice awed. “were you, like, a ninja in a past life?”

you shrug, tossing the ball back, its arc perfect, landing with a soft thud. “don’t gawk,” you mutter, walking faster, but your lips twitch, fighting a smile. he jogs to catch up, grinning, petals stuck to his sleeve.

a kid, freckled and gap-toothed, tugs satoru’s jacket. “mister, play with us!” he begs, and satoru’s eyes light up like he’s been offered a crown. he glances at you, winking. “watch me dominate,” he says, diving into the soccer game, all long limbs and surprising grace. he’s good, weaving through kids, passing with a spin that makes them cheer.

you sit on a bench, cherry blossoms drifting onto your jacket, your expression softening as you watch, his laughter bright, shedding years with every kick.

he catches you looking, showing off now, aiming a dramatic shot that’s all flair, no aim. he glances mid-spin, and you wave, a small flick of your hand. it’s his downfall—he trips over the ball, faceplanting with a spectacular thud, limbs sprawling like a cartoon starfish.

the kids lose it, laughing so hard they’re gasping, and satoru lies there, clutching his chest, playing dead like he’s in a greek tragedy. “tell my story,” he croaks, one hand flopping.

you rush over, scowl half-hearted, kneeling, grass and petals sticking to your jeans. “you’re an idiot,” you mutter, but your hands are gentle, brushing petals from his hair, fingers grazing his cheek with a softness that stops his heart. he peeks one eye open, grinning. “if i die, tell my students… math homework’s canceled,” he whispers, milking it, kids giggling around you.

you roll your eyes, grabbing his arm to haul him up, your touch careful but firm. he feels it like a spark, his smile fading as he stands, blossoms clinging to his shirt. he brushes them off, but the hit creeps in—the assassin he hired, waiting somewhere, ready to end this. these moments—you, the kids, the petals—could be his last. his jaw tightens, a shadow crossing his face.

he wonders if he can cancel it, if there’s a way to claw it back. you notice, eyes narrowing, about to ask, but he cuts you off, voice too loud. “ice cream! we need ice cream!” he grabs your wrist, pulling you toward a cart, its bells jingling, his grin forced but bright.

the vendor scoops mochi ice cream, vanilla for him, matcha for you, scoops soft and glistening. you walk away, petals crunching underfoot, kids’ shouts fading. he bites too fast, brain freeze slamming him like a truck. “fuck, my brain!” he whines, staggering, clutching his forehead like he’s been shot.

you lecture him, voice sharp but warm, “eat slower, moron,” and he laughs through the pain, ice cream smearing his lip.

he catches you staring, your scowl soft, and winks, licking the smear with exaggerated flair. “like what you see?” he teases, dodging your swat, your flush giving you away.

you pause by a pond, ducks gliding, quacks soft in the breeze. he tosses a pebble, watching it skip once, twice, before sinking. “bet i could beat you,” he says, grinning, and you raise an eyebrow, picking a stone. your throw’s perfect, skipping four times, each plop precise, like you’ve mapped the water’s surface.

he stares, leaning on a railing, a soft “whoa” slipping out, eyes starry. she’s teaching our kids to skip stones like champs, he thinks, heart fluttering, too smitten to see the calculated precision, the way you scan the park like you’re clocking threats.

“show-off,” he mutters, grinning, tossing a stone that sinks like a brick. you snort, and he laughs, petals catching in his hair. he points to a takoyaki stall, the vendor flipping octopus balls, air thick with soy and seaweed. he orders, paying with crumpled bills, and hands you a skewer, fingers brushing yours. you eat by a tree, the park glowing gold, and he burns his tongue, yelping.

you sigh, offering your water bottle, and he takes it, your  hahafingers brushing again. he thinks, this is it—this is what it’s supposed to feel like, the hit a distant hum, drowned by you, your presence, the way you’re keeping him alive.

evening settles, the sky bruising purple, streetlights flickering on. you walk back, takoyaki gone, ice cream wrappers crumpled in your pockets. the apartment building looms, its windows glinting, and you linger outside your doors, the air thick with something neither of you names.

satoru’s jacket’s creased, petals still stuck to his jeans, and he scratches his neck, awkward, his contacts catching the dusk’s glow. “this was… nice. really nice,” he says, voice soft, almost shy, like he’s admitting something dangerous.

you smile, small but real, and nod. “yeah,” you say, quiet, your scowl gone, eyes steady, reflecting the fading light.

satoru steps closer, gaze dropping to your lips, heart hammering like he’s a kid with a crush. the moment stretches, charged, petals drifting between you, until a neighbor clomps past, muttering about rent. satoru jumps back, laughing nervously, rubbing his neck. “well, goodnight then,” he says, too fast, and bolts into his apartment, door slamming like a gunshot.

he slides to the floor, back against the door, head in his hands, petals falling from his jeans. “what the hell am i doing?” he whispers, voice cracking, his chest tight with something he can’t name—want, fear, hope, all tangled.

he scrambles to his feet, digging through the mess for his phone, finding it under a pile of socks and a ramen packet. he opens the anonymous message board where he hired the hit, fingers shaking as he scrolls, searching for a way out. there’s nothing—no contact, no cancel button, just a void, the post swallowed into the dark web’s belly. he clicks frantically, refreshing, typing “cancel” in the reply field, but it’s locked, the board read-only, mocking him with its silence.

“c’mon, c’mon,” he mutters, pacing, hair flopping, his reflection wild in a cracked mirror. he tries again, opening a new thread—“how to cancel a hit?”—but the site’s a ghost town, no replies, just bots and cryptic ads.

he slams his phone on the counter, the digimon mug rattling, and grips his hair, a laugh bubbling up, half-hysterical. “great, i’m begging the internet to save my life,” he says, voice loud in the empty apartment, the irony biting.

he thinks of you—your knife work, your stone skips, the way you brushed grass from his hair—and his stomach twists. he can’t die now, not when you’re making him want to stay, your stir-fry still warm in his gut, like the egg he cracked, the bento you shoved at him.

he tries one last time, digging into the board’s code, copy-pasting urls into a sketchy tor browser, but it’s a dead end, 404 errors and broken links. “fuck!” he yells, throwing the phone again, it skids under the couch, and he drops to his knees, fishing it out, dust bunnies clinging to his fingers. he’s panting, heart racing, and he sits back, staring at the ceiling, a crack snaking across it like a warning.

he imagines texting you, spilling it all—“hey, funny story, i hired someone to kill me, but now i’m kinda into you, so help?”—and laughs, a choked, desperate sound, because he knows he can’t.

he drags himself to the couch, still in his clothes, and pulls a blanket over his head, petals scattering on the floor. he alternates between grinning at the day—you, the soccer, your hands, the takoyaki—and panicking, the hit a cold weight in his chest. he sees suguru’s laugh, shoko’s static, the blood he can’t wash off, and you, your scowl, your matcha ice cream, your knives.

he wants to cancel it, to claw it back, but the board’s a black hole, and he’s stuck, no way to reach the assassin, no way to stop what’s coming. he falls asleep, curled on the couch, dreaming of you, your blade, a ball he can’t catch, and petals falling endless, burying him.

satoru oversleeps, sprawled across his couch like a discarded ragdoll, one leg dangling, a sock half-off, his phone buried under a pile of takeout menus.

his apartment’s a warzone—pizza boxes stacked like a fortress, a digimon mug teetering on a leaning tower of ungraded quizzes, a lone chopstick wedged in the couch cushions. he’s dreaming of you, your matcha ice cream, petals falling, when his phone buzzes, yanking him awake.

he fumbles for it, knocking over a can of soda, the fizz hissing on the floor. it’s a text from you:

still alive, or did you finally choke on a candy bar?

satoru’s grin splits wide, sleepy but bright, and he types back, fingers clumsy:

dying of starvation. send help or i haunt you.

he watches the message send, flopping back, hair a white mess spiking like a porcupine.

your reply pings:

one hour. brunch supplies. don’t die yet.

his heart does a stupid flip, and he bolts upright, eyes wide, scanning the chaos. “shit,” he mutters, scrambling to his feet, sock flapping.

the apartment’s a disaster, and you’re coming here. he launches into a frantic cleaning montage, shoving trash under the bed, cramming dishes into the sink, stuffing socks and stray ramen packets into the closet. he brushes his teeth while making the bed, toothpaste dripping on the sheets, swearing under his breath as he wrestles a pillowcase. he’s mid-tug when the doorbell chimes, sharp and accusing.

he sprints to the door, yanking on a clean shirt, buttons half-done, chest exposed. he swings it open, and there you are, grocery bags in hand, your scowl ready but faltering as your eyes drop to his open shirt, the glimpse of skin. you look away fast, cheeks pink, and he notices, a smirk curling slow and wicked. “morning,” he drawls, deliberately slowing his buttoning, fingers lingering, like he’s putting on a show.

“move,” you mutter, pushing past, your voice sharp but fraying, muttering about his “insufferable ego.” you set the bags on the counter, ignoring the faint whiff of old takeout, and he trails you, still smirking, his apartment slightly less apocalyptic but still a mess.

brunch prep starts, and it’s smoother than yesterday’s chaos. you’re in his kitchen now, a foreign territory of sticky counters and mismatched plates, but you move like you own it, unpacking eggs, bacon, scallions with surgical precision.

he’s competent, thanks to your lessons, chopping onions without maiming himself, cracking eggs with only one shell mishap. you raise an eyebrow, impressed but refusing to admit it, and he catches it, grinning. “look at me, basically a chef,” he says, tossing a scallion slice in the air and missing it completely.

“don’t push it,” you say, but your lips twitch, and he feels the warmth, the ease of moving around you, like you’ve been doing this forever. he reaches past you for a spatula, his arm brushing yours, bodies close in the cramped kitchen.

you both freeze, eyes locking, his hand hovering mid-air, contacts making his blue eyes too sharp, too real. your breath catches, and he feels it, the air thick, until your phone alarm blares, a shrill reminder of the bacon sizzling. you step back fast, turning to the stove, muttering about timing, and he exhales, heart thudding, spatula forgotten.

the meal’s comfortable, despite the tension humming underneath. you sit at his wobbly table, plates piled with scrambled eggs, bacon crisp, toast only slightly charred. he eats like a man starved, shoveling food, pausing to say, “this is unreal, you’re a genius,” between bites, egg flecking his chin.

you roll your eyes, pointing out, “you helped make it this time.”

he pauses, fork mid-air, staring at the non-burned toast like it’s a trophy. “look at me, becoming a functional adult,” he says, voice proud, puffing his chest.

you mutter, “that’s debatable,” and he clutches his heart, mock-wounded, toppling back in his chair with a dramatic groan. your laugh slips out, quick and unguarded, and he freezes, savoring it, the sound better than any meal.

afternoon settles, dishes done, the kitchen less a crime scene. satoru suggests a marathon, “something that isn’t digimon,” he says, winking, and you look relieved, pulling out a series you’ve been itching to watch, some gritty crime drama.

you settle on his couch, a lumpy relic with a mystery stain, initially with a safe gap between you. he’s got a blanket tossed over his lap, hiding a stray ramen wrapper, and you’re curled into the corner, arms crossed like you’re guarding yourself.

by the first episode, he’s inching closer, testing, a casual stretch here, a lean there. by the third, your shoulders touch, the blanket half-draped over you both, neither acknowledging it. he’s painfully aware of every contact point—your arm against his, the warmth of your shoulder, the way your knee brushes his when you shift.

satoru keeps sneaking glances, not at the screen but at your profile, the curve of your jaw, the way your eyes narrow at a plot twist. you catch him once, head turning, and he doesn’t look away, just smiles, soft and unashamed. your lips part, like you might say something, but your phone rings, shattering the moment, a harsh buzz from the coffee table.

you answer, voice clipped, and he hears “school” and “emergency” through the static. a student’s hurt, weekend sports practice gone wrong, and you need to go in. you’re already standing, grabbing your jacket, and he’s on his feet, too, saying, “i’ll come. keep you company. plus, i need to grab some papers anyway.”

it’s a flimsy excuse, and he’s got an inkling that you know it, but you don’t call it out, just nod, your scowl softer, like you’re glad he’s there.

at school, you bolt to the nurse’s office, your steps quick, bag swinging. satoru wanders to his classroom, the halls empty, fluorescent lights humming, the air smelling of chalk and old books. he grabs a stack of papers—quizzes he forgot to grade, corners dog-eared—and finishes fast, his handwriting a scrawl as he rushes. he heads to the nurse’s office, drawn to you, but pauses outside, peering through the window.

you’re treating a student, an athlete who probably got injured during his practice with a scraped knee and a wince, your hands gentle but efficient, cleaning the wound with steady precision, like you’re stitching a life back together.

you murmur something, soft, and the kid smiles, relaxing under your touch. satoru’s expression softens, a pang in his chest, something raw and aching. “why couldn’t i have met you before…” he whispers, the words trailing off, heavy with what he doesn’t say—before suguru, before shoko, before the blood, before the hit.

sadness floods him, sharp and sudden, and he imagines you finding him after the hit, your hands on a body gone cold, your face crumpling. his stomach churns, guilt clawing, and he runs a hand through his hair, tugging hard, like he can pull the thought out.

you look up, catching him watching, and smile, waving him in, your scowl nowhere in sight. he masks it fast, shoving the guilt down, and strides in, voice casual. “kid okay?” he asks, leaning against the doorframe, papers tucked under his arm.

“fine,” you say, bandaging the kid’s knee, your movements practiced, like you’ve done this a thousand times. the student limps out, thanking you, and you start cleaning, supplies clicking into place, your hands never faltering.

satoru perches on the examination table, legs swinging, the paper crinkling under him. “you’re really good at this, you know,” he says, voice softer. “the whole caring thing.”

you shrug, dismissing it, wiping the counter with a rag. “it’s my job,” you mutter, but he shakes his head, persistent.

“no, seriously,” he says, leaning forward, elbows on his knees. “it’s… nice. seeing someone who’s good at taking care of others.” his voice drops, almost to himself, “makes me wish i was better at it.” the words slip out, raw, and he freezes, like he’s said too much.

you turn, rag pausing, surprised by the vulnerability, your eyes searching his face. “what do you mean?” you ask, voice quiet, like you’re giving him space to answer.

he backpedals, mask sliding back, a grin flashing. “just saying, i’d probably bandage someone’s head to their foot,” he says, laughing too loud, swinging his legs faster.

you’re not fooled, your eyes narrowing, but you don’t push, just nod, turning back to the counter. he watches you, the way you stack bandages, precise and steady, and thinks, she’d fix me up, keep me together, the thought fleeting but warm, less about wifey fantasies and more about trust, something he hasn’t felt in years.

he hops off the table, papers crinkling, and says, “ready to head back?”

you nod, grabbing your bag, and he follows, the school quiet, your steps echoing. he wants to say something, to keep you here, but the hit lingers, a cold shadow, and he shoves it down, focusing on your shoulder brushing his as you walk, the warmth of you beside him.

evening slinks in, the sun bleeding a bruised orange across the sky as satoru walks back to the apartments with you, his steps heavy, like he’s hauling a coffin he can’t bury.

he’s quiet, a rare cage around his usual chaos, hands jammed in his jacket pockets, the cherry blossoms from this afternoon gone but their weight crushing his chest. when he thinks you’re not looking, his face cracks—brows knotted, jaw tight, eyes lost in some private hell, wrestling suguru’s laugh, shoko’s static, the hit he can’t undo, and you, you, you, a lifeline he’s not allowed to grab.

you glance at him, your scowl sharp but softened by the sunset’s glow, and mutter, “you’re creeping me out, staring at nothing like that.” your voice is barbed, but your eyes flicker, a tell he’s too tangled to catch, and he tries to grin, but it’s flimsy, fraying at the seams.

at the building entrance, you pause, keys jangling like a warning bell, and say, “come over for dinner. nothing fancy, just yesterday’s leftovers.” your tone’s clipped, like you’re annoyed at yourself for offering, and you look away fast, cheeks pink, fingers tightening on the keys.

his heart stumbles, a dumb, hopeful thing, and his grin breaks free, shaky but bright. “leftovers? you trying to make me propose or what?” he teases, voice raw, following you like a dog chasing a bone.

you scoff, loud and sharp, “don’t flatter yourself,” but your lips twitch, fighting a smile, and you march ahead, leaving him to scramble after, his jacket brushing your arm, the hallway’s flickering bulb casting jagged shadows, like it’s laughing at his fractured head.

your apartment’s a sanctuary, warm with ginger and soy, a slap to his pizza-box chaos—counters gleaming, a lone knife on the rack like a silent threat, the fridge’s hum a steady pulse.

you slip into a routine, effortless, like you’ve been dancing this dance forever. he sets the table, grabbing mismatched plates from your cupboard, lining them up with a care he didn’t know he could muster, chopsticks placed like he’s defusing a bomb. you heat the stir-fry, the sizzle of soy and garlic curling through the air, steam twisting like a ghost.

“don’t break my plates,” you snap, not looking up, but your fingers twitch on the spatula, and he catches it, grinning.

“me? i’m a plate-setting pro,” he says, tossing a napkin in the air and missing it spectacularly.

you roll your eyes, muttering, “you’re a walking disaster,” but your voice softens, and he feels it, the warmth of you cutting through his storm.

satoru watches you stir, your hair catching the kitchen light, tucked behind your ear, and thinks, this is home, a fleeting pulse, not wifey but about belonging, fitting somewhere he’s never belonged.

it’s a thought he shouldn’t have, not when his days are numbered, but it sticks, a burr in his chest, because you’re here, making his world less jagged.

dinner’s close, the table tiny, your knees brushing under it, a spark that jolts his spine. you talk about students—his kids’ latest chaos, a girl who drew a skull on her algebra test, a boy who offered him a half-eaten lollipop as a bribe—and he laughs, loud and unhinged, the sound untangling the knot in his chest. “they’re gonna bury me in sticky notes and bad graphs,” he says, chopsticks flailing, a piece of bell pepper flying onto the table.

you snort, flicking it back with a snap of your wrist, and he catches it in his mouth, winking like he’s auditioning for a rom-com. “show-off,” you mutter, but your laugh is sharp, unguarded, slicing through the air, and he freezes, savoring it, better than any meal.

he leans forward, chin on his hand, watching you talk, your hands waving, your scowl gone, replaced by a fire he can’t look away from. your cheeks flush when you catch him staring, and you snap,

“what? got food on my face or something?” your tone’s prickly, but your eyes dart away, fingers tightening on your chopsticks, and he grins, his eyes trace your face—the curve of your jaw, the spark in your eyes—and it hits him, a sledgehammer to the chest: he’s in deep, too deep, attached in a way that wasn’t supposed to happen.

panic hits, a cold blade in his gut. he’s supposed to die soon, a ghost by next week, maybe, and you’re here, laughing, breathing, alive. this wasn’t the plan—falling, needing, wanting you like air. his stomach churns, guilt flooding like a tidal wave. suguru’s gone, shoko’s gone, and he’s daring to be happy, to crave you, when they’re just bloodstains he can’t scrub clean. his chopsticks freeze, hovering over a carrot, and you notice, eyes narrowing.

“food’s not poisoned, you know,” you say, voice dry but edged, like you’re poking at his silence.

he forces a grin, too wide, teeth flashing like a spotlight. “it’s perfect. you’re perfect,” he says, voice too bright, shoving the carrot in, chewing to choke the lie. the stir-fry’s warm, like the egg he cracked, the bento you shoved at him, but it’s ash in his mouth, the hit’s shadow slinking closer, the assassin out there, faceless, a clock ticking down.

he wants to cancel it, to rip it out of the world, but the board’s a black hole, and he’s trapped, offering you scraps—a night, a laugh—when you deserve forever.

after dinner, he helps clean, unprompted, snatching a dish towel like it’s his calling, standing so close his hip grazes yours at the sink. you wash, he dries, water splashing, plates clinking, the air thick with something heavy, unspoken.

satoru finds excuses to touch—handing you a bowl, his fingers brushing yours, steadying a glass, his palm grazing your shoulder, each contact a spark he chases, a tether he can’t cut.

you stiffen, just a flicker, muttering, “personal space, ever heard of it?” but you don’t pull away, your hands slowing, your scowl twitching, cheeks pink as you scrub a plate too hard.

he dries a fork, staring at your hands, steady and lethal, and thinks, i can’t leave her alone, i don’t want to, but the hit’s a steel trap, and all he can give is this—tonight, maybe tomorrow, a stolen moment before it’s ash.

you move to the couch, picking up the crime drama from this afternoon, the tv’s blue glow casting jagged shadows, the room dim, too small for the storm in his head. he sinks beside you, closer than before, the lumpy cushion sagging, your thighs brushing, a heat that sears through his jeans.

you toss a blanket over your laps, soft, smelling faintly of you, and he feels every contact point—your thigh, your shoulder, the edge of your wrist when you shift. “don’t hog the blanket,” you mutter, tugging it, your voice sharp but your fingers lingering, grazing his knee, and he dies inside just a little.

halfway through the episode, the detective’s voice is static, the plot a blur, because he’s drowning in you, your breath steady, your presence a gravity he can’t fight. his mind’s a warzone—wanting you, needing you, but the hit’s a noose, tightening with every heartbeat.

he sees suguru’s grin, shoko’s cigarette, the blood on his hands, and you, after, finding him cold, your hands shaking, your voice gone. guilt crashes, a boulder in his chest, because he’s happy, here, with you, when they’re just ghosts. panic spikes, a knife in his ribs, because any day could be his last, and you’ll be left, alone, carrying a grief he can’t let you bear.

he can’t do this.

he can’t pretend it’s fine.

this—giving you fragments when you deserve the world. but he can’t walk away, can’t leave you alone, not when every second with you is stolen gold. he wants to cancel the hit, to burn it down, but the board’s locked, the assassin’s coming, and all he has is now, this temporary flicker, a taste of what he’ll never hold.

his hands clench, knuckles white, nails biting his palms, and he mutes the tv, the silence a gunshot, the room too tight, too heavy. he turns to you, his face a mask splintering, eyes raw, contacts catching the tv’s glow like they’re on fire.

you look at him, questioning, your eyes steady but guarded, your scowl back, softened by the dim light. “what’s your problem?” you ask, voice sharp, like you’re bracing for a fight, but your fingers twitch on the blanket, a tell he clings to.

he stares, too long, his internal battle spilling out—want, fear, guilt, hope, a storm he can’t tame. the hit’s a noose, tightening, and he can’t leave you, not when you’re here, breathing, real. suguru’s gone, shoko’s gone, and he’s stealing happiness he doesn’t deserve, but he’s greedy, desperate, and you’re the only thing keeping him tethered.

i can’t give her forever, he realizes, stomach twisting, but i can give her something. tonight. now. his mind snags on it—his v-card, untouched, a piece of him no one else has. why not? he thinks, half-laughing in his head, i’m dying anyway. might as well go out with a bang.

the idea’s absurd, reckless, but it roots, a weird determination settling in his what used to be hollow chest. 

he shifts, leaning closer, testing the air. she’s gotta want me, right? he thinks, heart hammering, replaying your flushes, your twitches, the way you didn’t pull away at the sink. those chopstick flicks weren’t just dinner banter.

he’s grinning now, convincing himself it’s mutual, that you’re as tangled as he is. i’m charming, right? tall, hot, great hair. he runs a hand through it, fluffing it for effect, and catches your eye, your scowl deepening.

shit, she’s cute when she’s mad, he thinks, and his resolve hardens. i’m doing this. for her. for me. one night, no regrets.

he shifts, leaning closer, the cushion creaking, testing the air like a general before a charge. his heart’s a jackhammer, but he’s focused, eyes locked on yours, mapping every twitch.

step one: set the vibe, he thinks, muting the tv with a dramatic jab, the silence hitting like a slammed door. step two: don’t fuck this up. he runs a hand through his hair, fluffing it, trying to look suave, but a strand flops back, and he curses inwardly, c’mon, satoru gojo, you’re a goddamn legend.

he leans in more, thigh brushing yours, the blanket slipping, and your eyes narrow, like you’re sizing up a threat. she’s not running, he thinks, a spark of hope, that’s a green light, right?

“okay, listen,” he starts, voice low, steady, like he’s pitching a life-or-death plan, “i’m not good at this deep shit, but i’m putting it out there.” here we go, he thinks, stomach lurching, no turning back.

“i’m kinda on borrowed time, y’know? so i’m thinking…” he pauses, eyes boring into yours, determination burning like a fever, “i want you to have something real from me. like, all of me.”

he leans closer, voice dropping, intense, weirdly solemn, like he’s swearing an oath. she’s gotta get it, he thinks, this is my grand gesture. your scowl falters, confusion creeping in, cheeks burning crimson as his gaze pins you in place and he pushes forward, resolute, “so, what i’m saying is—do you want to fuck me or something?”

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[kryllia]

Silver Threads of Love

Husband Aemond Targaryen x Wife Reader

romantic fluff

art from pinterest

This fanfiction is inspired by a bot in character.ai and I thought it was really cute, so I created this cute scenario. The creator of the bot is @Xaidil

The candlelight flickers, casting golden hues across the dimly lit chamber. The scent of burning wax mingles with the faint trace of lavender lingering in your hair. Aemond sits on the floor beside the bed, his long legs stretched out, his back resting against the mattress as he lets you run your fingers through his silken silver locks.

You’ve always adored his hair—soft as the clouds that drift lazily across the skies of King's Landing, cascading like liquid moonlight down his back. Tonight, you take your time, weaving each strand carefully, enjoying the rare moment of peace between you.

"Are you finished?" Aemond's voice is quieter than usual, a stark contrast to the commanding tone he carries in the war council or during training sessions. Here, in the privacy of your chambers, he is just your husband, not the fearsome prince who rides the largest dragon in Westeros.

"Almost," you murmur, fingers deftly twisting silver into intricate patterns.

Aemond hums in acknowledgment, his singular violet eye half-lidded. He appears content, relaxed even, something he rarely allows himself. You wonder how often he felt this kind of ease in his youth, when every moment was a battle to prove his worth.

"We're just going to sleep," he comments, amusement lacing his voice. "The braid does not have to be flawless. Only you shall see it."

You huff softly, lightly tugging at a strand in playful reprimand. "That does not mean I should be careless, husband."

His smirk deepens, though he makes no move to stop you. Instead, he tilts his head ever so slightly, allowing you to work more comfortably. A gesture so small, yet so significant.

Few would believe the tales if you spoke them—that Aemond Targaryen, the cold and fearsome warrior, allowed his wife to braid his hair before bed, seeking solace in the gentle touch of her hands. But they did not know him as you did. They did not know the man who sought you out in quiet moments, whose arms wrapped around you in the dead of night when his mind was plagued with restless thoughts.

The silence between you is comfortable, the only sound the soft shuffle of your fingers threading through his silver tresses.

After a moment, you tie the end of the braid, running your fingers over it with satisfaction. "There," you whisper. "Done."

Aemond shifts, rising gracefully from the floor to sit beside you on the bed. His eye roves over you, contemplative, lingering on the curve of your lips before meeting your gaze. Slowly, he lifts a hand and pulls the leather eyepatch away, revealing the sapphire embedded where his left eye had once been.

It is not the first time he has shown it to you, but it still takes your breath away. The jewel gleams in the dim light, an ethereal glow in contrast to the warmth of his violet eye. He had once hidden it from you, even long after your wedding. But now, he no longer hesitates. No longer fears what you will see.

Your fingers reach for his face, gently tracing the sharp angles of his cheekbone before brushing over the cool sapphire. He does not flinch.

"You take such care with me," he muses, his voice barely above a whisper. "Even when you do not need to."

Your brows furrow slightly at his words. "Of course, I do," you reply, tilting your head. "You are my husband, Aemond."

A shadow crosses his features, but it is not the cold, detached look he wears before his enemies. This is something softer, something raw.

"You chose to love me," he murmurs. "Even when our marriage was one of duty."

Your chest tightens at the weight of his words. You reach for him, cupping his face with both hands, your thumbs tracing the line of his jaw.

"I did not choose to marry you," you admit softly. "But I chose to love you. And I would choose it again. Every time."

For a moment, he says nothing. Then, in a rare display of affection, he leans into your touch, his lips pressing a slow, reverent kiss against your palm.

His hand moves to your waist, pulling you gently toward him. You do not resist, allowing yourself to be enveloped in the warmth of his embrace. His forehead rests against yours, silver hair spilling over his shoulder, the braid you crafted lying against his back.

"Come," he murmurs, his voice softer than the night breeze filtering through the open window. "Let us sleep."

You barely have time to nod before he guides you down onto the bed, shifting so that your head rests against his chest. The steady rhythm of his heartbeat soothes you, a lullaby more comforting than any sung by the court musicians.

His hand moves lazily along your back, tracing small, absentminded circles, as if grounding himself in your presence. His warmth, his scent—clove, fire, and something distinctly him—surrounds you, making it impossible to keep your eyes open.

Aemond notices. "Sleep, love," he whispers, his lips brushing the crown of your head.

You murmur something in response, though you’re already slipping into slumber, your body melting against his. Aemond chuckles softly, a rare and quiet sound meant only for you. He tightens his arms around you, holding you close as his own eyes finally drift shut.

For all the battles he fights, for all the nights spent planning for war, this—this moment, with you safe in his arms—is the one thing he will always protect.

Fan fact in Fire and Blood Aemond looses his right eye. On the show they switched it to his left eye.

[dxrlingluv]

HI OMG YOU WRITE SO BEAUTIFULLY may I request a fic of telemachus? 😛 maybe one in which reader is Antinous's younger sister?🙈

You are different

A/N : This is such a beautiful concept, and thank you, anon, for the compliment. Telemachus art is from duvetbox! (Edit) Also I apologize, because I might not be able to post as much since I don’t have internet connection, but once it’s back I’ll be able to post constantly again.

WARNING : Fem!Reader, enemies to lovers, angst with comfort. Reader is Antinous’s sister.

Word Count : 3.8k

The great hall of Odysseus’s palace in Ithaca, once a place of joyous feasts and kingly pronouncements, now echoed with the boorish laughter and arrogant demands of the suitors. For years, they had been a plague, consuming the absent king’s stores, harassing his queen, Penelope, and generally making life unbearable for his son, Telemachus. Among them, Antinous, son of Eupheithes, was the most brazen, the most cruel, the undisputed leader of their parasitic band. And you, Y/N, were his younger sister.

Telemachus first laid eyes on you not in the raucous hall, but in the quieter, sun-dappled courtyard. You were tending to a pot of wilting herbs, your brow furrowed in concentration, a stark contrast to the indolent lounging of your brother and his companions. But the moment he learned your lineage, a curtain of ice dropped over his gaze. Antinous’s sister. To him, that meant you were cut from the same cloth, another viper in the nest, perhaps more subtle in your venom, but a viper nonetheless. He’d heard the whispers of your arrival, another mouth to feed from his dwindling inheritance, another soul likely to mock his mother’s grief and his own impotent fury.

“So, the jackal sends for his kin to pick at the scraps,” Telemachus had sneered, his voice loud enough for you to hear as he strode past, his young face a mask of disdain. He didn’t wait for a reply, didn’t care for one. In his mind, you were already condemned by association, a devil sent from the underworld, cloaked in a deceptively gentle facade.

Your initial days in the palace were isolating. The suitors, while acknowledging your presence with varying degrees of politeness (mostly feigned, you suspected, to remain in Antinous’s good graces), largely ignored you. They were too consumed with their revelry and their relentless pursuit of Penelope. The queen herself, ever gracious, offered you a sad, knowing smile whenever your paths crossed, a silent acknowledgment of the difficult position you were in. The servants, loyal to Odysseus’s house, were wary, their eyes holding a mixture of pity and suspicion.

But it was Telemachus’s animosity that stung the most. He seemed to go out of his way to avoid you, yet his disapproval was a palpable force whenever you were in the same space. If you offered a hesitant greeting, he would give a curt, almost imperceptible nod, his eyes like chips of flint. If you happened to be reading in the library – a refuge you quickly discovered – and he entered, he would turn on his heel and leave, as if your very presence contaminated the air.

You understood his hatred for your brother. Antinous was, to put it mildly, an acquired taste, one you yourself had never quite managed to develop. His arrogance, his casual cruelty, his utter disregard for the customs of hospitality – it all grated on you. You had come to Ithaca not by choice, but at your father’s insistence, hoping perhaps to temper your brother’s excesses, a foolish, naive hope you now realized.

One blustery afternoon, as a storm raged outside, mirroring the turmoil within the palace walls, you found yourself in the main hall, trying to stay out of the way as the suitors grew louder and more demanding with each emptied wine skin. Antinous, emboldened by drink, was mocking Telemachus, taunting him about his missing father.

“Still waiting for that ghost to return, princeling?” Antinous jeered, his companions roaring with laughter. “Perhaps he’s found a nicer island, a prettier queen!”

Telemachus stood ramrod straight, his jaw clenched, his knuckles white as he gripped the hilt of a sword that still looked a little too large for him. His eyes, though, burned with a fire that belied his youth, a desperate, cornered anger.

Before you even realized what you were doing, you stepped forward. “Brother,” you said, your voice quiet but firm, cutting through the boisterous noise. “That is enough.”

The hall fell silent. All eyes turned to you. Antinous looked at you, his brows raised in surprise, then annoyance. “And who are you to tell me what is enough, little sister?”

“He is the prince of this house,” you stated, your gaze unwavering. “And our guest, by a very strained definition. Some courtesy is due.”

A dangerous glint appeared in Antinous’s eyes. “Are you taking his side now?”

Telemachus watched, his expression unreadable. He expected you to falter, to shrink back under your brother’s displeasure. He expected the familial bond to assert itself, for you to align with the jackal.

But you stood your ground. “I am taking the side of decency, Antinous. Something you seem to have forgotten.”

The tension was thick enough to cut with a knife. Then, surprisingly, Antinous threw his head back and laughed, a harsh, grating sound. “Decency! My sister has become a philosopher! Very well, Y/N, for your sake, I shall spare the boy further… instruction today.” He winked at Telemachus, a look full of malice, before turning back to his wine.

The moment passed. The suitors, though surprised, soon resumed their carousing. But something had shifted. As you retreated to a quieter corner, your heart still pounding, you felt a pair of eyes on you. It was Telemachus. He was still watching you, but the outright hostility in his gaze had been replaced by something else – confusion, perhaps even a reluctant sliver of… respect?

Over the following weeks, the iciness in Telemachus’s demeanor began to thaw, almost imperceptibly at first. He no longer left a room the moment you entered. Occasionally, his eyes would meet yours across the hall, and instead of the usual glare, there would be a flicker of acknowledgment, a silent question.

One evening, you found him alone in the courtyard, staring up at the stars, a melancholic expression on his face. He looked so young then, the weight of the world pressing down on his slender shoulders.

“They are beautiful tonight, aren’t they?” you said softly, joining him by the low stone wall.

He started, surprised by your presence, but he didn’t immediately retreat. “Yes,” he murmured, his gaze still fixed on the celestial tapestry. “My father used to tell me stories about the constellations. He said they were the heroes of old, watching over us.” A shadow of pain crossed his features. “I wonder if he watches over me now.”

The raw vulnerability in his voice tugged at your heart. “I believe he does,” you said sincerely. “A father’s love is not so easily extinguished.”

He finally looked at you then, truly looked at you, as if seeing you for the first time not as ‘Antinous’s sister’ but as Y/N. “Why are you… different?” he asked, the question abrupt, almost accusatory, yet laced with a genuine desire to understand.

“Different from whom?”

“From him. From them.” He gestured vaguely towards the palace, where the sounds of the suitors’ revelry were a dull roar.

You sighed, leaning against the cool stone. “Blood ties do not dictate the heart, Telemachus. I do not condone my brother’s actions. I never have. Ithaca… it is not as I imagined. And the suffering of your mother, your household… it is a heavy burden to witness.”

A long silence stretched between you, filled only with the chirping of crickets and the distant murmur of the sea.

“He hates me,” Telemachus said finally, his voice low. “Antinous. He would see me dead if he could.”

“I know,” you whispered. “And that is a constant sorrow to me.”

This conversation was a turning point. It didn’t magically erase all his suspicions, nor did it suddenly make you allies in the eyes of the palace. But it cracked open a door between you, allowing a fragile understanding to take root.

Slowly, hesitantly, you began to seek each other out. A shared glance across the feasting table that lingered a moment too long. A quiet exchange of words in the library, discussing a scroll you were both reading. You learned of his fierce loyalty to his father’s memory, his deep love for his mother, and the crushing responsibility he felt to protect what little remained of his legacy. He, in turn, began to see past your familial connection to Antinous, discovering your intelligence, your quiet strength, your compassionate heart that ached for the injustices around you.

The sweetness of these stolen moments was always tinged with an undeniable sadness. You were, by all accounts, on opposing sides of a conflict that was rapidly approaching its boiling point. He was the son of the rightful king, destined to reclaim his birthright. You were the sister of his most ardent enemy. There was an unspoken understanding that any bond forming between you was built on precarious ground.

One afternoon, he found you by the sea cliffs, a place you often retreated to escape the stifling atmosphere of the palace. You were sketching the waves, a talent he hadn’t known you possessed.

“You draw the sea as if you understand its moods,” he commented, sitting down a respectful distance away.

You smiled faintly. “It reminds me that even in chaos, there is beauty. And that storms eventually pass.”

“Do you think this storm will pass?” he asked, his voice earnest, looking at you with an intensity that made your breath catch. He wasn’t just talking about the suitors anymore; he was talking about the storm between *you*, the animosity that circumstances had dictated.

“I hope so, Telemachus,” you said softly, your eyes meeting his. “I truly do.”

He moved closer then, hesitantly reaching out to take your hand. Your fingers intertwined, a silent acknowledgment of the feelings that had blossomed in the most unlikely of gardens. His touch was warm, surprisingly gentle, a stark contrast to the harsh world you both inhabited.

“Y/N,” he began, his thumb tracing patterns on your skin, “I… I was wrong about you. So very wrong.”

“And I about you, perhaps,” you admitted. “I saw only the anger, not the pain beneath it.”

The air was thick with unspoken words, with the sweet, aching realization of a love that should not be, yet irrevocably *was*. The setting sun painted the sky in hues of orange and purple, a beautiful, melancholic backdrop to your fragile connection.

“Whatever happens,” Telemachus said, his voice husky with emotion, “when my father returns, or when matters here come to a head… I want you to know that what I feel for you… it’s real.”

Tears welled in your eyes. The joy of his confession was inextricably linked with the sorrow of your predicament. Antinous was your brother, however much you disapproved of him. The impending clash would inevitably place you on opposite sides, regardless of your heart’s inclination.

“And mine for you, Telemachus,” you whispered, squeezing his hand. “But oh, what a cruel fate that it should be so.”

He leaned in, and for a moment, you thought he might kiss you. The anticipation was a sweet ache in your chest. But he hesitated, the shadow of your brother, of the impending conflict, falling between you. Instead, he gently touched his forehead to yours, a gesture of profound intimacy and shared sorrow.

“We will face what comes,” he murmured against your skin. “But for now… can we just have this? This moment?”

You closed your eyes, savoring the warmth of his presence, the impossible, beautiful, heartbreaking love that had grown from the ashes of hatred. It was a love born in adversity, sweet and poignant, a fragile bloom in a field of thorns. The future was a terrifying unknown, a path fraught with peril and the certainty of pain. But in that moment, with his hand in yours and the sound of the waves as your witness, there was only the bittersweet truth of your affection, a quiet promise whispered against the dying light. The devil he thought you were had somehow become the angel he hadn't known he needed, and the enemy he was sworn to despise had captured his heart.

The whispers started subtly, like the first rustle of leaves before a storm – a beggar at the palace gates, uncannily perceptive, bearing an aura of command despite his rags. Then, the hushed, urgent conversations between Telemachus and Eumaeus, the loyal swineherd. You, Y/N, felt the shift in the air, a taut string pulled to its breaking point. The feasting suitors, lost in their arrogance, noticed nothing. Antinous, your brother, was louder and more demanding than ever, oblivious to the doom gathering like storm clouds.

Telemachus, in the days leading up to it, was a changed man. The melancholy that often clung to him was replaced by a grim determination. His glances towards you were fraught with a new, desperate tenderness, a silent apology for what he knew was coming, a plea for an understanding he couldn’t voice. You tried to catch his eye, to seek reassurance, but he was a whirlwind of secret preparations, his jaw set, his mind clearly on a task of monumental, terrifying importance.

The return of Odysseus, when it finally happened, was not the grand, heroic entrance you might have read about in songs. It was a calculated, brutal reclaiming. The beggar threw off his disguise, and suddenly, the King of Ithaca stood revealed, arrow notched, his eyes blazing with a righteous fury that had simmered for twenty long years.

The great hall, moments before a cacophony of drunken shouts and jeers, erupted into chaos. The locked doors, the hidden weapons, the swift, deadly precision of Odysseus and Telemachus, aided by their few loyal retainers – it was a slaughter.

You were in a smaller chamber off the main hall, attempting to mend a tapestry, your fingers fumbling, your senses already on edge from the palpable tension. When the first screams ripped through the air, your blood ran cold. It wasn't the sound of a drunken brawl; it was the sound of death.

Panic seized you. Your first instinct, ingrained despite everything, was for Antinous. He was your brother. But another, equally powerful terror gripped you – for Telemachus. The boy you had come to love was in the heart of that maelstrom, dispensing death, becoming a warrior before your very eyes.

You crept to the doorway, peering through a crack. The scene was nightmarish. Odysseus, a figure of almost divine retribution, moved with lethal grace. And Telemachus… he fought with a ferocity that was both terrifying and heartbreaking. He was no longer the gentle soul who debated philosophy with you in the library or shared hesitant smiles in the courtyard. This was a prince claiming his due, his hands stained with the blood of those who had wronged his house.

Then you saw Antinous. He wasn’t laughing now. He was cornered, his usual arrogance replaced by a snarl of disbelief and fury as Odysseus confronted him.

“You cur!” Odysseus’s voice boomed, rich with condemnation. “You thought my house was yours for the taking? My wife for the wooing? My son for the slighting?”

Antinous, ever defiant, spat. “We should have killed the whelp years ago!” He lunged, but Odysseus was faster, more experienced. The arrow struck true. Your brother crumpled, a choked cry escaping his lips, his lifeblood staining the well-trodden floor of the hall he had so arrogantly dominated.

A strangled sob tore from your throat. Regardless of his cruelty, his vices, the bond of blood, the shared memories of childhood, however distant, screamed within you. Your legs gave way, and you sank to the floor, tremors wracking your body. The sounds of the continued fighting, the shouts, the clang of bronze, the screams of the dying, faded into a horrifying backdrop to the singular, stark image of your brother’s lifeless form.

When the last suitor had fallen, and a grim, exhausted silence settled over the blood-soaked hall, Telemachus, splattered with gore but standing tall beside his father, finally saw you. His eyes, still blazing with the battle-light, met yours. The fire in them flickered, then dimmed, replaced by an agony that mirrored your own.

He took a step towards you, then hesitated, his gaze falling to your tear-streaked face, then to the body of Antinous nearby. The chasm that had always threatened your fragile connection had just become a blood-filled abyss.

"Y/N," he breathed, his voice hoarse.

You couldn't speak. You could only look at him, at the blood on his hands – the blood of men, yes, but indirectly, the blood that tied you to this place, to this tragedy.

Odysseus, his gaze sweeping the hall, assessing every detail, noticed the exchange. He saw your crumpled form, your evident distress, and his son’s torn expression. His eyes, wise and weary, narrowed.

“Who is this girl, Telemachus?” Odysseus asked, his voice devoid of its earlier fury, now holding a measured, kingly tone.

“She is… Y/N, Father,” Telemachus said, his voice strained. “She is Antinous’s sister.”

A heavy silence descended. The few loyal servants who had aided in the fight looked at you with suspicion. To them, you were the kin of their chief tormentor.

“Antinous’s sister,” Odysseus repeated, his expression unreadable. He had just orchestrated the death of every man who had sought to usurp him, including the man whose blood you shared. What mercy could you expect?

“Father,” Telemachus interjected quickly, stepping forward, placing himself subtly between you and Odysseus’s scrutiny. “She is not like him. She… she spoke out against Antinous’s treatment of me, of Mother. She showed kindness. She is not our enemy.”

Odysseus looked from his son’s earnest, pleading face to your terrified one. He had heard of your quiet presence, your difference from your boorish brother, even in the disjointed tales brought to him in his disguise. Penelope, too, when he had revealed himself to her in secret, had mentioned you, a flicker of sympathy in her own grief-worn eyes.

“The sins of the brother do not always stain the sister,” Odysseus mused, more to himself than to anyone else. He was a man of strategy, of judging character. He saw not a threat in your tear-filled eyes, but profound grief and perhaps, a reflection of the innocence lost in his own son. “But her presence here is… complicated.”

The days that followed were a blur of grim necessities. The bodies were removed, the hall cleansed, order painstakingly restored. You were confined to your chambers, not as a prisoner, but not free either. A guest whose welcome had been drowned in blood. Your grief for Antinous was a raw, aching wound, complicated by your feelings for Telemachus and the horror of what you had witnessed.

Telemachus came to you a few days later. He was clean, dressed in the simple tunic of a prince at peace, but his eyes were haunted. The shadow of the slaughter still clung to him.

“Y/N,” he said softly, standing awkwardly in your room. The easy camaraderie you had shared felt like a distant dream.

“He was my brother,” you whispered, the words tasting like ash. It wasn’t an accusation, just a statement of unbearable fact.

“I know,” Telemachus said, his voice filled with a pain that told you he understood, as much as he could. “And I am sorry for your pain. Truly. But Y/N… they would have killed us. They would have destroyed everything my father built, everything I am sworn to protect. There was no other way.”

“I understand the necessity,” you managed, looking at your hands, unable to meet his gaze. “But understanding doesn’t lessen the horror, or the loss.” You finally looked up at him. “What becomes of me, Telemachus? I am the sister of the man your father killed, the man who would have killed you. Where do I fit in this new Ithaca, built on the graves of my kin?”

His face contorted with sorrow. “I don’t know,” he admitted, the honesty raw and painful. “My father… he is a just man, but he is also a king who has reclaimed his throne through bloodshed. He sees you, I think. He sees that you are not Antinous. But…”

“But the blood remains,” you finished for him.

He nodded, his eyes pleading for you to understand. “I have spoken to him. To my mother. They know of… us. Of what was beginning between us.”

A flicker of hope, fragile and faint, stirred within you. “And?”

“My mother… she has a gentle heart. She remembers your quiet courtesies. My father… he listens. He is considering.” Telemachus took a hesitant step closer. “Y/N, I will not abandon you. I cannot. What I felt for you, what I *feel* for you… that hasn’t been washed away by the blood. If anything, it’s become clearer, more precious, in the face of all this.”

He reached for your hand, and this time, you didn’t pull away. His touch was a small anchor in the turbulent sea of your emotions.

“But can it survive this?” you asked, your voice barely a whisper. “Can *we* survive this? Your people will see me as the sister of their enemy. My own grief… it is a shadow between us.”

“Shadows can fade when light is brought to bear,” Telemachus said, his grip tightening gently. “It will not be easy. There will be distrust, perhaps resentment from some. And your sorrow… I will not ask you to forget your brother, only to see that my actions, my father’s actions, were born of a desperate need to reclaim what was stolen, to bring justice.”

The future stretched before you, uncertain and daunting. The sweetness of your burgeoning love was now deeply intertwined with the bitterness of loss and the grim reality of their violent reunion. There would be no simple path forward. Forgiveness, if it came, would have to be earned, on both sides. Understanding would be a slow, painful process.

Odysseus, in his wisdom, eventually decreed that you were free to leave Ithaca, to return to your father’s house with a suitable escort and dowry, should you choose it. Or, you could remain, under his protection, though your position would always be delicate.

The choice was yours. And as Telemachus stood before you, his heart in his eyes, offering not an easy solution but a steadfast promise to face the complexities with you, you knew that the love that had blossomed in the enemy’s shadow was too strong to relinquish easily. It would be a love story etched with sadness, forever marked by the tragedy that brought them together and tore their worlds apart. But perhaps, just perhaps, it could also be a testament to the resilience of the human heart, a love that chose to build a future even amidst the ruins of the past. The path would be long, and the sweetness forever tinged with sorrow, but the hope, however fragile, remained.

[hearts4hughes]

present wrapping - nicholas chavez x fem!reader

holly jolly november

you and nicholas are sitting on the living room floor surrounded by wrapping paper, ribbons, and half-wrapped gifts. nick, looking a bit lost, holds a lumpy, unevenly wrapped box in his hands while you can’t help but laugh.

“okay, so… what exactly is this?” you giggle, pointing at his interestingly wrapped present.

with a sheepish grin on his face, he blushes, “a masterpiece? or maybe an abstract art piece. wrapping paper’s like my worst enemy right now.”

“yeah, i can tell.” you smile as he scratches the back of his neck. “give me that, i’ll teach you.”

half-wrapped present in hand, he shuffles closer to you on the floor. you take the present from him, removing the wrapping paper, and placing it down. as you explain to him the steps of present wrapping, he can’t help but be distracted by how pretty you looked under the christmas lights.

you and nick had always been close friends. you met through a mutual friend and clicked instantly. people joked around calling you platonic soulmates and nick always smiled, internally wishing for more. and now, with your soft voice and stunning face, it was harder for him to hide his feelings.

“earth to nick?” you snap at him and raise your brows. “are you even paying attention?”

he blinks his thoughts out of his eyes and nods. “uh- yeah.”

you roll your eyes with a playful smirk. “well, you better be because i’m making you do it yourself afterwards.”

he chuckled. you were always sassy and sarcastic, two of the many things he loved about you.

“and done!” you held up your perfectly wrapped box with a box fastened on top. “why don’t you try it? just fold and tape, it’s pretty simple.” you say it like it’s the easiest thing in the world as you hand him the roll of tape and wrapping paper.

his mouth is agape at how easy you made it seem. “you mean, try to not tape my fingers to the box?”

“exactly. small goals.” you begin laughing as he manages to tape down the paper without issue. he looks at you with a smug expression, taking pride in how he did the first step.

you watch as he focuses, carefully folding the paper like you showed him, his brows furrowed in concentration. there’s something endearing about how hard he’s trying, and you can’t help but smile.

“not bad… okay, okay, you’re actually doing pretty well,” you say, grinning. “maybe i am a good teacher.”

“or maybe you just have the patience of a saint.” he chuckles, nudging you with his shoulder.

finally, he secures the last piece of tape, then looks at the gift, a bit crooked but charming in its own way.

“there,” he says, looking at you proudly. “what do you think?”

“i think you’re a natural.” you both laugh, the sound warm and easy.

there’s a quiet pause, and you realize how close you’re sitting. the christmas lights cast a soft glow, and for a second, you wonder if he’s feeling the same thing you are.

“thanks for helping me… and for putting up with my terrible wrapping skills,” he says softly.

“hey, anytime,” you reply, meeting his gaze, your voice dropping to a whisper. “it’s actually kinda fun.”

a beat of silence falls over the room like snow on christmas eve. the two of you gaze into each others eyes and for a moment, time froze and only the two of you existed. nicholas’s eyes flickered between yours and your lips.

without another word, he leans in, his lips brushing yours in a gentle, unexpected kiss that feels like it’s been waiting to happen for a long time. it’s soft, warm, and perfectly timed, just like everything else tonight.

he pulls back with a smile. “sorry, i-”

you interrupt him, “i don’t mind.” your face is flushed with maroon hues. you try to regulate your breathing.

“good, because i’ve been wanting to do that… well, for longer than i’d like to admit.”

you lean into him with a content smile. in that moment, you felt whole. like whatever had been missing inside of you had suddenly been filled. you both let out a small giggle, content with this now cherished moment.

[links-in-time]

This short fic was inspired by the gorgeous artwork of @maesonc-artistic-adventures. I had this idea after seeing this drawing and had to write it down.

Fierce Protector

Link groaned as he regained consciousness. Then gasped and groaned again as the wound in his side sent bolts of lightning shooting up and down his torso. Instead of trying to get up, he let himself fall back down so he could assess his situation. 

Wound, check. Did he remember how he got it? That part was a little hazy at the moment. Where was he? Link opened his eyes and looked around. To his left and directly above him were natural stone walls. An overhang at the bottom of a cliff maybe. To his right he could see grass and the roots of trees. 

Everything was illuminated by the soft flickering of fire light. Beyond the golden haze, Link could see the blanket of night surrounding their campsite. Above the trees he could see a few stars occasionally veiled by clouds. 

However, what was most concerning of all, besides his wound, he seemed to be alone. Everything was quiet. Only the occasional pop and crackle of the fire interrupted the stillness of the night. Link would have expected to hear the conversations or gentle snores of his brothers around him. Yet there was nothing. 

Panic began to reach into his usually logical mind. He was injured and alone. He had no idea where he was, or where the rest of his brothers were. Not an ideal situation on any day. 

“You're awake, that's good.”

A voice made Link start and he instinctively reached for his hidden knife. But to his dismay it wasn't there. The stretch also aggravated his wound, pulling at it painfully. Link clenched his teeth and pushed through the pain in order to sit up. He managed to get himself propped up on one elbow. Giving him a better view of the little campsite. 

What he saw nearly made him fall down again. The Fierce Deity sat on a log on the other side of the fire, staring at him with those blank white eyes. The amber light from the fire cast strange shadows across the beings face, shifting and jumping as though he were moving. But the Deity remained motionless, staring unblinking at Link. 

“You, what… What are you doing here? How long have you had Time?” Link demanded, summoning his courage and wishing he had something for the pain. 

“I have occupied this vessel for many hours while you remained unconscious. He summoned me in order to protect you.” The Deity replied calmly, his voice level, almost bored. 

“Will you let him go now? There's no danger here,” Link asked just as calmly. 

If experience dealing with the Fierce Deity had taught him anything, it was never to rile it up. Friends could quickly become enemies if they said or did something the Deity didn't like. For now however, he had said he was protecting Link. Also that Time had instructed him to do so. He needed more information. 

“What happened to me?” He implored. “Why did Time use the mask?”

“There was a battle. Your forces were divided. You and the one you call Time were hampered in your efforts to reach your comrades. An enemy breached your defenses and wounded you. While you lay helpless this vessel donned my mask and begged me to protect you. I did so.”

“Thank you,” Link said, bowing his head a little for added reverence. “Do you know what happened to the rest of our friends?”

“I know nothing of your party. Link gave no instructions regarding them.”

Not good. Link needed to find the others and make sure they were all safe. However, if the Deity had decided to act on an instruction from Time, it would usually follow it to the letter. And then some. Getting it to change its mind and let Link go and search for the others would be no small task. Getting it to release its hold on his little brother was tantamount to impossible. 

“Is there still danger?” Link asked, trying to broach the subject carefully. 

“The monsters have been slain,” the Deity replied simply. As though this was a stupid question. 

“Then you were successful in completing the request Time asked of you.” Link noted, trying to make him understand. 

The Deity nodded. 

“Now that you have fulfilled your task, will you see your way to giving Time-Link, back his self?”

Link held his breath. This was always the difficult part. During the war young Time had used the Fierce Deity mask countless times during battle. Sometimes he could take it off easily, as though it really was just a child's mask. But after prolonged battles, sometimes the Deity would still sense danger towards his host. On those days Link would sit with the powerful being and gently convince him to let his little brother go. So far he hadn't failed him. 

“You are still injured. Your pack is empty of healing items.”

Great. Time was going to be trapped as long as Link was out of action. Now being away from the others was a big problem. If Rulie, or any of the others were there, they could heal him and the Deity could be free of his responsibilities. 

“I remember you being far more capable when we met before,” the Deity continued. 

Link was surprised. He knew the Deity was an incredibly intelligent being, but he had always assumed that it didn't really pay attention to Time's life and the people around him. 

“What are you talking about?” Link asked, frowning in indignation. 

“Your talents for planning and strategy have slipped. The young man I remember would not have allowed today's events to happen at all.”

“I planned as best as I could,” Link protested. 

“You did not account for yourself and Time being separated from the others. That is why you failed to win the battle on your own merit.”

“I…” Link faltered. 

He couldn't really argue with the Deity’s statement. He hadn't factored the Chain getting separated into his battle plan. It was his fault Time was now stuck inside that damn mask. 

“You're right. I should have planned better. I suppose I've come to rely on my brothers knowing what they're doing. I don't have to marshal them the same way I used to command my soldiers.”

“They are children, children need a firm hand.”

“They're far more than children,” Link argued. “Time was little more than a child when I met him, yet you never said anything about his age. In fact,” Link paused. “I think this is the longest conversation you and I have ever had.”

“It is true you and I have not spoken at length before. You have always feared my presence,” the Deity stated. 

“I never feared you,” Link lied. “I was afraid you would never let my brother go. Just as I am now.”

“You truly care for this vessel don't you?” 

“He's not a vessel, and yes. I love him like he's my own blood.”

“Sentiment is a weakness,” The Deity asserted, dropping its gaze to the fire for the first time. 

“No it's not, it's a strength. Loyalty and love are what bind us together. Without that we'd all be fighting amongst ourselves. Everything good in the world would disappear. Surely even a warrior such as yourself can understand that?”

The Deity didn't respond, just continued to stare into the softly flickering flames. Link realised then that he had got the Deity talking. Not just about Time, but about its own thoughts and feelings. Perhaps this could be an opportunity to learn more about this ancient God. 

“You can see into your host's mind. Can't you see that he would agree with me?” 

“This incarnation of the hero does agree with your sentiment. He believes that goodness and love will always triumph over evil.” He paused, blinking slowly for the first time. “But he does not know the truth.”

“What truth?” Link asked. 

“How even the most simple, trusting folk, can fear their own savior. How millenia ago, before there were heroes and princesses, the gods walked the earth. I was one such being, a fierce warrior who defended people from marauding monsters and evil humans. Yet not all believed my strength to be a blessing. Some of the other gods feared me, feared my single mindedness. My loyalty blinded me and I was tricked. Trapped and bound for all eternity. Even as I possess this Hylian, I am not free.”

“But you must still believe in loyalty. Otherwise you wouldn't have done what Time asked. You wouldn't have protected me and brought me to safety. And I'm very grateful to you for that.”

There was a long pause as both Link and the god possessing his brother absorbed each other's words. After a while the Deity stood and stared down at Link. 

“I must check the perimeter. If all is well by morning, I shall release your brother to you.”

“Thank you,” Link nodded. 

Without another word the Fierce Deity turned and walked away from the rock face. As the glow of his white hair disappeared into the trees, Link laid back down on the ground. He may not have succeeded in getting Time back just yet, but he felt like he had achieved something else. The Fierce Deity had opened up to him. Had told him a little of the history concerning the mask. They were similar in more ways than he had ever imagined. Perhaps in future, he would not need to be so cautious when dealing with the ancient being. 

[sanguinir]

𝙳𝙾𝙳𝙶𝙴.   𝙳𝙴𝙵𝙻𝙴𝙲𝚃.   𝙳𝙴𝙴𝚂𝙲𝙰𝙻𝙰𝚃𝙴.   It’s   a   dance   with   all   too   familiar   steps   and   patterns,   ones   in   which   Astarion   likes   to   think   himself   a   master.   If   not   for   the   heightened   paranoia   and   anxiety   that   accompanied   being   kidnapped   and   released   from   his   master’s   control,   he   might   have   let   Zeyris   be   and   ignored   the   stench   of   rotted   corpses   and   sulfur   that   seemed   to   linger   around   wherever   they   made   camp.   But   the   threat   of   sprouting   tentacles   and   being   dragged   back   to   the   palace   had   set   him   on   edge   and   everything   was   a   potential   threat.  

And   that   stink   of   sulfur   made   his   teeth   ache,   so   it   was   really   the   tiefling’s   own   fault.   And   who’s   footprints   were   those?   Too   large   to   be   a   kobold,   too   small   to   be   anyone   else   in   their   little   ragtag   group,   almost   always   on   the   outskirts   of   the   camp.

It   was   a   bedeviling   puzzle,   a   curious   mix   of   different   events   and   coincidences   that   captured   his   attention   and   held   it.   All   of   it   was   twisted   and   turned   over   and   over   again   in   his   mind,   broken   down   and   dissected   from   all   angles.   Puzzles   were   a   favored   pastime,   having   used   various   mental   puzzles   to   keep   his   sanity   and   to   keep   him   sharp      —      Baldur’s   Gate   had   a   habit   of   chewing   up   and   spitting   out   those   who   didn’t   keep   their   wits   about   them,   never   mind   the   Palace.  

❝      Oh   yes,   our   travel   companions   are   most   worrying,   of   course.      ❞      The   pointed   words   were   drawled   out   in   a   dry   and   woefully   unamused,   dagger   stilling   just   underneath   his   nail.   Cerise   eye   remained   trained   on   Zeyris,   looking   for   any   difference   in   his   affect.   That   moment   when   someone   was   blinking   away   sleep   had   a   curious   way   of   disarming   those   who   wear   masks   and   Astarion   was   not   going   to   miss   the   chance   to   glean   useful   information   for   all   the   banter   in   the   world.

❝      Trust   me,   darling,   the   rumors   of   my   domesticity   are   highly   exaggerated.      ❞      Learning   that   toothy   smiles   are   disconcerting   is   one   of   the   very   first   lessons   a   young   vampire   spawn   learns   but   he   throws   centuries   of   conditioning   out   the   window   now   to   bare   them   in   a   mocking   grin.   The   rogue   lazily   points   the   dagger   in   the   other’s   direction,   head   cocking   to   the   side   in   a   way   they   he   had   seen   alley   cats   size   up   oblivious   rats   back   in   the   Lower   City.   ❝      Feeling   threatened,   are   you?   Hiding   something   absolutely   wicked,   hm?         ❞

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐅𝐄𝐄𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐎𝐅 𝐀𝐋𝐖𝐀𝐘𝐒 𝐁𝐄𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐖𝐀𝐓𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐃  was one zeyris was becoming increasingly familiar with since waking up on that damned nautiloid ship. with only his name and the muscle memory on how to utilize the weapons and violin he'd awoken with strapped to his body , he'd been sure to cover up any holes with bluffs ━ quick little lies that slipped off his tongue like silk. still , the feeling of always being watched continued , even when he was sure he'd wandered far away enough from the group to be alone. it usually was followed by the sweet siren-like song that called , yearned for even , blood and carnage. from the outright urge to enjoy or even stoke the flames of a raging war between goblin and fellow tieflings , all the way to the poor squirrel that'd gotten a little too close to his foot within the grove.

wherever he went , death loomed like a familiar friend.

resisting the urge that made his fingers itch for the familiar feeling of the weighted steel of his scimitars sinking into flesh had proved difficult , his body feeling as if it'd been carved down to the bone. it made him shake with unearned adrenaline and his muscles ache for the familiar feeling of battle ━ his mouth parched for the taste of blood.

so perhaps it shouldn't be too much of a surprise for him to awaken to someone actually watching over him in comparison to the invisible eyes that seemed to find him in every nook and cranny he fit himself into. in the past days , it'd been increasingly obvious that those in his camp had been becoming more aware of the slip-ups in his normal laid-back demeanor so perhaps it'd been inevitable to happen.

❝ honestly , with the company we keep it may be wise to keep them close by anyway. ❞ though his voice is still thick with sleep his tone is in jest , sulfur-hued irises seeming to glow even in the dim lighting of their camp that seeped into his tent. zeyris is cautious as he pulls himself to sit upright , a light-colored eyebrow raising smoothly once he has himself situated , a subtle smirk pulling at his lips.

❝ you know i always thought you to have more manners than this , astarion. ❞ his tone is still light , with no true accusation or defensiveness immediately noticeable within it. he was sure it was obvious how he dodged the initial question thrown at him , but he had no plans on revealing the way his body ached for carnage , sometimes that of his own traveling companions. short on memories and past lived experiences he may have been but even zeyris knew it was stupid to admit aloud that senseless violence came easier than breathing to him ━ that death and destruction were all he truly ever craved. ❝ sneaking into people's tents to threaten them seems beneath you. ❞

[sanguinir]

tag drop 1 / xxx

[fountian-of-youth]

Welcome to the fountian of youth project !

Here you will be meeting Entity/z- 013253 -

Case file here

Badges

Bad end file here

Mantis allo!

Timeline info

Ascended form

Cons of immorality

And appearance insert here

His room /kitchen area

This is a rp blog drama , action or friendly conversation are very much welcomed !!

Of course if you wish to talk to the doctor you can !

Dr. kraken , the founder of fountain of youth and one to have created the serum allo was injected with .

Insert image here

Case file here

Bad end file here

Ascended form

Kraken lore (updated )

Kraken's analysis

Rules

° you must be strictly 18+ to interact with this blog since it will dive into very serious and adult topics by that like murder , gore and trauma of any kind

° for the love of God pls keep things fucking sfw. I will not fucking stand straight up NSFW questions regarding pregnancy and weird fetishes

° keep things mostly in the pressure world pls I don't mind other random questions but I'm getting tired of thinking how things would work. Pose it as games only.

° joked are jokes but if I do much see another joke disguising a kink you are getting blocked , yes even evil gays have a line they won't draw and shockingly there a real person controlling this (I have cursed knowledge of forbidden things do not make me have a flash back )

° please don't control my OCS feelings or actions (unless your Melinda ) and generally be respectful cause they are my oc only I know their reaction

° I have a busy life so pls don't spam me with ask or tags , I'll reply in my own time but if I do forget pls do tag me or remind me in dm ! I'll try to respond as best I can

° I'm ok with hurting the two and trying to kill them since allo's immortal and kraken kinda a cyborg but don't go too far that or borders healthy obsession

° I don't mind fanart or art in ask! Pls send it helps me picture the interactions better

°other than that you're good to go ! If you want to discuss plots and ideas for our chats/rps dm me! I love to plot and go into character development!

Additional stuff

@creator-of-creativious is my other main blog where I'll post art or random posts not related/ related to this account

I'll be using hashtags to keep our rps in like of these : #fountainofyouthproject, allo, allo nanol , Dr. Kraken .

He will also talk in orange text so it be easy for you guys to read and spot while Dr. Kraken will have red text and white speech

I'll use your OCS and your username as tags as well so you can see it

With that over ask away !!

=================================

For allo

A kitchen hidden away and set in a more secretive part of the hadal back site. A hoodies figure is walking about sorting throughout items and spices seemingly absorbed into his work.

His hands are nimble and gentle when picking or setting and his tail and wings indicate he's isn't human anymore. Is he trustworthy ? Or is he an enemy ?

Do you approach?

=================================

For dr.kraken

He was stationed in his usual spot working away in the lab he pretty much claimed it for himself. He didn't like working with anyone and he certainly wouldn't like someone like you walking in to order him around .

His tendrils whipped about the room to grab what he needed gasping items or tools to get his work done. A sadistic glee shining in his eyes.

Do you choose to be civil ? Or snippy ?

===============================

Bad end allo

Shifting in the encloser of his cell a massive creature stared at the doorway that was the only access to the cramped space. Hollowed glowing eyes staring forward at the cursed opening. He didn't like being trapped . He hated it actually he wanted this to end - who was he ? That caught him off guard....who was he ??.....

He stopped thinking when he snapped his head and stared down at the person that dared enter the cell he was trapped in. A snarl ripping through his throat

(for mini bad end picture he was cat sized and your expendable / entity runs across him in the halls because he escaped )

===============================

Bad end Dr.kraken

You were running down the halls shaking and panting as the second breeched happen (your either a scientist or expandable ) shaking as nee entities or old ones captured were out again and causing havoc.

You turned and tried to run avoiding anything but stopped with wide eyes as before you stood a large albino like creature with a razor sharp smile.

Do you flee ? Or beg?

[yawnderu]

>Second commission for @alypink 💗💗

Adler's visage is oddly relaxed, nothing but pure calmness shown on his usually stoic expression. His cheek rests on his palm, using his elbow as leverage to keep himself up, blown pupils focused on the sleeping figure in front of him. Despite the violence his hands have caused, a newfound gentleness is displayed when he traces the outline of her cheek with his knuckles, the soft skin a sheer contrast to the calluses on his palms.

His head tilts slightly to the side, letting out a small sigh as he admires Aleks like she belongs in the most prestigious museum— her chest rising up and down with each breath she takes, plump lips slightly parted and tiny snores coming out of her, forcing the corners of his lips to tilt up into a sincere small smile despite himself. He moves a few strands of soft blonde hair away from her face, leaning down to plant a kiss on her forehead, cursing himself out in his head the moment she begins to stir awake.

“Good morning.” Aleks says groggily, raising her hand to rub the sleepiness away from her eyes, thankful for the blackout curtains they decided to purchase the moment they moved in together. Adler says nothing, his arm curling around her waist to bring her closer, her face resting on the crook of his neck, feeling her take a moment to inhale the lingering scent of cigarettes and coffee— the very same Colombian coffee she insists on buying every single time they go shopping.

“How'd you sleep?” Unlike her, Adler is fully awake, secretly taking a few minutes each morning simply to admire her like a work of art never once seen, destiny's gift for someone as flawed as him. He doesn't recoil back when her soft hand comes up to cup his cheek, tracing his wrinkles for a few seconds before moving onto the deep, dark scars adorning his visage.

“Much better now that you're here.” Her nose scrunches up teasingly as they make eye contact, earning a small smile in return. Though often away on missions, they both bask in these moments of normalcy, of having a normal life rather than making new enemies by the day.

“Go get dressed, I have a surprise.” Without giving her time to reply, Adler steals a kiss from her lips, his hand coming up to move her bangs away from her forehead just to admire her full face for a few seconds before getting up from bed, barely giving her the chance to see his large frame disappear into Mary's room.

Aleks' blonde hair blows in the wind, the way it gets all over her face as they try to set up a blanket on the grass drags an amused chuckle out of Adler, crouching down and setting a rock down on the corner that was previously giving Aleks issues, the cheeky grin he shoots her way only is enough to earn him a playful slap on the back of the head— much to Mary's amusement, her sweet laugh ringing through the field as they lay down on the thick blanket.

“You made this?” The disbelief is clear in her tone and written all over her face as she looks inside the picnic basket, taking in the plethora of sweet treats waiting for them. She has rarely seen Adler cook anything other than steak and BBQ— never anything that had to be baked or looked half as appealing as these pastries. He simply hums in confirmation, his full focus on holding one of Mary's plushies, play-fighting with hers as they finally get settled.

Despite the lovely sweet treats, Aleks' hands immediately reach out for the thermos flask, excitement setting in her core the moment the smell of freshly brewed Colombian coffee overwhelms her senses, mouth watering in an instant. She mouths a quick 'thank you' before pouring it on the plastic cup, closing her eyes in delight at how well-made it was. For all his initial coldness, Adler was nothing short of a box full of surprises, acting so casually about romantic gestures as if they were nothing, despite taking his time to thoroughly study Aleks and anything important to her, wanting to be part of it all.

“There's some chopped strawberries, too.” While Adler is not the most vocal man when it comes to romance, it comes as a second nature to express himself with actions, every single pastry in the basket has been mentioned by Aleks in the past when talking about her favorites, memorizing them even if they were briefly mentioned years ago.

He sits up, his calloused hands reaching out to settle Mary's tiny body between them, reaching out to grab a pastry and holding it up to her lips until she takes a messy, big bite. Despite the simpleness of the situation, there's always a growing pit of pride at seeing his small family having a good time, the thin smile on his lips not going unnoticed by Aleks.

“You should eat.” She points out with a grin, pushing the basket towards him until he grabs a Tupperware bowl with chopped fruit, fidgeting with the fork for a few seconds before sinking it into the biggest piece of strawberry, offering it to her. The corners of his lips tilt up in amusement as he sees her cheeks get rosier at the offer of her partner wanting to feed her with his own cutlery for the first time.

“Thank you.” She mumbles out, her gaze drifting away from his to calm her fast-beating heart, taking her time to admire the breathtaking view in front of them— the sounds of the strong wind hitting the trees and birds chirping mix in with her daughter's laugh, likely being tickled by Adler. She closes her eyes, basking in the warmth of the sun hitting her skin and the inner peace their little getaway makes her feel, her lips tilting up into a smile at how good life has become despite her difficult past.

A warm hand ruffling her hair drags her back to reality, blue eyes meeting hers as he leans down, his lips pressing against hers, moving at an almost agonizingly slow pace until he pulls away after a few seconds, letting the flustered woman brush her hair to fix the mess he purposely left just to be an asshole. A little treat for himself, of sorts.

[sanguinir]

𝙶𝙾𝙳𝚂,   𝙷𝙾𝚆   𝙷𝙴   𝙷𝙰𝚃𝙴𝙳   𝚂𝙴𝙻𝙵-𝚂𝚃𝚈𝙻𝙴𝙳   𝙷𝙴𝚁𝙾𝙴𝚂.   Narcissists,   all   of   them      —      chasing   boosts   to   their   egos   for   good   deeds,   looking   for   opportunities   to   make   themselves   look   better   than   everyone   else,   all   while   ignoring   their   own   shortcomings.   He   remembered   with   the   Duke’s   son   had   been   intent   on   killing   Karlach   at   the   whispered   word   of   Mizora,   a   well-trained   and   well-heeled   attack   dog   with   only   fanciful   notions   of   his   own   self-importance   and   daddy   issues   rattling   around   in   his   skull.  

Wyll   had   only   spent   several   years   under   the   thumb   of   a   mercurial   mistress,   whereas   Astarion   had   spent   centuries   under   a   master   who   singularly   enjoyed   his   screams.   He’d   never   had   to   have   worried   about   his   safety,   his   survival,   how   to   get   away   from   the   hurt,   how   to   retreat   into   the   depths   of   one’s   mind   when   the   horrors   were   just   too   mych.   The   warlock   had   never   had   to   learn   to   recognize   he   way   a   master’s   footsteps   sounded   to   determine   the   mood   for   the   night,   had   never   been   skinned   slowly   over   the   course   of   a   week   [   𝗶𝗻𝗰𝗵   𝗯𝘆   𝗽𝗮𝗶𝗻𝘀𝘁𝗮𝗸𝗶𝗻𝗴   𝗶𝗻𝗰𝗵   ]   misbehavior,   had   never   had   to  barter away mind, body, and soul to stay alive.

Astarion   loathed   Wyll   Ravengard   and   his   pompous   father.   Everything   was   black   and   white,   until   it   came   to   their   own   hypocrisy.   Then   they   demanded   grace   and   understand   and   to   the   hells   with   everyone   else.  

❝      And   all   but   ignoring   the   duties   to   your   city   and   house?   I   am   shocked,   truly   shocked   that   you   would   ignore   the   city   that   birthed   you   in   its   time   of   need.      ❞      The   fanged   smile   that   pulled   on   his   face   was   that   of   a   large   cat,   amused   by   the   squeaking   and   squirming   of   the   cornered   mouse   before   him.   Is   he   supposed   to   be   impressed   by   a   paltry   ten   years   in   one   of   the   hells?   The   vampire   craved   one   of   those   gods-damned   tadpoles,   for   the   briefest   of   moments,   to   show   him   what   it   was   to   live   in   and   experience   a   hell   as   one   of   the   tormented.   Maybe   then   he   could   have   a   shred   of   empathy   for   something   that   didn’t   fit   into   his   world   view.      ❝      It   is   a   shame   about   your   father,   I’ve   sent   my   personal   healers   to   consult   with   his   about   his   illness.   And   upstart?   My   dear,   darling   Wyll,   I   could   buy   your   family   and   your   family’s   holdings   ten   times   over.   The   city   has   benefited   immensely   from   my   generosity.   If   you   have   actually   had   a   conversation   with   your   father,   I   am   sure   he   told   you   much   the   same.      ❞

His   smile   pulls   wider,   leaning   forward   in   his   chair,   the   very   picture   of   an   amused   nobleman   enraptured   in   his   conversation   to   the   outside   world.   But   Wyll   could   see   that   the   warmth   of   his   broad   and   genial   looking   smile   never   made   it   to   the   scarlet   of   his   eyes,   that   though   they   were   at   a   rather   well   to-do   gathering,   Astarion   was   still   the   most   dangerous   being   in   the   room.   Was   he   supposed   to   be   ashamed   of   all   those   vampires?   Was   he   supposed   to   do   the   honorable   thing   and   release   all   those   starved   husks   to   be   cut   down   by   heroes   like   him,   so   that   their   legacies   could   be   padded   at   the   cost   of   countless   mortal   lives?   No,   Astarion   did   what   was   best   himself,   which   so   happened   to   be   what   was   best   for   the   denizens   of   the   Sword   Coast.   ❝      Would   you   like   to   visit?   I   think   you’ll   be   quite   impressed   by   the   changes   after   some   criminal   burned   the   palace   to   the   ground.      ❞

Wyll bites back the growl from the back of his throat—I know. I was there. I saw their flesh pound and beat like the skin or war drums—and bodies pop like blood balloons. Horrific. There were children. There were children, freshly turned—and perhaps, perhaps Astarion couldn’t have saved them, maybe they truly were monsters just as he was—but the Gurr offered him a chance to redeem himself, and he didn’t take it. He didn’t even have the courtesy to care about seven thousand and six dead for his power. How flippant his gaze, the way he barely thinks of Wyll as he looks him up and down, the way he has apparently not thought of him at all—and in truth, Wyll has tried to forget Astarion, in so much that he had hoped the bastard had merely crawled under a rock and died of shame. And yet. They were friends. Or allies. Or… something. They, at the very least, had fought side by side. That meant something to Wyll. And it can’t, anymore.

“Not the Sword Coast.” He really hasn’t thought of Wyll at all. Not once. Galavanting around in Wyll’s home, Wyll’s town, cozying up to nobles and merchants Wyll knew by name…. Wyll imagines, at least, if the monster didn’t just try to eat them, swallow them whole like a snake.

“Avernus. I’ve been in Avernus. For ten years.” And he certainly looks the part. Even in his white suit and matching eyepatch—the scars and burns look handsome, dark and jagged licks and kisses on his warm brown skin. He’s aged, and there’s new texture, sharpness to him, an intensity in his eye of experience—or perhaps that’s just because he wishes he could kill Astarion here where he stands like so many devils before him. (Rip out his fangs and bead them to a necklace like so many other trophies nestled in his home, his comandeered war machine.) His hair is longer now, locs all the way down past his shoulders, his back is straighter, his nails have sharpened into proper devil’s claws, he’s a pirate pierced with silver in every place the nobles can see covered up in his starchy finery like a rented costume, stiff and soft in all the wrong places—and pierced even more in places they can’t see, that are only for the eyes of those bathed in Hellfires.

“With Karlach. You remember her? She sends her love.” A blatant lie, his voice is stiff and even-tempered, but he can’t avoid the gruff weight of its hilt. She had hoped Astarion was dead, too, Wyll imagines. Instead of…. this.

“My Father called for me after ten years,” Wyll repeats, almost a sneer. “Because he’s ill.” You should know that. Do you care about anyone besides yourself? Shouldn’t you know the state of the Grand Duke for your schemes? Or is even the most powerful human in Baldur’s Gate beneath you? “His allies want my assistance. I imagine enterprising upstarts like yourself in the last ten years of rebuilding, have made it hard to make any changes in Baldur’s Gate for the better.”

“Though I’m sure you’ve certainly tried to make some changes here to better suit yourself. Ten years is a long time. Are you still living in Cazador’s charming mansion in the Lower City? Have you cleaned up the dungeons? I hate to think you wasted all that blood.” I hope you licked the waste off your brothers and sisters and victims off the ground like the animal you are. It’s more than you deserve. I hope the rats come back for vengeance—and then come back for seconds.

[queen-scribbles]

Healing Hurts

First LOTRO fic, only, what, five years after I started playing the game? Better late then never. \o/ ---

Halthiras first met Aelinril because of the rain, though it was a meeting she would not remember.

In the days of his youth, before the return of the Shadow, Halthiras was given to walking the woods and valleys surrounding Imladris, exploring the vales of the Trollshaws, learning their secrets, befriending the animals that inhabited them. Though he'd held to this habit unbothered by rain on many occasions before, this was no gentle mist or soft silver showers but a harsh outpouring, fiercely accompanied by thunder and lightning.

So rather than wander the woods, Halthiras wandered the halls of Imladris itself. Even being his home, there was much yet unexplored. He had no plan for these wanderings, simply allowing his feet to carry him where they would. And so his path wound its way through many peaceful hallways and turnings to Tham Send. The Hall of Rest was quiet, as befit its purpose.

Most of the beds stood empty, freshly made and ready for use should they be needed. And the ones occupied he could see, the Elves slept peacefully, resting from long labors or deep hurts. There was, however, a small bustle of hushed activity in a back corner of the hall, so Halthiras was naturally drawn in that direction, with steps deliberate rather than idle.

A cluster of healers stood around two beds, murmuring among themselves as they worked. It was another Elf nearby, differently clad and standing as if to guard the invalids, who noticed his curiosity.

She gave him a questioning look of her own, one brow arched in silent wonder of his purpose.

"Is everything alright?" he asked at the prompting in her eyes.

"As it can be," she replied, concerned gaze lingering once more on the Elves in the beds before she looked back at him. "The last and most gravely wounded from our battle at the end of the Age. We hold hope of healing their wounds ere they succumb, but the servants of the Enemy did them great harm. Hithgol" --she nodded to the male Elf, dark hair, and his face twisted in uneasy slumber--"was struck by what weapon we know not, but its effect on him is most grievous. And Aelinril"--a gesture to the female Elf, long brown hair and features only faintly troubled for the moment--"was pierced by a morgûl-blade, a foul weapon wielded by the chief of the Enemy's servants, meant to linger and wither those it wounds until they are mere shades bound to his will."

One of the healers, indeed, was tending a wound in Aelinril's shoulder, not yet closing though the battle was a century past.

"Why does it refuse to heal?" Halthiras found himself asking.

The guarding Elf shook her head. "They know not. Some foul magic of the Enemy. And so they work on, to delay the fading until a cure is found."

"Is the aught I can do?" He had not seen the great and terrible battle of the Last Alliance, but it made his heart sit heavy that some remained still suffering so.

She studied him. "Unless you are practised in the healing arts, I fear watching over them is the only aid to offer." A sad smile played at her lips. "If you wish to do so, I would welcome the company in my vigil."

"Then you have it," he said with a bow. "When I can lend it."

"Indeed? And might I know the name of my new companion?"

"Halthiras of Imladris," he said.

"Ah, this is your home," she said, smile tinged with melancholy. She placed a hand to her chest and bowed low in returned greeting. "Harthalín, previously of Gondolin and elsewhere, though now I suppose my vigil makes Imladris my home as well." She looked to the beds. The healers had withdrawn from Aelinril, but two lingered over Hithgol. "Aelinril is one of my dearest friends, and Hithgol a brave comrade in arms. I will remain here as long as I may, to watch over them until Lord Elrond comes to tend them."

"And... how do we help?" Halthiras asked as he and Harthalín seated themselves in the chairs by Aelinril's bed.

"Simply be here to keep vigil," she answered. "The healers have said there's a chance they can hear us though they slumber, so if you wish to tell tales or sing songs it might ease what dreams they have." Her brow furrowed. "It has not seemed to help Hithgol, but there are times it does appear to hold Aelinril from fading."

He nodded, studying Aelinril's face as she slept. She still looked peaceful, with only the faintest edge of disquiet. "Whatever I can do, though I fear the songs I know are of celebration, merriment, joy. Hopefully the result of this vigil will warrant them, but I'm unsure they would be fitting now."

"Calling to their minds the joys of the world seems a fine way of helping them cling to it," Harthalín said. "And it is the wont of those young and not touched overmuch by loss to focus on such things."

And so was a new habit begun, on a rain-soaked day, in the Hall of Rest in Imladris.

Halthiras would come when he could, even on days Harthalín was absent. Sometimes days in a row, sometimes with weeks in between, though that was rare, through the long years that followed as Master Elrond and the healers endeavored to pull the sleepers from the Shadow.

Harthalín knew all the tales he did, and told them better, so he spoke of the world now. Things he saw on his exploration of the woods, tales and news passed on from scouts who went further afield into the Trollshaws and Lone-Lands. When he was apprenticed to Master Talagan. When his sister was born. He learned the songs of peace Harthalín knew, and sang them.

Hithgol sank into a deeper slumber, where no voice seemed to reach him. Aelinril's dreams grew more troubles by turns, Master Elrond's skill stayed her from fading but did not yet draw her back, and the wound remained in her shoulder.

And still Halthiras came whenever he could. Once or twice, as she came of age, he convinced his sister to visit, but Hiraneth was too restive enjoy long days of peaceful vigil. He talked to Harthalín, heard her tales of resisting Morgoth, the glory and peace of Gondolin, the might and deeds of Turgon, Glorfindel, Gil-galad and others, alongside reminisces of quieter blissful days over centuries building her friendship with Aelinril.

Some days, when he kept vigil alone, he would braid Aelinril's hair if her dreams grew especially troubled. Like he did for Hiraneth, a simple plait meant to keep it from tangling. And he would sing the songs he learned from Harthalín as well as the ones he knew, and speak of his lessons with Master Talagan, his parent's decision to leave for the Havens. The things Hiraneth would tell him she had seen, grey eyes alight and gestures avid as she explained.

He wondered what color Aelinril's eyes were. But they remained closed, though her dreams eventually seemed to grow more peaceful under Master Elrond's ministrations.

And so it went through the centuries, as the world rolled on outside the valley. It was with mingled joyous anticipation and regret Halthiras told Harthalín--and by extension Aelinril--of his master's decision they would go study at Edhelion for a time. He was excited to travel further than the valleys of his home he knew so well, to see the world a little and study at an Elven refuge known for its history and beauty. But an absence of months or years would be an odd change; he would miss his time with them in Tham Send. Harthalín encouraged the former while understanding the latter.

"I have found myself in new homes a few times in my life," she said with a wistful smile, "it can take time to adjust. But you will not be gone forever, and I will send word of any changes. You have spoken often of how you love to study and explore, you should enjoy the opportunity to do both to the full." She gave his arm a bracing squeeze. "I shall keep my vigil and look forward to your return."

With her blessing and a final farewell, unheard as it likely was, to Aelinril and Hithgol, Halthiras departed for Edhelion alongside Master Talagan and a select company of others, including Hiraneth. Edhelion was wonderful; woods and libraries to explore in equal measure, a place of safety, beauty, and learning. And he did enjoy it. But a portion of of his thoughts remained on Imladris always; missing home, missing the vigil he'd kept in Tham Send. He only made it a year before writing to Harthalín to ask how things stood. Her reply was a few months coming, and what he expected. No change, Hithgol still slept so deeply nothing disturbed him, Aelinril was more prone to restless dreams alternating with peaceful slumber. Perhaps she would wake soon, perhaps not, even Master Elrond did not know. He had some thoughts of cures to try, she would write with updates. And she did, though they were sporadic and rarely altered in content. They both sleep still, but there are more things to try, and they have not faded. That was something, at least, that they lingered yet. It gave hope they would wake eventually, and the Elves could wait long for such a change.

And then came news, in the form of Master Elrond visiting Edhelion. Halthiras had been hoping for a letter from Harthalín, as it had been moths since the last. But though Master Elrond brought no letter, he bore the same glad tidings a missive would have contained.

Aelinril had awakened. Only briefly, before lapsing back into slumber. But it was now the sleep of true rest, untroubled by lingering Shadow. He had every hope for Hithgol as well, indeed, he had come to avail himself of Edhelion's libraries for ways to further ease their slumber, and record the cures that had been successful in treating morgûl-blade wounds, should such knowledge be needed.

"Centuries keeping vigil and keeping hope, and she wakes when I am absent," Halthiras commented to his sister, amused at the timing more than anything.

"Yes, but she woke," Hiraneth returned. "With every indication now that she shall do so again, with the other hopefully not far behind. Focus on that, rather than regret you were elsewhere at the time."

There was wisdom in her words, and he knew it, though she was the younger. "I am sure Harthalín is greatly relieved by this turn, the proving her vigil has not been in vain for her friend." He drew a deep breath, resting one hand on the carven rail as he looked out to forest. "As for myself, I shall enjoy the time here, and hope for more such turns after we are home in Imladris once more."

It was a return marked rather more by sorrow and loss than anticipated. Only a few short weeks after Master Elrond's arrival came an assault by the Dourhand dwarves. By the time they were driven back and their leader killed, the attack had cost much--Edhelion lay in ruins, its libraries destroyed and a great many lives lost in its defense, including Master Talagan.

Harthalín did not press for details when he rejoined her in Tham Send, did not ask him to speak of his mentor, and Halthiras was grateful. There was an understanding in her eyes, a familiarity with grief too near and new, and she let him hold his silence. Which he did, on the days he joined her. But despite the shift in Aelinril's condition and the hope it heralded, he found the forests called to him more than before. The rustle of wind through leaves was a balm to his grief, and he spent much time walking the woods or sitting under trees to heal his heart. It took centuries for the pain to ease, but it did ease. And as it did he found himself in Tham Send more and more again, the peace of the Hall equal to the peace of the woods once more. First in silent vigil, but on an occasion Harthalín was absent he spoke of the loss to Aelinril. Unsure whether she could even hear or not--he almost hoped not--but needing to speak of it to someone, and Hiraneth's anger had driven her to remain in the woods around Edhelion, a watchful guardian of its repose, but also absent from her home. No change came to the sleeping face and he was glad not to disturb her dreams, but speaking of it aloud began the mending.

He began to speak of tales and happenings once more, sing songs both wistful and joyous. Halthiras maintained the renewed vigil through the whispered rumor of returning Shadow, through Dwarves traversing Imladris valley, through Harthalín departing once the Shadow was no longer rumor, foreswearing the Havens until the Enemy she had helped lay low was defeated for good.

"Tell her for me, when she wakes," she asked, and he promised to do so.

But then came word of Dwarves, Dourhands, settling Thorin's Gate, near the ruins of Edhelion. As Master Elrond had recently been given a worrisome dream, he purposed to send his sons and a party of Elves to investigate. He asked Halthiras to be among them, given his close ties to the loss of Edhelion, and in truth, Halthiras would have volunteered if not asked. The next few weeks were full of preparation, wondering if Hiraneth had been the one to send word, and regretting his departure would perhaps mean Aelinril being alone when she woke. He bid her farewell the day before departing so as not to rush, torn between hoping for her to wake soon and hoping for it to be after his return. He tied back her hair once more as she shifted with her dreams.

It was raining as they prepared to leave the next day, a gentle mist the party was protected from by hoods and cloaks. Elladan and Elrohir emerged from their final council with their father, trailed by another hooded figure.

"We go at my father's behest to investigate the Dwarven presence near Edhelion," Elladan addressed those assembled, "but we shall have another companion for part of the journey." He moved to lead the company as he spoke, and Elrohir guided their late addition to join them. "She has been recovering in Tham Send from a most grievous injury and Lord Elrond has given leave for her to depart to the Grey Havens, should she wish to. As our paths align for a time, we shall travel together until Celondim."

Something strange pierced Halthiras' heart at the words. Hope and shock and regret mingled as one. If that meant who he thought...

The figure fell in near him as the Elves began their journey, and one look was all that was necessary. It was her, her hair still tied back as he'd done it. She had awakened at long last and he hadn't been there as he'd promised Harthalín, and now she would be leaving Middle Earth, forever. He wanted to greet her, be courteous, but didn't know how to start.

He caught the knowing look in Elrohir's eye before the son of Elrond spoke. "Aelinril, this is Halthiras, one of my father's household, and a friend I believe would serve well as traveling companion."

She looked at him, then, and her eyes were blue, tinged green, bright and radiant though haunted by long memory. "Halthiras."

He bowed in greeting. "Aelinril."

And so they met for the second time in the rain, and however long or brief the acquaintance would prove to be, it was one she would remember.

[ephemyrals]

「 𝐏𝐈𝐍𝐍𝐄𝐃 𝐏𝐎𝐒𝐓 」

# 𝐞𝐩𝐡𝐞𝐦𝐲𝐫𝐚𝐥𝐬 .     ━━          a private writing blog featuring muses from multiple fandoms including hsr   &.    bsd as written by  mona  (       28+ years  ,   she / her     )    .    please check the rules before interaction , you can find them below the read more  .    heavy    &.    dark themes will be present on this blog  ,     follow at your own discretion  .

❛❛  𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐚 𝐜𝐫𝐮𝐱 𝐭𝐨 𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠  .    stories tell about love  ;    about its mythical properties  ,    the way it changes people  .    connections are what makes time on earth worthwhile  ,    is what they say    ━━      more than bustling chatter carries in the background  ,    gazes lingering from afar  .    more than a brush one another  ,    a gentle caress   (       ephemeral     )    ,    fading alike dust in boreal breeze  .    maybe  .  .  .    𝐢𝐭 𝐢𝐬 𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐞  .    but why come to care  ,    if those cherished ties are stolen away ,    right from underneath the tips of your finger  ?        ❜❜ 

[  ❀  ]     closely intertwined with : @gemkun , @starspurn , @seraphynm , @scrtilegii / @furiaei

𝐫𝐮𝐥𝐞𝐬

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𝐦𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

aventurine , stelle , mydei , hysilens (hsr)

hiiragi shinya (ons)

minamoto teru (tbhk)

vanitas (vnc)

lavi bookman jr. (dgm)

cheng xiaoshi (lc)

childe (genshin)

rover (both m & f) , jinhsi (wuwa)

nakahara chuuya @autymns

[kenora-pizza]

"Oliver owns up" destroyed by google translate for @viktuurishipper96

Enjoy!

Oliver Boss

On a calm day, with blue skies and a gentle breeze, you can sit here overlooking the valley and watch Bud and Oliver play bass. Both cars have different shapes and colors. Oliver says Douglas saved him from destruction.

"I couldn't get on the bike and on the road without help," Oliver said. Other engineers are interested in Oliver's work. "Miracles". Henry laughed. "Don't give me an olive," James said with a smile. And the light.

"What does it mean?" Percy said. "I think it comes down to strength and skill," Thomas said. "Yes," said Gordon. "An Example for All" Sorry, Oliver left a big box. "Henry said it's fine," she said laughing over the phone.

One morning his enemy came.

“Hey, learn to drive." An experienced driver knows that cars cannot be trusted. The other engineers warn Oliver, but Oliver ignores them. "I can't," he said softly. "I know Gordon is smarter than I thought." "Maybe good, maybe not, but the car is heavy…"

"Hang on, Bud." Donald laughed. "Unfortunately, machines have to learn this on their own."

Oliver has replaced many trucks. Then they went back to the car. They are not satisfied and do not want to continue. "What is written here? We love Duke, Donald and Douglas. " "It's called art—art." Oliver sighed heavily. I can't say that. The car is moving. We will be. Oliver saw nothing. At first the car was silent, but soon Oliver realized it was gone. The driver stopped, but the car crashed.

Contact! Accelerate the car. Oliver tried, but had to start over. Over time the engine will stop working.

This is mine. Oliver took a deep breath. But it was too late. Check the bag for damage.

"Hi Oliver, how are you? Sorry, but we don't want to cause any trouble. Donald and Douglas are out of the office and we'll take care of you." That night, Oliver flies to safety.

"Please forgive me." Karin thought to herself. "You can talk to us. I'm not good at anything. That sounds stupid." "Well, Oliver," replied the good doctor. "Now we know the damage done to the car."

Yes, the man looks black. "I don't think anything stupid is difficult, but something needs to be done." Another fire in Oliver's hand. "The story wouldn't be the same without you." A mouse flies. "It's backwards," he said. A few days later, Oliver returned. His clothes were thinner than usual. A smart driver who never makes a mistake.

[sanguinir]

𝚃𝙷𝙴   𝚃𝙰𝚂𝚃𝙴   𝙾𝙵   𝚃𝙴𝚁𝚁𝙾𝚁   𝙸𝚂   𝙳𝙸𝚂𝚃𝙸𝙽𝙲𝚃𝙸𝚅𝙴.   It   was   a   sharp,   acrid   tang   on   his   tongue,   only   to   wrap   it’s   clammy   arms   around   him   like   an   old   friend   [   he   barely   flinches   these   days   ].   Reithwin   was   a   foul,   rotted   carapace   of   a   town   with   its   few   remaining   residents   resembling   their   surroundings   though   the   House   of   Healing   was   the   worst   of   the   buildings   left   standing,   turning   even   his   hardened   stomach.   Everything   smelled   of   blood   long   since   gone   putrid   and   rotted   flesh   and   the   so-called   surgeon   was   easily   one   of   the   most   unnerving   beings   he   had   ever   encountered,   with   scalpels   for   fingers   and   a   troupe   of   assistants   that   sliced   into   him   with   just   a   clever   word.  

The   Shadowlands   had   been   trying   the   frayed   nerves   of   their   group,   but   this   had   been   one   of   the   easier   encounters   to   get   through.   But   not   for   them   and   Astarion   decided   that   he   didn’t   like   the   way   terror   tasted,   when   it   was   coming   from   Anais.

❝      Darling,   I’m   offended   that   you   think   I   wouldn’t.      ❞      He   gifts   her   a   carefully   crafted,   crooked   grin   that   didn’t   quite   meet   the   cerise   eyes   that   scanned   their   face.   The   rapid   flutter   of   the   pulse   in   their   neck,   the   faint   tremor   that   worked   its   way   through   their   body,   the   haunted   look,   coupled   with   the   attempt   at   deflection   .   .   .   The   pale   elf   had   had   enough   of   his   own   moments   that   he   could   recognize   them   in   others   and   there   were   only   two   real   options   here   —   comfort   followed   by   support   or   distraction   with   the   promise   of   shiny   baubles.  

And   he   knew   what   he   was   most   comfortable   with.  

❝      There’s   some   chests   upstairs   and   I’m   fresh   out   of   lockpicks.      ❞      A   lie,   but   one   that   couldn’t   hurt   anyone.   ❝      C’mon,   some   priceless   magical   artefacts   will   make   you   feel   better,   seeing   as   Gale   doesn’t   need   to   eat   them   anymore.      ❞

“ you’re shaking like a leaf—what’s wrong? ” ↳ @sanguinir — memes / accepting!

        "i'm fine," comes the lie, automatic and unconvincing. they are most certainly not fine, and it shows in how their body trembles, how they lean so heavily against the wall outside the so-called house of healing. anais presses the heels of their hands over their eyes and tries to breathe, but each inhale seems shorter and sharper than the last. she can feel the tadpole writhing in her head, delighted at the overwhelming force of what she's feeling. it wants to reach out. needs to reach out. and she is in no state to close her mind.

        so it comes in flashes: you are strapped to a table in a little room with a low, low ceiling; there is a single window, brown with grime and papered over to keep out the light; you hear the sound of boots on stone as someone circles you, slowly; see the blade of a knife passing through a candle's flame while you can only wait, and watch, and wonder what he will use it for this time—

        "FUCK!" the word tears out of their throat and burns through the fog of memory. the tadpole, apparently satisfied, settles back into its usual slumber. anais exhales unsteadily, lifting their head to realize they had, at some point, slid down the wall to rest in the dirt. they hastily stand, avoiding the vampire's eyes and glancing back the way they'd come, instead. where she knows the undead nurses wander harmlessly around the mutilated corpse of malus thorm. "did anyone check the fucker's pockets before we left?" it's another sign against her, that she was too eager to leave to have done so herself.